wrong—a feeling on the air.
“Ecks—” Winter began.
Rule put up a hand and moved in front of his friend. With a further gesture of the samehand he imparted that the driver should stay where he was.
The pain in his side disappeared as Xavier Rule, aka Egbert Noland, moved quietly through the kitchen and into the living room.
The two men wore dark clothes. One was white and the other, an ecru-colored man, probably hailed from below the southern border; either he did or his ancestors had.
Xavier surprised them. They were carrying large duffel bags and weren’t expecting to come across anyone. But these men were professionals and so they dropped their bags and reached for things inside their clothes.
The violence in Xavier’s forearms went into action without volition. With his left hand he threw the crowbar like an underhand javelin, and before it had punctured the white man’s chest he was firing with the specially made Afghani pistol. The gun made little noise and no flash. Both men fell to the ground, decimated by the ambidextrous stone-cold killer.
“What happened?” Winter said. He ran into the room upon hearing the coughing of the whispering gun.
Xavier hurried to the men he’d defeated. The white man had managed to get a pistol in his hand, but Xavier slapped it away. The other man had four bullets in him, head and chest.
“Stay back!” Xavier said to Winter. “Don’t let him see you.”
Then the church deacon searched the bodies and bags of his sudden enemies. The duffel bags contained shovels and spades, kerosene and a black plastic body bag. The Hispanic man had two keys in his pocket, held together by a piece of string. Xavier would have bet that they were a fit for the front door and the underground tomb. The white man had a money clip in his pants pocket. There were a few bills and a slip of paper held fast by the silver clamp.
“Help me,” the white man wheezed.
Xavier might have considered killing him if Winter were not a witness.
“I’m dying,” the man with the crowbar protruding from the middle of his chest said.
Xavier searched the man’s pockets, found nothing but a cheap cell phone. He stood up, watched closely by the dying white man, turned his back, and went to the kitchen.
“We’re going to leave now,” he said to his shivering friend. “When we go through the living room keep your back to the one still alive. Don’t turn to look, and keep your hand up over your face so he don’t see you in any glass.”
On the way to the street Xavier told his friend to meet him at an all-night club on Pico west of Sepulveda.
“It’s behind the taco stand in the little minimall on the northwest side of the street. You don’t have to knock. Somebody’ll come out to meet you. Tell him you there for Ecks and he’ll let you in.”
Xavier drove in the opposite direction from his friend. A block away he entered a call on the phone he lifted from the dying man. The call was answered almost immediately by Clyde Pewtersworth.
“Church services.”
“Don’t you sleep, Clyde?”
“I try.”
“Connect me to Soto.”
There were three clicks, a spate of silence, and then a phone ringing. There were at least a dozen rings before a groggy voice answered, “
Que?
”
“That house? The one they saw me coming from? It’s a killing field, but one of the bodies is still breathing.”
Xavier disconnected the call and threw the phone from the car window. Then he did a U-turn in the middle of the street and drove his Edsel toward the no-name, after-hours nightclub.
On the way, following the speed limit like a teenager taking his first driving test, he remembered:
Swan was tall and hefty, not nearly as black as Ecks. He got in a fight over a woman outside the Chilean’s Bar on East 143rd and then got carried away. His opponent died when Swan twisted his neck after knocking him unconscious. The police had no choice but to put him under arrest. Swan got word to Betty Rynn that a
“Ecks—” Winter began.
Rule put up a hand and moved in front of his friend. With a further gesture of the samehand he imparted that the driver should stay where he was.
The pain in his side disappeared as Xavier Rule, aka Egbert Noland, moved quietly through the kitchen and into the living room.
The two men wore dark clothes. One was white and the other, an ecru-colored man, probably hailed from below the southern border; either he did or his ancestors had.
Xavier surprised them. They were carrying large duffel bags and weren’t expecting to come across anyone. But these men were professionals and so they dropped their bags and reached for things inside their clothes.
The violence in Xavier’s forearms went into action without volition. With his left hand he threw the crowbar like an underhand javelin, and before it had punctured the white man’s chest he was firing with the specially made Afghani pistol. The gun made little noise and no flash. Both men fell to the ground, decimated by the ambidextrous stone-cold killer.
“What happened?” Winter said. He ran into the room upon hearing the coughing of the whispering gun.
Xavier hurried to the men he’d defeated. The white man had managed to get a pistol in his hand, but Xavier slapped it away. The other man had four bullets in him, head and chest.
“Stay back!” Xavier said to Winter. “Don’t let him see you.”
Then the church deacon searched the bodies and bags of his sudden enemies. The duffel bags contained shovels and spades, kerosene and a black plastic body bag. The Hispanic man had two keys in his pocket, held together by a piece of string. Xavier would have bet that they were a fit for the front door and the underground tomb. The white man had a money clip in his pants pocket. There were a few bills and a slip of paper held fast by the silver clamp.
“Help me,” the white man wheezed.
Xavier might have considered killing him if Winter were not a witness.
“I’m dying,” the man with the crowbar protruding from the middle of his chest said.
Xavier searched the man’s pockets, found nothing but a cheap cell phone. He stood up, watched closely by the dying white man, turned his back, and went to the kitchen.
“We’re going to leave now,” he said to his shivering friend. “When we go through the living room keep your back to the one still alive. Don’t turn to look, and keep your hand up over your face so he don’t see you in any glass.”
On the way to the street Xavier told his friend to meet him at an all-night club on Pico west of Sepulveda.
“It’s behind the taco stand in the little minimall on the northwest side of the street. You don’t have to knock. Somebody’ll come out to meet you. Tell him you there for Ecks and he’ll let you in.”
Xavier drove in the opposite direction from his friend. A block away he entered a call on the phone he lifted from the dying man. The call was answered almost immediately by Clyde Pewtersworth.
“Church services.”
“Don’t you sleep, Clyde?”
“I try.”
“Connect me to Soto.”
There were three clicks, a spate of silence, and then a phone ringing. There were at least a dozen rings before a groggy voice answered, “
Que?
”
“That house? The one they saw me coming from? It’s a killing field, but one of the bodies is still breathing.”
Xavier disconnected the call and threw the phone from the car window. Then he did a U-turn in the middle of the street and drove his Edsel toward the no-name, after-hours nightclub.
On the way, following the speed limit like a teenager taking his first driving test, he remembered:
Swan was tall and hefty, not nearly as black as Ecks. He got in a fight over a woman outside the Chilean’s Bar on East 143rd and then got carried away. His opponent died when Swan twisted his neck after knocking him unconscious. The police had no choice but to put him under arrest. Swan got word to Betty Rynn that a
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