About twenty minutes ago, during a commercial break, Melba had thought she’d heard a helicopter in the distance. Tom had been unable to hear it, but that was no surprise, given his progressive hearing loss, and she’d heard nothing since. He told her it was probably nothing to worry about. Statistically, Mississippi had some of the worst drivers in the nation, so LifeFlight helicopters were common at all hours, even over rural counties.

Tom had thought Melba felt reassured, but five minutes ago she’d left him on the sofa and begun her long circuit of the ground-floor windows again. Waiting alone was starting to bother Tom. He wanted to switch on his old burn phone and check to see if Walt had sent any additional messages. The cell phone was in his hand when he heard a strange, muted phtt sound from the garage side of the huge house.

“Mel?” he called.

She didn’t answer.

“Melba!”

Nothing.

With his heartbeat picking up, Tom switched on the new burn phone and waited for the device to find a tower. As soon as it did, a single text message came through, and popped up on the tiny screen.

Almost sure trouble’s headed your way. SWAT team deploying. Get out ASAP. Sorry I’m late. Phone jamming here. Listen for chopper on your way out. Good luck. Text me when safe. Walt.

“Listen for chopper,” Tom whispered, and then his heart hammered in his chest. The hard-pumping blood made his shoulder scream with pain, but two seconds later he was on his feet with his .357 in his hand. He wanted to call out to Melba, but she hadn’t answered the first time, and if there were men in the house, his shout would only bring them to him.

As quickly as he could, Tom moved toward the darkest part of the living room, a short pass-through that led to the hall that ran half the length of the great house. His only hope was to find Melba and get outside into the dark, then into the nearby forest. A SWAT team would have night-vision devices, but the dense trees might be enough of a shield to conceal two fleeing figures.

As Tom reached the spot where the pass-through made a T with the main hall, a man wearing a black mask and body armor appeared in profile less than a foot away from him. Knowing the head would turn toward him at any moment, Tom jammed the .357 under the man’s chin and said quietly: “I’ll pull the trigger if you do anything but drop your gun.”

He meant it, for surrender would mean not only his death, but Melba’s also. Tom jabbed the barrel of his pistol hard under the mandible of the SWAT officer and kept pressing until he heard the thud of metal hitting carpet.

“Now what?” the man croaked, his eyes obscured by his insectile face mask. “You’ve got no play, Doc.”

“Where’s my nurse?”

“Who?”

Tom didn’t like being exposed in the hall. He was about to drag the guy back into the pass-through when a voice with an accent he recognized from medical school in New Orleans shouted from the kitchen at the right end of the corridor.

“Let him go, Doc! Nuttin’ to be gained by killin’ nobody.”

Tom looked up the hall at the man who’d yelled at him. He, too, wore a mask and body armor and carried a short submachine gun in his hands. His accent was pure New Orleans—Brooklyn sautéed in crawfish.

“Then why’d you bring all the guns?” Tom asked.

“We didn’t know what we’d find here.”

Tom felt panic kicking like a crazed animal in his chest. Having lived through last night, he didn’t fancy dying here, and he couldn’t live with Melba’s death on his account.

“Where’s my nurse?” he shouted. “Bring her out here where I can see her!”

As he stared down the hall, waiting, the man raised his right hand as though trying to calm him down. While Tom’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, he realized there was another man standing behind the first, and he held a large bulbous rifle in his hands. A sniper rifle.

“Who’s your senior officer?” Tom called.

“I am,” said the man with his arm up.

The animal in Tom’s chest was kicking harder. With every passing second he became more certain that he had no way out of this situation—not alive, anyway. He heard a sliding sound from down the hall behind him. He turned, careful to keep his gun at the masked man’s head, and saw Melba Price lying motionless on her side while a SWAT trooper dragged her across the carpet. They were trying to hide her body from him!

“You sons of bitches!” he yelled, nearly pulling the trigger on the man under his power. “You killed her!”

“No!” shouted the commander. “She’s not dead. We just darted her.”

“Bullshit!” Tom screamed.

“I swear to God, Doc! We’re just here to pick you up, to deliver you to Colonel Knox—alive. He wants to talk to you.”

“That’s a lie! That wasn’t the deal. The deal was that if he wanted to talk to me, he’d call off the APB first. I saw the news twenty minutes ago, and they’re still running an alert!”

“I don’t know anything about that,” the commander shouted, his hand still in the air. “But you’ve got to see there’s no point shooting anybody. Just put down your gun and go take the woman’s pulse.”

“Sure,” Tom said, almost unable to think. “And this bastard breaks my neck on the way down the hall.”

“Take him with you. Keep your gun on him.”

“Why are you holding your arm in the air?” Tom asked, sensing something wrong. “Is that some kind of signal?”

When the man didn’t answer, Tom turned to try to gauge his chances of dragging his hostage down the hall to check Melba’s pulse.

He’d never make it.

The sight of her prone body brought tears to his eyes. “Bring her to me!” he yelled. “Tell your man to drag her down here, or I pull the trigger. I’ve got nothing to lose. I’m going to die anyway.”

His hostage shouted, “He won’t kill me, Major. Take him!”

Tom moved the gun two inches to the right and fired a round into the ceiling. His hostage screamed and recoiled, but before he could break away Tom stabbed the gun barrel into his neck again.

“Next one goes into your brain,” Tom said, his whole arm alive with energy.

“Don’t move, Sergeant,” called the commander. “I know that tone well. Doc, you take it easy. I’m going to take off my helmet so you can see my eyes.”

Tom heard the sliding sound behind him again. When he turned, he saw the trooper at the other end of the hall dragging Melba out of sight. A wild emotion he’d never experienced surged through him.

“Stand down!” shouted the commander. “Let that woman lie!”

Grief and fury had taken possession of Tom. Whirling back toward the commander, he felt his gun hand tense to pull the trigger. But even as he did, the commander dropped his right hand, and a flash blanked out Tom’s dilated eyes. Pain exploded in his right shoulder, and his gun arm went limp as boots pounded toward him. His hostage twisted the .357 from his hand, then propped him up before he could fall.

“Target taken!” shouted the commander. “Air one, exfil at the front crescent.”

Tom blinked again and again, his thoughts scrambled into chaos.

“Get everything he had!” someone yelled. “Clothes, drugs, phones—everything.”

“What about the nurse’s car?”

“Leave it.”

In the confusion of Tom’s mind, one clear image rose: Melba lying motionless while men leaped over her as though she were no longer worthy of notice. Pain radiated through him like arcs of fire, and when he looked down, he saw a single bright bloom of blood on what had been his good shoulder. Someone jammed two fingers under his jaw to feel his carotid, but by then his last reserve of strength had given out, and everything went black.

CHAPTER 43