Tracking Shot by Colin Campbell (best book reader .TXT) 📕

The gunmen knew McNulty was still in the cabin because they’d seen him go in earlier, and nobody had come out who wasn’t already dead. They stayed out front and separated, one taking the left and the other, the right. The right flank came around the side of the cabin to cover the side window. The left flank looked for the left side of the cabin but there was no gap between it and the workshop. He checked the workshop doors, now just so much splintered wood, and scanned the interior while also covering the front porch.

They communicated with hand signals so they wouldn’t give their positions away to anyone listening. The right flank held firm and covered the cabin from an angle, the same way McNulty had taught Alfonse Bayard to approach a building. The other gunman searched the workshop. It didn’t take long; the Cloverleaf Boys’ repair center was basic and didn’t have extra rooms, apart from the spray bay, which was just a curtained partition of the main floor. There was no upstairs or basement or office. With the car gone from the ramp there weren’t even any vehicles to search. He came back out and gave a signal. Clear. Now it was time to breach the cabin.

The right flank covered both windows and the front door while his partner climbed the steps. The porch creaked but they weren’t bothered about the noise. If the movie guy was inside, he already knew they were coming. He crossed the porch and gave a quick glance through the window then stood beside the door. Another quick glance both sides and he went inside. The right flank went to the window above the rat pit. His colleague indicated the bedroom. Back door. The living room was secured. The outside man went along the side of the cabin to the gap between the concrete support and the house, and disappeared around the back.

McNulty came out of the pit, gasping for air, and moving fast. He kept to the edge of the turnaround then darted between the rusting tractors and the cars on blocks. It wasn’t the most direct route, but zigzagging gave him cover instead of open space. He tried to be quiet but reckoned speed was more important now. He dodged left then right and went straight for two car lengths before having to detour around a rusty heap that might have been a Cadillac at one time. His foot caught a metal rod that swung up and hit the side of the car.

The clang echoed in the silence. He didn’t stop moving and he didn’t glance over his shoulder. He jogged beyond the last of the wrecks and picked up speed in the undergrowth. His feet sank into soft earth again and he knew he was nearly home free. His trousers picked up more sticky buds and seeds.

A shrill whistle sounded behind him and there was a sudden bustle of activity. Footsteps sounded on the porch. McNulty skirted the west bank of the Charles River heading toward the on-ramp. He could see his car in the distance. The hood was still up. The reflective triangle still warned traffic to avoid the parked vehicle.

A branch snapped beneath his feet. The bushes swished and crackled as he charged forward. The gunshot was loud in the smothering hush and pain hit him like a hammer blow to the back. The impact flung him forward and to one side, and he was unconscious before he hit the cold black water.

FORTY-SIX

Darkness, pain and mind-numbing cold. It felt like being locked in the freezer in your underwear. With the door closed and the light turned off. McNulty wondered if the light would come back on if somebody opened the door. It was one of life’s great mysteries; does the light go off when you shut the fridge door? The thought bounced around his head along with dozens of others. The only thing he was sure of was that Kevlar vests might be good for stopping bullets but they weren’t worth shit for helping you swim.

McNulty resurfaced gasping for air, not from the depths of the Charles River but from the darkness and delirium of feverish unconsciousness. He jack-knifed up in bed and was sick over the side. His eyes were open but they couldn’t see. The room was dark and empty and as silent as the grave. He dry-heaved twice then collapsed back against the pillows. He closed his eyes to rest them and stop the pounding headache that was threatening to crush his skull. The broken nose throbbed. His cracked ribs ached. He rubbed his temples and risked opening his eyes again. It was still dark but he could make out some shapes in the shadows.

There was a bedside table on his right and a filing cabinet in the corner. Some kind of medical poster clung to the shadows, a skeleton or a full body diagram with the skin peeled off. A vague square shape was brighter than the rest of the room, a window with the drapes closed. It looked like it was daylight outside but nothing penetrated the medical suite.

Medical suite? Was he back in the hospital? He deserved to be after being shot in the back and almost drowned. This didn’t feel like a hospital room though. There was no heart-rate monitor or beeps and ticks and breathing noises. He looked to his left and saw the familiar Red Cross on a white box fastened to the wall. It was a medical suite for sure, but where? He turned to his right and knocked a pitcher of water over on the bedside table. It hit the floor with a crash, prompting immediate voices in the next room.

He tried to sit up but the headache, ribs and general weakness conspired against him. The door opened a crack and a silhouetted face peeked through. The additional light brought the room