Cross

wasn’t going to get careless.
    But I hadn’t taken the shot when I had it. I hadn’t brought down Michael Sullivan when I had the chance.
    The woods were dark, but there was enough moonlight to make out shapes and some finer detail. Maybe we’d be able to see Sullivan, but he’d see us too.
    The stalemate continued. But one of us was going to die tonight. I knew it and hoped it wouldn’t be me. But this had to be finished now. It had been building to this for so long.
    I wondered where he was running—if he had an escape plan or if an ambush was coming.
    We hadn’t seen Sullivan since he’d gotten to the tree line. Maybe he was fast, or maybe he’d taken a sharp turn in another direction. How well did he know the woods?
    Was he watching us right now? Getting ready to fire? To spring from behind a tree?
    Finally, I saw movement—someone running fast up ahead. It had to be Sullivan! Unless it was the remaining mob guy.
    Whoever it was, I didn’t have a shot. Too many tree trunks, branches, and limbs in the way.
    My breath was coming in short, harsh gasps. I wasn’t out of shape, so it had to be the stress of everything going on. I was chasing down the son of a bitch who had killed Maria. I’d hated him for more than ten years, and I’d wanted this day to come. I’d even prayed for it.
    But I hadn’t taken the shot when I had it.
    “Where is he?” Sampson was there at my side. Neither of us could see the Butcher. We couldn’t hear him running now, either.
    Then I heard an engine roar—in the woods! An engine? What kind of engine?
    Headlights shone suddenly—two blazing eyes aimed right at us.
    A car was coming fast, Sullivan or somebody else crouched at the wheel, down a track the driver knew well.
    “Take the shot!” Sampson yelled. “Alex, take the shot!”

Chapter 118
    SULLIVAN HAD STASHED A CAR in the woods, probably for an emergency escape like this one. I held my ground, and put
one, two, three
shots into the driver’s side of the windshield.
    But the Butcher kept coming!
    The car was a dark-colored sedan. Suddenly it slowed. Had I hit him?
    I ran forward, stumbled over a rock, cursed loudly. I wasn’t thinking about what to do, what not to do, just that this had to end.
    Then I saw Sullivan sit up tall inside the car—and he saw me coming for him. I thought I could see his mouth curl into a sneer as he raised his handgun. I ducked just as he shot. He fired again, but I was out of his sight line by inches.
    The car started to move again, its engine revving loudly. I quickly holstered my gun and let him slide by me; then I dove onto the car’s trunk. I grabbed onto the sides and held tight, my face pressed against cold metal.
    “Alex!” I heard Sampson yell behind me. “Get off!”
    I wouldn’t—couldn’t do it.
    Sullivan accelerated, but there were too many trees and boulders for him to go very fast. The car hit a rock and bucked high; both front tires left the ground. I was almost thrown off the back, but I held on somehow.
    Then Sullivan braked. Hard! I looked up.
    He spun around in the front seat. For a fraction of a second we stared at each other, five feet apart, no more than that. I could see blood smeared on the side of his face. He’d been hit, maybe one of my shots through the windshield.
    Up came his gun again, and he fired as I jumped off the car’s rear end. I landed on the hard ground and kept rolling.
    I scrambled to my knees. Drew my gun and aimed it at the car.
    I shot twice through the side window. I was screaming at Sullivan—at the Butcher—whoever the hell he was. I wanted him dead, and I wanted to be the one to do it.
    This has to end.
    Right here, right now.
    Somebody dies.
    Somebody lives.

Chapter 119
    I FIRED AGAIN AT THE MONSTER who had killed my wife and so many others, usually in unthinkable ways, with butcher hammers, saws, carving knives.
Michael “the Butcher” Sullivan, die. Just die, you bastard. You deserve to die if anyone does on this earth.
    He was climbing out of the car now.
    What was happening? What was he doing?
    He started to hobble in the direction of his wife and three sons. Blood was running down his shirt, seeping through, dripping onto his pants and shoes. Then Sullivan plopped down on the lawn beside his family. He hugged them to his sides.
    Sampson and I moved forward at a slow run, puzzled by what was happening, unsure what to do next.
    I could see streaks of blood on the boys, and all over Caitlin Sullivan. It was their