He searched the darkness ahead.
What had Joan Bates said? “It’s not always smart to be headstrong. Sometimes the smarter course is to avoid a bad situation altogether.”
Unfortunately, that was not an option tonight.
He caught movement in the dark. Had somebody moved toward the front door? A bolt of lightning flashed. An instance of brilliance confirmed the observation.
Definitely.
He headed toward the figure.
HANK WAS MAD WITH HIMSELF FOR LETTINGBRENT GO.HE’D HEARDthe window open and assumed Brent climbed out. It wasn’t right for him to be taking all the risks. He didn’t want his granddaughter never to know her natural father. And his daughter could lose a chance at happiness with the man she truly loved. He decided not to just sit huddled behind a sofa and started to crawl toward the front door. Maybe he could make it to the truck. Brent might be right. Separately they did have a better chance.
He unlocked and creaked open the front door, met immediately by a blast of warm wind and rain. He stayed low and emerged onto the porch. He used the two-by-four railing and thick wooden spindles for protection and peered into the blackness, sporadic flashes of lightning the only source of illumination. No one was in sight, the truck just a few feet away.
He found his keys and started to stand.
A figure emerged from the woods and darted toward him.
Lightning flashed.
He saw the gun. Pointed at him.
And froze.
BRENT SPOTTED THE GUN.
Not thinking there may be others concealed in the thickets, he grasped the bat and shot around the far side of the truck. His eyes were adjusted to the dark and he clearly saw the target. The man, though, was in front of the truck and couldn’t see him, noise from the storm masking his approach across the graveled drive.
He cocked the bat and lunged forward.
One thrust and metal found its mark against the side of the head. The body crumpled to the mud. He stared down, bat re-cocked and ready.
“Damn, Brent. Thanks,” Hank said.
“You don’t follow orders, do you?”
“Is he dead?”
He bent down. Blood poured from the head wound, quickly dissolved by the rain. “Hard to tell.”
“Is it De Florio?”
He rolled the body over and shook his head.
A bullet ricocheted off the hood of the truck. No retort accompanied the shot. He’d already noticed that the dead man’s gun was equipped with some sort of sound suppressor. He ducked and grabbed the weapon. They bolted around the side of the house toward the lake. Just as they rounded the corner, another bullet careered off the wood siding behind him.
He aimed the gun in his hand and sent a round back with a soft pop.
“Where are we going?” Hank asked.
“The boat.”
They sloshed through the mud, dodged trees, and ran for the dock.
He held on to the gun with one hand and ripped the canvas off the skiff with the other. At the same time Hank untied the boat. He jumped in and hoped to God the outboard cranked. If necessary, he’d paddle the thing. Anything just to get out of here. He pulled the starter twice and, miraculously, the motor shot to life.
“Get in.”
