Part 22 (2/2)

Henley slowly lowered the Beretta, trying to make sense of Grant's statement. ”You. . .”

”That's right! Don't you think for one G.o.dd.a.m.n minute her death didn't weigh heavy on us, too, Jack! Why do you feel so G.o.dd.a.m.n sorry for yourself?”

”What the f.u.c.k do you mean?”

Grant closed his eyes, as dizziness swept over him again. His voice was getting more hoa.r.s.e. ”What?”

”I said, what the f.u.c.k do you mean?!”

”Oh, yeah. Do you believe you're the only one who's lost somebody close?”

”What does that have to do with you and me?!”

Grant took a deep breath. His brain was telling him to keep talking, bide for extra time. But he didn't know why. ”I lost my wife, too.” Henley's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. Grant continued, ”I'm. . .I'm pretty sure I told you. . . that night we ran into each other at that pub. My wife Jenny died while I was in Nam. I couldn't get home in time to be with her. She died, all alone. I never forgave myself,” he added quietly. A longer moment of coherency and Grant struck back. ”But you were the only one who could've stopped your wife, gotten her help. Why didn't you, Jack? Because you're nothin' but a weak 'd.i.c.k!'” Uh-oh, Grant thought.

”You sonofab.i.t.c.h!” Henley lunged forward, swinging his weapon, the barrel striking just above Grant's temple.

Grant's body rocked sideways, the chair nearly tipped over. Dazed, he felt warm blood dripping down the side of his head. His vision blurred, but he could tell Henley was backing up with his Beretta held at arm's length. Even if he could somehow move out of the line of fire, turn, fall over, anything, Henley would take more than one shot.

Grant lowered his head. He pushed too far. He had to face the fact--he was a dead man. He exhaled almost all the breath left in him. After all the combat missions, Vietnam, the death traps, h.e.l.l holes, all the risks taken, yet here he was about to die in a dark, damp bas.e.m.e.nt, at the hands of a former Navy commander.

Henley kept backing up until he was ten to twelve feet away, making sure he had an easy, accurate shot.

Grant was powerless to do anything. ”Jack, don't. . do . . this.” But he knew it was going to happen. ”Jack!!”

Henley took aim, and pulled the trigger.

Two bullets found their mark. One struck Grant in the right shoulder, just missing his collarbone, the jolt sending him and the chair backwards. His head hit hard on the concrete, knocking him out.

The second round penetrated Henley's chest. The impact from the hollow point slammed his body against the wall, with the round fragmenting, maximizing tissue damage, causing rapid blood loss. He fell forward. His body landed on the concrete with a sickening thud.

Fred Easton walked past Grant, verifying he was unconscious, then he stood over Henley's body. He knelt on one knee, with his S&W .357 Magnum held tightly. With the size of the wound, and the amount of blood loss, Henley should've been dead, but Easton checked for a pulse anyway, surprised to find one, weak, but still beating. Standing up, he kept looking at the man who had mentally lost it.

In the beginning, he was confident they could pull it off. He also believed he would never come under suspicion for the theft of top secret doc.u.ments. Henley had a.s.sumed full control. But then Henley found his chance to turn the theft into a personal vendetta, telling him he planned to kidnap, then kill Grant.

They could have ended it right after they drove away from the garage, in some deserted field, or alley, or even the river. Instead, they brought Stevens here, to suffer, as Henley put it. Easton saw there was only one way to end it, to protect himself. He'd get rid of Henley.

He checked for a pulse again. Nothing. Turning away, he walked back toward Grant. He debated. Should he finish what Henley started? Stevens not only knew his face, but his name as well. He'd just answered his own question. He moved his arm forward, aiming the weapon at Grant's head.

An explosion of sound erupted within the confined s.p.a.ce, as Adler and Novak came rus.h.i.+ng in, firing simultaneously. Rounds struck Easton in center ma.s.s, with more penetrating the upper chest. His body spasmed as each round hit him. He stumbled backwards, falling against the cinder block. Staring down, unbelieving at blood pouring from his chest, he slowly slid down the wall, his body crumbling.

Adler and Novak cautiously moved forward, keeping their weapons aimed. Adler knelt near Grant, but kept his eyes on Easton.

Novak moved closer, kicked away the .357, then got down on a knee, and checked the carotid artery. ”Deceased,” he said as he crawled over to Henley's body. ”Ditto.”

They holstered their weapons. Novak crawled next to Grant, as Adler's knife sliced through the ropes binding his wrists and legs. Then they lifted him off the chair and laid him on the floor.

Adler crawled behind him, then sat on his own haunches before gently lifting Grant's upper body off the concrete. He scooted closer, enough for Grant to rest against him, keeping his shoulders above his heart. Novak pressed his hand over the wound. Blood flowed more swiftly then they expected.

”Mike, I'll take over,” Adler said, trying to quell the amount of blood flowing. ”You call for an ambulance. And bring in that medical bag!” Novak ran from the bas.e.m.e.nt. As he got outside, in the distance he heard a faint sound of sirens--cops! Someone had called 911.

Grant started coming around, beginning to feel the pain in his shoulder, and again in his head. Somewhere in his subconscious he heard a voice.

”Skipper! Come on! Look at me.” Adler was really worried. Grant's face was drained of all color. Then, his eyelids started opening, and he blinked a couple of times. He was feeling pressure against his shoulder, then the voice called again, ”Come on! Open your eyes!”

He slowly rolled his eyes toward the sound. The person wasn't quite in focus. He closed his eyes, thinking he was hallucinating again.

Adler unscrewed the canteen top, then held it close to Grant's mouth. ”See if you can drink.”

Cool water dripped on his dried, cracked lips, and he managed a small mouthful. He opened his eyes and looked overhead as the face finally came into focus. ”Joe?”

Adler smiled. ”None other.” Grant tried sitting up, but Adler gently pulled him back. ”Stay where you are.”

Novak came rus.h.i.+ng in. ”Ambulance is on the way.” He knelt down, pulled out a battle dressing, then tore it open. He took over for Adler and pressed it against Grant's shoulder. ”How ya doin', boss?”

”b.a.s.t.a.r.ds shot me full of. . . something.”

”You mean other than a bullet?” Novak chuckled.

Grant managed a nod, then focused on Adler. ”I thought I was dead, Joe.”

”You came pretty d.a.m.n close.”

Confused, Grant asked with a raspy voice, ”What happened?”

”Don't you remember?”

Grant forced his brain to work. ”Jack. Where's. . . Jack?”

”He's dead.”

”You?”

Adler shook his head. ”Don't know who the guy was, but I a.s.sume Jack was shot by his 'a.s.sociate.' And, yes. He's pretty much dead, too.”

”Easton.”

”What?”

”I. . . I think his name's Easton.” Grant let out a short grunt. ”I'm gonna puke.”

Adler immediately reacted. ”Mike, keep holding that dressing. I wanna get him on his side.” He succeeded just in time. He poured some water in his palm, then washed around Grant's mouth. ”Feeling better?”

”Not much.”

”Here. Rinse your mouth, then spit.”

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