Three
A controlled pair—two rapid-fire shots into his target’s center mass—dropped the man armed with the shotgun and forced the driver to take cover behind the Ford’s left rear fender.
The man had panicked and scrambled clumsily, and Cahill knew that meant his adversary had no real training or firefight experience.
But even panicked and clumsy men were dangerous, so Cahill immediately fired two more rounds into the Ford’s right rear fender to keep the driver’s head down.
He then quickly turned his attention to the cargo van.
An ammunition count was running in his head—the Kimber had been loaded with a round in the chamber and a seven-round mag in the grip.
Eight rounds total, and he had just fired four.
He was already thinking of when to best access the backup mags holstered in his right boot.
The van skidded to a stop, its nose just feet from the motel room door. Parked almost parallel to the one-story building, the van blocked Cahill’s view.
More important, it gave the van’s passenger a clear shot at Cahill.
The man’s window was down and he thrust out one arm.
In his hand was the last thing Cahill expected to see.
An Uzi submachine gun.
The passenger pointed the weapon at Cahill, or rather in Cahill’s general direction. This was another indication that these men were not professionals—anyone who had been properly trained would know not to hold an Uzi with one hand while his arm was fully extended.
The first round would likely miss, and the kick produced by the rounds that followed would throw the weapon upward and far off target.
Cahill ducked and dove between two cars as the shooter opened fire, scattering nine-millimeter rounds everywhere.
The rear window to his right shattered, followed by the windshield, and after that there was the repeating dull thump of car metal and plastic absorbing dozens of rounds.
Cahill had fired an Uzi before—there wasn’t a firearm he hadn’t handled at least once—and there was something dramatically different about this weapon.
Instead of a continuous metallic drumming sound—the sound of a rate of fire averaging around five or six hundred rounds per minute—the sound coming from the muzzle of this weapon was more like fabric being ripped, indicating a much higher rate of fire.
There was no time to process this, however; Cahill had to displace, had to do it now.
He fast-crawled on his elbows and knees till he reached the front end of the vehicle to his right, then drew both knees to his abdomen and crouched there.
The van’s passenger laid off the trigger, and in the sudden silence Cahill heard voices yelling in a language he did not immediately recognize.
He heard, too, the side door of the van slide open, followed by scuffling feet.
Many scuffling feet.
This was followed almost immediately by the sound of something heavy banging on the reinforced-metal lock of a motel room door.
The unmistakable clanging of a handheld battering ram at work.
Still ducked in front of the car, Cahill held the 1911 out to the side and sent two rounds of suppressing fire in the direction of the van’s passenger door, then immediately raised his head just enough to look over the hood and through the shattered windshield and back window, quickly surveying the scene.
As he did this, he pulled up his right pant leg with his left hand and grabbed the two single-stack mags from their neoprene holster.
Before he could do anything more, though, the man armed with the Uzi opened up again with another poorly aimed barrage.
Cahill put his head down and waited the man out.
The instant the man laid off the trigger of the automatic weapon—more than likely to re-aim—Cahill rose without hesitation to a standing position, firing the 1911 despite only holding it with one hand.
There was no time to drop the mags and acquire a double-handed grip, which meant the short-barreled weapon would kick substantially up and to the left, preventing him from getting off an immediate follow-up shot.
But he didn’t need it.
The single round was a dead-on head shot, and the man instantly sagged into a lifeless heap in his seat, dropping the Uzi to the pavement.
Cahill’s magazine was now empty, but a round remained in the chamber, so he ducked again for cover, sliding one of the mags upside down into his shirt pocket as he released the empty mag from the pistol.
He then performed a “wet” reload—slapping a loaded magazine into a firearm while a round was chambered.
This would save him from having to fire that last shot, pause to drop the empty mag and insert a loaded one, release the 1911’s locked-open slide to chamber a round, and only then apply his left hand to the grip and begin the process of reacquiring his target.
Every second was precious, especially now that the clanging had ceased, which meant that the motel room door had been breached.
The driver of the van was still behind the wheel, his head turned so that the back of his skull was all Cahill could see. The man was shouting orders at the three-man team rushing through the open motel room door.
In a language that sounded Slavic.
Out of time now, Cahill rose again and began his advance.
He intended to close the distance between himself and the van in a matter of seconds, but in his haste he forgot about the Ford and its driver.
The shots that rang out weren’t the controlled pairings of a pro, but the wild firing of a man repeatedly pulling a trigger as fast as he possibly could.
The driver of the Ford had regrouped and was positioned behind the rear end of his vehicle.
Cahill had moved too far from his cover position to return to it, so he continued toward the van, putting his faith in the fact that the man shooting at him was not aiming.
He focused his attention instead on what was directly ahead.
Raising his 1911, Cahill didn’t bother aligning the front sight with the man behind the wheel; only feet away, the man was well within the “point and shoot” range.
Feet away and getting closer.
The man turned, and by the look on his face, Cahill knew he’d only just now realized that his passenger had been shot dead.
His second realization was that Cahill was closing on the passenger door.
The driver began to reach frantically for something in his waistband—a weapon, Cahill was certain.
Before he could do anything more than that, Cahill was at the door.
And put two hollow-points into the man’s forehead.
Six rounds left before another reload.
Yanking open the passenger door, knowing it would shield him to a degree from the wild shots coming at him from the Ford, Cahill grabbed the passenger by the collar of his jacket and pulled him out, then climbed into the van.
Moving over the passenger seat, he drew the firearm from the dead driver’s waistband and cut between the two front seats, into the cargo van’s back compartment.
Tucking the backup firearm—a Glock 17—into the back of his jeans, Cahill moved to the side hatch through which, mere feet away, was the motel room door.
As silently and quickly as he could, Cahill exited the van.
The room was dark—Erica had done the smart thing and killed the lights after closing and locking the door.
And by the banging coming from inside the room, Cahill knew she had locked herself in the bathroom, too.
That door was not reinforced, yet it still took a total of three blows from the heavy battering ram to send it off its hinges.
Cahill counted each one as he approached.
The light from the bathroom now illuminated three men bottlenecked in the bathroom doorway—one still held the battering ram, another had an Uzi drawn, and the third wrestled with the fallen door that stood between them and their objective.
Erica screamed, and Cahill felt his blood go cold.
Entering the room, he fired at the armed man first—a controlled pair to the back of his head.
The man with the battering ram was next. Cahill dropped him with a second pair before he could even let go of the heavy object.
The third man had time to reach for his pistol and begin drawing it—but that was as far as he got.
With Erica somewhere behind the last man, Cahill hadn’t wanted to risk missing, so he decided to forego the instant kill of a head shot and put two rounds into the man’s heart instead.
Six shots, six hits, all targets down.
The slide locked open on the empty mag. Cahill depressed the release, letting that mag fall to the floor, and inserted his last one. Spinning to face the motel room door, he released the slide, sending it forward and racking a round into the chamber.
The driver of the Ford, armed now with his fallen comrade’s cut-down shotgun, was already in the doorway.
He was yelling something, and though Cahill couldn’t understand the words, he recognized a desperate battle cry when he heard one.
Some men can only act bravely when angry.
It was a race now to see who could raise his weapon first.
Cahill won, putting two through the man’s open mouth, severing the spinal cord just below the cerebellum, and causing all motor function to instantly cease.
The man, suddenly silent, dropped and landed in a heap in the doorway.
Cahill’s ears were ringing severely when he called to Erica, “Are you hurt?”
He heard no answer, so he called her name again.
She finally replied with, “I’m okay.”
“Stay where you are.”
Cahill rushed to the motel room door, 1911 raised. He checked the dead man blocking the door, then made a quick visual survey of the lot—or, with the van in the way, what he could see of it.
Sensing nothing—no sounds, no hint of motion—he hurried back through the room to the bathroom.
Erica was crouched down in the only open space—the tub.
Cahill pulled the door aside, stepped to her, and held out his left hand.
“C’mon,” he said calmly, “we’re out of here.”
She reached up and grasped his hand. Pulling her up and guiding her over the broken door, he positioned her behind him.
“Stay with me,” he instructed.
He started toward the door, making sure she didn’t stray out of line or fall behind.
“You’re going to need to step over a body in a second,” he said. “Don’t look down, okay?”
Erica did as she was told.
Pausing to make one more quick check of the scene, Cahill led her out into the open.
Once they were around the cargo van, it was a straight line to his Jeep—a dozen steps, max.
He shifted position, placing Erica at his right side so his body was between her and the battleground to their left, his right arm crossed over his left so he could keep the 1911 pointed in the direction of the Ford, just in case.
They moved in this way toward his Jeep, the two of them bent slightly at the waist.
Once they reached his vehicle, Cahill leaned Erica against it and placed himself in front of her to shield her as he pulled his keys from his pocket and unlocked the passenger door.
His attention was fixed to his left—not on the entrance to the lot on the right.
And this, he determined later, was what allowed the leader of the hit team to approach them unseen.
The man only needed to take a few steps before he was in range.
And once he was, he raised his weapon and opened fire.
Four
The abandoned service station was located on a two-lane back road in a town called Amity.
Cahill had discovered it after he had arrived in New Haven, during his standard recon of the area. It had been purchased by a developer just prior to the crash of the housing market back in ’08. Shortly after the deal had closed, the developer died, leaving all his assets to his much-younger second wife. His will was currently being contested by his adult children from the previous marriage, which left his holdings—this dilapidated building among them—in limbo.
To confirm that it would suit his needs, Cahill had affixed motion-activated game cameras to trees along the edge of the property, one camera facing the front entrance, the other facing the rear. Weekly checks of each camera’s removable memory chip had told him that no one had visited the property for a full month.
Only then did he cut the back door’s padlock, replacing it with an identical one to which he had the key, and hide a stash of emergency supplies under a rotted floorboard.
Just as he had been trained to do.
He had also buried a more complete cache of supplies in the undeveloped land out back.
And the shovel he had used for that purpose was now the means with which he would bury the body of the woman he loved.
His injury was bad, made the work slow going; he had to stop several times to reattach his makeshift dressing.
But within a half hour he had dug out a grave that was four feet deep, after which he carried her body, wrapped in a bloodied blanket, from the car.
Kneeling down, he carefully lowered her into the cold November
ground.
Nearly every move he made gave rise to a pain that caused him to grunt.
But that pain was nothing compared to the burning in his heart.
At first he couldn’t bring himself to cover her with dirt, but he reminded himself that this was only temporary. He had no intention of leaving her family without answers for any longer than was necessary.
If all went well, he’d determine in a matter of days who had ordered the hit.
And why.
But he could only accomplish this if he remained free.
Whatever happened to him after that, he did not care.
Whatever price he’d have to pay to achieve his goal—to make those who were responsible suffer—he would willingly pay it.
Once he had finally buried her body he bowed his head and folded his stained hands, offering her last rites—or as close to them as he could get.
It had been a long time since he’d had any thoughts of God.
Now Cahill implored him to take Erica’s soul. And to guide him and give him the strength he would need.
It was only then that he had what it took to leave her.
Pushing forward was all he had now.
Minutes later, he’d dug out the sealed PVC tube that contained his gear and carried it to his vehicle.
Retrieving the two camouflaged game cameras from their respective trees, he tossed them into his vehicle as well.
He then swept the dirt with the tip of his shovel, smoothing the surface of the grave and covering it with debris before clearing away his boot prints as he backtracked from the scene.
It was a less-than-thorough cleanup and in no way removed all traces of his presence—but he only needed to buy a few days.
Back in his Jeep, he unsealed the PVC tube and removed its contents: various weapons, survival gear, necessary electronics, a field first-aid kit—all packed neatly inside a Ranger backpack.
He unzipped the pack and grabbed the first-aid kit.
As he peeled off his makeshift dressing, his wound started bleeding again, but he applied a sterile battle compress fast, binding it to the surrounding skin with surgical tape, and soon enough the bleeding stopped.
The kit also contained a box of oral cephalexin and a vial of ampicillin, along with several packaged syringes.
As he would have done for Erica, he injected himself with three grams of the ampicillin and put the cephalexin in his shirt pocket for later.
His eyes then went to the kit’s sixteen-ounce container of oral morphine, but he decided against that.
An hour’s drive was ahead of him still, and he needed to stay awake.
No doubt the pain—physical and otherwise—would fuel him.