Tracking Shot, Colin Campbell [moboreader TXT] 📗

There was silence on the other end. No crackle of interference. No heavy breathing. Just harsh, dead silence. The silence dragged on for so long that McNulty thought the guy had hung up, then three gunshots exploded through the phone making McNulty jump. The gunshots faded then the voice returned. “The money we’ve already killed nine people for.”

There were muffled noises in the background.

“One more here or there won’t make any difference.”

McNulty nodded, even though the gunman couldn’t see him. “They can only hang you once, you mean?”

“They don’t hang you at all anymore.”

“The judge with the hanging baskets might make an exception.”

There was another pause. When the voice came back it sounded tired, possibly frustrated, but definitely not happy. “The point here being, I think we have proved our willingness to kill in pursuit of our goals. Nine down. One to go.”

McNulty sighed and looked at the clear blue sky. The sun was all the way over in the west and sinking fast. Nowhere near dusk, but closing in on late afternoon, then early evening. His face was bruised and his ribs were strapped, and the metal clamp was still taped across his broken nose. It had been a full and hectic week. Shootings and bombings and car crashes and robberies. Mysteries and misdirections and miscalculations.

“Your math is off. Don’t forget Severino.”

“Severino drowned, he wasn’t shot.”

“You didn’t say shot, you said killed.”

“We pushed him in. River killed him.”

“Is that the collective we? Or you personally?”

A low chuckle came down the line. It sounded like this guy was enjoying the verbal joust. He sounded less tired. Less frustrated. “There is no, me personally. Only the collective.”

McNulty nodded again. “A single unit of three. Disciplined service. Professionals. I get that.” He rubbed the bristles on his chin. He hadn’t shaved for three days. “Except your collective’s down to two.” He paused long enough for that to sink in. “That’s ten-to-one. We’re on the comeback trail.”

“Is that the collective we? Or you personally?”

McNulty pushed off from the trunk and stretched his shoulders. “There is no collective. Only me.”

This time the chuckle sounded cold and humorless. “You do yourself a disservice. Everyone has a collective.”

McNulty shook his head. “Not me. I’ve been alone since birth.”

There were more muffled sounds in the background. McNulty tried to make out what they were. Traffic? Music? Aftermath of the Fourth of July parade? It could prove vital in locating the gunmen. The voice became serious. “Wrong again. You only thought you were alone.”

A cold shiver ran down McNulty’s spine. He gripped the phone tighter and waited. The voice made him wait a moment longer then lowered to a whisper. “Some collectives are hidden until it’s too late. Like family.”

The afternoon sun seemed to fade out and all the color left the sky. McNulty leaned back against the trunk again, his mind reeling. He closed his eyes, then blinked several times until the color returned. Looking north he could see the remnants of the smoke cloud over the high school. Between there and Waltham Common the parade route would be in tatters and the police racing against time to restore order and preserve the crime scenes.

All of that felt like a million miles away. A million dollars away. He didn’t say anything. The voice on the other end said, “It took you a long time to find her, didn’t it?”

McNulty clenched his teeth, muscles bunching into cords along his jawline. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

The voice turned the screw. “We didn’t take that long.”

McNulty turned to face the house. The curtains were open but nobody peered out. With the noise of the car and the slamming of the trunk somebody should have been looking out. He took all the lightness out of his voice. “Don’t you touch my sister.”

“Sister?”

The muffled noises became clearer, a high-pitched voice that sounded scared and weepy. The side door opened and Susan stood at the top of the driveway. She hugged herself tight, then wiped tears from her eyes. The voice waited long enough for everything to sink in. “Her daughter is very pretty. It would be a shame for her to become number eleven, meaning you’re not on the comeback trail at all.”

FIFTY-TWO

Now things were getting messy. Even back when he’d been in the West Yorkshire Police he’d always been about protecting the vulnerable innocents. They didn’t come any more vulnerable than the five-year-old daughter of his sister. Tilly was as innocent as they came. Threatening her was the worst thing the gunman could have done. Saving her could be the hardest thing McNulty had ever had to do. The first step was not to piss off the kidnapper any more than he already had. This wasn’t the time for empty threats on the phone. “Go on.”

The voice was flat and even but still having fun with this. “You were a cop once, right?”

“More than once.”

“And now you’re a movie cop?”

“I teach movie cops.”

“So you’ve seen the money exchange. You know how this works.”

McNulty glanced at the button on his phone to make sure it was still recording. He was going to need this later when the shit hit the fan, and he was arrested for robbery, bombing and whatever he ended up doing to this guy. “You’re not going to do the yellow bag thing out of Dirty Harry? Bounce me all over town from phone booth to phone booth? Then, when you’re sure I’m not being followed, lead me to the drop?”

The voice let out a sigh. “Waltham’s too small to bounce you around.” It took on a lighter note. “And when was the last time you saw a phone booth?” Then it was all business again. “But the not-being-followed part is right.”

McNulty slumped against the car. His voice became introspective, almost like he was talking to himself. “Or she dies?”

The voice in his ear turned cold as ice. “There are worse things than dying.”

McNulty braced himself. Tiny shockwaves bristled the hair on the