Not a greenhouse, an indoor pool, fifteen feet below.

  And someone was taking a swim—

  NIGHTKILL

  2B?

  Jake blinked as he realized it was a woman in her underwear . . . with a long chain dragging behind her neck . . . three people standing at poolside . . . the one in a sweatshirt pulling her toward the steps . . . reeling her in, under water . . .

  Jake's intestines knotted fiercely. No!

  He didn't want to believe . . . not even Fredo could—

  The woman's head broke the surface, coughing, gagging, gasping, and he saw her face, and what he had already known in his gut became fact.

  As he screamed the word he shoved the barrel of the shotgun through the opening and fired at the bastard holding the chain. He saw the man's face disappear in a spray of red, then swiveled the barrel to go for the other two, but they were already at the exit and stumbling through the door. He fired anyway, on the outside chance a few pellets would strike home.

  Finding Angel again, he saw that she'd pulled herself up the steps and was clutching the pool coping, sobbing, retching, but alive. He wanted to break through the glass and jump into the pool to reach her, but that would leave him a sitting duck—and do neither of them any good.

  Then he saw the weights cuffed to her wrists.

  And something snapped inside.

  He tried to shout to her to hold on, that he was coming for her, but his jaw was locked. With his blood turning to ice, he straightened and ran toward the front of the house. The glass bubble of an electric meter budded from the siding. He pumped two blasts into it, jerking his head away as the meter exploded in a brilliant shower of sparks. The house went dark.

  On autopilot now, his mind racing a hundred feet ahead of him, he rounded the corner of the front porch and knew what he was going to do. Hitting the steps at a run, he pumped a shotgun round through the glass of the front door's upper half As return fire blew out whatever glass was left, Jake twisted in midair, hitting one of the gaping window frames rump first. He lost the Jets cap

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  and shredded the borrowed warm-up top on the shattering glass as he hurtled into a living room dark as midnight. He pumped off shotgun rounds in a wild barrage as he hit the floor and rolled. Pumping and firing, he sprayed the room until he ran out of shells, then pulled two of his pistols.

  The darkness echoed with screams and groans, punctuated by the muzzle flashes of panicked shooting. Lying flat, he watched them empty their pistols in all directions— Christ, they^re shootin0 each other.

  Suddenly he realized that he could see and they couldn't. He'd been out in the dark and they'd been inside in the light.

  Rough estimate: Four soldiers up and three down.

  When two of them stopped firing and reached for fresh clips, Jake squeezed off a pair of rounds at the two who were still shooting, then picked off the reloaders before they could insert their clips.

  Four shots, four down—gotta love those prefrags.

  A hysterical laugh boiled in Jake's throat. Choking it down, he rolled to his left just as someone opened fire from above, pouring bullets down the stairway from the second floor, riddling the spot he'd just vacated. Jake let out a scream and crouched behind a sofa.

  Another fusillade from the stairwell, but Jake didn't return fire. He waited.

  "Hey, Eddie," someone cried. "I think I got the fucker."

  "Yeah.>" shouted a second voice. "Hey, guys! What's happening down there .>"

  The groans of the wounded were the only replies.

  "Oh, fuck, man," said the first voice. "You don't think everybody's down, do you.>"

  A few heartbeats of silence, then a creak on the steps. Watching from the corner of his eye to maximize his night vision, Jake spotted the pale blur of a face peeking around the edge of the stairwell, soon joined by another.

  "I can't see a fuckin' thing, man. You got a light.>"

  NIGHTKILL

  269

  "Got a penlight on my keys."

  From the stairs, a tiny beam of light wavered from a shaking hand, cutting through the darkness below.

  Thank you very much, Jake thought. He opened fire and Eddie and his friend joined their buddies on the floor.

  He listened for the sound of footsteps retreating up the steps but heard none. He chewed his lip. Decision time: Forget the second floor.> Risk}^, but he'd be in worse shape if he got cornered up there.

  And time was short. The lights had been out about two minutes. In another two, he wouldn't be the only one with night-adapted eyes. He had to push his advantage.

  Jumping to his feet, Jake lifted one of the bodies and held it before him as he pushed into the next room.

  As he turned the corner he said, "Hey, it's me—Eddie. Don't shoot!"

  Someone opened fire, hitting the corpse twice. Either they didn't buy his mimicry or didn't care too much for Eddie. Jake pumped two rounds at the muzzle flashes and the shooting stopped.

  Ahead and to his right he heard footsteps pounding dowr steps to the basement.

  Creeping forward, he found himself in a hall, standing at the door to the basement. He stood to the side and slammed it shut; at once, a barrage from below shredded the door.

  At the same time, the sound drew fire from a doorway at the far end of the hall—a bathroom.^

  Jake lunged back out of the hall and pulled out his Tokarev, still loaded with the steel-jacketed rounds he'd used to riddle the First Class truck last night. He edged his head around the corner into the hall just enough to get his right eye clear for a look down to the door at the far end. It was now closed again, after the burst of gunfire from down there.

  Snaking his arm around the corner, Jake started firing the Tokarev. His first shot hit the center of the paneled door at its thickest

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  point, blowing it open. Then he placed one round to either side, each about three feet off the floor.

  A dark figure fell foward through the doorway with a satisfying thump.

  Jake put the Tokarev away and retrieved his Clocks. Making a quick check of the rest of the rooms along the hall, he closed each door as he passed, throwing the hallway into even deeper darkness. Then he returned to the shredded basement door, his mind racing. The pool was one level down, and this must be the way to it. At last sight. Angel had been alone beside the pool, gasping for air, in no shape to run. He had to get to her. But how? He had to assume that whoever had turned the door into Swiss cheese was still down there—no doubt, more than one man.

  Jake groped around him until he found a body. The Hey-it's-me-Eddie routine wouldn't work twice, but maybe he could improvise a variation on it. He dragged the body into the hallway next to what was left of the cellar door. Keeping well to the side, he grabbed the knob and yanked the door open, drawing another fierce barrage that temporarily deafened him.

  When it stopped, he fired off three shots down the well, then rolled away, but not before his muzzle flashes had given him a look at the stairwell.

  This time the answering volley from below continued until he heard a familiar voice. "Stop it, you assholes! Shit! Can't you see what he's doing.> He's trying to run us out of ammo. Hold your goddamn fire till you got something to shoot at!"

  Fredo!

  Jake felt a savage grin twist his face. Brave Fredo—declining to join the upstairs greeting party.

  Slipping off his shoes, Jake reviewed the images strobed into his brain by his muzzle flashes a moment ago: a handrail on the right of the stairwell and four-inch ledges on both sides that continued out straight at floor level as the steps descended between them. The stairwell ceiling descended until it met the ledges on either side, ending them about ten feet away.

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  271

  All at once, Jake saw how to do it.

  "Yo, Fredo?" he caUed.

  The silence stretched to the breaking point before Fredo replied.

  "Nacht! I knew it had to be you."

  "A Kewpie doll for fat Freddie. It's me, all right. And it's payback time."

  "Vito," Fredo said in a low voice. "Get into the pool room and bring me that bitch."

  Jake's jaw clenched so hard he felt a tooth crack. No way do you come out of this alive, Fredo. Jamming his pistols back into his belt, Jake grabbed the corpse under the armpits, hoisted it to its knees, and waited for Fredo to open his fat mouth again, knowing the silence would break him down.

  For a moment, nothing, and then: "There's a dozen of us, and only one of you, Nacht."

  Despite the loud bravado, Fredo didn't sound very confident. As he kept talking, blustering, Jake used the sound to cover his own movements, edging through the doorway and straddling the stairwell with a foot on each ledge. He kept one hand planted against the wall for support as he used the other to drag the corpse forward by the hair. He felt naked, exposed. If just one of the men below heard a squeak or a creak and send a random shot up the steps, he'd be finished.

  Luckily Fredo loved the sound of his own voice.

  "You can't take us all, Jakey. All we gotta do is charge up those steps and sure as shit one of us'll get you."

  Jake inched forward with the corpse, still straddling the stairwell, crouching now as the lowering ceiling forced him down. How many soldiers did Fredo have at the foot of the steps.^ Maybe half a dozen.>

  "Where's that fijckin' broad?'' Fredo said, whispering again.

  Jake couldn't hear the reply, but whatever it was, it didn't make Fredo happy.

  "Fuck!" Fredo yelled in obvious exasperation. "You three—up the steps. We'll be right behind you. Go! Go.'"

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  Silence, and then another voice at the bottom of the stairs said, "Tell you what, boss: Ton go first and weHl bring up the rear."

  Jake almost laughed, and then a cold dash of terror cleansed him as his legs began to tremble. He was bent over now, near the point of the triangle formed by the descent of the ceiling into the ends of the ledges. The body dangled beneath him, damned heavy, the hair starting to slip from his aching fingers now—and then he felt another tremor in his straining legs. Even charged with adrenaline, his muscles weren't up to this. Any second, his legs might go out on him again.

  Had to do it now.

  Bracing the crown of his head against the downward-sloping ceiling of the stairwell, he twined his other hand into the corpse's hair and dragged the body forward. The feet bumped on the steps, and then the body swung free into a forward arc.

  "Die, Fredo!" he screamed as he let go.

  An explosion of gunfire rocked the basement, throwing more strobe flashes, making the corpse seem to jerk and flop as it sailed down into the midst of Fredo and his soldiers. Head still braced, Jake drew his pistols, then pulled his feet from the ledges, dropping onto the steps. Stumbling down into the basement, he fired lefi: and right, cross-armed to brace both hands.

  Hitting the bottom, he dived to the floor and lay flat.

  Panic reigned in long, wild bursts of gunfire, and then, at last, the shooting stopped. Jake lay still, ears ringing, gaping his mouth open so no one would hear him sucking air.

  "Did we get him.>" someone cried.

  "Anybody got a light.^" Fredo's voice.

  Homing on the voice, aiming at it, Jake caught himself just in time. A muzzle flash now would be his death warrant.

  "I got a cigarette lighter," a voice replied.

  "Use it," Fredo said. "Hold it up so we can see what's going on here."

  "Fuck that, man. Like I'm gonna sit here holding up a flame like I'm at some fiickin' Springsteen concert?"

  NIGHTKILL

  2/3

  Jake grinned. Morale gone, chain of command breaking down . . . before long they'd be ready to start capping each other. But he couldn't wait around hoping for that—not while Angel was somewhere ahead, half-drowned, probably still hanging on to the edge of the pool—

  "J^e.>" called a voice from upstairs. "J^e, are you down there.>"

  "Who the fuck is thatT'' Fredo whispered.

  Doc Graham. Jake suppressed a groan. Christ, what was Graham doing here.>

  "Get ready, Jake," Graham said. "I'm doing the Jersey City truck thing."

  Jersey City truck thin£f? What —?

  And then Jake remembered. He covered his eyes just in time, as a flare came flying down the steps and bounced across the basement floor.

  Squinting, Jake saw four of them freeze in the piercing red glare—two wincing and shielding their eyes, one turned away and covering his head as if the flare were a stick of dynamite. He shot them all, the bullets spinning them away and down.

  But where was Fredo—.>

  There—running away down a hall toward the rear of the house . . . toward the pool!

  Le£fs, donh fail me now! Staggering up, Jake ran after Fredo. "Stay there. Doc!" he shouted over his shoulder, hoping Graham would hear him at the head of the stairwell and know he was still in business.

  A muzzle flashed at the far end of the hall, and a bullet grazed his flank. Realizing he was backlit by the flare, Jake ducked back to the base of the steps. Another shot sent a bullet ricocheting off the floor and past him.

  "Shit!" Fredo gasped.

  Then Jake heard him working the slide of his automatic: empty or jammed.^ No time to wait and find out. Grabbing the flare, he flung it down the hall, then rolled into firing position. He got one glimpse

  m

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  of Fredo's back dodging into the pool area—not enough time for a shot—then heard Cangemi's voice call out from the darkness beyond the end of the flare-lit corridor. The voice had a peculiar v^ater-slapped sound, and Jake realized Cangemi was already in the pool chamber—he was the one who'd gone after Angel.

  Jake ran down the hall toward the pool.

  "Hey!" Cangemi shouted again. "Who's there.> Tell the boss I got her. Finally found her in this flickin' dark."

  An^fel!

  The flare lay on the floor ahead of Jake. Scooping it up as he ran, he flipped it through the doorway. The red glare arced through the air and landed with a splash on the water . . .

  Where it kept on burning . . .

  Crouching, Jake slipped through into the pool area, pistols out, ready to fire. Where was Fredo.>

  The floating flare had turned the big glass chamber into an eerie place, a chaotic web of wavering red lines that swirled across the walls, ceiling, and pool bottom. Where are you, you bastard? I saw you come in here, I know I did.

  To his right, at the far end of the pool, Jake spotted Cangemi standing over Angel's limp body, blinking into the glare.

  "Christ, Fredo, is that you? I got her. Now what do I do with her.>"

  "You leave her right where she is," Jake whispered.

  He fired once. The lieutenant's face exploded as the impact slammed him against the wall. The back of his head left a wide dark streak on the tiles as he slowly sank to a sitting position.

  And still Angel didn't move.

  A cold dread setded in Jake's gut. Dear God, she looked dead. He had to get to her. CPR had never been his line—more the reverse—but he'd seen it done, and there was no one else.

  But first he had to get past Fredo.

  Where the hell was he.>

  Scanning the pool area again, Jake still saw only Angel and two bodies—Cangemi and the guy he'd shot earlier, from the skylight.

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  275

  All the rest was white tile and wavering red light. Fredo had been wearing a dark suit when he'd left First Class tonight. No way he could blend in with the background here.

  Jake's heart sank as he realized Fredo might have gotten away clean. Angel would never be safe as long as Fredo was alive.

  Worry about that later. Get An^jel out of here.

  As he started toward her, a weight slammed against his back and something hard smashed against his skull. Cracks spidered across his vision and he felt consciousness slipping, shattering into a million pieces. With a fierce effort of will, he held it together. He got behind you. Run!

  But before he could gather his legs, Fredo plowed into him again; dropping his pistols, Jake grabbed behind him, catching an arm, and carrying Fredo with him as he fell. Cool water shocked him as they hit the pool together, reviving him, hosing away the fuzz of conftision on his brain. Kicking free, he broke the surface and looked for Fredo. The pool surface was still unbroken. Above it he glimpsed the dark doorway opening on the pool, and above the door, a wide ledge of molding. Fredo must have clambered up there, then jumped down on him.

  Hearing a splash beside him, Jake twisted in time to see Fredo's enraged face surging from the water, and above it, his pistol held high and arcing toward him for a knockout blow.

  Jake blocked the blow with his wrist, then grabbed the arm, and they both went under again as they struggled for possession of the weapon. Jake managed to twist it from Fredo's fingers but lost his grip on it. He watched the automatic sink to the pool floor. He wanted to go after it but his lungs were clamoring for air.

  He and Fredo broke the surface together. Now it would be a test of endurance. Jake dragged his arms, laden with sodden clothing, from the water and grappled with Fredo, as the other man flailed back. Jake felt him kicking and kicked back, trying to get a grip on him so he could drag him under the water, a bizarre, clumsy ballet, but one look in Fredo's eyes told him this was to the death, the last fight for one of them.

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  Almost at once, Jake began to tire. Struggling against Fredo while fighting the extra weight of the saturated clothes that tried to drag him under, he felt the water slap his chin, then spike up into his nose. He had to maneuver Fredo to the side where, with his feet on the bottom, he might have a better chance to gain the upper hand. The closest edge of the pool was maybe a dozen feet behind him. Right near Angel . . .