Read Recoil for Free Online Page A

stabbing for the pedal. That was when something made a loud sharp crack over his shoulder.
    He hadn’t heard that sound in twenty-three years but his instincts knew it: the crack of a high-velocity bullet passing near—a tiny sonic boom.
    He threw himself flat across the seats and heard the distant cough of the rifle, delayed by range. He jackknifed his legs inside the car and the brass of fear coated his tongue with sudden bitterness. The next shot clanged against metal and sighed away whistling: again the distant bark of the rifle.
    The Porsche was rolling slowly. The third bullet starred the windshield and then his ears thudded with the shockingly close-by boom of a handgun shot. Another explosion, and he realized it was the cop shooting back.
    The car whacked the curb. It threw him against the dash and wedged him down toward the floor; his knee cracked the shift knob and sharp pain shot up his leg. The curb chocked the wheel and the car didn’t move again; he heard the cop empty his revolver methodically. Other guns opened up and the racket was intense, like a battlefield. Someone kept yelling—he couldn’t make out the words. Heedlessly he lifted himself off the floor and searched the lawn. The plainclothesman must have knocked Jan down; the man was down on one knee, hiding her behind his own bulk, sighting his revolver up across the street at the high canyon slope beyond. Roger had his arm across Amy’s shoulders and was running her toward cover, the hedge on the property line. Then he saw Ronny and Billy, both of them diving into the ruins of the house.
    Bradleigh’s blue Plymouth came lurching downhill. The cop just outside the Porsche was belly-flat with his revolver extended in both hands toward the slope.
    He heard the distant cough and sputter of a kicked-over motorcycle engine and he spun his eyes toward the far slope. The cycle roared and abruptly appeared in flitting bursts, ramming through the trees on the ridge line above the houses. It drew police gunfire from the lawn but the motorcyclist dropped off the skyline, disappearing beyond the crest.
    Bradleigh was running forward, bellowing: “ Get that mother! ” A cruiser plunged away, siren unwinding from a growl. Cops swarmed past Mathieson and slammed into their cars.
    Mathieson backed out of the Porsche, dimly aware that his body was doing the necessary things: pulling the hand brake, ducking to clear the opening with his head, turning to face Bradleigh. “Jesus Christ, Glenn—”
    â€œAre you all right?”
    â€œYes. I’m not hit. But they—”
    Bradleigh’s relief took the form of a surge of anger: “Get back in there and get the fuck away from here.”
    â€œThat’s my house.”
    â€œThe hell. It’s the insurance company’s now. You damn fool.”
    He stared at the ruins. Half the house was gone: just debris. The back walls were intact and part of the roof sagged inward; the rest was junk.
    Roger had his arms around Ronny’s shoulders. Mathieson couldn’t see Jan in the wheeling crowd. Bradleigh thrust him into the car. “Shove over, damn you.” Then Bradleigh was at the wheel, finding the gears, making a tight U-turn, squalling away.
    â€œMy kid—my wife …” He twisted around, watching Jan step forward on the lawn with one hand lifted.
    Bradleigh batted him across the back of the head, “Get down. Quit making a target out of yourself.”
    â€œWhat?” But he slid down in the seat, knees against the dash.
    â€œYou fell for it like a rube buying the Brooklyn Bridge. Why do you think they posted the sniper up there? The bastard was there to pick you off when you showed up to rubberneck the wreckage. You dumb bastard. God knows why you’re alive.”

CHAPTER THREE
    Los Angeles: 1 August
    1
    R OGER ’ S STATION WAGON SLID TO A STOP ON THE GRAVEL AND Jan came out into Mathieson’s arms; Ronny dived out of