“It’s a location. Online,” Reagan said as Seabass rolled his eyes again.
“Like a website?” Zig asked.
“Like a place where people want to talk. Privately.”
Zig glanced around at the empty pews, mentally running through the details from his Dover visit w— Oh crap. “Colonel Mint. That’s who was talking privately, wasn’t it?”
Reagan stayed silent, the knuckles on her middle fingers now white from gripping the camping saw at Andy’s neck. “Make your point, Mr. Zigarowski.”
“When I was at Dover— There’s another phone. Mint’s wife . . .” Zig took a breath. “He had a second cell phone . . . From what I can tell, they’re still going through it.”
Reagan stared at Zig. “Anything else?” she asked.
“I’m trying to help you get what you want. If someone was having a private talk with Colonel Mint—or trying to meet up with him, I don’t know . . . maybe this Black House place . . . You sure it’s not part of Grandma’s Pantry?”
Reagan cocked her head, confused. “What’s Grandma’s Pan—？”
Ftttt. Ftttt.
The blood hit Zig first, a hot spray across the back of his neck.
The world slowed to a halt as Seabass started to turn. His choke hold loosened, though just slightly.
Zig was still focused on the back of his own neck, thinking someone had spit at him.
Seabass continued to turn— No, not turn. He was off balance, falling. He smacked himself in the face, like he was swatting a mosquito on his cheek.
There was no mosquito. Just a small dark hole at the center of his cheek, charred at the edges. Instinctively, Seabass stuck his fingertip inside it, looking mad . . . annoyed even . . . the pain still not registering. Then he tasted the blood. It was nowhere, then everywhere, pouring from Seabass’s mouth. He tipped sideways, like a drunk who’d lost his battle with gravity.
Zig was still in midturn as Seabass began to tumble.
To Zig, it made no sense. All that blood. And the hole. Then it hit him like a fist. Shot. Someone shot Seabass in the face.
“Zig! At your nine! Get low!” someone yelled.
Zig turned to his left, still barely registering the words. He knew that voice.
A shadow turned the corner. Roddy.
58
Roddy ran straight at Zig, raising his gun.
“Get low! Get low!” Roddy shouted, aiming his pistol. It was the tactical .45, with the silencer.
Ftttt. Ftttt.
Two more shots. Zig was still in midturn, his first thought simply that, as Roddy turned the corner, it looked comical—the way he was perfectly framed by the old ice cream drive-through window behind him.
Seabass was bent over, holding his cheek, spitting blood and teeth. He’d been shot in the face. “You crazy motherf—”
Like an NFL lineman, Roddy plowed into Seabass, both of them tumbling toward the pews, crashing to the carpet.
Roddy was half his size, but momentum was on his side. So was his police training. They hit the carpet with a thud, Roddy using his forearm like a nightstick, pinning it to Seabass’s throat, squeezing the air out of him.
Roddy saved me, Zig thought, still wobbling as he tried to find his footing. Barely five seconds had passed since Roddy raced into the room. Zig was still trying to process how these . . . how these redheads surprised him and—
No. Not just him.
“Ziggy, run . . . !” Puerto Rican Andy screamed.