Team A was inside the house fast and clean.
Then so was Team B. We couldn’t see the third team from where we were parked. They went in the back.
There was shouting inside. Then we heard a loud pop. Percussive, definitely a gunshot.
“Oh, shit.” Betsey looked over at me. “Macdougall was waiting for us. How the hell did that happen?”
There were several more gunshots. Someone yelled. A woman began to scream and curse. Was it Veronica Macdougall’s mother?
Betsey and I jumped out of the car and moved quickly toward the Macdougall house. We still didn’t go inside. I was thinking that four other houses were being hit right now. I hoped there wasn’t more trouble like this.
“Talk to me,” Betsey said into her Handie-Talkie. “What’s happening in there? Mike? What the hell is wrong?”
“Rice is down. I’m outside the master bedroom on the second floor. Macdougall and his wife are inside.”
“How is Rice?” she asked, very concerned.
“Chest wound. He’s conscious. Wound is sucking bad, though. Get an ambulance here now! Macdougall shot him.”
Suddenly a window on the second floor opened. I saw a figure come out of the window and run in a low crouch across the attached garage roof.
Betsey and I sprinted toward the man. I remembered that she’d been a good lacrosse player at Georgetown. She could still move.
“He’s outside! Macdougall’s up on the roof over the garage,” she reported to the others.
“I got him,” I told her. He was angling toward where the garage roof intersected with a row of feathery-looking fir trees. I couldn’t s
ee what was beyond the trees, but I figured it had to be another yard, another house.
“Macdougall!” I yelled at the top of my voice. “Stop! Police! Stop or I’ll shoot!”
He didn’t look back, didn’t stop, and didn’t hesitate. Macdougall jumped down into the trees.
Chapter 88
I RAN WITH MY HEAD DOWN, right through a barrier of thick bushes that scraped and cut my arms until there was blood. Brian Macdougall hadn’t gotten very far into the yard next door.
I raced for a dozen steps after him, and then I tackled him. I aimed my right shoulder at the back of his knees. I wanted to hurt Macdougall if I possibly could.
He went down hard, but he was as loaded up with adrenaline as I was. He rolled and twisted out of my arms. He popped up fast, and so did I. “You should have stayed down,” I told him. “You’re not supposed to make mistakes. Getting up was a mistake.”
I hit Macdougall with a hard, straight overhand right. It felt very good. His head snapped back about six inches.
I bobbed a little. Macdougall threw a wild hook that missed me completely. I hit him again. His knees buckled, but he didn’t go down. He was a tough street cop.
“I’m impressed,” I told him, taunted him. “You still should have stayed down, though.”
“Alex!” I heard Betsey yell as she entered the yard.
Macdougall threw a pretty good punch, but he telegraphed it a little. It glanced off the side of my forehead. I could have taken the punch if it had connected. “That’s better,” I told him. “Get the weight off your heels, Brian.”
“Alex!” Betsey called again. “Take him down, goddamnit! Now!”
I wanted the physical contact with Macdougall, the release, just another minute in the ring. I felt I’d earned it, and he deserved whatever got doled out here. He threw another looping punch, but I sidestepped the hit. He was already tired.
“You’re not beating up on your wife or your little girl now,” I said. “You’re dealing with somebody your own size. I fight back, Macdougall.”
“Fuck you,” he snarled, but he was gasping for a breath. His face and neck were coated with sweat.