Deadly Messengers (41 page)

He’d made it to the warming unit, which separated the kitchen from the serving area and concealed him from view of the serving area. Rivulets of sweat rolled down his face, a few drops falling into his eyes, momentarily stinging them shut. He brushed other hanging droplets from his brow.

Thirty seconds had passed since the gunshot, and there’d been no more gunfire. The lack of it didn’t encourage him. In fact, as each second passed, his gut wound ever tighter as though attached to a giant key. His instinct told him this wasn’t over.

Keep moving.
That was all he could do.

He was up, not squatting anymore, crouching, as he prepared to round the corner of the warming unit, his gun at the ready. That’s when he saw Stretch, the tall employee he’d spied before. Stretch was on his stomach flat to the floor, crawling. Smeared blood trailed him, dark and rich on the white-gray tiles. The poor kid. From the position of the exit wound on his shoulder though, he’d live.

Stretch hadn’t seen O’Grady, his focus only on escape. Shock would be propelling him. He reached out and placed a hand on Stretch’s leg. The boy stopped, his head snapping toward O’Grady, his pupils dilated and his eyes moving wildly.

O’Grady lowered his gun. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Keep going. Get to the door and get out.”

The boy simply nodded, before crawling away at a greater speed, his hips moving up and down as he worked his body along the tiles. As if suddenly gaining strength, Stretch climbed to his feet and took off around the bench, heading for the exit.

Good, another life saved.

Now it was O’Grady’s turn to move. If anyone died, the fault would lie directly at his feet. He pushed up to a half stand, the thump of his heart loud in his ears. He glanced above the warmer—, still filled with fries and abandoned burgers—into the serving area.

In that glance, he saw everything.

Kendall Jennings only six feet away. Doug McKinley at the counter. People bottlenecked at the door trying to escape. This close he smelled the sulfur odor of the discharged weapon. Now there was no mistake. Kendall had the gun. A gun now aimed at McKinley, her intention clear.

O’Grady had only two moves, neither of them good.

Then the gun fired.

KENDALL FELT THE MOVEMENT FROM behind her, even before she saw him. The rushing of a dark figure, close, just to her right.

Kill anyone who will stop you.

Instinctively, she knew this shadow did want to halt her mission. She began to turn toward the figure. Her feet were suddenly sluggish, her coordination off, her body mired in thick air. One hand came free from the weapon at the moment she fired, swinging the aim of the gun to the side.

Her finger had been paused on the trigger. The rush of air had thrown her concentration. She fired toward the flying figure—yes, it felt like he was flying—but she missed. She recovered herself enough to correct her aim. Maybe two seconds was all she’d lost. Long enough, though, for the shadow to disappear behind a wall to the side of a preparation counter. She went to follow, but the voice stopped her.

The mission is all that matters.

She spun back to the old man. He, a statue at the counter, his eyes still closed, his mouth continuing to move as in prayer. She needed to hurry.

Four. You must deliver four.

Kendall raised the gun. This time she took a moment, her aim more careful. The word
hurry
rang in her ears.

O’GRADY SAW KENDALL RAISE HER arm and swing the gun in his direction. He’d begun acting on option one: rush her like he was Tom Cruise in
Mission Impossible
. With the element of surprise, he’d calculated he could overpower her before she got off a shot.

She’d heard him, though, and had begun to turn when he was only halfway to her. He’d realized he wasn’t going to make it. Fortunately, his momentum enabled him to hurl himself behind the wall jutting out from the drive-thru window.

He’d skidded into a hollow under the window, immediately swinging about in readiness. Such a close call. He sucked down several lungfuls of air before he felt steady again, his gun aimed at where he expected she’d appear.

Moments before his failed move, he’d discarded his second and safest option: to shoot Kendall from his previous hiding position. He could only take an upper-body shot from that vantage. Chances were that could prove fatal.

Seconds ticked by, as he brandished his gun, his hand tight around the grip, his body quivering from the adrenaline. She hadn’t seemed to follow him.

Now he was left with option two from this new position. All he could do was hope he could place the bullet in her shoulder or arm and wing her. The danger of fatally wounding her was high, but the life of every person in this restaurant was his responsibility. He’d already risked so much for Kendall Jennings. If he was honest, feelings he still didn’t understand were the cause of his lapse in judgment. Anyone else, he would have done what his training demanded.

Time was running out either way. Any second, a swarm of police would arrive. Shots were fired and every available uniform would have already been diverted to this location. The crazy shit fight he’d hoped to avoid was about to happen. Kendall Jennings was probably dead either way. It was now his job to ensure she didn’t take anyone with her.

His initial relief that she hadn’t followed him might mean she’d returned to complete whatever insanity she was programmed to deliver.

O’Grady ran through his next viable move. He repeated the steps in his head, ran his mind through the actions. His life would depend upon precision and luck.

Step out, aim, and fire.

She wasn’t trained to use a gun. He was. He had a better chance of hitting her than she hitting him. Still he hesitated. Lives could be lost because of that hesitation, but damn, if something about her hadn’t wound its way inside his heart. The thought of shooting her pierced his soul as though a bullet had already found its mark in a soft, deep spot inside.

The sound of sirens shattered his thoughts.

Time had run out. While it was just he and Kendall, there was still a chance to save her. Once more police arrived it was out of his hands. She
would
die. That was how McKinley programmed them. No survivor. No answers.

Then he thought about the drug, this Zombie’s Breath. He’d read up about it in detail. Those under its influence had killed of their own volition, but it wasn’t truly them. Toby Benson, Benito Tavell, and Kate Wilker. Deep down Kendall wasn’t a killer. Doug McKinley was the killer. He’d given them the drug and programmed them—

Programmed to kill.

Wait a minute
! If Kendall could be programmed, could she also be de-programmed? Could he redirect her to stop? Could the plan be undone?

It was a risk. If it failed, he would be ready. He could stop her with a bullet, a last, final resort.

Somewhere on the other side of the wall, he felt her. The melee he’d heard after the crack of the second gunshot had quieted. Hopefully that meant most customers had escaped.

He reached down and pushed himself back to standing, keeping his back pressed hard against the wall. His stomach clenched like he’d eaten something rotten. He knew what he had to do.
Could he do it?

O’Grady raised his gun. His hands couldn’t grip the weapon any tighter as he stepped out from the safety of the wall.

KENDALL PUSHED AT THE FINGER resting on the trigger. Suddenly it required an enormous amount of energy to move that single digit, as though thick half-set glue had coated the firing mechanism.

The voice continued to whisper to her as she stared at the old man, the one called Doug McKinley. She trained the gun on him and imagined the bullet patiently waiting to complete its mission.

Send him to his son.

Kendall. Kendall. Stop.

Something about the voice, the warm honey voice she trusted and loved had changed. It was now distant, faded, replaced by this harsher one, frantic and insistent. This voice didn’t make her feel wonderful and safe. It made her feel off kilter as though there was an echo in her head that didn’t fit, an off note on a musical scale.

She
did
have a memory of this voice, though. She pulled at that memory, deep in the recesses of her mind like tugging at a forgotten dream. Its familiarity stopped her. Deep inside, it evoked a feeling of something like love or hope, and then of being saved. She saw her mother in the car and a shadow calling to her, explaining everything would be okay. The owner of the voice would save her.

Please, Kendall
,
put down the gun. It’ll be okay. I’m trying to protect you.

She felt herself lower the gun. She
wanted
protection.

Then the other voice rose, the one she would follow anywhere.

Y
ou must deliver the message
.

Yes, she must deliver the message if she wanted her mother.

The other voice came back.
Kendall, we haven’t much time. Pleas
e.

An eternity passed as her mind swayed back and forth. What should she do? Her mind filled with swirling mist, both voices calling for her from somewhere she couldn’t reach.

Her mother’s face hung before her. The image was all she needed to remind her why she was here. This was her gift to her mother. She was the messenger.

Kendall’s wrist moved as suddenly and smoothly as the flick of a tail. She brought her aim back to Doug McKinley. He opened his mouth and spoke in the voice that commanded her heart and her mind.

“Hurry,” he said. “Hurry. Now. Do it now.”

Their eyes met. It was like a dance, his head nodding slowly as though listening to a silent beat. He wanted his peace. He awaited deliverance.

Kendall bowed her head in a final goodbye. The time had come. He would see his son. She didn’t feel the trigger compress, only heard the explosion of the gun and the terrified shouts still in the room attempting their escape.

The old man took the hit in the chest. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t clutch at his wound. Though his head stopped moving and his mouth had stilled. He looked down at his chest, then his eyes found hers, and he sent a
thank you
with the flicker of his lids.

From the far corner of the restaurant, a scream and sudden movement drew her attention. She twisted her head toward the sound. Five people huddled beneath a table. A woman wearing jeans and a t-shirt leaped up and, despite the others pulling at her, made a run for the door. She tracked the woman with her gun, before her attention was drawn back to the old man, to McKinley.

His hands reached for his wound, but before they’d moved to the growing red spot on his shirt, he began to fall. McKinley’s upper body landed on the counter with a thud. He lay there for a moment, slumped, glued to the surface at an awkward angle, then he slowly slid to the floor and was lost to her sight.

Now he would find his son.

And she must continue and complete her mission.

You must deliver four.

She reached inside her bag to retrieve the second gun.