Extreme Justice (24 page)

A few minutes before he would have reached the club, he noticed a car on the side of the road; he was traveling so fast he passed it before his eyes registered what it was. Some old van, probably broken down and abandoned. A second or two later, he came upon yet another car, a beat-up red Firebird.

What was the deal? Too lazy to take them to the dump? Or did they think Rockwood was close enough to being a dump? As he passed the second car, something caught in the corner of his eye. He saw the distinctive racing stripes ornamenting the hood and the sides—double bolts of jagged yellow lightning. Wait a minute …

He slowed down and pulled over to the shoulder so he could get a closer look at the car through his rearview. He was almost certain he had seen that car before—in the parking lot at Earl’s.

Of course. That was Tyrone’s car. But what was it doing on the side of the road?

Maybe Tyrone’d gotten tired of waiting for Ben. Understandable, but why would he come here? Why would he ever want to leave his car in this neighborhood?

Something screwy was going on. After making a quick check for traffic and cops, Ben made a U-turn. Slowing, he pulled up behind Tyrone’s car. There didn’t appear to be anyone inside.

Ben understood what people meant when they talked about their blood running cold. He felt as if ice floes were coursing just below his skin. He was getting goose bumps from head to toe. If he was smart, he realized, he’d start his car and get the hell out of there.

But Tyrone might be in trouble. And if they lost Tyrone, the D.A. would run over Earl with a steamroller.

Slowly, trying to stay alert for any sign of anything, Ben popped open his car door and stepped outside.

He hadn’t noticed until just that second how dark it was out here. He could see street lamps, but none of them were functioning. He heard a noise and his hand clenched down on the side of his car. It was a bird—a crow, he thought, though he was no expert on birds.

He walked up to Tyrone’s car and peered through the windows. Lots of cassette tapes, trash, and wadded wrappers from a variety of fast-food palaces. But there was no sign of Tyrone. Or anyone else, for that matter.

He tried the door; it opened. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with the car; the door light came on and an annoying buzzing noise told him the keys were still in the ignition.

The keys? Did he want it to be stolen? Abandoning his car was incredible enough, but leaving it here, in the worst part of town, with the keys still in it? That was beyond incredible. That was something Tyrone simply wouldn’t have done. Unless he had no choice.

Ben didn’t know why exactly, but he knew he didn’t want to be here anymore. His knees were trembling; his palms were getting clammy and wet. He wanted out.

He returned to his own car. Just as he arrived at the driver’s-side door, he heard a sound he couldn’t possibly write off as a bird.

“Excuse me. Is that your car?”

Ben froze. His hands clutched the door handle. “Who are you?” He whirled around in the darkness. “Where are you?”

“I’m over here,” the voice replied.

Ben tried to keep his voice steady. “I can’t see you.”

“It’s dark.” Ben heard a crunching of gravel that told him that whoever and wherever the voice was, it was coming closer. “I repeat, is that your car?”

“No.” Ben squinted, scanning the darkness. “Are you a police officer?”

There was a soft chuckle. “Not hardly.” Ben heard a brief intake of air. “So why did you stop?”

Ben’s brain was racing. “I—I thought I recognized the car.”

“And did you?”

“No, it was a mistake. It just looked like my friend’s car.”

Ben heard more footsteps. A few feet in front of his van, he saw a dark silhouette emerge.

“A very distinctive automobile. Hard to mistake.”

“Yeah, well, I did.” Ben inched closer to his van. Had he locked the door? He couldn’t remember. He fumbled for the keys.

“Don’t run off,” the voice in the blackness urged.

Ben tried to grip the keys with his sweat-soaked fingers. “I have an appointment.” He slid the correct key into the lock and turned. There was no resistance; the door had not been locked.

He popped open the door. A seeming flood of light burst out of the cracked door, illuminating Ben’s face.

The other man’s voice cut through the darkness like a knife slicing through butter. “It’s you.”

Ben froze. He knew what that meant.

It was the man with the rug, the man at the club, the man Tyrone saw in the bathroom.

The man with the knife.

Ben jumped into the driver’s seat of the car and shoved his keys toward the ignition. He heard the crunching footsteps outside, closing fast. Ben switched on his headlights, bathing the area in front of the car with white light. The instant the lights came on, he saw a dark shadow just leaving the illuminated area. He was only a few feet away.

Ben grabbed the van door and pulled it to him, but not in time. The other man shoved his arm inside, preventing the door from closing. Ben continued to pull tightly on the door, clamping the man’s arm like a vise, holding him fast.

“Let go!” the man shouted. His voice was livid with rage.

“Think I’ll pass,” Ben muttered. Cautiously, holding the door tight with one hand, he used the other to fumble with his keys, trying to find the one that started the car.

“I said let go!” the man bellowed. An instant later, his loose fist came barreling toward the window. It crashed through the glass, shattering it, sending safety glass flying in all directions.

Ben turned his head and closed his eyes. He felt the glass rain down on his face, his hands, his body.

With the hand through the window, the other man clamped down on Ben’s throat and squeezed. His fingers were like steel, tightening by the second.

Ben felt the air rush out of his lungs. The man was choking him, crushing his windpipe. What could he do? He held one of the keys in his hand like a dagger and jabbed it down onto the man’s arm.

The man cried out. He released Ben’s throat, but an instant later, his fingers balled into a fist and jackhammered forward.

Ben’s head slammed back against the headrest with a thud. He felt blood trickling out of his nose.

His lids fluttered; the combination of having his air cut off followed by a sharp blow to the face had dazed him. Still grappling with the keys, he struggled to push them toward the ignition.

The man brought his fist around again and knocked the keys out of Ben’s hand. They tumbled onto the floor, disappearing into the black interior. “I have you now,” the man outside muttered. “Release my arm!”

“Whatever you say,” Ben gasped. He eased off the pressure, but a nanosecond after he did—and before the man had a chance to move—he pulled it back with all his might, crunching the man’s arm.

The man howled. He cried out even louder than before. “Son of a bitch!” he bellowed. “You are one dead fucking piano player.”

Ben tried to make him out, but all he could see were the arms, one trapped, the other grappling for his throat. The fist came at him again, this time banging into the side of his face.

The blow knocked Ben backward, pulling his arm off the door for an instant. It was enough. The man outside pulled his trapped arm free, then used both hands to yank the door wide open.

The hands Ben had struggled with so long shot into the van, one of them holding a long shimmering blade. “Your time has come,” the man growled, raising the knife into the air. “Put on a happy face.”

B
EN SAW THE BLADE
coming toward him, but there was nowhere he could go, nothing he could do. His eyes darted around the van’s interior, searching for a weapon. He was trapped like a fox with the hounds circling, absolutely powerless to stop the inevitable.

“If you don’t struggle,” the man said, “I can end this quickly. If you fight me, I might draw it out for days. I might carve your smile several times, over and over again. While you’re still breathing.”

Ben tried to scramble out of the seat, but the man’s free hand clamped down hard on his shoulder.

“Either way, you’re going to die. Why not make it easy on yourself?”

Ben grabbed the hand and pulled it toward his mouth. He opened wide and bit down hard.

“
Eeeeeeah!
” The man drew his hand back, his blood spilling. Barely a second later, though, the fist returned. It slammed into Ben’s face, once more pummeling his nose. He felt a crack and in that moment realized that the man must have broken his nose. Blood was jetting downward onto his lips. The world was whirling; he could barely see, much less focus. He couldn’t possibly resist any longer.

“You’ve played your swan song,” the man said, and Ben watched helplessly as the silvery serrated knife inched closer to his throat …

The man with the knife suddenly lurched sideways, his head striking the steering wheel.

“What the—”

Ben stared, not comprehending. He’d thought his time was up, but someone appeared to have struck the killer from behind.

“Who—”

Before Ben could spit out another word, the man lurched forward again.

“Here’s a little something to remember me by,” Ben heard another voice say.

“
Gaaak!
”

All of a sudden, the man with the knife tumbled into the van. At first Ben thought he was lunging to make the kill; then he realized the man’s legs had gone out from under him. He fell forward; his chin thudded down on the steering wheel.

Ben had no idea what had happened, but he knew he wouldn’t get a second chance. Summoning all his might, he grabbed the man’s head and bashed it against the steering column. The man cried out again, and his head and body slid out the door.

Ben made his move. He scrambled up on all fours and crawled into the passenger seat, then crawled out the other side of the van.

He sped away, heading at top speed toward the safety of the opposite side of the street.

“Kincaid!” It was Tyrone Jackson, standing behind the crumpled assailant. “Are you all right?” Tyrone cried.

“I’ll live,” Ben shouted. “Get out of here. Go to—”

He never had a chance to finish. Like some crazed monster out of hell, the man brandishing the knife suddenly reared up, blood dripping from his chin. He lunged toward Tyrone.

Tyrone jumped back, lost his balance, tumbled onto the gravel. The man just kept coming, knife extended. Tyrone scrambled to his feet, turned and ran, never looking back. He passed the road and headed toward Rockwood.

The man with the knife seemed to have forgotten all about Ben. He was following Tyrone now, matching his speed.

“Damn!” Ben swore to himself. All he wanted now was to get the hell out of here. But he couldn’t abandon Tyrone to that maniac. He ran across the street after them, running as fast as he could, but he’d lost sight of them before he even made it to the ruins. His first instinct was to plunge on in, to try to pick up their trail. But he knew that wasn’t the smartest option. He wasn’t likely to find them by himself, running around in the dark. He needed help.

“Damn!” Ben raced back toward the van. He could call 911 on his car phone. That had to be smarter than wandering around dark unfamiliar ruins by himself. He just hoped it wasn’t too late already.

As he punched the beeping buttons, Ben cursed himself for not being faster. “Damn, damn, damn!” he repeated, as if it might do some good. “Damn, damn,
damn
!”

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Tyrone kept telling himself, as he raced through the mazelike alley he once called home. What did he think he was doing? Who did he think he was, some superhero or something?

He had been perfectly safe up on the roof. He could see everything that happened, and no one could see him. No one could get to him. No one could even imagine he was there.

But then he had seen that fool Kincaid drive up, and a few moments later, the killer had emerged from the darkness. He’d been lurking in the trees on the other side of the street—waiting for Tyrone to return to his car, no doubt. When Kincaid showed up, he decided to take him instead.

So Tyrone ran down and tried to help Kincaid out. Looked like he would’ve been a goner if Tyrone hadn’t come up from behind and given the man a swift kick where he knew he’d feel it. Problem was, now the killer was after him.

He saw the fire escape approaching on the right. It would be great to be able to retreat to the roof, but he knew he’d never make it. He could hear the footsteps of the man chasing him; he wasn’t far behind. If Tyrone tried to climb that ladder, the maniac would cut his legs out from under him. He just didn’t have time for that. He had to keep running.

He had to keep running, sure, but unless he thought he could run forever, he had to lose the man, and the sooner the better. Even though he knew that creep had to be hurting from the beating he’d taken, he was having no trouble keeping up.

He seemed to be inexhaustible. He would never give up. He would hunt Tyrone till he killed him.

He whipped around the next corner, ducking into an alleyway. It was littered with debris, bottles, crushed cans, human waste. He leapt from side to side, trying to avoid anything that might slow him down. He couldn’t see anything until he was almost on top of it.

He made it to the end of the alley, weaving and dodging, then leaned against the wall. He had to take a breather.

He pricked up his ears. Maybe he’d lost the creep, he thought and prayed. Maybe, just maybe.

But no. An instant later, he heard footsteps entering the alley. There was a loud metallic clanging; the man had crashed into something, probably an overturned trash can. He was bare seconds behind.

Tyrone forced himself to run. His throat ached with dryness and he had a stitch in his side that wouldn’t go away, but he had to keep running. If he stopped he was history. But for how long? he asked himself. How long could he keep this up?

As long as that maniac with the knife?

Probably not.

If he was going to survive, he had to figure out a way to end this chase—before it ended him.

He did have one advantage, he reminded himself as he raced down the next dark corridor. He knew Rockwood. He’d grown up around here. He’d played in these ruins. As a teen gang member, he’d practically lived here. He knew the terrain, and that knife-wielding crazy behind him almost certainly didn’t. There had to be some way he could use that particular piece of information. There had to be some way he could use it to turn this hopeless situation into a fighting chance to live.