FaceOff (31 page)

Glen guided Kelly quickly to the door, pushing past people, butting in ahead of them to get outside. Coming out of the air-conditioning, the midday heat hit them like a warm, smothering blanket.

“Over there,” Kelly said, pointing.

A crowd had formed a couple of car lengths away from the pumps. Waves of heat riffled through the air. Glen let go of Kelly’s arm, reached into his pocket for the remote, and hit the button to unlock his truck as they approached it.

He brought Kelly around to the passenger’s side. She was more than big enough to hop in herself, but her father gave her enough of a boost that she was nearly tossed across the seat. He reached over her and placed his coffee into one of the cup holders between the seats.

Then he went around to the driver’s side, opened the door, and reached behind the seat to grab the red cylinder he always kept there. Doing construction, you were just as likely to need one of these at a work site as you were to put out a car fire.

“Stay here,” Glen said firmly. “Lock the doors.”

“I’ll die with the windows up,” Kelly said. “It’s a million degrees in here.”

He hopped in long enough to engage the ignition, without firing up the engine, and power down the windows, leaving the key inserted in the steering column. “Keep the doors locked just the same.”

Glen, extinguisher in his right hand, ran toward the commotion.

People screaming.

He pulled the pin on the extinguisher, then got his left hand under the cylinder for support, and shouldered his way through the onlookers.

Good God.

It was hard to tell with the flames, but it was, indeed, a man. In his thirties, probably, maybe two hundred and fifty pounds, dressed in sandals and a T-shirt and a pair of those cargo shorts with the oversized pockets.

Not exactly a Tibetan monk setting himself ablaze.

If the man had been flailing earlier, he’d given up by the time Glen had arrived, now down on the pavement, his body crumpling in on itself as the flames consumed him. But that didn’t stop Glen from taking a few quick shots with the extinguisher.

The people who’d gathered round backed away, mouths still open in horror. But a couple of them had screamed and shifted their gaze to something else, and were looking no less shocked.

Glen managed to tear his eyes away from the dead man to see what could possibly be distracting these people from a sight as ghastly as this. It wasn’t exactly every day you came upon a man on fire.

A man was staggering out of the men’s room, which was off on one side of the restaurant. He had blood across his face and held one hand against his temple, and was teetering unsteadily on his feet, barely able to walk. But even from this far, Glen could make out a fierce determination in the man’s face.

He didn’t have too much time to dwell on it. The next thing he heard wrenched his heart out and squeezed the life out of it.

It was a sound he was well familiar with.

The starter drive of a Ford F-150.

His
Ford F-150.

He snapped his gaze away from the injured man in time to see his truck charge out of its parking spot and roar off in the direction of the interstate.

SEAN REILLY COULDN’T SEE CLEARLY.

His eyes weren’t functioning properly. Not yet, not with the blood streaked across them, and the little information they were filtering in was being processed by a concussed brain.

A direct hit from a toilet tank cover usually had that effect.

He glanced around as he advanced, willing his head to clear up, trying to process whatever inputs he could pick up from the scene around him. He could make out a small crowd gathered off to his left. He could hear panicked screams and sobbing coming from them. And then the smell hit him, a horrific smell that he instantly recognized. A putrid, sickly-sweet smell that was unique and traumatizing to anyone who’d ever suffered the misfortune of coming across it. Mercifully, most people hadn’t. Then again, most people weren’t FBI field agents for whom the worst horrors the human mind could dream up were just part and parcel of the job.

Reilly saw the rising smoke and instantly guessed what must have happened there. He also knew who had to be responsible for it—the same man who had left him for dead in the men’s toilet—and as anger spiked through him from that realization and morsels of clarity tumbled into his mind, he heard a man yelling out, “Kelly!”

He saw a man burst out from among the crowd and charge off across the lot, chucking a fire extinguisher he was carrying. Reilly’s
instincts shifted all his attention away from the crowd and locked onto that man, and he willed his legs to propel him faster as he chased after him.

The man stopped by a row of parked cars that were lined up outside the restaurant, and again screamed out the name, a reverberating scream that seemed to emanate from the very pit of his soul. He was glancing ahead, down the interstate, then his head darted left and right as Reilly caught up with him.

The man must have heard and sensed Reilly. He spun around to face him, one arm raised high, its fist balled offensively and ready to pummel.

“My daughter,” he growled, his face burning with fear and fury. “She’s gone!”

Reilly raised his hands defensively. “Wait a sec—”

“Kelly!” the man hollered again. “My girl, she was in my truck. It was right here, and now it’s gone. Heading for the highway!”

Reilly understood.

First, another innocent victim burned alive. A distraction, Reilly figured, to allow the man he was after to get away.

Now this.

This guy’s daughter, abducted.

All because of him.

His own fury took over.

“It was locked,” the man spat out as he shot another glance down the highway. “But the key was in it. The windows were down.”

Reilly held both hands in front of him, his fingers splayed open in a holding, calming gesture. “You have a phone?” he asked the girl’s father.

The man seemed momentarily confused by this. “What?”

“Do you have a phone on you?”

The man nodded and patted his jacket and pants before pulling out a cell phone from a back pocket.

Reilly snatched it from him. “Is it locked?”

Uncertainly, the man said, “No. Who the hell are you?”

Reilly dodged the question, nodded, and bolted away from him. There was no time to waste. Every second counted. He scanned the forecourt and settled on a small, burgundy station wagon that was just pulling out of its parking spot, and without so much as a split-second’s hesitation, he beelined for it and placed himself right in its path, intercepting it with his arms spread wide and waving to the driver to stop.

The car squealed to a halt, coming to rest less than a foot from Reilly. He didn’t pause. He spun around the car and flung the driver’s door open, then reached in and pulled the vehicle’s sole, confused occupant—a seventies stalwart in round sunglasses and a faded Steely Dan concert T-shirt—out of the car.

“FBI, sir. I’m gonna need your car,” he told him as he threw himself behind the wheel.

Without waiting for an answer, Reilly pulled the creaking door shut, threw the car into drive, and charged off—

Only to slam on his brakes as a figure stepped in front of the car, blocking his way.

The father. Standing there, staring down Reilly with an unsettling cocktail of anger and confusion.

Within seconds, he had pulled the passenger’s door open and slid in next to Reilly.

Reilly studied him for a beat.

“You said FBI?” the man said.

“Yes,” Reilly replied.

The man took a breath, then said, “Drive.”

Reilly nodded, turned to face the open road, and did just that.

WHEN KRISTOFF SAW THE PARKED
truck with the little girl sitting on the passenger’s side, he figured there was a chance the keys were in it. He spotted her after he’d splashed some gas on that fat guy at the pumps, tossed a match his way.
Poof!
Guy went up like a marshmallow you’d held over the campfire too long.

While everyone was running over to see the show, he scanned the lot. He figured a guy on fire would prompt some people to bail from their vehicles without taking the time to grab their keys. That was when he saw the Ford, with the kid inside.

Kristoff sprinted toward it, clutching the brushed aluminum cylinder still in his hand. He’d had to let go of it long enough to whack that FBI agent in the head with the toilet tank cover, but he had it back in his hand now. Nearly a foot long, about two inches in diameter, it looked like a common Thermos. But there was no coffee or tea in it. No, what was inside it was definitely not something you’d want to drink. Not first thing in the morning. Not ever.

But Reilly sure wanted it.

And Kristoff definitely wanted to hang on to it. Its contents were worth a great deal to him. Worth killing for.

Stealing a truck with a kid inside it, that’d be the least of his crimes by the time this was over.

When he reached the truck, he grabbed the door handle so hard he nearly ripped off a nail when he discovered it was locked. But the window was down, so all Kristoff had to do was reach in and pull the lock up.

The kid shouted, “Hey! This isn’t your truck!”

Well, no kidding.

He jumped in behind the wheel, hoping the key would be in the ignition. Hallelujah, praise the Lord, there it was. He half
chuckled to himself. The very notion of thanking God, when he had with him the means to destroy so much of what the Lord had created.

He stomped one foot down hard on the brake, turned the key, got the engine going. He tucked the aluminum cylinder on the seat between his thigh and the center console.

The kid wouldn’t stop yammering. “Stop it!” she shouted. “This is my dad’s truck! Get out!”

Threw it into drive and hit the gas.

Kristoff glanced in the mirror, saw the crowd of people gathered around that hapless traveler. It was hard to feel bad for the man. In many ways, he was lucky. He got to go first. He was spared the misery that would befall everyone later.

“Stop!” the girl screamed.

He glanced over at her. Maybe nine, ten years old. Sweet-looking kid, really. Reminded him of his niece. Best not to think of her, or any other members of his family. This wasn’t the time to get sentimental.

The girl suddenly leaned over, tried to grab at the key in the steering wheel, turn it back.

Kristoff brought down his hand, fast, hitting the girl at the wrist. She yelped, withdrew her hand, pushed herself tight up against the passenger’s door. She was starting to whimper.

“Shut up!” he yelled at her. “Shut up or I’ll throw you out.”

Which was exactly what he wanted to do, but wanting it and being able to do it were two different things. He couldn’t reach all the way across and open the door and shove her out. Not at nearly eighty miles per hour, which he was now traveling, and his foot easing down even harder on the accelerator. If he wanted to ditch the kid, he’d have to pull over to the shoulder, run around to the other side, and drag her out.

Not a bad idea, actually. But he’d lose time.

There wasn’t much time before he was to make the rendezvous.

But if there was no one on his tail . . .

He glanced into the rearview mirror again.

He’d already passed several cars since leaving the service station. No one else out here on the interstate was driving any faster than he was.

But there was a car coming up from behind. Growing larger in the mirror.

A burgundy car, a station wagon it looked like, judging from the roof racks. But a small car. Maybe he hadn’t hit Reilly hard enough on that goddamn head of his. Maybe the son of a bitch had commandeered a car and was coming after him.

Maybe having the kid wasn’t a liability after all. The kid was leverage. What was Reilly going to do? Run him off the road? Shoot out his tires? Run the risk of killing somebody’s little girl?

Then again, you could never predict what Reilly would do. He was the kind of guy who saw the bigger picture. Who might figure one dead girl was better than millions.

Kristoff reached down, felt the cylinder by his thigh. Felt its power.