The Bleeding Edge (30 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: The Bleeding Edge
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Hallie smiled and said, “He doesn't like to be called a—”
Stark knew that voice, and suddenly he remembered from where.
“Silencio Ryan,” he said.
The driver took one hand off the wheel and drew a gun from under his seat. He stuck it over the seat and covered them as his eyes met Stark's in the rearview mirror.
C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-NINE
“It's been a long time,” Ryan said.
“Not long enough.”
Hallie had gasped in surprise at the sight of the gun. Now she said, “John Howard, what—”
“John Howard and I are old friends,” Ryan said.
“Not hardly,” Stark said. “Ryan's a killer. Used to work for the cartel. I guess he still does.”
“You'd be wrong about that. I've moved up in the world. Now I work for people even more powerful than the cartel. They want you dead, John Howard. In fact, they hired me to kill you more than a month ago.”
“You're talking about people in the government.” A raw edge entered Stark's voice. “Our own government.”
“It doesn't really matter. Hell, you rub so many people in power the wrong way, it might be just about anybody. But here's the shocker, John Howard. . . . I don't particularly want to kill you. I've been watching you. I always respected you as an enemy. Now I sort of. . . admire you.”
“You've been watching me,” Stark repeated. “I knew it. I knew there was somebody out there. But with everything else going on . . .”
“Please,” Hallie said. “If you really admire him, don't do this.”
“He doesn't have any choice,” Stark said. “If he doesn't do the job he was paid for, he'll never get any work again. Isn't that right, Ryan?”
“More than likely,” Ryan admitted. The big car was going at least eighty now, which didn't really seem all that fast on the flat, straight, open West Texas highway. “They might even decide that
I
need to be eliminated. Can't have that.”
“Of course not.” Stark's mind went back to the night of the rescue. “So why didn't you just let Jalisco kill me? Your shot slowed him down just enough for me to get some lead in him.”
“I couldn't let somebody else kill you, John Howard. That wouldn't be right. Especially some low-level Mexican thug whose brain was probably only one step above a snake's. It wasn't time yet. Besides, if I hadn't waited, I wouldn't have known that I was doing you a favor.”
“A . . . a favor?” Hallie said. “By killing us?”
“Well, not you, miss, and I'm sorry about that. But John Howard here, he's going to die anyway. Aren't you, John Howard? You really want to spend the next year or two wasting away to nothing and suffering the torments of the damned, when one bullet can end it all? One second of time, one little squeeze of the trigger?” Ryan laughed. “Don't tell me you haven't thought about it yourself!”
Stark drew in a deep breath. He
had
thought about it. He didn't like to admit that, even to himself, but the thought had crossed his mind. Maybe it would be better if everything ended quickly. . . .
“You don't have to kill Hallie,” he said. “She can't hurt you. Just do what you need to, stop the car, make her get out, and drive away. I know you, Ryan. Nobody's ever going to catch you.”
“That's true,” Ryan said. “But it's not the way things work.” He checked the mirror again, not looking at Stark this time but at the empty road behind them. “We've run off and left all your friends. They're several minutes behind us. That's plenty of time. I'll stop and give the two of you a chance to say good-bye.”
“Listen, Mr. . . . Ryan, was it?” Hallie said. “There's something else I need to tell John Howard instead of good-bye.”
“What's that?”
Hallie looked over at Stark and said, “Get that son of a bitch.”
She brought her briefcase up and slammed it into Ryan's wrist just as he pulled the trigger. The gun roared, but the bullet went into the car's roof. Before Ryan could fire again, Stark had hold of his wrist. He shoved Ryan's arm toward the front of the car, so when the gun went off again the bullet blew out the front passenger window. Stark used his legs to drive himself forward over the seat while he hung on to Ryan's arm. He caught a glimpse of the speedometer needle hovering just under ninety miles per hour.
Stark spilled over into the front seat. His shoulder hit the steering wheel and turned it. The tires howled like a lost soul as the car went into a skid. While Stark wrestled with Ryan, the vehicle's front and rear tried to swap places. The car veered toward the shoulder, across it. The rear wheels bit into the dirt, spraying gravel and sending dust billowing into the air.
It stayed on the ground for ten feet or so before it hit a little dip and flipped.
Stark didn't know where Hallie was, didn't know if she was all right. All he knew was that he had hold of Ryan's wrist and that they were airborne, turning over and over. With a loud rending of metal and a bone-shaking impact, the car landed on its roof and began to slide, throwing up even more dirt and dust.
Stark and Ryan were lying on the roof now. Neither of them had been thrown clear, despite the fact that neither of them had been wearing seat belts. Hallie had been, Stark recalled. Maybe she would be all right. No time to check on her. He smashed Ryan's wrist against the roof of the car. The gun came free.
Ryan's other hand locked around Stark's throat a second later. Stark hammered a punch into Ryan's face but didn't loosen his grip. Ryan leaned closer to him, snarling in an expression of triumph. Blood dripped from a cut on his forehead.
Ryan had made a mistake. Stark bunched his shoulders and summoned his strength to drive his head into Ryan's face. The head butt loosened Ryan's grip. Stark reached up with his left hand and grabbed the shoulder harness that was hanging down slightly with the car in this upside-down position.
He pulled it lower, looped it around Ryan's neck, and hung on for dear life as he tightened it more and more.
Ryan slammed blow after blow into his head and body, but Stark took the punishment. Ryan's face turned a dark red, the color of a brick, and his eyes began to bulge. His tongue came out of his mouth and he gasped desperately, but no air made it down his throat to his lungs.
With their faces no more than a foot apart, their eyes met. As panic and desperation began to show in Ryan's gaze, Stark looked at him and said, “I want to live. I may be dying, but I'm not dead yet.”
He heaved even harder. Something snapped. Ryan went limp, and the life went out of his eyes like water running out of a bucket with a hole in it.
When he was sure Ryan was dead, Stark let go of him and shoved him aside. He twisted around on the inside of the car's roof, searching frantically for Hallie.
She was still in the backseat, hanging limply from her seat belt.
Stark crawled to her and reached up to struggle with the catch. It came loose, and she sprawled down into his arms. As he cradled her against him, her eyes fluttered open.
“J-John Howard?” she asked, her voice weak.
“I'm here,” he told her. “How bad are you hurt?”
“I think . . . my arm's broken. But you . . . you're alive.”
“Damn right I am,” Stark said. He lifted a foot and kicked the back door. It took two kicks, but the door sprang open.
Stark crawled out, then turned around to ease Hallie carefully out of the overturned vehicle as well. He'd been sniffing for gasoline but hadn't smelled any so far. That was a stroke of luck. He saw that her arm was indeed bent at a funny angle, so he was as careful as he could be as he lifted her to her feet.
A glance along the highway to Devil's Pass told him that their friends were racing toward them, still a mile or more away. He held Hallie and waited for them, and as he did, a breeze blew the last of the dust cloud away. It was autumn now and the heat of summer was gone. Even here in West Texas, the breeze held a faint hint of pleasant coolness. The sky was as blue as it could be, Stark saw when he tilted his head slightly to look up.
It was a beautiful day, and he was alive.
Stark didn't know how much time he had left. No one did.
But he knew in his heart there would be other beautiful days in his future.
And he intended to enjoy each and every one of them, as long as they lasted.
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
 
Copyright © 2012 William W. Johnstone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE
Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone's outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone's superb storytelling.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-3029-3

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