Collision

11

Ben saw two men-hard-faced, pale, wearing jeans and dark T-shirts. One sported wraparound sunglasses, the other a punkish thatch of black-and-white hair. He didn’t see the guns until the one in sunglasses raised a pistol and the other gunman hoisted a rifle.

“Run,” Pilgrim said, putting himself between Ben and the gunmen, firing at them as he ran. Ben turned and sprinted down the hallway. In the narrow corridor the sudden blasts of two shots boomed like thunder yanked close to earth.

Ben headed for a stairwell at the end of the hallway. An exit sign hung above the door, and as he bolted toward it the sign shattered, a stray bullet slamming through the X.

As he reached for the door, heat hissed past his ear. He tried the door. Locked. Then Pilgrim jerked Ben back from the door, fired a bullet into the lock, a punch of fire and metal. Pilgrim kicked the door open and shoved Ben into the stairway. A faint, dying-bulb glow lit the stairs.

“Stop,” Pilgrim said. “There could be more downstairs. I’m sure there are at least three of them. I’ll kill these two here.”

Okay, fine then, you’ll kill them here. Ben couldn’t believe Pilgrim’s calm. Ben took a step backward onto the stairs. “They’ll shoot us…”

“We need to get to the ground level.”

They heard a man down the hallway, pleading “No,” then the bang of a shot.

Kidwell, Ben thought. Where was Vochek? The two guards? He wasn’t going to stand here and get shot. The solution was distance between him and the guys with guns. Including this one.

He doesn’t want to give away his position-he won’t shoot you. Logic was a beauty.

Ben turned and ran for the rooftop door.

“No,” Pilgrim hissed. “Goddamn it, get back here”-but Ben hit the door to the roof and it opened.

He ran out onto the roof’s concrete expanse. The day was dying, the sun halfway through its low slide into the hills. He saw another roof entrance on the opposite side, with a jumble of industrial AC units and ventilation equipment in between. And he ran straight for the door, an escape hatch, a way out of this nightmare.

The door opened.

Pilgrim couldn’t protect the idiot if said idiot wouldn’t listen to orders. He hated extraction jobs and hadn’t done one in over ten years; it was a bother to worry about keeping a frantic civilian alive in the heat of dirty work. But he had to keep Ben Forsberg alive. Because Ben Forsberg was clearly the key to understanding what the hell was going on, with Teach, with the Cellar, with this attack.

First things first. The two gunmen in the hallway. Keep one alive to talk, to tell him where they’d taken Teach.

He considered. The staircase was concrete, with metal railings. He peered down into the gloom. The pit of the stairwell dropped down six stories and offered no nooks or crannies in which to hide. No cover.

But there was the bend of the stairs. Where the stairs forked at the landing, the plain metal railing met the dusty concrete. The railing’s post stood close to the gap in the stairs.

He could hide in the gap, just below the landing.

Pilgrim eased himself over the railing, tested to see if his feet would reach to the railing below. No. If he braced himself in the gap, his head and shoulders would show, and they’d blow his brains out in the first few seconds. But if he held onto to the railing one-handed..

He tested the idea. Only his fingers, wrapped around the metal of the railing post, were exposed. He held the Glock in his right hand; he couldn’t see the landing, but the gunmen, if they came through, would be standing just so-he pictured the positions in his mind-and he screamed, in hysterically tinged Arabic, “I give up, I surrender, truce, let’s talk.”

They would know he was on the landing, and they’d fire suppressing rounds to clear him off the landing before they set a foot inside.

He heard the broken door kicked open, a spray of bullets hitting the steps where a man would stand. If they saw his fingers gripping the bottom inches of the post they would simply blast the bones of his fingers away and he’d fall. The stairwell went dark, the lights blown out.

The shooting stopped.

Pilgrim raised the gun above the lip of the landing, emptied the clip at an angle he hoped would catch the knees. Bullets pocked against skin and bone, and screams echoed against the concrete. He released his hold as a bullet smashed against the post he’d been gripping, the screams fading, and he landed, feet hitting the railing below, bouncing from the rail to land like an awkward cat on the steps.

Pilgrim scrambled to his feet, drew the gun he’d taken from Kidwell, and ran to the landing. The punk-blond gunman lay dead, guts ripped, heart hollowed. The one in the cheap wraparounds had caught shots in the chest and the groin. He cupped one hand around the blood welling from his jeans while reaching toward the blond’s gun.

Pilgrim shot him in the hand and the man shrieked.

“Where is the woman you took?” he said.

The man cussed him and Pilgrim answered in Arabic, “I will get you a doctor and promise protection for you if you tell me.”

“She is dead,” he screamed. He drew his knee up to his bloodied crotch.

“You wouldn’t kidnap her just to kill her. Where is she?”

He mumbled an answer, gasped in exquisite pain.

“Who do you work for?”

One of the lenses on the man’s sunglasses was shattered, either from the crease of a graze or from falling on the floor, and it resembled an empty eye staring back at Pilgrim. The man grimaced and frowned, and shuddered a final breath.

Then a shot thundered on the roof. Pilgrim remembered the person he needed to keep alive.

The roof door opened and Ben bolted for the cover of the closest AC unit. He was down and hidden before whoever came through the door had closed it.

Ben crouched against the metal of the unit and tried to breathe silently. He listened, trying to hear which way the man moved. Instead he heard the hubbub of the ordinary world: brakes on the street, music rising from the festival nearby, a car honking, the hiss of the air-conditioning system.

Then he heard a footstep. Close. As though the hunter were taking the measure of the wind, breathing the scent of Ben’s fear.

Ben had no weapon. Nothing. He had the clothes on his back, shoes, a belt… He stopped and carefully slid the belt free from his pants. He grabbed the end of it, opposite the buckle. The silver buckle wasn’t heavy but it would hurt if it hit a face, a nose, a mouth.

Fighting a killer with a belt? He was an idiot. He tried not to shiver.

“You’re not the one I want,” a voice, accented, called.

Ben didn’t move. No point-the man knew where he was. He just didn’t know if Ben had a weapon, was trying to urge him out rather than fight.

“You tell me where Pilgrim is, and I’ll let you live. I have no gripe with you. Him I want. He killed my cousins.”

The man stepped around the corner of the unit, a heavy gun in his hand. Ben swung the belt overhead, as hard as he would swing an ax. The buckle cracked against the wrist bone, the shot blasting into the ground, close to Ben’s foot.

The man-Ben saw heavy shoulders, a mole on his chin, a snarl of teeth-instinctively grabbed at his wrist, more surprised than hurt, and Ben barreled into him before he could lift the gun into Ben’s chest.

Pilgrim ran up the roof stairs. The shot probably meant Ben Forsberg was dead. Jesus, he needed someone still alive to tell him what the hell was happening. He went through the door low, gun out, and halfway across the expanse of roof he saw Ben struggling with another man. The gunman was trying to shoot Ben in the head, but Ben fought hard, if not well, keeping the man’s gun aimed upward. But Ben was quickly losing the battle.

Pilgrim lifted his gun, aiming to shoot the gunman in the shoulder as the two men fought.

Then the gunman saw Pilgrim and head-butted Ben. But Ben didn’t release his grip on the gunman as he fell backward, and the bigger man toppled. The two of them vanished behind an electrical unit.

Pilgrim ran to the mechanism. The gunman cradled Ben Forsberg in a headlock, the gun aimed at his temple, a thick arm around Ben’s throat. He held Ben up as a shield. Pilgrim aimed at the man’s head. “Let’s talk,” he said in Arabic.

“Stop or I’ll kill him,” the gunman said in English.

Pilgrim shrugged. “Kill him. I don’t care.”

The gunman retreated toward the other door, hauling Ben with him. “I’ll shoot right through Ben if I have to,” Pilgrim said.

“No!” Ben yelled.

“Then do it, big mouth,” the gunman said.

“But you”-Pilgrim said-“get to live if you tell me who took the woman from the lake house. Where is she?”

The gunman said, “You came to the roof to save this man, so you want him alive.”

“Don’t let him-” Ben started but the gunman yanked on his throat and Ben went a shade of blue for a few moments. He fell silent.

Pilgrim shrugged. “Shoot him; he keeps interrupting me.” If only Ben Forsberg would have the guts or the stupidity to fight, to break away and run, then Pilgrim could shoot the gunman in the knees, get the answers he needed. “I’ve killed everyone you people have sent at me today. But you, I’ll let you walk, just tell me where she is.”

Ben remained silent, but Pilgrim saw rage win out over fear in his eyes and thought: If Ben decides to fight, it’ll be interesting. Be ready.

“Your only way out is to talk to me,” Pilgrim said.

Ten seconds passed that felt like ten days, and the gunman said, “The woman. She’s in a silver van a couple of blocks away. With an Irishman.”

“No. I killed the Irishman.”

“You left another Irishman behind. A brother.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jackie.”

“Who do you and Jackie work for?”

The gunman shook his head. “I told you enough. You, dumb ass, open the door.” He pivoted Ben slightly-he didn’t have a free hand, without releasing either Ben or his gun, which was aimed at Pilgrim-and he turned Ben toward the door so Ben could grab the handle.

Two heads together, struggling, with one square inch of suddenly clear temple, and Pilgrim nailed the open space. A thunking round powered through scalp, bone, and brain. The gunman sagged, Ben sinking to his knees with the body.

Pilgrim started toward the gunman, pistol out and down toward the body, making sure the man was dead.

Ben reached over and grabbed the gunman’s pistol. And raised it at Pilgrim.

“Uh, hello,” Pilgrim said. “Your life. Just saved. By me.”

“Okay, thank you. Thanks. Appreciate it.” Ben didn’t let go of the gun. His muscles felt thin and taut as wire.

“Ben. Put the gun down.”

“No. I’m getting out of here. You stay put. I’m just going to head downstairs and call the police…” The gun started to waver.

“And they’ll give you back to Homeland Security,” Pilgrim said. “They suspect you were involved in killing Adam Reynolds. They found your business card in Nicky Lynch’s pocket. Right?”

The gun wavered in Ben’s grip. Every nerve ending warned him to run, to put distance between himself and this nightmare. But he couldn’t make a stupid move. Not now. He needed the truth about the past day if he had a prayer of clearing his name. “Who are you?”

A distant rise of sirens. The police, approaching.

Pilgrim lowered his gun, raised a palm. “I can answer your questions and you can answer mine. We can help each other. But not if we’re both in custody. Which is where we will be in five minutes if we don’t move.”

“This is all a mistake.”

“What it is, Ben, is a double. A special kind of frame, done to you and me both. We’ve both been set up to take the fall here. We’ve both been screwed.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I work for the government, but I can’t go to the police. Neither can you. Not yet. Not until we know who framed you, who tried to kill me. This Teach I’m searching for, she’s my boss. And whoever took her,” Pilgrim said, “is the same person who framed you and set me up to die.”

“We have to go to the police.”

The sirens drew closer. Someone had heard the rattle of gunfire over the hum of nightlife. “Police will defer to Homeland, to Kidwell’s special group. You want a buddy of Kidwell’s to start beating you again?”

“No…”

“Then come with me. Now. We need to find out who’s targeted us and why. Later, you want to walk away, you want to go to the police, I’ll let you. But right now, we have to run.”

“It looks worse if we run.”

“Forget looks. Worry about reality.”

The sirens grew louder. Ben handed him the gun.

They ran down the stairwell to the top floor. “Vochek,” Ben said. “There’s a woman with Kidwell…”

“I knocked her out and locked her in a closet. She should be safe. I don’t think they found her.” They paused at the room where Kidwell lay. Nothing to be done-the gunmen had shot him once in the head. The granite face was still.

“Let Vochek out.”

“The cops will. She’ll be okay.” He grabbed Ben’s arm and hurried him down the hallway.

They ran down the stairwell to the first floor.

The hallway was empty, except for the guard Pilgrim had knocked out. The man lay dead, two bullets marring the skin behind his ear. Another guard lay dead by the closed back door, open-eyed, two bullets in his face.

“Jesus and Mary,” Ben said.

“The gunmen came in to kill everybody,” Pilgrim said. He turned Ben to face him. “Listen. This Jackie may be waiting outside, to kill anyone trying to get out. You stay low, you follow me, and if I get shot you keep running.”

Ben nodded. “What if I get shot?”

“Then I keep running,” Pilgrim said.

On the other side of the building, sirens blasted their arrival. Pilgrim and Ben ran for the chain-link fence and went through the gate.

And no sign of a van where Teach would be. But there was practically no street parking, and the closest parking was the garage where Pilgrim had stashed the Volvo.

“Come on.” He grabbed Ben’s arm and they ran down Second Street, toward the parking garage. A couple of blocks away, the gunman said. Maybe he lied. Maybe he didn’t. Pilgrim’s eyes scanned the garage’s levels-if Jackie Lynch was parked there, he’d be waiting for the trio of gunmen. He’d know what Pilgrim looked like. Jackie Lynch could be watching him and Ben right now, seeing them approach, knowing that their survival meant the gunmen’s failure.

“We may not be able to get to my car. We’ll have to steal one if we can’t.”

“Steal a car. Are you kidding me? I am not stealing a car.”

“Borrow, then. We’ll bumper surf.” He spoke to Ben in a voice of utter calm, thinking, Give him a problem to worry about other than getting shot. “It’s easy; you hunt for those little magnetic boxes under the bumper that hold a spare key so people don’t lock themselves out…” As they navigated into the meandering crowd spilling from the bars and the streets, Pilgrim slowed down, keeping Ben close to him.

“What are we going to do?” Ben said. He was calmer now.

“I’m going to get you to a car, and then I’m going to find my boss while you wait.”

They muscled through the crowd, headed east for two blocks, and ran to the garage’s stairwell. They climbed the stairs up to the floor where Pilgrim had parked.

“Wait here,” Pilgrim ordered Ben. Pilgrim eased into the row of cars, gun out, up, watching. The garage was quiet. He scanned the parked cars. No sign of a silver van. Many slots remained full, either people working late or downtown for the music festival. But he didn’t see anyone leaving or heading toward a car.

The stolen Volvo sat where he’d left it. Pilgrim turned back toward the stairwell door and gestured an all-clear.

He saw the door closing. Ben Forsberg was gone.