Extreme Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

Chapter 48

EARL HEARD THE shots, first one, then another, close after the first. He raised himself cautiously out of the back of the van, careful to avoid any sudden movement, keeping his head low.

What the hell was going on out there? He’d like to think Ben had the upper hand, but he knew damn well the fool had refused to take the gun with him. Whoever was firing, it wasn’t Ben. And if Ben wasn’t the shooter, chances were, he was the shootee.

Damn it all to hell. He’d promised the boy he’d remain in the van. But this was just too much. First Tyrone, now Ben—how many people were going to die because of him? How many friends were going to fall because this sick bastard kept missing the target?

The hard truth was he was responsible for this mess. It was time he started acting like it.

He quietly cracked the door open. He crawled out quickly, not wanting the light inside the van on any longer than necessary. He didn’t know where Ben was; he couldn’t tell where the shot had come from. Somewhere in the refinery, maybe, or the office building. He couldn’t be sure.

He stopped in his tracks. Wait a minute! He was being just as stupid as Kincaid. Maybe stupider. He knew the killer was armed; he’d heard the shots.

He turned back toward the van, opened the passenger-side door, and popped open the glove compartment. He took the shiny new Sig Sauer out as quickly as possible and closed the door.

Still no sign that anyone had seen him. The man with the gun evidently had other things to do at the moment than watch the parking lot.

Earl gazed at the treasure he had extracted from the glove compartment. It was a nice piece—first class, and if he wasn’t mistaken, pretty expensive, too.

He shoved it inside his belt and lumbered across the lot. There were no lights on inside the building; still, it seemed more likely that they would be in there than running around the refinery. He decided to try that first.

He pushed on the front doors—unlocked, even at this hour. He stepped inside, looking and listening for any sign of Kincaid or Tyrone or the man with the gun. Damn, but this gave him the creeps. The man had already taken Lily, Scat—he couldn’t bear the thought of losing Tyrone and Ben as well.

He gritted his teeth and plunged down a darkened corridor. He just hoped he got there in time.

Ben raced through the dark passages of the refinery favoring his right leg, trying to keep moving. It was like an open-air haunted house, full of dead ends and dark secrets. He plunged down a pitch-black opening only to find his way blocked by a huge storage tank. He whirled around, desperate to find some exit before Grady Armstrong found him.

Ben had no idea where he was going. He was stumbling blind, lurching through the smoky darkness without a plan or a clue.

But Armstrong knew this place, probably knew it well. He had chosen this location for their meeting. He was comfortable here.

That gave him a huge edge—a killing edge, in all likelihood.

If Ben could just get to his van, he could drive out of here. Even if he just got to his car phone, he could call for help, get an ambulance for Tyrone.

Problem was, he didn’t know where it was.

Everyplace in the refinery looked like everyplace else, at least in the dark. There were no landmarks he could use to find his way. Perhaps, he thought, if he just raced ahead in one direction, eventually he would find an exit. Unfortunately, no path ever followed a straight line for long. He’d hit a storage tank, be forced to make a turn, and then be totally disoriented all over again.

After several minutes of this aimless stumbling and groping, Ben spotted a huge metallic coiled structure in front of him, something that fed into one of the larger storage tanks. He was almost certain he had seen it before, on his way in. He followed the gravel path beside that thing, hoping it would lead him out of the dark maze and into the parking lot.

He heard another shot and froze, then let out his breath slowly. Where the hell was it? Was it ahead of him? Behind him? To the side?

The answer to all those questions was no. He concentrated, replaying the sound in his head.

The sound had come from above him.

Ben broke out in a full-out run. He darted across the gravel, limping and slipping, kicking up clouds of white dust. His ankle couldn’t take this kind of stress. He’d made a ton of noise. Worse, he’d kicked up a big cloud of white dust—a marker in the darkness. Here I am, it was saying. Come and get me.

Ben moved out of the open area as quickly as possible. He pressed himself against a tall silo, trying to disappear into the darkness. It was then he saw it—a flicker of light or a reflection? He wasn’t sure. But it was definitely something.

He squinted his eyes, trying to capture what little ambient light there was and focus straight ahead.

It was the parking lot. He was almost sure of it. And there was a glimmer of light there, just barely visible. A reflection off the headlight.

Ben pushed away from the tank and lurched forward as fast as his injured foot could take him. He could see it more clearly now. It was the parking lot, and there was his van, front and center. If he could just get inside, get it started, get the hell out of here …

He heard a crunching sound and looked up. Armstrong was hovering overhead on a catwalk almost directly above him. There must be a network of them, perhaps covering the entire refinery. Access platforms for workmen. Armstrong would know that. Ben didn’t.

The next bullet came so close Ben felt a gust of air on the side of his face. He threw himself down, rolling back toward the safety of the tall storage tanks. He scrambled to his feet, trying to stay out of sight.

He couldn’t possibly get to the van without being shot. His only hope was to bury himself deep inside—to hide and stay hidden. Armstrong couldn’t shoot through metal. If he wanted Ben, he would have to come down and get him.

And if he did that, Ben might have a chance. Not much of a chance, but a chance.

Ben kept running until he was deep inside the refinery, deep in the bowels of the maze. He pressed himself into a dark corridor and stopped to catch his breath. The shooting had stopped. Armstrong knew it was futile; he wouldn’t waste the ammunition. Not yet.

Ben imagined he could hear footsteps, hear the clang of shoe leather on metal rungs, although he probably couldn’t. Whether he heard it or not, he knew what was happening.

Armstrong was descending.

The killer was coming to get him.