Extreme Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

Chapter 49

CURSING UNDER HIS breath, Mike tore off his trench coat and threw it down on the leaf-covered ground.

He hated to do it. He loved that old coat, but it was slowing him down, and he had to make time. He had been hurrying before, but after he heard the shots, he pulled out all the stops.

Mike had managed to trace Earl to the Buxley offices and refinery. He did not appear to be moving much; that made Mike’s task about a hundred times less complicated. What the hell anyone would be doing out here at this time of night was beyond him, but if Earl was here, that meant Ben probably was too.

And the killer.

Mike remembered what Ben had said, what the killer had threatened to do if Ben didn’t come alone. That wasn’t going to keep Mike from coming, but it did make him approach cautiously. He left his car outside the service road entrance, before anyone could possibly see him, and jogged the remaining couple of miles toward the refinery. He’d been trying not to stir up any attention. After he heard the first round of shots, however, he cast caution to the wind. He had to be there, and he had to be there now. Because Ben was up there and someone was shooting. And he knew Ben well enough to know it wasn’t Ben.

Mike reached the top of the hill and plowed into the parking lot. It wasn’t tough to find Ben’s van; it was the only vehicle in sight. He ran up to it and peered inside the windows.

No one was there.

Mike turned toward the Buxley complex. Where the hell was he?

He heard another shot, then another. They were definitely outside, coming from the refinery. And they were not far away.

Mike raced into the refinery, pulling his own weapon out of his holster. For once, he was glad he had traded his old Bren Ten for a more modest Sig Sauer, like the one he gave Ben. The Bren Ten was more dramatic in appearance, but harder to haul around and less useful in a tight situation. The Sig Sauer was just as flashy, just as overpriced, and just as deadly. And hell of a lot easier to carry.

It was pitch-dark in here. Mike could see how someone could easily become disoriented. Smoke billowed out from the low-burning smokestacks and steam rose off the storage tanks, obscuring his vision. He was cut off from any source of light, isolated. The silver walls seemed to close in on him, wrapping him in their jet-black shadows.

Mike shook himself. Get a grip, he muttered under his breath. Find Ben. Find him and that kid and get out of here. And don’t get shot in the process.

He had to assume Ben was still alive, and if so, he was in trouble. The killer was armed and Ben wasn’t. He needed help.

Mike decided to risk a yell. It might tip off the killer, but it also might let Ben know he was here. If Ben was nearby, he would run to him. Even if he wasn’t, he would know he was no longer alone.

“Ben!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. He waited for a response, but nothing came. To the contrary, if anything, it seemed to become more still, more quiet.

“Ben!” he tried again. There was a small echo somewhere behind him, on the left side. An echo—no: the crunching of gravel. A footstep. Someone …

“Ben!” Still no response. Maybe he didn’t want to give his position away. But if Ben were this close to him, surely he would whisper back. So Mike had to assume it wasn’t Ben. And if it wasn’t Ben …

Mike ran for cover, ducking behind a nearby ladder. He still couldn’t see anything down the corridor where he had heard the noise. Had he just imagined it? Was the dark, the quiet, getting to him?

Christ, he told himself. You’re supposed to be the professional. You’re supposed to be the tough cop. That means you don’t get scared. Even when it’s dark and you can’t see a damn thing and some maniac is running wild with a pistol. You don’t get scared!

But he was scared. And with reason.

Mike backed into the passageway behind him. There was a large bowl-like tank about three or four feet off the ground. He crouched under it, watching all the time in as many directions as possible.

He was in a different part of the refinery now, a different corridor, something. It was a small enclosed space, but there was an opening on one side.

Damn this darkness. How could he do anything when he couldn’t see!

Well, he couldn’t do anything trapped in this crawl space. He pulled out slowly and rounded the corner …

The fire extinguisher came at his head so quickly he couldn’t even register what was happening, much less do anything about it. It smashed into his face, sending him reeling. Mike staggered backward, found himself pressed against a metal latticework. His head was throbbing and he couldn’t maneuver—

The fire extinguisher came crashing down again, this time on the top of his head. He fell forward, the only way to go, collapsing on his hands and knees.

Fight it, he told himself. You’re no good to Ben unconscious. Fight it.

But there was no fighting it. When the fire extinguisher came for the third time, it smashed down with such intensity that it knocked Mike flat onto the gravel. The darkness of the refinery was replaced by a darkness born of his own brain.

“Ben,” he whispered, barely audibly. And then he was gone.