Kiss Her Goodbye

20

When he heard the car pulling up, Donovan checked his watch: 8:35. He’d been waiting here twenty short minutes.

He stood in a corner of a dilapidated train car, near the rear door, his back pressed against the mottled fabric that lined the walls. The air was thick with the smell of stale cigarettes and half a century’s worth of mold.

Earlier, a sweep of his flashlight had told him that this had once been a passenger car. A luxury one at that, built at the turn of the century. How it wound up in the middle of a freight yard was anyone’s guess.

A slower sweep had told him that amidst the litter of butt-filled ashtrays and Baby Ruth wrappers, Gunderson had stockpiled enough weapons and ammunition to launch a Cuban invasion. Donovan had them cleared out immediately, of course. No point in taking chances.

His earpiece crackled.

A.J.’s voice: “It’s him.”

Donovan raised his two-way. “Any sign of Jessie?”

“Negative.”

“All right. Stay put until I give the signal.”

Outside, the car approached slowly, its engine rattling. It sounded small and foreign. Probably a beat-up Honda or Toyota, several years old, which undoubtedly matched its surroundings. Gunderson would be sure to steal a car that blended in.

The question was whether Jessie was inside. Could he have stashed her in the trunk? On the floor, between the front and back seats? Or was she with him at all?

The sight of those muddy boot prints had left a queasy feeling in Donovan’s stomach. In his gut he knew Jessie wasn’t in that car, and finding her would be problematic at best. All he’d managed to get from Bobby Nemo was this train yard and the location of Gunderson’s makeshift digs. Nemo had claimed no knowledge of Jessie other than Gunderson’s initial plan to snatch her.

Gunderson himself wasn’t likely to be much more helpful, but Donovan would tie the bastard to a stake and strip the flesh off his body, piece by piece, if that was the only way to break him down. The moment Gunderson took Jessie off that bus, the boundaries had changed. All the rules Donovan had lived his life by went straight out the window.

The car rattled to a stop. A moment later, the door creaked open, then slammed shut. Just outside the train-car door, a cat cried.

Gunderson had a friend.

Donovan’s earpiece crackled again. “Heads up, he’s coming your way.”

Donovan gave his call button two quick jabs, then clipped the radio to his belt and brought out his Glock. Keeping his eyes on the door, he listened intently as boots trudged onto the rear platform.

Welcome home, asshole.

The Fireball was waiting for him. The little orange fuzz bucket had adopted him his first week here and wouldn’t let go. Gunderson had always been partial to cats, liked their independence, but this one was a particularly needy beast, always there to greet him when he came home. It had been cute at first, but now he found it annoying as hell.

He had half a mind to snap its neck.

As he approached the train-car door, the cat meowed and rubbed against his leg, purring like a motorboat. He gave it a quick kick to the ribs, knocking it aside, then unfastened the padlock and rolled the door open.

Darkness greeted him. He had considered having Luther pick up a generator, but had decided against it. Unnecessary noise attracts attention. Not something he wanted to do.

Instead, he had lined the inside of the train car with portable fluorescents-the kind that look like Coleman lanterns-then boarded up all the windows to keep any clue to his presence hidden from the outside world.

He reached inside, just above the doorway, where he kept one such portable hanging from a hook.

It wasn’t there.

Gunderson paused, his senses revving into overdrive. There was something different about the air inside. A hint of human beneath the mustiness.

He stood there, not moving for a moment.

Then he smiled. “Hiya, hotshot.”

“Hello, Alex.”