Mortal Pursuit

39

Had to be a way out of this. Had to be.

She could find it, she was sure she could, if she was able to fight off fear, fight off fatigue, and think.

Think.

Trish remembered the portable radio and switched it on, hoping to eavesdrop on her enemies’ chatter and learn their intentions.

Channel three was silent. She scanned the other channels. Dead air.

They weren’t using the radios, weren’t giving her any help.

She kept the transceiver on its scanning mode and picked up the flashlight, angling the beam at the ceiling.

No ventilation ducts. No removable panels over a handy crawl space. Just bare fluorescent tubes, dark now, mounted on a sheet of poured concrete, as flat and smooth as a marble headstone.

The flash searched the floor. Concrete also, utterly featureless, unmarred even by cracks.

She was a hunted rabbit. Cornered, crouching, the dogs closing in.

“Was Cain right”

The question startled her. She glanced at Ally. “What”

“He said you came back to save me. Did you Is that why you’re here”

“I … it’s complicated.”

“You should’ve stayed away.” Weary desolation leeched the energy from Ally’s voice. She sagged against an antique bureau. “Shouldn’t have given up your life for me.”

“Don’t talk that way,” Trish whispered, part of her ashamed for having had the same unworthy thought.

If she’d stayed at the lake … if she hadn’t decided to be a hero …

“It’s true, though.” Ally spoke softly, the words almost inaudible. “You didn’t have to do it, but you did. You’re brave. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

“I’m not brave, Ally.” She tried to smile, couldn’t. “I’m so scared I can hardly stand up.”

“But you’re here.”

Trish meditated on that. Fear wasn’t cowardice, was it A coward would have heeded those plaintive, reasonable voices in her head that had warned her to stay where she was safe.

In her whole life, twenty-four years, she had never been put in a position where bravery could be tested-until tonight.

She supposed she had passed that test.

Rabbit or not, she felt a faint uplift of pride at the thought.

Then the house shivered with someone’s rapid, ponderous tread.

Cain-returning to the kitchen.

The duffel bag thumped on the counter under the white fluorescent glare. As Tyler watched, Cain rummaged inside and produced the four dynamite sticks, as well as an M-80 firecracker that would serve as a blasting cap.

“Gonna use all four” Tyler asked, worried by the prospect.

“Got to.” Cain pulled out a roll of duct tape and began taping the M-80 to one of the sticks, working deftly even with gloved hands. “These charges were manufactured for coal mining. Ammonium nitrate, relatively weak concentration. Made that way to prevent cave-ins.”

“Still looks like a pretty damn big party popper to me.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

Tyler hoped so. He stared at the dynamite, incongruous amid the stained birch cabinets and waxed tiles, the family snapshots, the copy of TV Guide tented on the countertop.

Tentatively he touched one of the sticks, two feet long, four inches in diameter, paper-sealed.

Death in a brown wrapper.

He looked up at Cain, still winding tape around the detonator. In the glareless light Tyler could see the sweat gathered on the big man’s face like a misting of dew, the strain tugging at the muscles of his face.

Hard night, too many unexpected complications, and there was a lot more riding on this job than a few cartons of VCRs and cigarettes.

Now all of it was at risk-because of one rookie cop who wouldn’t stay dead.

Under the sleeves of Cain’s nylon jacket, the massive muscles of his arms were sketchily defined, arms that could bench-press two hundred and fifty pounds, twice Trish Robinson’s weight. Cain could snap that woman’s neck like a damn dog biscuit.

It was crazy that she should pose any kind of threat to a man like him. Unnatural, bizarre-a field mouse challenging a hawk.

Well, Tyler mused, the mouse would be the hawk’s dinner soon. The natural order of things would be restored.

“Get Gage and Lilith in here.” Cain bundled the four sticks and started lashing them together with more tape. “And have Lilith grab the fire extinguisher in the foyer closet. There must be one in the kitchen too. Find it.”

Tyler obeyed, first issuing the instructions over his ProCom, then searching the kitchen. By the time he found the dry-chemical extinguisher in the pantry, Gage and Lilith had entered the room.

Lilith pouted when she saw the bomb. “You said we’d get to play with the girl,” she muttered sullenly.

“I’ll find us another sweet young thing.” Cain smiled. “One who’s even younger.”

Her eyes brightened. “Honest” she lisped.

Cain pecked her cheek. “Honest.”

“Boss.” That was Gage, staring mesmerized at the dynamite. “You, uh, you sure this is a good idea”

His gloved fingers twitched, and Tyler worried briefly that the kid would accidentally yank the Glock’s trigger and shoot off his own foot.

Cain grunted. “Why wouldn’t it be”

“What if it sets off the fire alarm”

“Any smoke detectors in the cellar will be vaporized before they can send a signal.”

“Smoke could get up here, though.”

“We’ll disable the detector in the kitchen.”

“There’ve gotta be other ones all over the house.”

“That’s why Tyler and Lilith are toting those extinguishers.” Cain clapped Gage on the back. “Quit worrying.”

Gage nodded without reply. Tyler remembered what Blair had told him. The younger Sharkey was a virgin at killing.

Well, the first time could be tough. Tyler remembered the scrawny sleepy-eyed clerk in the convenience store in Kingman-the shattering blast of the shotgun, the spray of brains, and how the space behind the cash register was abruptly empty, no person there.

His sleep had been restless for a few nights afterwards. But he’d gotten over it. Gage would too.

He shifted his attention to the bomb on the counter. The bundled dynamite was now wrapped in a plastic trash bag filled with cutlery. Cain had emptied the knife racks.

Fragmentation grenade. Nasty.

Tyler thought about what a bomb like that would do: the deafening concussive blast, and with it the shower of broken knives-red-hot spears of metal, mangled and twisted and razor-edged, impaling anything and anyone within range.

He shook his head slowly, emitting a low whistle. “Our lady friends won’t be getting any older.”

“You got that right.” Cain finished taping the plastic bag in place, then hefted the bomb, loose knives clinking. “The two Mouseketeers are about to go for an E-ticket ride.”