Clarence followed his brother’s gaze, spotted what he saw, felt his bowels loosen.
“Back away,” he whispered to Raleigh. “Slowly. Just ease into a standing position and back away.” His words came out ragged and choked. His heart pounded in a fierce drumbeat. He shuffled backward, his legs feeling like stacks of Jello.
Monty.
GABI CHECKED THE clip in her Glock, crouched, and snuck a peek around the corner of the generator. The pounding in her head had ceased, but the after-effects of the Treximet lingered. It felt as if she were moving in an underwater ballet; still, she couldn’t wait for her physical and mental functions to return to “normal.” If those were the bad guys up there, she’d never have another chance at grabbing them.
Two figures—men, she was sure—exited the SUV. Flashlights in hand, they entered the wrecked Gust Front Grill.
“What happening?” From behind her, Chuck rested a hand on her shoulder.
“Two men just went into what’s left of the grill.” She pulled back into the cover provided by the generator, stood, and brushed her wet hair from her eyes.
“You aren’t going to go after them, are you?” Chuck asked
She stared at him, incredulous he’d ask such a question.
“Look,” he said, “you aren’t in any shape—”
“Don’t tell me what kind of shape I’m in,” she snapped. Then more gently, “Please.”
Stormy sat near her feet, staring up at her.
“Why not just wait ’til whoever went in there comes out? You don’t have to go clambering around in the wreckage like some gung-ho marine in urban combat. Just cool it.”
“And then when those guys leave, they’ll claim they were just rescue workers doing their job. No. I wanna know what they’re really doing in there. First responders would be in town, not prowling around in someplace most townies know is closed for the day.”
“You’re outnumbered.”
“Not really. Those guys don’t even know I’m here.”
A long peal of thunder from the departing supercell rolled across the debris-littered parking lot.
“Wait ’til help comes.”
“In case you haven’t figured it out, ‘help’ is otherwise occupied.”
“Then I’m coming with you.”
She moved closer to him. “Don’t be a moron. You can’t help me. You’d be in the way. And I certainly wouldn’t want to end up accidentally shooting my boyfriend.” She pecked his cheek.
“You don’t have to be so . . . so . . . damned macho, Gabi,” he sputtered.
“Thanks for the positive reinforcement.” She took another quick look around the corner of the generator.
“I’m coming with you,” Chuck said, his words hard and determined.
“No, you’re not, Mr. Rittenberg. You’re not interfering with a federal investigation. Stay here and take care of Boomie and Stormy. And look for that recorder.”
She broke cover and sprinted through the rain toward the mound of debris that used to be the grill. Truth be told, she wished she had backup. But untrained backup would be worse than none. It was nice though, to have a man concerned about her. More than nice, actually.
She reached the heaped-up rubble and paused, taking careful stock of the situation before entering the wreckage. Once inside, she halted again and listened carefully, seeing if she could detect any sounds: voices, scrapes, tinkles. But there was nothing.
She drew a long, deep breath, exhaling slowly to calm her heart rate, and then stepped deeper into the tangle of wood and metal. Arms extended, the Glock in a two-handed grip, she crept forward, sweeping the weapon from side to side as she advanced.
A rush of adrenaline hit, attempting to negate the drug-induced lethargy that enveloped her, but she knew the surge probably wasn’t up to the job. She sensed her brain and body continuing to function as if they were on one-second delays from what her real-time reactions should be. Okay for everyday life. Potentially fatal in an armed confrontation, if indeed that was what she was headed into.
The rain had ceased and weak sunlight filtered into the ruined structure. She spotted what appeared to be a quasi-cleared path through the wreckage, something akin to a game trail through underbrush. Two sets of wet footprints in the dust layering the debris clearly indicated the individuals she’d seen earlier had pushed deep into the remains of the grill.
She moved carefully, trying to minimize noise and pausing intermittently to listen for any sounds that might give away the location of the men she pursued. But all that reached her ears was the gurgle of leakage from broken pipes and the drip of rainwater from above. She eased ahead, following the footprints, slithering and scrabbling through, around, and over the stacked and layered rubble, knowing full well she was being less than stealthy. The only thing she had working in her favor was that her prey might not be on full alert, never suspecting someone was tracking them.
Ahead, a scuffling sound. Transitory. She halted and listened. The noise didn’t repeat. She crouched and, one measured shuffle at a time, moved forward. She reached what looked like a broken door frame. Again, she stopped, waited for some indication of movement—a footfall, a piece of debris skittering across the floor, maybe a whisper or sniffle. Nothing. Then a brief hiss. Air? Water? Gas? The sound ceased.
Heart pounding, still in a crouch, she sidestepped into what appeared to have been an office. Shafts of sunlight speared through the wreckage, creating a checkered montage of brilliance against deep shadow. The sharp contrast between light and dark made it virtually impossible to discern figures and forms. Yet she sensed something or someone—two someones?—shared the space with her.
Her heartbeat accelerated, reverberating through her head, thrumming in her ears. She should have waited for backup. A ripple of panic raced through her body, but she willed her training to take over. She crouched lower and brought the Glock up in front of her, curling her finger against its trigger. “FBI,” she announced, forcing her voice to sound commanding. “Come out and show me your hands.”
She caught only a glimpse of the thing, could only mutter, “Jesus,” before a blow to the side of her head sent her reeling into the wreckage strewn at her feet, into blackness, probably—her last conscious, ephemeral thought suggested—into her grave.
Chapter Twenty-eight
SUNDAY, MAY 11
LATE AFTERNOON
CHUCK KNELT NEXT to Boomie, who remained in a sitting position with his back against the generator. He stared at Chuck with unfocused eyes.
“In a lotta pain,” the cinematographer said. “Can’t move my left arm. Ya find that SSR yet?”
“SSR? The video recorder?”
Boomie nodded.
“Haven’t had a chance to look for it,” Chuck said. For the time being, he remained more concerned about Boomie and Gabi than the film Boomie had shot. He touched Boomie’s shoulder lightly. “Like you said, I think it’s broken, partner. Wish I had some painkillers to give you, but I don’t even have an aspirin.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll live. Just ignore me when I start with the four-letter words again.” He grimaced. “Fuckin’ navy was good for something.”
Stormy trotted to Boomie, put her paws on his thighs, and licked his face.
“God,” he muttered, “that’s more compassion that I got from either of my first two wives.”
Chuck laughed. “Hang in there. Soon as Gabi gets back, I’ll go into town and see if I can commandeer an EMT.”
“Where’d Gabi go?” Boomie shifted his position slightly, winced.
“She saw two guys go into the wreckage of the grill. She thinks they might be the bad guys she’s been searching for.”
“Dicey stuff. A chick against a couple of killers.” A matter-of-fact statement.
“She’s an FBI agent.”
“I know, but . . .” Boomie let the words trail off. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back. Beads of perspiration slid down his face. Pain.
Chuck stood, paced to the corner of the generator, and stared in the direction of the Gust Front. All appeared quiet. Was that good or bad? A general sense of unease settled over him. Odd how things never seem to get resolved in the time frame they’re expected to. With the twin tornadoes past, the drama should be over.
Yet here he was with an injured cameraman, Gabi possibly on a fool’s errand, and the key to a million-dollar payday missing. Stormy brushed against his leg. Chuck looked down.
“Hey, girl. Ya know, if you were Lassie, I could send you after Gabi. Or maybe off to find the SSR. After all, this whole thing started because of you.”
Stormy cocked her head at Chuck.
“I mean, you did bring me Metcalf’s original proposal after it blew away.”
Stormy tensed, growled.
Chuck followed her gaze. A figure emerged from the grill’s wreckage, dashed to the SUV, got in, and moved it out of sight behind the pile of debris. Where was Gabi? The other guy? Chuck glanced around for a weapon and spotted a broken piece of wood about the size of a baseball bat. He grabbed it and lit out for the grill, Stormy at his heels.
From behind him, the blare of an auto horn brought him to a halt. He pivoted and saw Sam Townsend’s pickup plowing through the debris-strewn parking lot in his direction. Sam pulled up beside Chuck and jumped down from the cab.
“My God,” he said, taking in the destruction around him, “this is catastrophic. I knew from monitoring the radar we’d taken a hit, but I didn’t expect this.” Distress mixed with sadness registered in his eyes. “My place . . . my place is gone. I can’t believe it.”
“It got hit by a double funnel,” Chuck said.
Sam stared at him.
“We got it on film. Well, had it on film. I’m not sure what happened to it.”
Sam didn’t seem to be listening. Instead, he continued to stare at what used to be the Gust Front. After a moment his gaze fell on the chunk of lumber in Chuck’s hand.
“What the hell?” he said.
“I think there’s trouble up there,” Chuck answered, using the makeshift weapon to point at the wrecked grill. “A couple of guys went in there after the storm. Gabi went after them.”
Sam appeared to have trouble digesting the information. “Gabi? The lady who’s traveling with you? Why her? What the fuck’s going on, Chuck?”
“She’s FBI.”
“Jesus, I feel like I just came in in the middle of a movie.”
“Sorry, no time to fill you in. I think she might be in trouble.”
GABI, SPRAWLED IN the dust and debris of the Gust Front Grill, opened her eyes, searching for the thing she’d seen—well, thought she’d seen—before being blindsided by a blow to the back of her head. Maybe it hadn’t been real. Perhaps a hallucination, an optical illusion triggered by the meds. She could only pray. But she knew otherwise.
Her head felt as though it had been split by an ax. But fear overcame the pain. No, not fear: absolute piss-in-your-pants terror. She attempted to move, but her body wouldn’t respond. It was as if she were trapped in a nightmare, alive and functioning but unable to flee the monster. She felt for her handgun, moving her arms sluggishly, patting the floor for the weapon. Gone.
A small sound to her right drew her attention—something displacing the broken glass and shattered plaster coating the floor. Something slithering. Something large and heavy.
Her heart rate exploded, thundering like a jackhammer. She turned and witnessed an apparition from hell, wishing she were dead. The vision, forked tongue flickering, came at her. The jaws of its huge, flat, triangular head yawned open revealing bandsaw rows of backward-facing fangs. Hypodermics. Behind the head, a massive brown- and yellow-patterned body, as thick as the trunk of a pine tree, propelled the creature forward in a corkscrew death-glide.
CHUCK AND SAM went rigid as a scream rent the air. Female. From the direction of the Gust Front. Not a scream for help, but one of pure terror. Chuck had always thought of one’s hair standing on end as a cliché, but his hair stood on end. A chill ran up the back of his neck. Nothing clichéd about it at all.
“Oh, no,” Sam said, his voice almost a whisper, as if he’d received news of the death of a friend.
“What?” Chuck said
“She’s met Monty.” He took off in a sprint toward the rear of the crumpled grill.
Chuck followed. “Monty’s real?” The question came out amid breathless gasps.
“Very.”
“Will he hurt her?”
“Monty is a 22-foot Burmese python. He hasn’t eaten in three weeks.”
Stormy, barking, dashed after them.
“A snake? Monty’s a snake?”
Chuck stumbled over a tangle of shredded boards and roofing, fell, got up, and sprinted in pursuit of Sam.
They reached the rear of the grill. Fifty yards from them, a black SUV with a heavy-duty nylon tow strap attached to something in the wreckage labored to pull it out. The driver spotted Chuck and Sam and pointed a pistol at them through an open window. He squeezed off a round. The slug zinged off a bent and dented steel storage tank.
The two men dived for cover behind a large section of someone’s roof—debris from town.
“Jesus,” Sam said, “I haven’t been shot at since ’Nam.”
“Well, it’s a first for me,” Chuck responded, barely able to speak.
Stormy crouched with them, her tail wagging, not understanding the gravity of the situation.
Sam peeked over the upended chunk of roofing. “Bastards got my safe.”
The SUV’s driver fired another shot.
“Where’s the snake and nape when you need it?” Sam muttered.
Chuck stared at him.
“War talk. In ’Nam when we got in trouble, we waited for the Zoomies to bail us out with Snakeye bombs and napalm.”
“I don’t think we have that option here. What the hell do we do?” Chuck considered the black irony of his situation. He’d just cheated death from an EF-5 tornado, but now was about to be murdered.
Sam laid a steady hand on him. “Nothing. Relax. The guy isn’t going to hit us with a handgun at this distance from a moving vehicle. He’s just keeping us away.”
“We need to get to Gabi.”
“I know, I know. Just let these guys haul away the safe first.”
Chuck chanced a glance over the makeshift barrier shielding him and Sam.
The SUV, its engine yowling with high revs, yanked the safe free of the Gust Front’s wreckage and dragged it through the twisted metal and wood littering the ground.
“What on earth do those bozos think they’re going to do with it?” Chuck asked.
“It’s not that heavy. Once they get it out of the debris field, the two of them probably can hoist it into the vehicle.”
The SUV, encountering revetments of twisted rubble, made only slow progress. Sam stood and watched. No more shots rang out.
“Okay,” he said after several moments, “let’s go get the lady.” He dashed toward the grill.
Chuck, Stormy trotting beside him, followed, dreading what they might find.
GABI HAD HAD TIME only to raise her arm in a futile defensive maneuver before the snake lunged, sinking rows of razor-honed teeth into her forearm. The pain hit with excruciating force. She screamed, felt lightheaded, and tumbled into a nightmare abyss of unconsciousness.
She came to, but had no idea how much time had elapsed since she’d passed out. Searing pain radiated from her arm. Unbearable. She attempted to scream, but could push only a faltering breath of soundless air from her lungs. The snake, still locked onto her with its ser
rated teeth, had managed to wrap several coils of it huge, scaly body around her torso, squeezing with massive force.
What is this thing? What do they do? She attempted to remember . . . and did. Simultaneously, a paralyzing dart of horror blasted into her gut. A constrictor. This monster is a constrictor. It squeezes its prey to death, then eats it. Or maybe even begins its meal before whatever it attacked dies.
Frantic, she squirmed and quivered, fighting for her existence, or at least for another handful of breaths. But each time she moved, the reptile responded with increased crushing power; each time she exhaled, the helix tightened.
Eventually, all she could to was sip oxygen in tiny, silent gasps. She slipped toward unconsciousness again, willing it to come, praying for God to let her die oblivious to the method. Her prayer hovered unanswered. She remained aware, but only in a distorted, foggy, pain-wracked sense. She went limp. Suffocating. Her life being squeezed from her centimeter by centimeter, the powerful embrace of her killer relentless. A rib cracked. She whimpered.
Her heart fluttered. Yes, stop. Please stop beating. Save me.
The tenets of her religion taught of peace in death. Yet in hers there was none; only horror. An image of her parents floated past, just out of reach. A likeness of Chuck circled above, twisting, drifting, hazy.
Is Chuck here? She willed her eyes to open and focus. Not Chuck. Just the snake.
How many beats of her heart did she have left? How many shallow inhalations?
I know I can count them.
One.
Two.
Three eluded her.
Chapter Twenty-nine
SUNDAY, MAY 11
LATE AFTERNOON
STORMY, LEAPING over fallen timbers and squirming through narrow openings in the layered debris, was first to reach Gabi and the python. She halted abruptly and loosed a fusillade of furious barks.
Chuck and Sam clambered into the room behind her. Stormy mock-charged the huge snake several times, but the creature remained unfazed by the presence of the dog. It merely did a half roll with Gabi, kicking up dust and tiny pieces of glass and wood as it attempted to distance itself from the dog, a nuisance, not a threat.
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