In fact, he did.
He pulled his finger back from the button and accelerated.
And the only way to do that was to let this play out.
Now he just had to get the hell out of here.
He hoped that was possible. Because most people came to this part of the world simply to kill or be killed.
CHAPTER
3
SEAN KING DROVE WHILE MICHELLE Maxwell rode shotgun.
This was the reverse of what the pair normally did. She usually drove the car, like a rhino on steroids, while he hung on for dear life and mumbled his prayers, but without much confidence they would actually be answered.
There was a good reason for his piloting tonight, and for the last twenty-one nights. Michelle was simply not herself, at least not yet. She was getting there, only more slowly than she wanted.
He looked at her. “How you doing?”
She stared straight ahead. “I am armed. So you ask me that one more time and I will shoot you, Sean.”
“I’m just concerned, okay?”
She turned to him with a ferocious stare. “Oh, that I get. But I’ve been out of rehab for three weeks. I think I’m good to go. And that’s what your concern can do: Go.”
“Your injuries were life-threatening, Michelle. You almost didn’t make it. Trust me, I was there for every second of it. So three weeks out of rehab after something like that is actually not very long.”
Michelle touched her lower back and then her upper thigh. There were scars there. There would always be scars there. The memory of how she had come by these injuries was as vivid as the initial knife thrust into her back. It had been done by someone she thought was an ally, but who instead had just wanted to kill her.
Yet she was alive. And Sean had been with her every step of the way. Only now his hovering was obviously starting to get to her.
“I know. But it was two full months of rehab. And I’m a fast healer. You of all people should understand that by now.”
“It was just close, Michelle. Way too close.”
“How many times have I almost lost you?” she said, shooting him a glance. “It’s part of what we do. It comes with the territory. If we want safe we have to get another line of work.”
“Yeah,” he said absently.
Sean looked out through the windshield as the rain continued bucketing down. The night was gloomy, the clouds fat with more rain and shifty through the sky. They were driving through a particularly lonely area of northern Virginia on their way back from meeting with a former client, Edgar Roy. They had saved him from a death sentence. He had been as suitably appreciative as any high-functioning autistic savant with severely limited social skills could be.
“Edgar looked good,” said Michelle.
“He looked really good, considering how close he was to a lethal injection,” replied Sean, who seemed relieved by the change in topics.
“Think he’ll take us up on our offer to do some work for us?” she asked.
“I think our trying to figure out what Edgar will do is not a productive use of time. Geniuses are not known for being predictable.”
Sean took a turn on the rain-slicked, curvy road too fast and Michelle grabbed her armrest for support.
“Slow it down,” she warned.
He feigned astonishment. “Words I never thought I would hear leave your mouth.”
“I drive fast because I know how to.”
“I’ve got the injuries and therapy bills to prove otherwise,” he shot back.
She gave him a scowl and then looked away. “So what now that we’ve finished all the work on Edgar Roy’s matter?”
“We continue our careers as private investigators and earn some income. Both Peter Bunting and the government were very generous with their payments to us, but we’re socking that away to either retire on or spend on a rainy day.”
Michelle looked to the stormy sky. “Rainy day? Then let’s go buy a yacht. We might need it to get home.”
Sean would have said something back, but he was suddenly preoccupied.
“Damn!”
He cut the wheel hard to the left and the Land Cruiser spun sideways across the slickened roadway.
“Turn into it,” advised Michelle calmly.
Sean turned into the spin and quickly regained control of the Cruiser. He applied the brakes and brought them to a stop on the shoulder.
“What the hell was that?” he snapped.
“You mean who was that,” answered Michelle.
She opened the door and leaned out into the rain.
“Michelle, wait,” said Sean as he started to turn off the car.
“Keep it on,” she snapped, scanning up ahead. “Point the lights straight up ahead.”
She slammed the door shut and Sean drove the Cruiser back onto the road.
“Hit your brights,” she told him.
He did so and the lights swelled in intensity, allowing them to see about thirty feet in front of them with as much clarity as the night and rain would allow.
“There,” said Michelle, pointing to the right. “Go, go.”
Sean hit the gas and the Cruiser sped forward.
The person running down the right shoulder of the road looked back only once. But it was enough.
“It’s a kid,” said Sean in amazement.
“It’s a teenager,” corrected Michelle.
“Well, he was almost a dead teenager,” added Sean sternly.
“Sean, he’s got a gun.”
Sean leaned closer to the windshield and saw the weapon in the boy’s right hand.
“This does not look good,” he said.
“He looks terrified.”
He snapped, “What the hell do you expect? He’s running in the middle of a thunderstorm with a metal object in his hand. He should be scared. And on top of that I almost hit him, and if that had happened, he wouldn’t be scared, just dead.”
“Get closer.”
“What?”
“Get closer.”
“Why would I do that? He’s got a gun, Michelle.”
“So what? We have guns too. Just get closer.”
He sped up while Michelle rolled down the window.
A spear of lightning lit the sky with a billion-candlepower burst of energy followed by a crack of thunder so loud it sounded like a skyscraper imploding.
“Hey,” Michelle yelled at the boy. “Hey!”
The teen looked back again, his face whitewashed in the glare of the headlights.
“What happened?” yelled Michelle. “Are you okay?”
The boy’s answer was to point the gun at them. But he didn’t fire. He left the road and cut across a field, his feet slipping and sliding over the wet grass.
“I’m calling the cops,” said Sean.
“Just wait,” she replied. “Stop the car.”
Sean slowed the Cruiser and pulled to a stop a few feet later.
Michelle hopped out of the vehicle.
“What the hell are you doing?” Sean cried out.
“He’s obviously in trouble. I’m going to find out why.”
“Did it occur to you that he might be in trouble because he just shot somebody and is running from the scene of the crime?”
“Don’t think so.”
He looked at her incredulously. “You don’t think so? Based on what?”
“I’ll be back.”
“What? Michelle, wait.”
He made a grab for her arm but missed.
The next instant she was sprinting across the field. In a few seconds she was soaked to the skin in the driving rain.
Sean slapped his palm against the steering wheel in disbelief. “I can’t frigging believe this.” He yelled at the window. “Do you have a death wish?” But Michelle was long since out of earshot.
He calmed, studied the lay of the land for a few moments, put the vehicle into gear, and sped off, hanging a right at the next intersection and punching the gas so hard the rear of the truc
k spun out. He righted it and drove off, cursing his partner loudly with every turn of the wheel.
CHAPTER
4
MICHELLE HAD CHASED MANY PEOPLE down in her life. As part of a coxswain-plus-four team she had helped make up five lengths during a late charge to claim a medal at the Olympics. As a cop in Tennessee she had run down her share of felons fleeing the scenes of their crimes. As a Secret Service agent she had been fleet of foot next to limos carrying important leaders.
Tonight, though, she was competing against a long-legged teenager with the boundless energy and fresh knees of youth who had a substantial head start and was running like the devil was on his heels. And her feet kept slipping with every stride. It was like running in three feet of water, only on land.
“Wait,” she called out as she caught a glimpse of him before he changed direction and disappeared down a path through some trees.
He didn’t wait. He simply sped up.
Michelle, despite her protestations to Sean, was not one hundred percent. Her back hurt. Her leg hurt. Her lungs were burning.
And it didn’t help that the wind and rain were blinding her.
She raced down the path and—just in case—drew her gun. She always felt better with her Sig in hand.
She redoubled her efforts, fought through the pain and fatigue that was coursing through her, and markedly closed the gap between them. A lightning strike followed by a crack of thunder so loud it was like a bomb detonating momentarily distracted her. A tree on the side of the path, punished by stiff winds, started to topple. She found an extra burst of speed and flashed past it. The shallow-rooted pine slammed into the dirt about five feet behind her, but its thick branches missed her by only a few inches. Any one of them could have crushed her skull.
That had been close. Michelle understood exactly how close.
The teen had fallen when the tree had crashed, yet now he was up and running once more. But the gap was now closing.
Calling on reserves she wasn’t sure she possessed anymore, she propelled forward like she had been shot out of a mortar. She leapt and hit him in the back of the legs. He sprawled forward into the dirt while Michelle pitched sideways and then rose, her lungs searing, her breath coming in gulps. She bent over, but kept her gaze on him, her gun ready, because she could see he still had his, although she wasn’t worried about him firing it.
He turned over, his butt in the dirt, his knees bent to his chest.
“Who the hell are you? Why are you chasing me?”
“Why are you running around with a gun in the middle of a storm?” she countered.
He looked very young, maybe fifteen. The way his auburn hair was plastered to his freckled face it looked blood red.
“Just leave me alone,” he cried out.
He rose and Michelle straightened. They were barely three feet apart. At five-foot-ten Michelle was at least three inches taller than he was, although his long legs and size twelve feet promised that he would probably zip right through the six-foot mark before he was done growing.
She glanced at his gun and confirmed what she had seen earlier in the headlights.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Are you going to shoot me?” he responded fearfully.
“No. Are you going to shoot me?” She already knew the answer to that. He couldn’t shoot her even if he’d wanted to.
He started to back up. “Just please leave me alone.”
“I’m trying to help you. My partner and I almost hit you back there.”
“Your partner?”
Michelle decided a lie was better than the truth right now. “I’m a cop.”
“A cop?” He looked at her suspiciously. “Let me see some ID.”
She put her hand inside her jacket and withdrew her PI license. In the dark she hoped it would look legit enough. She flashed it.
“Now will you tell me what this is about? Maybe I can help you.”
He looked down, his thin chest rising and falling quickly with each of his uneven breaths.
“Nobody can help me.”
“That’s a big statement to make. Things can’t be that bad.”
His lips started trembling. “Look, I… I need to get back home.”
“Is that where you ran away from?”
He nodded.
“And where you got the gun?”
“It belonged to my dad.”
Michelle pulled her wet hair out of her eyes. “We can give you a ride there. Just tell us where it is.”
“No, I’ll walk. It’s not far.”
“That’s not a good idea. Not in a storm like this. You might get hit by a car or have a tree fall on you, both of which have already almost happened. What’s your name?”
He hesitated.
“My name is Michelle. Michelle Maxwell.”
“Are you really a cop?”
“Used to work for the Secret Service. Guarded the vice president for a while.”
“For real?” Now he sounded like a teenager. An awed teenager.
“Yep.”
“And you’re a cop now?”
“Well, I used to be. I’m actually a private investigator now. But I still act like a cop sometimes. Now what’s your name? I told you mine.”
“Tyler, Tyler Wingo,” he said.
“Okay, Tyler Wingo, that’s a good start. Now let’s go to my car, get in and—” She glanced behind him but had no time to say anything.
Sean grabbed Tyler from behind, knocked the pistol from his grip, kicked it away, and twirled him around.
Staggering, Tyler started to run off again, but Sean clamped a hand around his wrist. At six-two and more than two hundred pounds, he had the size to keep the kid from going anywhere.
“Let me go!” yelled Tyler.
“Sean, it’s okay,” said Michelle. “Let him go.”
Sean reluctantly released his grip, bent down, and picked up the gun. He looked at it. “What the hell is this?”
“A German Mauser,” said Tyler, scowling up at him.
“Without a trigger,” pointed out Michelle. “Saw that in the
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