The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  “I saved my boss’s life when a psychopathic killer shot him. I had just enough time to shove him down away from the bullet.”

  “That must have been exciting. And your boss didn’t even know he was dead.” Miranda smiled at her. “Lucy, you are such an innocent. I bet if you had the ring you’d go through life trying to right wrongs, fighting your never-ending battle for truth and justice. Ms. Superwoman. Do try for a little imagination. Do you realize how much money I will make with this ring? Think about a trip to Las Vegas, think about playing blackjack. The croupier deals out the card and you say ‘SEFYLL,’ and you know exactly what the next cards in the deck will be. Think of roulette or poker, any game you wish. With a little imagination you could win at all of them at will. Can you imagine how rich you could become? And if you were careful, no one would ever suspect a thing, would they?”

  “I didn’t think of that,” Lucy said honestly. But would she have thought of that after some time? As Miranda had?

  “I’ve had years to think about all the things I could do.” She paused, closed her eyes, and squeezed the ring tightly. She looked, Lucy thought, radiant.

  “Yes, I’ll be getting a lot of people to do most anything I want them to do—it won’t take hardly any effort at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How often have you wished you could take back something you’ve done or said? I’ll be able to do just that, whenever it suits me. If things aren’t going my way, if someone doesn’t react the way I want them to, I’ll simply say ‘SEFYLL’ and try something else. Henry Kissinger couldn’t have outnegotiated me, because I’d know what he was going to say before he said it, or realized he would say it. You see how easy it is?”

  Experimenting with people, manipulating them—“It wouldn’t really be living your life, more like living your own personal video game.”

  “I know what I want, Lucy, and I’m smart. I know no one in my family thinks I’m worth much at all—you included—but I am smart, do you hear me?”

  “You’re practically yelling it at me; of course I hear you.”

  “I’ve seen my father look at my mother and shake his head. This last time I moved home, he offered to find me a job, and he has before, boring jobs that were a waste of my time and my talents. How could I care about a payroll account or checking some idiot’s job benefits after holding this ring in my hand?

  “Yes, I’d sit there while Dad went on about his stocks and bonds, preening at his own brilliance, and all the while I was thinking about what I could do with eight seconds—eight whole seconds to buy or sell. I could be the richest person in the world, if I wanted to be.” Miranda kissed the ring, then thrust it up in a victory signal, and took a waltz step around the small room. She laughed.

  Lucy watched her as she continued to work her wrist. Another minute. She wondered what Miranda could have become if Lucy’s grandmother had never shown her the ring. “Miranda, since you ordered those men to kill me and take the ring, you obviously didn’t think you needed me. So why did you even bother to bring me here?”

  Miranda still clutched the ring in her hand. “Do you know, I regretted having paid those men to kill you. All I really wanted from you was my ring. But they said you were an armed FBI agent, and no matter what I wanted from you, they weren’t going to leave any witnesses. I should probably have done it myself.

  “Do you realize, Lucy, that the real magic of the ring is that no one—absolutely no one—ever knows that anything has changed in those eight seconds? To them, time is time and what happens simply happens. You have this extraordinary power, yet no one knows you have it.” Miranda paused for a moment and frowned, then she squeezed the ring again and a blazing smile lit her face. “But you will know, Lucy, when I make it work, won’t you? You won’t experience it with me, but you’ll know, and you will believe me when I say it, because you’ve done it yourself. You’re the only other person in the world who’ll know, and understand the power of it.

  “What do you think my first experiment should be? Should I shoot you, and then undo it? You won’t know, but I will. And when I tell you that you were dead eight seconds before you died, you will believe it.”

  Yes, she would, indeed. Lucy swallowed. “Why not try another experiment, Miranda? Like crashing that clock to the floor and saying ‘SEFYLL,’ and then see if it’s back on the nightstand again?”

  “Shooting you would be such a glorious proof.” She sighed. “But all right, it’ll be my first time, best try something easy. All right, the bloody clock.” She threw it to the floor and yelled, “SEFYLL.”

  CHAPTER 69

  North Carolina

  She’d shot him. Coop yelled with the shock of the sharp punch of pain in his side. He lay there panting, trying to get hold of himself. He felt blood spreading over his side, through his shirt, onto his shearling coat. He had to slow the bleeding or he’d die, since he couldn’t picture Kirsten hauling him to an ER.

  Kirsten was smiling down at him. “Not such a big mouth on you now, Mr. Agent. All laid out and bleeding. Here, get the bleeding stopped, I don’t want to drive.” She threw him a black T-shirt from a pile of clothes she’d heaped on the backseat. “Lucky for you I kept some of Bruce’s clothes. That T-shirt ought to do it. It’s clean enough. Too bad. I was going to keep that shirt.”

  Coop pulled up his shirt, eyed the wound. Thank God it was through and through, and shallow, but it was still bleeding. He folded the T-shirt, pressed it over both the entry and exit wounds, and fastened his belt around himself. That should hold it. He drew a deep breath, getting his brain to accept the pain and set it aside. There was blood on the inside of his shearling, but somehow no bullet hole. Realizing he’d even thought about his coat made him smile.

  “What are you smiling about? I shot you, you moron! Come on, move! You don’t drive, then you die here, your choice.”

  Slowly, Coop got to his feet. He could function, but he knew it wasn’t enough. At least she’d proved she didn’t want to kill him yet; she wanted to use him as a hostage, or at least as a driver. But it was up to him to stop her, there was no one else to do it. “I’ll drive.”

  “Thought you would. Let’s go, haven’t got all day, now, do we? In a couple of hours, we’ll stop at a motel, get some sleep.”

  When they reached the highway again, Coop saw a flash of black. It was a Porsche, Savich’s Porsche.

  CHAPTER 70

  Sherlock saw them merging into traffic ahead of them. “That’s Coop. In the Dodge!”

  Savich quickly eased the Porsche behind a big SUV. “I see them. We’ll hang back, wait for Coop to stop again.”

  Suddenly a silver North Carolina Highway Patrol cruiser, with its distinctive wide black stripe and State Trooper logo, pulled out around them and sped forward.

  “Not good, Dillon. I’ll bet they’ve spotted Kirsten.”

  The cruiser was a missile headed right for the Dodge. They saw the officer holding his radio in his hand, speaking into it, his partner, his head out the window, probably shouting back that the license plate was too dirty to read.

  Savich accelerated. Drivers all around them were staring now, rubbernecking, and traffic was slowing down.

  The cruiser’s siren came on.

  Sherlock got on her cell to the North Carolina Highway Patrol.

  They watched, helpless, as the Dodge sped up, weaving in and out of traffic, trying to lose the highway patrol. Good luck with that. They could see Coop clearly now, and Kirsten, looking back at the cruiser, then at Coop. They saw her waving a gun, pointing it back toward them. Then, suddenly, the highway patrolman in the passenger seat began shooting.

  CHAPTER 71

  Kirsten slid down in the seat and shoved her gun hard into his ribs again. “Those idiot cops are shooting at us! How did they know about this car? You get us out of here, now! Move!”

  Coop pressed his foot on the gas pedal. He saw Savich coming up behind the highway patrol cruiser, both of them closing on the Dodge, a
nd all the while Kirsten screamed curses. Suddenly, a bullet struck the back window, shattered the glass. Another bullet, then another, striking the rearview mirror on the passenger side. They were aiming at Kirsten, not at him. He prayed they were good shots.

  Coop saw her twist around, get her window down, and then she was leaning out, firing back at them.

  He’d never have a better chance.

  Coop jerked the car hard right, skidded across the shoulder gravel, and rocketed through a fence into a tobacco field, plowing through the harvested stalks. The impact sent Kirsten flying backward, striking the back of her head against the dash. It didn’t knock her out, but she was dead silent for a moment, her face a white mask, her eyes glazed, and then she was up and firing, not at him but out the window again at the highway patrol car that had followed them into the field. She grabbed the chicken stick as they bumped and tore through the wide rows. She realized he kept mowing through the stalks on purpose to slow them, not letting the car pass between the rows, and she turned toward him, his SIG leading. Where was her gun? He shot out his fist and struck her jaw with all the strength he had.

  She lurched away, hit her head against the glove compartment, and was thrown back again, her head bouncing off the seat. Then she slumped over, unconscious.

  Coop brought the car to a sliding stop in the middle of the field. He saw his SIG on the floor where Kirsten had dropped it. He was looking for her gun when he heard the highway patrol cruiser pull to a stop right behind him, heard the cops shouting at him.

  He had to respond or they’d probably shoot him. The pain in his side ripped through him, but he ignored it and shoved his door open, one eye on Kirsten. He raised his hands.

  “You the FBI agent?”

  “Yes. Cooper McKnight. I hit her; Kirsten Bolger’s in the car, unconscious.”

  Coop was never so happy in his life to see Savich and Sherlock cruising toward them, Savich careful to keep the Porsche between the mown rows of tobacco stalks, so as not to scratch up that perfect paint job.

  “Don’t shoot at the Porsche. They’re FBI!”

  Coop waved, then turned to watch one of the cops answer his cell, nod, then say, “You sure she’s out of it, Agent? Hey, what’s wrong? Geez, you’re shot!”

  Coop waved a hand and looked back into the car. He couldn’t believe it, but Kirsten was gone. He ran around the front of the car and saw her crawling through the rows of tobacco stalks several dozen feet from him. “She’s headed toward that house! Kirsten, stop, or I’ll shoot!”

  Kirsten looked back at him over her shoulder, lurched to her feet, and started running toward the house in the distance.

  Coop took off after her, his side forgotten, two highway patrolmen behind him, both firing toward her. He heard Savich shout, “Coop, we’ll try to cut her off before she gets to that house! Don’t hesitate—bring her down if you can.”

  Yeah, Coop thought, breathing hard, feeling his blood slick on his skin. It was enough, it was more than enough. He paused, aimed his SIG, and fired.

  CHAPTER 72

  Allenby Motel

  Lucy and Miranda stared at the smashed electric clock on the ancient rag rug that lay next to the small nightstand.

  “You didn’t break it twice, did you?” Lucy asked, though she almost yelled out with relief.

  Miranda was shaking her head back and forth. “I don’t understand. Nothing happened. Aunt Helen swore to me it would happen for me. I’m her direct relation, just as you are. She’s my father’s sister; it has to work, it should!”

  Miranda grabbed a pillow off the bed and hurled it against the door. She yelled, “SEFYLL!”

  Please don’t let it work, please don’t let it.

  Both women stared at the pillow, still on the floor against the motel room’s door.

  Lucy nearly wept with relief, though like Miranda, she didn’t understand why nothing had happened. Thank you, Sweet Lord, she didn’t shoot me.

  The ring is cold for Miranda.

  Miranda was moaning deep in her throat, pacing, cursing, shaking the ring, saying “SEFYLL” over and over.

  Lucy had the rope loose enough now to slip her hand out of it. Miranda still held the gun in one hand, the ring in the other. But she wasn’t paying attention. Lucy knew she had to act, with the ring or without it, or Miranda would likely kill her out of jealousy and despair.

  She whirled to face Lucy. “It has to work for me, Aunt Helen promised me, so that means I’m not doing something right. Tell me, Lucy. Tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

  Lucy stared at her. “Miranda, when I hold the ring, when it lies against my throat, it feels warm. Very warm. I don’t do anything different than you did.”

  Miranda said slowly, “You said it was cold for you, very cold.”

  “It seems I’m not such a crappy liar after all.”

  Miranda howled. She flung her tote against the far wall, screamed, “SEFYLL!” Miranda’s tote remained on the floor.

  Lucy said slowly, “I can think of only one reason the ring doesn’t work for you, Miranda. It’s not meant to.”

  Miranda stared at her. She began shaking her head back and forth. “No,” she whispered. “That’s not possible. I am Alan Silverman’s daughter!” Miranda ran toward her, waving the ring, beyond herself, beyond reason. “I am Alan Silverman’s daughter!”

  When Miranda was close enough, Lucy jerked her right hand free, roared up out of the chair, and smashed Miranda in the face.

  She fell hard, and Lucy turned to frantically work the rope loose. She heard Miranda stir just as she pulled her wrist free. She didn’t see her SIG, didn’t see Miranda’s Kel Tec, either, but she saw the ring. She grabbed the ring off the floor and ran out of the motel room.

  She heard Miranda screaming after her, ordering her to stop or she’d shoot her.

  Lucy ran. She was surprised by the crystal-clear sunlight that nearly blinded her as she ran.

  Down the motel steps. She shot one look at Coop’s Corvette, but she didn’t have her purse. A bullet tore through her arm. She whirled around, yelled, “SEFYLL!”

  Time stopped, and then she was closer to the motel again, Miranda screaming after her, and she ran again. This time she veered left, behind a steel trash container, and she heard more gunshots, but none were near. She didn’t have her cell phone, but she had her legs, and she had the ring. She remembered Ann Marie running as fast as she could from Kirsten, and she did the same, the air crisp and sharp in her lungs as she ran, keeping her turns random past warehouses and across parking lots. She ran until she reached a rundown shopping district and came across a policeman in his cruiser pulled into a strip mall.

  Twenty minutes later, Ruth Warnecki-Noble pulled up at the precinct house in her Silverado. She looked Lucy up and down. “I don’t see any bullet holes, thank the Lord.” Then sheer relief made Ruth hug her. “Sherlock called.”

  Lucy pulled away, grabbed her arms. “Have you heard yet, Ruth? Did Dillon and Sherlock catch up to them? Did they bring Kirsten down? Is Coop all right?”

  Ruth saw a horrible shot of fear glass Lucy’s eyes, imagined Dix, her husband, being driven around by a madwoman, and said without pause, “Yes, he’s fine.” Truth was, she didn’t know that for sure, but Lucy didn’t need to deal with that uncertainty right now. “Sherlock will call again with all the details. Don’t worry, okay?”

  “Ruth, dear God, we’ve got to get to the Silvermans’ house right now!”

  CHAPTER 73

  There wasn’t much cover, but Kirsten kept running, her eyes on the small white house no more than thirty feet away. Coop saw a bullet hit one of the mown stalks ahead of her, close to her head. He knew she was heading to that house. There’d be people there, people she’d kill without thought if they didn’t do exactly what she told them to.

  Bring her down, bring her down. Coop raised his SIG and fired again. She jerked a bit and grabbed her left arm but didn’t slow down. He fired a third time as he ran, his side pulsing with pain
with each stride, and he missed yet again. He was sweating. He didn’t think, merely shrugged off his shearling coat. He could hear the highway patrolmen pounding behind him. They’d stopped firing, concentrating on getting close enough to her before she got into that house.

  Coop’s heart seized when he saw a small boy and girl running through the rows, right toward Kirsten. He whirled around toward the cops. “Don’t shoot. You see the kids?”

  The kids were running right at her, shouting something to her. What? His heart sank when he realized the kids were seeing a poor bleeding woman being chased by three men with guns, and they were trying to help her.

  He yelled, “Get away from her! Go back to the house!”

  But the little girl didn’t slow; she was running full-tilt at Kirsten, the little boy trying hard to keep up.

  One of the patrolmen shouted, “We’re police officers, get back!”

  The little girl skidded to a halt, stared toward them, but it didn’t matter now; Kirsten had her arm tight around her neck, and she was dragging her in front of her. The little boy was panting hard, shoving at her, kicking at her legs, but he was too small to do much damage, and Kirsten didn’t slow.

  Even from thirty feet away, they all saw the gun in Kirsten’s hand.

  “It’s a Smith and Wesson,” Coop said. “She’ll use it, no hesitation at all.” Had it been in the waistband of her pants? Didn’t matter, it was his fault. He should have stripped her if necessary to find that gun as soon as he was sure the cops wouldn’t shoot him.

  The three men watched Kirsten swing the pistol’s butt against the boy’s head, saw him go down. One of the patrolmen was on his cell, calling dispatch for an ambulance, and more backup, and cursing.

  She had the little girl, and she was dragging her, keeping her tight against her, and they were nearly to the house, only another twenty yards. Coop saw what Kirsten was focused on, an old white pickup parked in the driveway.