Lethal

by Sandra Brown

  “What do you think?”

  “Are you going to get me out of this chair or not?”

  Crawford replaced his pistol in the holster. As he sawed through the tape with the sharp point of his pocketknife, Gillette filled him in on what had taken place. By the time he’d finished with his story, he was free from the chair, stamping to restore feeling to his feet, flexing and extending his fingers to increase circulation.

  “They took the USB key with them?” Crawford asked.

  “As well as the soccer ball.”

  “What was on that key?”

  “They refused to tell me.”

  “Well, it had to be something significant or your late son wouldn’t have gone to such great lengths to hide it.”

  Gillette said nothing to that.

  “Did they tell you where they were going?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Give you any hint? Did you pick up on anything?”

  “They were in an awful rush when they left. As they raced through here, I demanded to know what was going on. Coburn stopped and leaned down, putting us eye to eye.

  “He reminded me that when a Marine has a duty to perform, he doesn’t let any obstacle stand in the way of performing that duty. I told him yes, of course, what of it? Then he said, ‘Well, I’m a former Marine, and I’ve got a duty to perform. Intentionally or not, you could be an obstacle. So you should understand why I gotta do this.’ Then the son of a bitch slugged me, knocked me out. Next thing I know, you’re here.”

  “Your jaw is bruised. Is it okay?”

  “Have you ever been kicked by a mule?”

  “I don’t suppose you saw what kind of car—”

  “No.”

  “Where’s your computer?”

  Gillette led him down a hallway and into the master bedroom. “It’s probably in sleep mode.”

  Crawford sat down at the functional desk and activated the computer. He checked the email server, the home page on the web browser, and even Gillette’s documents file. He didn’t find anything, nor had he expected to.

  “Coburn wouldn’t have left us a trail that was that easy to follow,” he said. “I’d like to take your computer with me, though. Give it to the department techies, see if they can find what was on that key. I guess all we can do now—”

  He drew up short when he stood up and turned around. Stan Gillette was holding a deer rifle in one hand and pointing a six-shot revolver at him with the other.

  Chapter 44

  It’s Coburn.”

  Hamilton yelled at him through the phone. “About time. Damn you, Coburn! Are you still alive? Mrs. Gillette? The child? What happened with VanAllen?”

  “Honor is with me. She’s okay. But they’ve got her daughter. I just talked to Doral Hawkins. The Bookkeeper wants to trade. Me for Emily.”

  Hamilton exhaled noisily. “Well, that sums it up.”

  “It does.”

  After a beat, Hamilton asked, “VanAllen?”

  “Honor didn’t meet him, I did. I suspected a trap, but I thought it would be him springing it. As it turned out…”

  “Tom was clean.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? I understand he was practically vaporized.”

  “Bad guys get double-crossed, too. Anyway, he answered his phone before I could warn him not to.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Later. Listen, I found what I’ve been after. Turned out to be a USB key loaded with incriminating information.”

  “On who?”

  “Lots of people. Locals. Some not. A shitload of stuff.”

  “You’ve actually seen it?”

  “I’m holding it in my hand.”

  “To swap for Emily.”

  “If it comes to that. I don’t think it will.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that I don’t think it will come to that.”

  “No more fucking riddles, Coburn. Tell me where you are, I’ll get—”

  “I emailed you the file a few minutes ago.”

  “Nothing’s come in from you on my phone.”

  “I didn’t send it to your regular email address. You know where to look.”

  “So it’s good stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it doesn’t ID The Bookkeeper.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “If it had, you’d have told me that first.”

  “You’re right. We weren’t that lucky. But this will make him traceable. I’m almost positive.”

  “Good work, Coburn. Now tell me—”

  “No time. I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait! You can’t do this without backup. You could be walking into another trap.”

  “That’s a chance I gotta take.”

  “No way. And I’m not going to argue with you over this. I spoke with Deputy Crawford. I think I can safely vouch for him. Call him and—”

  “Not until Emily is back with Honor. Then she’ll notify the authorities.”

  “You can’t confront these people alone.”

  “That’s the condition of the swap.”

  “That’s the condition of every swap!” Hamilton shouted. “Nobody sticks to the conditions.”

  “I do. This time I do.”

  “You could get that little girl killed!”

  “Maybe. But it’s a sure thing she’ll die if cops and feds swarm the scene.”

  “Doesn’t have to be that way. We can—”

  Coburn disconnected, then turned off the phone. “Bet he had some choice words for me,” he said to Honor as he tossed the phone onto the backseat.

  “He thinks you should call in reinforcements.”

  “Just like in the movies. Give him his head, he’d have S.W.A.T. guys, choppers, every badge within fifty miles converging on the scene, an army of Stallones who’d only fuck it up.”

  After a moment, she said quietly, “I was very angry at you.”

  He glanced over at her with silent inquiry.

  “When you ruined Eddie’s football.”

  “Yeah, I know. My cheek still stings where you slapped it.”

  “I thought you were being unreasonably cruel. But actually your intuition was right. You just picked the wrong sport.”

  It hadn’t been intuition that had caused him to plunge the knife into that football. It had been jealousy. Raw, fierce, animalistic jealousy over her facial expression as she’d stroked the football’s lacing and lovingly reminisced about her late husband. But they’d both be better off if he didn’t correct her misconception. Let her think he was an intuitive jerk rather than a jealous wannabe lover.

  She was rubbing her upper arms, a sign of her anxiety. “Honor.” When she turned her head toward him, he said, “I can call Hamilton back. Have him send in the cavalry.”

  “Two days ago, you wouldn’t have given me an option,” she said, her tone throaty and intimate. “Coburn, I—”

  “Don’t. Whatever else you were about to say, don’t.” Her misty expression alarmed him more than if she’d launched an RPG at him. “Don’t look at me all calf-eyed. Don’t nurse any romantic notions about me just because I told you that you’re pretty or related a sob story about some old horse.

  “The sex? Mind-blowing. I wanted you, and you wanted me back, and I think even before we kissed on the boat we both knew it was a sure thing, only a matter of time. And it felt terrific. But don’t delude yourself into thinking that I’m a different person than I was when I crawled up into your yard. I’m still mean. Still me.”

  He made himself sound harsh, because it was important that she understand this. In an hour, possibly less, one way or another, he would exit her life as swiftly as he’d entered it. He wanted to make that exit painless for her, even if it meant wounding her now. “I haven’t changed, Honor.”

  She gave him a wan smile. “I have.”

  Tori’s eyes refused to open, but she received intermittent impressions of motion and li
ght and noise, all of which were magnified to an excruciating level, followed then by a darkness so absolute it swallowed every stimulus until she was jarred into awareness again.

  “Ms. Shirah, stay with us. You’ve been seriously injured, but you’re on your way to the trauma center. Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand?”

  What a stupid request. But she obliged and was congratulated by a voice that then said, “She’s responding, Doctor. We’re two minutes out.”

  She tried to lick her lips, but her tongue felt thick and uncooperative. “Emily.”

  “Emily? She’s asking for Emily. Anybody know who Emily is?”

  “There was nobody else in the house.”

  The blackness descended again, causing the disconnected voices to waft in and out.

  “No, Ms. Shirah, don’t try to move. We’ve had to secure you to the gurney. You sustained a gunshot wound to your head.”

  Gunshot wound? Doral wearing a stupid ski mask. A fight with him over—

  Emily! She had to get to Emily.

  She tried to sit up but couldn’t. She tried to remain conscious but couldn’t. Oh, Jesus, here comes that blackness again.

  When next she emerged from it, the lights were bright against her closed eyelids and there was a lot of racket and activity surrounding her. Oddly, she had the sensation of floating above it all, watching from a distance.

  And was that Bonnell? Why was he wearing that silly bandage on his forehead? And were his ears bloody?

  He was clutching her hand. “Sweetheart, whoever hurt you…”

  Was he crying? Bonnell Wallace? The Bonnell Wallace she knew was crying?

  “Everything will be all right. I swear to you, I’ll make it all right. You’ll get through this. You have to. I can’t lose you.”

  “Mr. Wallace, we have to get her to the OR.”

  She felt Bonnell’s lips brush hers. “I love you, honey. I love you.”

  “Mr. Wallace, please step aside.”

  “Will she survive?”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  She was being pulled away from him, but he kept hold of her hand until he was forced to let go. “I love you, Tori.”

  She tried to outrun the encroaching oblivion, but as it enveloped her, her mind cried out, I love you, too.

  Since Coburn was bent on staging a one-man show, Hamilton had to find a way to stop him before he had a total disaster on his hands. Tom VanAllen’s death hadn’t convinced Coburn of the agent’s innocence, so it was more vital than ever that Hamilton talk to his recent widow to gauge what she knew, if anything.

  But when he and his team arrived at the VanAllen home, as Hamilton had predicted, there were no other vehicles there. The widow was passing the night alone. But she wasn’t sleeping. Lights were on inside the house.

  Hamilton alighted from the Suburban, strode up the walk, rang the doorbell, and waited. When she didn’t respond, he wondered if maybe she was asleep after all. Perhaps, because the son needed around-the-clock care, the lights in the VanAllen household never went out.

  He rang the bell again, then knocked. “Mrs. VanAllen? It’s Clint Hamilton,” he called through the wood door. “I know this is an extremely difficult time for you, but it’s important that I speak to you right away.”

  Still getting no response, he tried the latch. It was locked. He reached for his cell phone, scrolled through his contacts, and found the house phone number. He called it and heard the phone ringing deep inside the house.

  After the fifth ring, he hung up and shouted back to the vehicles parked at the curb. “Bring the ram.”

  The S.W.A.T. team joined him on the porch. “This isn’t an assault. Mrs. VanAllen is in a delicate state of mind. There’s also a disabled boy. Take care.”

  Within seconds they had busted through the front door. Hamilton barged in, the others fanned out through the rooms behind him.

  Hamilton found Lanny’s room at the end of the wide central hall. The room had the sweetly cloying odor unique to the bedridden. But except for the hospital bed and other medical paraphernalia, everything was perfectly normal. The television was on. Lamps provided a soothing ambient light. There were pictures on the walls, a colorful rug in the center of the floor.

  However, the tableau of the motionless boy lying on the customized bed was almost gothic. His eyes were open but his stare was blank. Hamilton walked to the side of the bed to assure himself that he was breathing.

  “Sir?”

  Hamilton turned to the officer who had addressed him from the open doorway. He didn’t say anything, but his aspect conveyed, SITUATION, as he jerked his helmeted head toward another part of the house.

  Doral saw the car headlights approaching from the side street. Showtime.

  Seated in his borrowed car, he took one last drag on his cigarette, then flicked it through the open window. The cigarette sketched a fiery arc in the darkness before falling to the pavement and burning out.

  He activated his phone and called The Bookkeeper. “He’s right on schedule.”

  “I’ll be there soon.”

  Doral’s heart hitched. “What?”

  “You heard me. I can’t afford for you to screw up again.” Then the phone went dead.

  It was a slap in the face. But, he supposed, the collaboration with the Mexican cartel hung in the balance, so The Bookkeeper was taking no chances of something else going wrong.

  And this wasn’t strictly business anymore. Not like Marset, who’d been gumming up the works. Not like the state trooper who’d balked at carrying out an order. Not like all the others. This was different. The Bookkeeper had a personal score to settle with Lee Coburn.

  Coburn had stopped the car about forty yards away, its idling motor an uneven growl in the stillness beneath the football stadium bleachers, where Doral had chosen to do this. This time of year, the place was deserted. It was on the outskirts of town. Ideal location.

  Coburn had the headlights on high beam. The car itself looked like little more than a rattletrap, but somehow it seemed menacing, reminding Doral of a Stephen King story about a car that went psycho and killed people. Doral pushed the ridiculous thought aside. Coburn was screwing with his head again.

  But the fed also wasn’t going to come any closer until he saw that Doral did indeed have Emily.

  Doral had made sure the interior lights wouldn’t come on when he got out of his car. Crouching lower than the roof, he opened the rear door, slid his hands under Emily’s arms, and lifted her out. Her body was limp, her breathing deep, her sleep peaceful as he placed her on his left shoulder.

  What kind of man would use thirty-five pounds of sweet little girl to save his own skin?

  He would. He was.

  Coburn had mind-fucked him into feeling lower than whale shit, into being nervous and unsure of himself. But he couldn’t allow himself to buy into that or he was as good as dead. All he wanted was one crack at Coburn. If he had to use Emily in order to take out Coburn, well, that was just life, and nobody had ever said that life was fair.

  He placed his right hand, his gun hand, in the center of Emily’s back so that it could be seen. Then he stood up and walked around the hood of the car, forcing himself to appear in charge, in control, and perfectly relaxed, although in reality his palms were slick with sweat and his heart was knocking.

  Coburn’s car began to roll forward at a snail’s pace. Doral’s gut tightened. He squinted against the headlights. The car came to within fifteen feet of him and stopped. He called out, “Turn off the headlights.”

  The driver got out, but despite the glare, he made out Honor’s form.

  “What the hell? Where’s Coburn?”

  “He sent me instead. He said you wouldn’t shoot me.”

  “He said wrong.” Shit! Doral hadn’t counted on having to kill Honor while face-to-face. “Move away from the car and raise your hands where I can see them. What kind of trick is Coburn trying to pull?”

  “He doesn’t need tricks, Doral. He doesn’t
even need me any longer. He’s nailed you, thanks to Eddie.”

  “What’s Eddie got to do with this?”

  “Everything. Coburn found the evidence he had collected.”

  Doral’s mouth went dry. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you do. That’s why you killed him.”

  “Are you wearing a wire?”

  “No! Coburn has already got what he came for. He doesn’t care what happens to me or Emily now. But I care. I want my daughter.”

  Doral gripped his pistol tighter. “I told you to get away from the car.”

  She stepped from behind the cover of the open door, hands raised. “I won’t do anything, Doral. I’m leaving you to the legal system. Or to Coburn. I don’t care. All I care about is Emily.” Her voice cracked on her daughter’s name. “She loves you. How could you do this to her?”

  “You’d be surprised what a person can do.”

  “Is she…?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “She’s not moving.”

  “You’ve got only your friend Coburn to blame for this. All this.”

  “Why is Emily so still?”

  “Where is Coburn?”

  “Is she dead?” Honor screamed hysterically.

  “Where’s—”

  “You’ve already killed her, haven’t you?”

  Her screeching roused Emily. She stirred, then lifted her head and murmured, “Mommy?”

  “Emily!” she shouted and extended her arms.

  Doral began backing away toward his car. “Sorry, Honor. Coburn screwed the pooch.”

  “Emily!”

  Hearing her mother, Emily started squirming against him.

  “Emily, be still,” he hissed. “It’s Uncle Doral.”

  “I want my mommy!” she wailed and began thumping him with her small fists and kicking at his thighs.

  Honor continued shouting her name. Emily screamed in his ear.

  He released her. She slid to the pavement, then ran toward the car, directly into the bright headlights.

  Doral aimed his pistol at Honor’s chest.

  Before he could get off a shot, something smacked him in the back of his head hard enough to make his ears ring.

  Simultaneously the car’s headlights went out, their twin beams replaced by two bright purple circles on a field of black.