The engine roared to life.
Hallelujah.
Allie backed up and onto the road, then sped away in the direction opposite the one they’d entered the trailer park from earlier. The car was moving just fine, and there were no telltale signs of punctured tires underneath her.
Double hallelujah.
Sirens grew louder from behind her as Allie stepped on the gas, following the EXIT signs. From the tire trails she’d spotted earlier, it was the same direction the shooter had gone. Not that Allie expected to catch up to him. Or wanted to. Whoever he was, he’d come to Pete’s place with a fully automatic rifle. She’d have to be extremely lucky for him to have only brought one magazine with him, and right now, she wasn’t going to push her luck.
A few curious eyes peeked out from behind filthy windows as she passed, but no one came out to get a better look.
The sirens were much louder by the time Allie found the exit and turned into the side road. She stepped on the gas as the first of many police lights became visible in her rearview and side mirrors.
The police were now involved, and once they found Mickey inside…
“There goes my twenty-four hours,” Allie said out loud.
Twenty-Five
“Mr. Marshall won’t be able to hide the fact that you’re not currently in jail for very long. You have twenty-four hours before roadblocks start going up on every road in and out of town and every squad car is looking for you again.”
Not more than twenty-four hours, as it turned out. Four, maybe five hours, tops. And in all that “free” time, she’d managed to uncover Pete’s role in setting her up and that was it. She was no closer to finding him or his accomplices—or even knew for a fact it was accomplices and not accomplice, as in just one—or get any further insights into why she had been chosen as the sacrificial goat. Was it all a case of wrong place at the wrong time? Or was there something more that she wasn’t seeing? Was she targeted? Or was she just unlucky?
It had to be bad luck. What else could it be? She’d never been to or come anywhere near Wells City or Timber Creek in her life. She’d never even heard of the Marshalls or seen Pete or Sarah or Tom. She had no ties to this place, to these people.
So why her?
It had to be a case of shit luck. After all the good fortunes and lucky breaks she’d been handed over the last few years, maybe she was due for some bad turns. But just because she could accept this as a cosmic rebalancing of sorts when it came to her luck jar, it didn’t mean she was going to just sit down and take it.
No way.
No way in hell—
She heard the faint, almost muffled pop! half a heartbeat before the round punched through the windshield of the Jeep and pinged! off the steering wheel directly in front of her. Another inch down or up, and the bullet would have slammed right into her chest.
Allie had seen it from a distance, but she hadn’t really paid attention to it. A black truck parked on the right shoulder of the two-lane road up ahead. It was very clearly a civilian vehicle, so her alarms hadn’t gone off. There were also no signs of the driver, but that, too, hadn’t triggered her paranoia. Not out here, with nothing for miles except open road and empty farmland.
Too late! Too late!
She clutched the steering wheel and spun it, all the while slamming down on the brakes. At the same instant, Allie ducked as a dark figure appeared from around the truck and opened fire, the pop-pop-pop of semiautomatic gunfire fighting for her attention. The noise was lost among the very loud squeal of the Jeep’s tires as they skidded against the hard asphalt and the smell of burnt rubber already stinging her nostrils.
The Jeep came to a sudden halt at a horizontal angle—its front half well into the incoming lane of the flat and low-to-the-ground road. The windshield was pockmarked with bullet holes, and though Allie couldn’t see the shooter anymore, she knew he was still firing because she continued to hear the (now much louder) pop-pop-pop of his very deliberate gunfire.
Bullets pinged! and pierced their way through the front passenger side door, one blasting out the window over the seat and floor, even as Allie pushed open her door and all but threw herself outside.
She landed on her right shoulder, rolled over, and crawled quickly—or as fast as she could move—to the front tire to use it as cover. The other alternative was the rear tire, but it was farther away. Then there was the middle of the Jeep, but the shooter, if he were smart—and right now, she couldn’t risk him not being—might decide to sneak a peek underneath the vehicle for a shot.
Another bullet found its way across the front seats on her left side and disappeared down the same road that she’d been driving up seconds earlier. Allie searched for and found Mitch’s 1911 behind her back, thankful that she hadn’t dropped it in her mad scramble to get out of the vehicle.
The last shot echoed and died, fading into the vast field that surrounded this stretch of road. There was nothing in view for miles in any direction except for the gray artificial ground she was sitting on. There was a lonely red barn somewhere in the distance to her left, but even that required intense concentration just to make out its shape.
The spot, she suddenly realized, made for a perfect ambush point.
Pop! as another round echoed, and Allie felt the Jeep’s rear dip slightly.
Sonofabitch, she thought when it became obvious what had just happened: The shooter had just taken out one of her rear tires.
Another pop! and this time the dip, from the front passenger side, was more noticeable because it was directly behind her.
Two tires, gone. That left her with two. She wasn’t going to get very far on just two working tires. Like every Jeep out there, there was a spare tire in the back. Of course, she’d have to take it down and put it on, and that was going to take time—
The tap-tap-tap of heavy footsteps.
Boots.
Someone wearing boots was moving slowly—and toward her!
Allie dropped to the cold, gray floor and rolled over until she was at the front of the Jeep, and looked out.
A man wearing a ball cap with the Dixie flag embroidered at the front was moving steadily toward her, a black M4A1 carbine with a Trijicon ACOG scope on top leading the way. He hadn’t gotten very far from his truck—maybe ten yards, with twenty more to go before he would reach her. The man wore shooting gloves and had one hand under the rifle, clutching the pistol grip, while the other remained in the trigger guard. The rest of him—especially his face—was hidden from her by the sun in the background staring daggers into her eyes with blinding rays. She was, though, able to make out his jeans, white T-shirt, and denim jacket.
The rifle in the man’s hands moved, and Allie rolled back behind cover just as he squeezed off a burst, pelting the other side of the Jeep with bullets. A couple of rounds pinged! off the engine block, and one shattered a headlight.
Allie stuck her hand out into the open, just past the front grill of the Jeep, and squeezed off two shots from the 1911 in the shooter’s direction. She didn’t expect to hit anything—though she wouldn’t have been terribly displeased if she did—but the point was to let him know that she wasn’t unarmed and he wasn’t going to be able to just walk up and put her out of her misery like some wounded animal.
More hurried tap-tap-tap!, these ones much louder and more rushed than the previous ones, as the shooter did what Allie wanted: He retreated. She wasn’t sure how far he went backwards—
Sunlight, glinting off moving metal in front of her.
A police car? Responding so quickly?
No, it wasn’t a police car.
It was a truck. A big one. It was moving fast, until it suddenly started to slow down.
Then, for some reason, it stopped completely in the middle of the road.
A delivery vehicle, with aqua blue colors all around. A civilian.
The shooter would be seeing the same thing and probably know that his opportunity to take her out—because that was what he’d been
doing, lying in wait for her after Pete’s trailer—had just vanished with the delivery truck’s arrival. If he were smart, the man would run back to his vehicle and take off.
If he were smart. Of course, if he were really determined to finish her off…
Allie kept waiting to hear the black truck behind her start up and drive off, but it never happened. Either the shooter was taking his time or he, like Allie, had seen it was just a civilian delivery truck and knew he still had time before the police responded.
She kept waiting for the deliveryman to get the hint and reverse down the highway. The driver would be able to see Allie’s Jeep—if not its bullet-riddled state, then how haphazardly, not to mention suspiciously it was parked across the two lanes. Anyone with common sense would steer clear.
So why was the truck just sitting there?
What is he waiting for? Get out of here!
Allie waved her hands to get the driver’s attention. She could just barely pick him out inside the vehicle. Was he leaning forward against his steering wheel? Trying to get a better look at her? The sun would be in his face just as it’d been in hers when she tried to spot the shooter earlier.
Then, finally, the truck started moving again…
…but instead of reversing, it continued forward.
What are you doing?
As the vehicle neared, she was able to confirm that it was definitely a delivery truck. There were water cooler bottles in the back, and AQUA-something was written across its front hood. Just a guy going about his job. Another day, another dollar.
Now if only he’d turn around and get out of here…
Could the driver see the gun in her hand as she waved it over her head, trying to get his attention? She needed him to stop. She needed him to make a U-turn, if that was possible, though given the limited space, probably not. Still, he could always reverse back the way he came, because surely he could see that something wasn’t right about all of this. It was obvious. Wasn’t it?
The truck stopped again, this time about forty yards away.
Allie breathed a sigh of relief…
…when the driver opened his door and began to climb down.
No. No. What are you doing? What are you doing?
Allie waved her arms even more frantically above her head, hoping he’d see the gun in her hand. She also shouted, “Don’t get out of your truck! Get back in your truck!”
The man hopped down to the road and took a moment to adjust his cap. He was wearing a brown uniform and was shielding his eyes against the sun.
“Get back in your truck!” Allie shouted. “Get back in your truck!”
The man started walking toward her. “What?” he shouted. “You okay? You hurt? What’s wrong with your car?”
“Get back in your truck! Get back—”
There was a single pop! and the driver staggered before collapsing like a marionette with its strings snipped.
“No!” Allie shouted.
She heard laughter coming from behind her, on the other side of the parked Jeep.
The shooter. He was laughing after murdering the driver.
Allie stared at the body. It lay on its chest, hands folded underneath its stomach where they’d been clutching—where he’d been shot—when the man finally gave in and fell. His cap was on the ground next to him. There wasn’t any blood that Allie could see, but then she was too far away. Besides, most of the bleeding would be underneath the body, temporarily hidden from view.
And the sonofabitch that had shot him was laughing.
He was laughing.
Allie stood up and spun around, lifting the 1911.
She didn’t know why she did it, or what came over her. There was no tactical advantage to be had. Surely the shooter would be waiting for her. If he hadn’t left when the delivery truck showed up, he wasn’t going anywhere now, after killing the driver. He’d still be there, waiting—
But he didn’t expect her to do what she’d just did, because he was standing next to his truck, rifle pointed down at the road, when she popped up from behind the Jeep.
Allie squinted against the harsh sun and glimpsed sharp blue eyes looking back at her. The face underneath the ball cap came into full view, and though she couldn’t make out the buzz cut, she knew exactly who the shooter was:
Pete.
It was fucking Pete.
The bartender’s eyes widened noticeably at the sudden sight of her popping up and out from behind the Jeep. She had caught him by surprise. He hadn’t expected her to pull such a stupid move.
Because it was stupid. It was so, so stupid. Except Pete had pissed her off, and she wasn’t thinking clearly.
Allie had one, maybe two seconds of surprise on her side, and she used all of it.
Her first shot nailed Pete in the shoulder, and as he spun, she fired again. But his body was moving, turning in reaction to getting shot, and her second round missed. It shattered the truck’s side mirror instead.
Pete lifted his rifle with one hand even as he was spinning and squeezed the trigger, his return fire stitching the asphalt between him and Allie until—
She turned and leaped back down to the ground as bullets slammed into the Jeep’s hood repeatedly, the ping-ping-ping! of rounds bouncing off the engine block and front grill fighting against the shrill noise of metal tearing against the onslaught.
Allie landed on her chest, and pain slammed through her entire body. She ignored most of it and pushed herself back up, because the shooting had stopped. She understood why pretty quickly: Pete had fired on full-auto and had emptied his entire magazine in less than four seconds flat.
Which meant he now had to change!
She was on her feet again and looking over the battered Jeep’s hood—smoke was coming out of the holes that riddled it—at the black truck as Pete climbed into the front seat and slammed the door after him.
Allie stepped out from behind her vehicle and fired, aiming for the truck’s back windshield. She glimpsed Pete ducking even as he turned on the engine and stepped on the gas, and the pickup lurched forward. For a second—just a second—the car veered toward the edge of the road and almost off the asphalt, before Pete managed to right the tires in time.
She ran after the vehicle, continually firing, knocking out the rear windshield. She didn’t bother aiming for the tires. She wasn’t going to hit them on a moving vehicle with a pistol from this distance. She concentrated instead on the driver side, putting every bullet she had left into the spot where Pete would be if he wasn’t making himself small. The man had all but vanished from view but was somehow still able to guide his truck forward anyway.
Allie didn’t stop shooting until she’d run completely out of bullets, and by then Pete’s truck was so far down the road that she could barely make out the white color of its license place against the all-black exterior.
She lowered the gun to her side and struggled to breathe. She was out of breath. More than that, she was out of bullets. Except Pete didn’t know that, or he might not have kept going.
Allie turned around and walked back to the Jeep. She was halfway to it when she saw the first glint of chrome in the distance. It was even farther down the road and behind the parked delivery truck.
More vehicles were on their way, moving at great speeds toward her.
And there were lights spinning on their roofs.
Allie didn’t bother running. There was no way she was going to escape this. She could probably run to the delivery truck and take it before the cruisers arrived, but how far could she get in that behemoth?
Not very far.
And the Jeep was out of the equation.
She tossed the semiautomatic as far as she could into the grass. The last thing she wanted was to get shot when the police cars reached her. Every one of those officers would be jacked up on adrenaline right now.
Allie waited for them to get closer, and when they were finally within view—and she, to the driver of the lead vehicle—she knelt on the co
ld asphalt and put both hands behind her head, and waited.
It was a long, excruciating wait, and every second of it was filled with the sound of Pete laughing after he’d gunned down the deliveryman…
Twenty-Six
“Why did you kill the driver?”
“I didn’t.”
“We found a gun in the field. You didn’t throw it away far enough.”
“Did the ballistics come back on the weapon?”
“Not yet. But it shouldn’t be too long.”
“When it does come, you’ll know it wasn’t the same gun that killed the driver.”
“I said, we found a gun in the field. We just haven’t found the one you used on the driver yet.”
“And you won’t, because I didn’t kill him. Someone else did.”
“A man in a Dixie cap.”
“A ball cap with a Dixie flag on the front.”
“Who you say is a bartender at the Don’t Stop In bar named Pete Williams.”
“That’s the name he’s going by.”
“You think it’s an alias?”
“I’m 100 percent sure it is.”
“And this Pete Williams was the one who killed James Kale? The deliveryman?”
“Yes. I was exchanging fire with Williams when Mr. Kale drove up and stopped his truck. I tried to tell him to get back into his vehicle, but he wouldn’t listen. He was killed trying to help me.”
“But not by you.”
“No.”
“But by a bartender at the Don’t Stop In.”
“I know how ridiculous all of this sounds.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“And this Pete Williams was also the same one that shot up the trailer earlier.”
“Yes.”
“His own trailer.”
“Yes. Mickey can tell you I wasn’t responsible for that.”
“Who?”
“Mickey, the bartender.”
“Another bartender?”
Allie Krycek (Book 4): Savior/Corruptor Page 21