Extreme Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense bk-7

by William Bernhardt

He made sure he had everything—keys, wallet, and most important, the shiny silver blade. That would come in handy tonight.

  He’d had trouble sleeping lately. He was plagued by nightmares. Fears that the stupid-ass kid in the bathroom might finally realize who and what he had seen.

  He couldn’t let that happen. He would get no rest until that threat was eliminated.

  Which was what tonight was all about.

  He fingered the handle of the long serrated blade tucked in the holster of his belt. This was the night he put his fears to rest. This was the night the nightmares stopped, the long darkness ended.

  He stopped on his way out the door, touching that shiny gold Supertone sax for luck. There had to be some luck coming off that, didn’t there? Had to be something special about it.

  He left the house and started toward the garage. He was feeling lucky already. This would be the last night for his problems. The last night he would have to worry.

  And the last night—period!—for one Tyrone Jackson.

  He smiled, his hand gripping the knife. Tyrone Jackson—and anyone else who got in his way.

  Chapter 31

  WHEN TYRONE ARRIVED at Uncle Earl’s, no one was there. The lights were out and the door was locked. He waited ten minutes, but no one showed. He peered through the club window, but he didn’t see anything untoward. Maybe Earl had forgotten. Maybe he’d gotten tired and gone home.

  Long enough, Tyrone decided. It was dark out here, and he was alone, and for some reason, the whole situation gave him the creeps. He’d better start heading back if he expected to make his other appointment. He definitely did not want to be late. He was in deep enough with Momo already. He’d come back tomorrow and find out what had happened with Earl.

  He returned to his car. Why did he have this overwhelming creepy feeling? Shivers raced down his body. He checked the backseat, making sure he was alone. Then he slid into the driver’s seat, locked the doors from the inside, and started the car. It was stupid, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him.

  He backed the car down the gravel driveway and pulled onto Brady, heading north. He could be in Rockwood in ten minutes, and the sooner the better, as far as he was concerned. He was ready to finish this. There was too much uncertainty in his life. Too much risk. Too much of this nauseating feeling that at any moment he might go tumbling over the brink.

  He had left the gang for a reason—so he wouldn’t have to go through his entire life feeling this way. He didn’t like it. He wanted to spend his time blowing the sax, not worrying about whether—

  His eyes darted to the rearview mirror. A pair of headlights gleamed in the distance, maybe a hundred feet behind him. High off the ground, too—probably a pickup or a van. Not that close; actually, he’d be happier if it was closer. Then he wouldn’t have this uncomfortable feeling that whoever was driving the thing didn’t want to be spotted.

  Those headlights had been with him since he’d left the club. And he didn’t like that at all.

  He leaned forward, squinting slightly, trying to see the car behind the headlights. He couldn’t make out any details, couldn’t get the color or the make. But it wasn’t long enough to be a pickup. It had a different shape, a wider, roomier look.

  It was a van. Had to be.

  He pressed his foot down on the accelerator, creeping steadily over the speed limit. The van fell back at first, as if taken by surprise, but soon accelerated to keep pace. No closer, no farther. It just maintained the same distance behind.

  The driver couldn’t really do anything to him while he was driving, Tyrone reasoned. But as soon as he stopped somewhere …

  Tyrone made an abrupt right turn, careening off the main road and tearing down a residential street at a speed much too fast for the narrow, pothole-pocked road. He bumped and rattled, scraping his muffler on the concrete.

  The turn had been quick, but not quick enough. The headlights followed.

  As his pursuer rounded the corner, Tyrone got a good broadside view.

  It was a van, all right. Definitely a van. And who did he know that drove a van?

  Well, Kincaid, for one.

  And the man in the disguise who delivered the rug. The man who probably killed Lily Campbell.

  Tyrone made another sudden right turn, then another at his first opportunity. He didn’t have any illusions that he was going to lose this van, but he suddenly had a desperate desire to get back to the main road. If something did happen, he didn’t want it to happen here in the shadows, off the beaten track. Most of these houses were empty, and of the few that weren’t, there was no chance the residents would be opening their doors this late at night.

  On a sudden hunch, Tyrone slowed his car outside the last house on the block, stopped, and laid on the horn. In his rearview, he saw the van slow and stop just before it made the last turn. It was waiting for him to move, not getting too close, just in case someone responded to the horn.

  He honked again, several times rapidly, as if trying to get someone’s attention. With luck, the driver of the van would get the mistaken impression that he was waiting for someone, expecting to pick someone up. Or to put it another way, that he had made this detour through the residential section for a reason other than losing his tail. Tyrone thought it best that the driver not realize he had been spotted, or at the least, that he not be sure.

  After a few more honks, Tyrone made a big show of shrugging his shoulders, then put the car back into drive. He returned to the main road and started cruising, just a few notches beneath the speed limit. Sure enough, the van followed him onto the road and assumed its former near-invisible position about a hundred feet behind.

  Who the hell was it? Tyrone pounded on the steering column. He could feel sweat trickling down the side of his face—for the second time tonight—and he didn’t like it. Damn. He thought he’d left all this crap behind, all this cloak-and-dagger, macho, crimes-and-misdemeanors BS. He didn’t want this in his life!

  Especially when he didn’t know who was after him. That was what bothered him most. It wasn’t Momo back there. It wasn’t Bulldog and it wasn’t the cops. It was some unknown asshole in a van. Tyrone didn’t know who he was. And he had a distinct feeling he didn’t want to find out. Or that if he did, it would be the last thing he ever did.

  He was getting close to Rockwood now. In a few minutes, he would return to where he had left his car earlier that evening. Then he would have to get out and thread his way through the back alleys to Momo’s hideout. And he didn’t particularly want to be doing it with Mr. Rug Delivery breathing down his neck. If that guy got his hands on him, Tyrone felt certain he’d never make it to his meeting.

  He eased off the gas pedal, slowing the car. Nothing sudden, nothing that would raise immediate suspicion. Forty-five, forty, thirty. As before, the car behind him was initially surprised, then adjusted its speed to compensate. As soon as the van was back in its respectfully distant place, Tyrone slowed the car even more. Thirty, twenty-five, twenty.

  Just as he reached the point where he would’ve parked anyway, he brought the car to a sudden stop. He was going slow enough that he could do it quickly, without tipping off the van driver until it was too late for him to do anything about it. The van passed Tyrone, still cruising, then rounded the curve in the road ahead, brakes squealing.

  Tyrone knew he didn’t have much time. He scrambled out of his car and made a beeline for the safety of Rockwood. If he could immerse himself in that labyrinth of ruins and rubble, the van driver would never be able to find him. And he could still get to Momo before Momo was even madder at him than he already was.

  Doing his best impression of an Olympic sprinter, Tyrone bolted across the highway and made for the nearest building. The ABC Cab Company—at least that’s what it used to be. It was nothing now, rusted old cab frames hoisted onto cinder blocks and forgotten.

  He plunged into the dark alleyway and pressed up against the side of a building to listen. He didn’
t hear anything, thank God. The Rug Man was not in pursuit. Tyrone actually managed to give him the slip.

  Tyrone found a fire escape ladder on the north side and scaled it till he found a safe perch on the roof. He stepped cautiously; he knew this roof was probably far from safe. Crouching on all fours, he crawled across till he got a view of the street below.

  He could see his car, even in the darkness of these unlit streets. And from his high perch, he could see the van, around the bend and perhaps four or five hundred feet ahead. He had expected the driver to turn around and double back. That would be the logical thing to do.

  Unless the driver was smarter than that.

  He peered down at the van, dark and motionless. There were no lights on. Although he couldn’t be certain, he saw no indication that anyone was sitting inside.

  The driver had abandoned his car, just as Tyrone had abandoned his. Neither of them could use them, or would need them, on this particular battlefield.

  The driver was on foot.

  He could be anywhere now. Anywhere at all.

  Ben checked his watch, checked his speedometer, then pressed the pedal all the harder. He’d been late for Earl’s appointment with Tyrone even before he knew there was an appointment, and he knew Tyrone wouldn’t hang around forever. If he didn’t get to talk to him now, there was no telling when or if he would. Tyrone might do a bolt, might decide to forget what he saw. Anything could happen, none of it good. He needed to talk to the kid.

  He crossed over Archer and headed into North Tulsa. He was coming up on what was left of the old Rockwood development. He hated this part of town; it reminded him of the profound disparity that still existed, too often along racial lines, between the haves and the have-nots in this city. Worse, it reminded him of a harrowing chase he and Mike had made through this part of town after a little boy who had been abducted. Just driving down the road gave him the shivers.

  A few minutes before he would have reached the club, he noticed a car on the side of the road; he was traveling so fast he passed it before his eyes registered what it was. Some old van, probably broken down and abandoned. A second or two later, he came upon yet another car, a beat-up red Firebird.

  What was the deal? Too lazy to take them to the dump? Or did they think Rockwood was close enough to being a dump? As he passed the second car, something caught in the corner of his eye. He saw the distinctive racing stripes ornamenting the hood and the sides—double bolts of jagged yellow lightning. Wait a minute …

  He slowed down and pulled over to the shoulder so he could get a closer look at the car through his rearview. He was almost certain he had seen that car before—in the parking lot at Earl’s.

  Of course. That was Tyrone’s car. But what was it doing on the side of the road?

  Maybe Tyrone’d gotten tired of waiting for Ben. Understandable, but why would he come here? Why would he ever want to leave his car in this neighborhood?

  Something screwy was going on. After making a quick check for traffic and cops, Ben made a U-turn. Slowing, he pulled up behind Tyrone’s car. There didn’t appear to be anyone inside.

  Ben understood what people meant when they talked about their blood running cold. He felt as if ice floes were coursing just below his skin. He was getting goose bumps from head to toe. If he was smart, he realized, he’d start his car and get the hell out of there.

  But Tyrone might be in trouble. And if they lost Tyrone, the D.A. would run over Earl with a steamroller.

  Slowly, trying to stay alert for any sign of anything, Ben popped open his car door and stepped outside.

  He hadn’t noticed until just that second how dark it was out here. He could see street lamps, but none of them were functioning. He heard a noise and his hand clenched down on the side of his car. It was a bird—a crow, he thought, though he was no expert on birds.

  He walked up to Tyrone’s car and peered through the windows. Lots of cassette tapes, trash, and wadded wrappers from a variety of fast-food palaces. But there was no sign of Tyrone. Or anyone else, for that matter.

  He tried the door; it opened. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with the car; the door light came on and an annoying buzzing noise told him the keys were still in the ignition.

  The keys? Did he want it to be stolen? Abandoning his car was incredible enough, but leaving it here, in the worst part of town, with the keys still in it? That was beyond incredible. That was something Tyrone simply wouldn’t have done. Unless he had no choice.

  Ben didn’t know why exactly, but he knew he didn’t want to be here anymore. His knees were trembling; his palms were getting clammy and wet. He wanted out.

  He returned to his own car. Just as he arrived at the driver’s-side door, he heard a sound he couldn’t possibly write off as a bird.

  “Excuse me. Is that your car?”

  Ben froze. His hands clutched the door handle. “Who are you?” He whirled around in the darkness. “Where are you?”

  “I’m over here,” the voice replied.

  Ben tried to keep his voice steady. “I can’t see you.”

  “It’s dark.” Ben heard a crunching of gravel that told him that whoever and wherever the voice was, it was coming closer. “I repeat, is that your car?”

  “No.” Ben squinted, scanning the darkness. “Are you a police officer?”

  There was a soft chuckle. “Not hardly.” Ben heard a brief intake of air. “So why did you stop?”

  Ben’s brain was racing. “I—I thought I recognized the car.”

  “And did you?”

  “No, it was a mistake. It just looked like my friend’s car.”

  Ben heard more footsteps. A few feet in front of his van, he saw a dark silhouette emerge.

  “A very distinctive automobile. Hard to mistake.”

  “Yeah, well, I did.” Ben inched closer to his van. Had he locked the door? He couldn’t remember. He fumbled for the keys.

  “Don’t run off,” the voice in the blackness urged.

  Ben tried to grip the keys with his sweat-soaked fingers. “I have an appointment.” He slid the correct key into the lock and turned. There was no resistance; the door had not been locked.

  He popped open the door. A seeming flood of light burst out of the cracked door, illuminating Ben’s face.

  The other man’s voice cut through the darkness like a knife slicing through butter. “It’s you.”

  Ben froze. He knew what that meant.

  It was the man with the rug, the man at the club, the man Tyrone saw in the bathroom.

  The man with the knife.

  Ben jumped into the driver’s seat of the car and shoved his keys toward the ignition. He heard the crunching footsteps outside, closing fast. Ben switched on his headlights, bathing the area in front of the car with white light. The instant the lights came on, he saw a dark shadow just leaving the illuminated area. He was only a few feet away.

  Ben grabbed the van door and pulled it to him, but not in time. The other man shoved his arm inside, preventing the door from closing. Ben continued to pull tightly on the door, clamping the man’s arm like a vise, holding him fast.

  “Let go!” the man shouted. His voice was livid with rage.

  “Think I’ll pass,” Ben muttered. Cautiously, holding the door tight with one hand, he used the other to fumble with his keys, trying to find the one that started the car.

  “I said let go!” the man bellowed. An instant later, his loose fist came barreling toward the window. It crashed through the glass, shattering it, sending safety glass flying in all directions.

  Ben turned his head and closed his eyes. He felt the glass rain down on his face, his hands, his body.

  With the hand through the window, the other man clamped down on Ben’s throat and squeezed. His fingers were like steel, tightening by the second.

  Ben felt the air rush out of his lungs. The man was choking him, crushing his windpipe. What could he do? He held one of the keys in his hand like a dagger and jabbed it down
onto the man’s arm.

  The man cried out. He released Ben’s throat, but an instant later, his fingers balled into a fist and jackhammered forward.

  Ben’s head slammed back against the headrest with a thud. He felt blood trickling out of his nose.

  His lids fluttered; the combination of having his air cut off followed by a sharp blow to the face had dazed him. Still grappling with the keys, he struggled to push them toward the ignition.

  The man brought his fist around again and knocked the keys out of Ben’s hand. They tumbled onto the floor, disappearing into the black interior. “I have you now,” the man outside muttered. “Release my arm!”

  “Whatever you say,” Ben gasped. He eased off the pressure, but a nanosecond after he did—and before the man had a chance to move—he pulled it back with all his might, crunching the man’s arm.

  The man howled. He cried out even louder than before. “Son of a bitch!” he bellowed. “You are one dead fucking piano player.”

  Ben tried to make him out, but all he could see were the arms, one trapped, the other grappling for his throat. The fist came at him again, this time banging into the side of his face.

  The blow knocked Ben backward, pulling his arm off the door for an instant. It was enough. The man outside pulled his trapped arm free, then used both hands to yank the door wide open.

  The hands Ben had struggled with so long shot into the van, one of them holding a long shimmering blade. “Your time has come,” the man growled, raising the knife into the air. “Put on a happy face.”

  Chapter 32

  BEN SAW THE BLADE coming toward him, but there was nowhere he could go, nothing he could do. His eyes darted around the van’s interior, searching for a weapon. He was trapped like a fox with the hounds circling, absolutely powerless to stop the inevitable.

  “If you don’t struggle,” the man said, “I can end this quickly. If you fight me, I might draw it out for days. I might carve your smile several times, over and over again. While you’re still breathing.”

  Ben tried to scramble out of the seat, but the man’s free hand clamped down hard on his shoulder.