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

by William Bernhardt

  “Son of a bitch!” Tyrone grunted, as Armstrong’s foot slipped out from under him. The gun fired. Ben felt the bullet whiz by somewhere overhead. A second after, Armstrong crashed to the floor. The gun fell out of his hand and slid behind him.

  Ben had to think quickly. His first impulse was to go after the gun, but he couldn’t get to it before Armstrong did. If he tried, he’d only be giving Armstrong an easy shot. This was one time when discretion was the better part of valor.

  He turned back toward the catwalk and ran.

  “I’ll be back for you, Tyrone,” Ben shouted as he raced across the narrow catwalk. It gleamed silver in the moonlight, catching the glow of what little illumination penetrated the dense clouds of smoke and brimstone all around them.

  Just as he reached the ladder, Ben heard the first shot peel out. He didn’t have to look back to know what was happening. Armstrong was back on his feet with the gun in his hands. He was mad as hell and ready to kill.

  Ben hit the ladder moving as fast as he could. He placed his hands and feet on the outside of the ladder and slid down into the darkness like a firefighter descending a firepole. It was a lot faster than he normally cared to travel, especially when he was high up in the air, but he had no choice. He had to move fast.

  He heard another shot ring out, this time much closer. He dared a look up. Armstrong was hovering overhead, gun in hand, firing to kill.

  Ben was still looking up when he hit the ground hard. It took him by surprise, knocking him off his feet. He rolled around, scrambling for cover. He pushed back to his feet, then let out a yelp. He’d hurt his ankle in the fall. A sharp burst of pain radiated up his leg; he wouldn’t be moving anywhere very fast.

  He limped and lurched to the side of a nearby storage tank, rounding a corner and pressing himself up against the wall.

  The shots had stopped. Ben looked all around him, trying to remember which way led to his car. It was impossible; in the darkness, it was a gigantic smoke-filled maze with no landmarks or clearly marked exits. Ben’s sense of direction wasn’t great in the best of circumstances, and these were far from the best of circumstances. All he could do was plunge ahead, hoping for the best, well aware that the killer was hot on his heels. He was the hunted and the maniac upstairs was the hunter. And if he caught Ben, that would be the last note in the concerto.

  Chapter 48

  EARL HEARD THE shots, first one, then another, close after the first. He raised himself cautiously out of the back of the van, careful to avoid any sudden movement, keeping his head low.

  What the hell was going on out there? He’d like to think Ben had the upper hand, but he knew damn well the fool had refused to take the gun with him. Whoever was firing, it wasn’t Ben. And if Ben wasn’t the shooter, chances were, he was the shootee.

  Damn it all to hell. He’d promised the boy he’d remain in the van. But this was just too much. First Tyrone, now Ben—how many people were going to die because of him? How many friends were going to fall because this sick bastard kept missing the target?

  The hard truth was he was responsible for this mess. It was time he started acting like it.

  He quietly cracked the door open. He crawled out quickly, not wanting the light inside the van on any longer than necessary. He didn’t know where Ben was; he couldn’t tell where the shot had come from. Somewhere in the refinery, maybe, or the office building. He couldn’t be sure.

  He stopped in his tracks. Wait a minute! He was being just as stupid as Kincaid. Maybe stupider. He knew the killer was armed; he’d heard the shots.

  He turned back toward the van, opened the passenger-side door, and popped open the glove compartment. He took the shiny new Sig Sauer out as quickly as possible and closed the door.

  Still no sign that anyone had seen him. The man with the gun evidently had other things to do at the moment than watch the parking lot.

  Earl gazed at the treasure he had extracted from the glove compartment. It was a nice piece—first class, and if he wasn’t mistaken, pretty expensive, too.

  He shoved it inside his belt and lumbered across the lot. There were no lights on inside the building; still, it seemed more likely that they would be in there than running around the refinery. He decided to try that first.

  He pushed on the front doors—unlocked, even at this hour. He stepped inside, looking and listening for any sign of Kincaid or Tyrone or the man with the gun. Damn, but this gave him the creeps. The man had already taken Lily, Scat—he couldn’t bear the thought of losing Tyrone and Ben as well.

  He gritted his teeth and plunged down a darkened corridor. He just hoped he got there in time.

  Ben raced through the dark passages of the refinery favoring his right leg, trying to keep moving. It was like an open-air haunted house, full of dead ends and dark secrets. He plunged down a pitch-black opening only to find his way blocked by a huge storage tank. He whirled around, desperate to find some exit before Grady Armstrong found him.

  Ben had no idea where he was going. He was stumbling blind, lurching through the smoky darkness without a plan or a clue.

  But Armstrong knew this place, probably knew it well. He had chosen this location for their meeting. He was comfortable here.

  That gave him a huge edge—a killing edge, in all likelihood.

  If Ben could just get to his van, he could drive out of here. Even if he just got to his car phone, he could call for help, get an ambulance for Tyrone.

  Problem was, he didn’t know where it was.

  Everyplace in the refinery looked like everyplace else, at least in the dark. There were no landmarks he could use to find his way. Perhaps, he thought, if he just raced ahead in one direction, eventually he would find an exit. Unfortunately, no path ever followed a straight line for long. He’d hit a storage tank, be forced to make a turn, and then be totally disoriented all over again.

  After several minutes of this aimless stumbling and groping, Ben spotted a huge metallic coiled structure in front of him, something that fed into one of the larger storage tanks. He was almost certain he had seen it before, on his way in. He followed the gravel path beside that thing, hoping it would lead him out of the dark maze and into the parking lot.

  He heard another shot and froze, then let out his breath slowly. Where the hell was it? Was it ahead of him? Behind him? To the side?

  The answer to all those questions was no. He concentrated, replaying the sound in his head.

  The sound had come from above him.

  Ben broke out in a full-out run. He darted across the gravel, limping and slipping, kicking up clouds of white dust. His ankle couldn’t take this kind of stress. He’d made a ton of noise. Worse, he’d kicked up a big cloud of white dust—a marker in the darkness. Here I am, it was saying. Come and get me.

  Ben moved out of the open area as quickly as possible. He pressed himself against a tall silo, trying to disappear into the darkness. It was then he saw it—a flicker of light or a reflection? He wasn’t sure. But it was definitely something.

  He squinted his eyes, trying to capture what little ambient light there was and focus straight ahead.

  It was the parking lot. He was almost sure of it. And there was a glimmer of light there, just barely visible. A reflection off the headlight.

  Ben pushed away from the tank and lurched forward as fast as his injured foot could take him. He could see it more clearly now. It was the parking lot, and there was his van, front and center. If he could just get inside, get it started, get the hell out of here …

  He heard a crunching sound and looked up. Armstrong was hovering overhead on a catwalk almost directly above him. There must be a network of them, perhaps covering the entire refinery. Access platforms for workmen. Armstrong would know that. Ben didn’t.

  The next bullet came so close Ben felt a gust of air on the side of his face. He threw himself down, rolling back toward the safety of the tall storage tanks. He scrambled to his feet, trying to stay out of sight.

  He coul
dn’t possibly get to the van without being shot. His only hope was to bury himself deep inside—to hide and stay hidden. Armstrong couldn’t shoot through metal. If he wanted Ben, he would have to come down and get him.

  And if he did that, Ben might have a chance. Not much of a chance, but a chance.

  Ben kept running until he was deep inside the refinery, deep in the bowels of the maze. He pressed himself into a dark corridor and stopped to catch his breath. The shooting had stopped. Armstrong knew it was futile; he wouldn’t waste the ammunition. Not yet.

  Ben imagined he could hear footsteps, hear the clang of shoe leather on metal rungs, although he probably couldn’t. Whether he heard it or not, he knew what was happening.

  Armstrong was descending.

  The killer was coming to get him.

  Chapter 49

  CURSING UNDER HIS breath, Mike tore off his trench coat and threw it down on the leaf-covered ground.

  He hated to do it. He loved that old coat, but it was slowing him down, and he had to make time. He had been hurrying before, but after he heard the shots, he pulled out all the stops.

  Mike had managed to trace Earl to the Buxley offices and refinery. He did not appear to be moving much; that made Mike’s task about a hundred times less complicated. What the hell anyone would be doing out here at this time of night was beyond him, but if Earl was here, that meant Ben probably was too.

  And the killer.

  Mike remembered what Ben had said, what the killer had threatened to do if Ben didn’t come alone. That wasn’t going to keep Mike from coming, but it did make him approach cautiously. He left his car outside the service road entrance, before anyone could possibly see him, and jogged the remaining couple of miles toward the refinery. He’d been trying not to stir up any attention. After he heard the first round of shots, however, he cast caution to the wind. He had to be there, and he had to be there now. Because Ben was up there and someone was shooting. And he knew Ben well enough to know it wasn’t Ben.

  Mike reached the top of the hill and plowed into the parking lot. It wasn’t tough to find Ben’s van; it was the only vehicle in sight. He ran up to it and peered inside the windows.

  No one was there.

  Mike turned toward the Buxley complex. Where the hell was he?

  He heard another shot, then another. They were definitely outside, coming from the refinery. And they were not far away.

  Mike raced into the refinery, pulling his own weapon out of his holster. For once, he was glad he had traded his old Bren Ten for a more modest Sig Sauer, like the one he gave Ben. The Bren Ten was more dramatic in appearance, but harder to haul around and less useful in a tight situation. The Sig Sauer was just as flashy, just as overpriced, and just as deadly. And hell of a lot easier to carry.

  It was pitch-dark in here. Mike could see how someone could easily become disoriented. Smoke billowed out from the low-burning smokestacks and steam rose off the storage tanks, obscuring his vision. He was cut off from any source of light, isolated. The silver walls seemed to close in on him, wrapping him in their jet-black shadows.

  Mike shook himself. Get a grip, he muttered under his breath. Find Ben. Find him and that kid and get out of here. And don’t get shot in the process.

  He had to assume Ben was still alive, and if so, he was in trouble. The killer was armed and Ben wasn’t. He needed help.

  Mike decided to risk a yell. It might tip off the killer, but it also might let Ben know he was here. If Ben was nearby, he would run to him. Even if he wasn’t, he would know he was no longer alone.

  “Ben!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. He waited for a response, but nothing came. To the contrary, if anything, it seemed to become more still, more quiet.

  “Ben!” he tried again. There was a small echo somewhere behind him, on the left side. An echo—no: the crunching of gravel. A footstep. Someone …

  “Ben!” Still no response. Maybe he didn’t want to give his position away. But if Ben were this close to him, surely he would whisper back. So Mike had to assume it wasn’t Ben. And if it wasn’t Ben …

  Mike ran for cover, ducking behind a nearby ladder. He still couldn’t see anything down the corridor where he had heard the noise. Had he just imagined it? Was the dark, the quiet, getting to him?

  Christ, he told himself. You’re supposed to be the professional. You’re supposed to be the tough cop. That means you don’t get scared. Even when it’s dark and you can’t see a damn thing and some maniac is running wild with a pistol. You don’t get scared!

  But he was scared. And with reason.

  Mike backed into the passageway behind him. There was a large bowl-like tank about three or four feet off the ground. He crouched under it, watching all the time in as many directions as possible.

  He was in a different part of the refinery now, a different corridor, something. It was a small enclosed space, but there was an opening on one side.

  Damn this darkness. How could he do anything when he couldn’t see!

  Well, he couldn’t do anything trapped in this crawl space. He pulled out slowly and rounded the corner …

  The fire extinguisher came at his head so quickly he couldn’t even register what was happening, much less do anything about it. It smashed into his face, sending him reeling. Mike staggered backward, found himself pressed against a metal latticework. His head was throbbing and he couldn’t maneuver—

  The fire extinguisher came crashing down again, this time on the top of his head. He fell forward, the only way to go, collapsing on his hands and knees.

  Fight it, he told himself. You’re no good to Ben unconscious. Fight it.

  But there was no fighting it. When the fire extinguisher came for the third time, it smashed down with such intensity that it knocked Mike flat onto the gravel. The darkness of the refinery was replaced by a darkness born of his own brain.

  “Ben,” he whispered, barely audibly. And then he was gone.

  Chapter 50

  “I GOT YOUR FRIEND!”

  Ben froze, his body pressed against a silvery tank.

  “Do you hear me? I got your friend. I’m killing him! Slowly.”

  Ben swore under his breath. He scooted out from under the tank, cautiously looking in all directions. How could this happen? He told Earl to stay in the car.

  “What do you know?” Armstrong bellowed. “A police officer.”

  Ben’s head jerked up. What—?

  “Lieutenant M. Morelli, Tulsa Police Department.”

  Mike? How did he get here? How did he find him?

  “A policeman. Well, well, well.” Ben heard a heavy thumping sound, as if something large had fallen to the ground. “Take that, Lieutenant.”

  Ben’s blood chilled as he heard the report of a gun. It was above him, to the left. It seemed Armstrong had returned to the same high perch where this elaborate cat-and-mouse game had begun.

  “I told you if you didn’t come alone everyone would die, Kincaid, and I’m a man of my word.”

  Ice cold shivers ran down Ben’s spine.

  “Don’t worry. He’s not dead yet, though I banged him up pretty good dragging him up those stairs. I like to take my time. You could still help him.”

  Ben crawled out into the open. “What do you want?” he shouted.

  “You know what I want,” Armstrong answered. “Come to me. Come to me, or I empty my gun in this stupid policeman’s head!”

  Ben walked to the bottom of the ladder. He didn’t know what to do. His brain was racing through all the options and potential outcomes. He couldn’t just sit in hiding and let this madman execute Mike, or let Tyrone bleed to death. At the same time, if he did show himself, Armstrong was certain to kill him. And in all likelihood, everyone else. This man had killed so many times, so wantonly—Ben knew he would only keep the others alive as long as he needed them to get the penknife.

  It was a no-win situation, however it played out. But he couldn’t run away, couldn’t just leave Mike and Tyrone i
n this man’s clutches.

  Slowly, grimly, he placed his hands on the ladder and began to climb.

  A few moments later, he arrived at the top. He crossed the catwalk deliberately, trying to remain alert, ready for anything. He was barely halfway across when he saw Armstrong waiting for him, gun posed directly at Ben’s head.

  “Keep walking,” Armstrong growled. His voice was hoarse and his gun hand wavered. Ben sensed that he was dealing with a man who was dangerously close to the end of his rope. The chase had gone on too long and he was tired of it.

  But, he also thought, it was possible he could use that to his advantage.

  “Step off the catwalk.” Ben did as he was bidden, stopping when he was barely a foot away. The instant he arrived, Armstrong reached forward with his gun hand and clubbed Ben on the side of the face.

  Ben tried to roll with it, but it still stung. The hard metal of the gun cut his cheekbone; he could feel blood trickling forth.

  “You’ve given me about all the trouble I can stand,” Armstrong growled. “I’m going to enjoy seeing you die.”

  Ben scanned the surroundings. He saw Mike lying prone beside them. He appeared to be unconscious, but as far as Ben could tell he wasn’t bleeding or wounded. That gunshot must have been into the air. Just for drama’s sake.

  He saw Tyrone, too, still lying in a hideous heap a few feet behind. He looked even worse than before.

  “I’ll take the penknife now,” Armstrong said, spitting as he talked. “And no more small change, please.”

  Ben cleared his throat and swallowed. “I … don’t have it,” he said.

  Armstrong’s eyes narrowed to tiny glowing slits. “You didn’t bring it?”

  “Right. And only I know where it is.”

  “But you said—”

  Ben pursed his lips together. “I bluffed.”

  Armstrong’s entire body shook. “But you—you—” He swung his gun hand around again, this time even harder than before. It hit Ben’s face with a crack. Ben cried out; he couldn’t help himself.

  Armstrong glanced back at Tyrone, then at Ben. His eyes glowed with rage. “Goddamn you!” The arm swung around again. Ben tried to duck, but he was too late. The metal fist hit him in the jaw, knocking him back onto the catwalk.