King and Maxwell, Page 2

  He imagined they believed that would lead to their deaths when he released the button in retaliation.

  When he was far enough away, he looked at the black box. If the guys back there were CIA, there was a lot more going on here than he cared to think about right now. But he wanted to see it through. And the only way to do that was to let this play out. And stay alive.

  He disengaged the detonator and tossed it on the front seat.

  Now he just had to get the hell out of here.

  He hoped that was possible. Most people came to this part of the world simply to kill or be killed.

  CHAPTER

  3

  SEAN KING DROVE WHILE MICHELLE MAXWELL rode shotgun.

  This was the reverse of what the pair normally did. She usually drove the car, like she was piloting a ride at Daytona. And Sean hung on for dear life and mumbled his prayers, but without much confidence that they would be answered.

  There was a good reason for his driving tonight, and for the last twenty-one nights. Michelle was simply not herself, at least not yet. She was getting there, only more slowly than she wanted.

  He looked at her. “How you doing?”

  She stared straight ahead. “I am armed. So you ask me that one more time and I will shoot you, Sean.”

  “I’m just concerned, okay?”

  “I know that, Sean. And I appreciate it. But I’ve been out of rehab for three weeks. I think I’m good to go. And that’s what your concern can do: Go.”

  “Your injuries were life threatening, Michelle. You almost didn’t make it. You nearly bled out. Trust me, I was there for every second of it. So three weeks out of rehab after something like that is actually not very long.”

  Michelle touched her lower back and then her upper thigh. There were scars there. There would always be scars there. The memory of how she had come by these injuries was as vivid as the initial knife thrust into her back. It had been done by someone she thought was an ally.

  Yet she was alive. And Sean had been with her every step of the way. Only now his hovering was starting to annoy her.

  “I know. But it was two full months of rehab. And I’m a fast healer. You of all people should understand that by now.”

  “It was just close, Michelle. Way too close.”

  “How many times have I almost lost you?” she said, shooting him a glance. “It’s part of what we do. It comes with the territory. If we want safe, we have to get into another line of work.”

  Sean looked out through the windshield as the rain continued bucketing down. The night was cold, gloomy, the clouds shifty as a coyote. They were driving through a particularly lonely area of northern Virginia on their way back from meeting with a former client, Edgar Roy. They had saved him from a death sentence. He had been as suitably appreciative as any high-functioning autistic savant with severely limited social skills could be.

  “Edgar looked good,” said Michelle.

  “He looked really good considering the alternative of lethal injection,” replied Sean, who seemed relieved by the change in topic.

  Sean took a turn too fast on the rain-slicked, curvy road and Michelle grabbed her armrest for support.

  “Slow it down,” she warned.

  He feigned astonishment. “Words I never thought I would hear leave your mouth.”

  “I drive fast because I know how to.”

  “I’ve got the injuries and therapy bills to prove otherwise,” he shot back.

  She gave him a scowl. “So, what now, since we’ve finished all the work on Edgar Roy’s matter?”

  “We continue our careers as private investigators. Both Peter Bunting and the U.S. government were very generous with their payments to us, but we’re socking that away to either retire on or spend on a rainy day.”

  Michelle looked to the stormy sky. “Rainy day? Then let’s go buy a boat. We might need it to get home.”

  Sean would have said something back, but he was suddenly preoccupied.

  “Damn!”

  He cut the wheel hard to the left and the Land Cruiser spun sideways across the slick roadway.

  “Turn into it,” advised Michelle calmly.

  Sean turned into the spin and quickly regained control of the vehicle. He applied the brakes and brought them to a stop on the shoulder.

  “What the hell was that?” he snapped.

  “You mean who was that,” answered Michelle.

  She opened the door and leaned out into the rain.

  “Michelle, wait,” said Sean.

  “Point the lights to the right. Quick!”

  She slammed the door shut, and Sean drove the vehicle back onto the road.

  “Hit your brights,” she told him.

  He did so. The lights swelled in intensity, letting them see farther in front of them with as much clarity as the darkness and rain would allow.

  “There,” said Michelle, pointing to the right. “Go, go.”

  Sean hit the gas and the Land Cruiser sped forward.

  The person running down the right shoulder of the road looked back only once. But it was enough.

  “It’s a kid,” said Sean in amazement.

  “It’s a teenager,” corrected Michelle.

  “Well, he was almost a dead teenager,” added Sean sternly.

  “Sean, he’s got a gun.”

  Sean leaned closer to the windshield and saw the weapon in the boy’s right hand. “This does not look good,” he said.

  “He looks terrified.”

  “He’s running in the middle of a thunderstorm with a metal object in his hand. He should be scared. And on top of that I almost hit him and then he wouldn’t be scared, just dead.”

  “Get closer.”

  “What?”

  “Get closer.”

  “Why would I do that? He’s got a gun, Michelle.”

  “We have guns too. Just get closer.”

  He sped up while Michelle rolled down the window.

  A spear of lightning lit the sky with a billion-candlepower burst of energy followed by a crack of thunder so loud it sounded like a skyscraper imploding.

  “Hey,” Michelle yelled at the boy. “Hey!”

  The teen looked back again, his face whitewashed in the glare of the headlights.

  “What happened?” yelled Michelle. “Are you okay?”

  The boy’s answer was to point the gun at them. But he didn’t fire. He left the road and cut across a field, his feet slipping and sliding over the wet grass.

  “I’m calling the cops,” said Sean.

  “Just wait,” she replied. “Stop the truck.”

  Sean slowed the Land Cruiser and pulled to a stop a few feet later.

  Michelle hopped out of the vehicle.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Sean cried out.

  “He’s obviously in trouble. I’m going to find out why.”

  “Did it occur to you that he might be in trouble because he just shot somebody and is running from the scene of the crime?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  He looked at her incredulously. “You don’t think so? Based on what?”

  “I’ll be back.”

  “What? Michelle, wait.”

  He made a grab for her arm, but missed.

  The next instant she was sprinting across the field. In a few seconds she was soaked to the skin in the driving rain.

  Sean slapped his palm against the steering wheel in disbelief. He yelled at the window. “Do you have a death wish?” But Michelle was long since out of earshot.

  He calmed, studied the lay of the land for a few moments, and sped off, hanging a right at the next intersection and punching the gas so hard the rear of the truck spun out. He righted it and drove off, cursing his partner loudly with every turn of the wheel.

  CHAPTER

  4

  MICHELLE HAD CHASED MANY THINGS in her life. As a track star and later Olympic rower, she had constantly pitted herself against others in races. As a cop in Tennessee she had run dow
n her share of felons fleeing the scenes of their crimes. As a Secret Service agent she had been fleet of foot next to limos carrying important leaders.

  Tonight, though, she was competing against a long-legged teenager with the boundless energy and fresh knees of youth who had a substantial head start and was running as if the devil were on his heels. And her feet kept slipping with every stride over the wet terrain.

  “Wait,” she called out as she caught a glimpse of him before he changed direction and disappeared down a path through some trees.

  He didn’t wait. He simply sped up.

  Michelle, despite her protestations to Sean, was not 100 percent. Her back hurt. Her leg hurt. Her lungs were burning. And it didn’t help that the wind and rain were blinding her.

  She raced down the path and just in case drew her gun. She always felt better with her Sig in hand. She redoubled her efforts, fought through the pain and fatigue that were coursing through her, and markedly closed the gap between them. A lightning strike followed by a crack of thunder momentarily distracted her. A tree on the side of the path, punished by stiff winds, started to topple; she found an extra burst of speed and flashed past it. The shallow-rooted tree slammed into the dirt about ten feet behind her but its thick branches missed her by only a few inches. Any of them could have crushed her skull.

  That had been close.

  The teen had fallen when the tree crashed, yet now he was up and running once more. But the gap between them was narrower.

  Calling on reserves she wasn’t sure she possessed anymore, she propelled herself forward as if she had been shot out of a mortar. She leapt and hit him in the back of the legs. He sprawled forward into the dirt while Michelle pitched sideways and then rose, her lungs burning, her breath coming in gulps. She bent over but kept her gaze on him, her gun ready, because she could see he still had his, although one glance confirmed that she didn’t have to worry about him firing it.

  He turned over, his butt in the dirt, his knees bent to his chest.

  “Who the hell are you? Why are you chasing me?”

  “Why are you running around with a gun in the middle of a storm?” she countered.

  He looked very young, maybe fifteen. His auburn hair was plastered to his freckled face.

  “Just leave me alone,” he cried out.

  He rose and Michelle straightened. They were barely three feet apart. At five foot ten Michelle was at least three inches taller than he was, although his long legs and size twelve feet promised that he would probably zip right through the six-foot mark before he was done growing.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  He started to back up. “Just please leave me alone.”

  “I’m trying to help you. My partner and I almost hit you back there.”

  “Your partner?”

  Michelle decided a lie was better than the truth right now. “I’m a cop.”

  “A cop?” He looked at her suspiciously. “Let me see some ID.”

  She put her hand inside her jacket and withdrew her PI license. In the dark she hoped it would look legit enough. She flashed it.

  “Now will you tell me what this is about? Maybe I can help you.”

  He looked down, his thin chest rising and falling quickly with each of his uneven breaths.

  “Nobody can help me.”

  “That’s a big statement to make. Things can’t be that bad.”

  His lips started trembling. “Look, I… I need to get back home.”

  “Is that where you ran away from?”

  He nodded.

  “And where you got the gun?”

  “It belonged to my dad.”

  Michelle pulled her wet hair out of her eyes. “We can give you a ride there. Just tell us where it is.”

  “No, I’ll walk.”

  “That’s not a good idea. Not in a storm like this. You might get hit by a car or have a tree fall on you, both of which have already almost happened. What’s your name?”

  He said nothing.

  She said, “My name is Michelle. Michelle Maxwell.”

  “Are you really a cop?”

  “I used to be one. After that I was a Secret Service agent.”

  “For real?” Now he sounded like a teenager. An awed teenager.

  “Yep. I’m a private investigator now. But I still act like a cop sometimes. Now what’s your name?”

  “Tyler, Tyler Wingo,” he said.

  “Okay, Tyler Wingo, that’s a good start. Now let’s go to my car and…” She glanced behind him but had no time to say anything.

  Sean grabbed Tyler from behind, knocked the pistol from his grip, kicked it away, and twirled him around.

  Staggered, Tyler started to run off again, but Sean clamped a hand around his wrist. At six-two and over two hundred pounds, he had the size to keep the kid from going anywhere.

  “Let me go!” yelled Tyler.

  “Sean, it’s okay,” said Michelle. “Let him go.”

  Sean reluctantly released his grip, then bent down and picked up the gun. He looked at it. “What the hell is this?”

  “A German Mauser,” said Tyler, scowling up at him.

  “Without a trigger,” pointed out Michelle. “Saw that in the headlights. Makes it a little hard to use as a weapon unless you throw it at somebody.”

  “Right,” said Sean.

  “Tyler was just going to tell me where he lives so we can drive him there,” said Michelle.

  “Tyler?” said Sean.

  “Tyler Wingo,” said Tyler sulkily. “And you better not have damaged my dad’s gun. It’s a collectible.”

  Sean slipped the gun into his waistband. “Which made it pretty dumb to run around in the rain with it,” he pointed out.

  Tyler looked at Michelle. “Can you just give me a lift home?”

  “Yes,” she said. “And maybe on the way you can tell us what happened.”

  “I already told you, there’s nothing you can do.”

  “You’re right, there is absolutely nothing we can do if you don’t tell us anything,” replied Michelle.

  “Can we go get in the truck?” said Sean. “Or the only place we’ll be going is a hospital where they can treat us for pneumonia. Unless the lightning kills us first,” he added as another bolt precipitated a