Robert Walker - Extreme Instinct

"Wait!"

But he didn't wait any longer. He put his fifth victim to the torch, the superheated whoosh of the flames now as familiar as a backyard barbecue to her, while the screams of the unseen, unknown victim set a sickening snake loose to wiggle down her spine. She dropped the receiver on his maniac's laughter and left it dangling off the hook. She grabbed up her black valise and tore from the room to find a cab to race to the scene of the murder and the Phantom killer.

Jessica fumbled with the cellular phone she kept in her valise, calling 911, announcing her identity and the fact that there was a fire at the Hilton; the operator wanted more detailed information, information she didn't have. "Just get the fire trucks there, now!"

She hung up and dialed Neil Gallagher, the field agent in charge in Salt Lake City. After a series of voices and blips, she was patched through to Gallagher in the field.

"Why didn't you contact me before you zeroed in on the Hilton?"

"What are you talking about?" he asked, confused.

"Haven't you heard from Bishop?"

"Warren Bishop? Vegas? No, we haven't."

"My God. Get over to the Hilton. There's been another fire killing there. I've got fire trucks on the way."

"I've got two men posted at the Hilton, and I'm within spitting distance. I'm there!"

"On my way, too." Jessica hung up and rushed for her destination, hailing a cab and calling out as she boarded, "The Hilton, downtown Salt Lake City location."

On the short ride through the downtown district, the cab weaving to avoid jackhammers and construction blockades, Jessica wondered again why Bishop hadn't contacted her or Gallagher, according to the other man. But why wouldn't Warren be in touch with the local FBI offices, even from the air? Why would he work around Gallagher? How many or how few people in the city knew of the killer's whereabouts while she had sat in the dark? she wondered. Warren had no doubt organized an attack force of some sort to converge on the hotel as soon as he'd arrived in the city. Had he bypassed Gallagher, knowing it was the only way to keep her in the dark about his movements? Did he really think he was sparing Jessica an ordeal? "Bastard," she muttered.

The questions continued, piling upon one another in avalanche fashion. When would Warren's strike force strike? Why hadn't they done so earlier? What had held them back if they knew the man's room number by this time? By this time they must, she reasoned. But then why had they waited until yet another victim was sacrificed to this madman's unholy altar?

FBI operatives from the Salt Lake City field office, which shared jurisdiction with the Flagstaff, Arizona, field office, had encircled the downtown area, awaiting more specific information about the operation, but it was information that did not come.

Instead, three men entered the Hilton, and one among them, Chief Warren Bishop, rushed to the desk to learn what room was booked to a Chris Dunlap, a passenger on one of the bus tours. He flashed his badge and ordered up the information.

"Package like that, we just rent a block of rooms to the tour group company; they make the selections who goes into which room."

"Who do I talk to, then?"

"We can get Guy, Doris, and Maureen down here," said a second clerk. "They're the tour guides currently in town. They'll each have a list."

"Then get 'em down here."

Only Maureen and Doris could be found, Guy having already gone out for the nightlife. Maureen's list revealed no Chris Dunlap. Doris's list, however, did. "What do you know about this guy Dunlap?" Bishop asked the guide.

"Next to nothing. He's a cold fish, a real loner. Keeps to himself, rides the back of the bus. Wouldn't join in at all the first days of the trip, but he's thawed some lately. Getting on and off the bus, he'll help someone, you know with a hand. Everybody on the bus has tried to be civil to him, but no one's gotten to know much about him. Word is he's retired, on disability, sued someone and made a bundle, so now he just takes trips all over, spending his money. Least that's what the ladies on the bus think…"

"Have you seen him tonight?"

"At dinner in the hotel restaurant."

"Is he still there?"

"No, that was over an hour or so ago."

"What's his room number?"

''Five-twenty-two.''

"I saw him leave with a woman from Guy's group," added the one named Maureen. "We sometimes talk about our passengers, especially the weird ones."

"Do you know what room she's in? The woman who left with Dunlap?" Bishop asked her.

"Couldn't tell you. Only Guy would know that. And Guy's not going to be found until daybreak. I don't know how that man does it, but he can even find a poker game in Salt Lake, and he plays to all hours, then-''

"Damn it." Bishop turned to the hotel clerk. "Give me the block of rooms this guy Guy has for the night, now!"

The clerk's fingers speedily called up this information on her computer. "Rooms six-twelve through six-fifty."

"Back me up!" he called to the other agents with him, big men who had not bothered to display their badges.

"Sixth floor! Block off all the exits. Stop anyone with a case in his hand, anyone looking the least bit suspicious! Go, now!"

As he rode the elevator up with two other men, Bishop told them to go door-to-door, knocking on every single door in the grouping. "You take the right, you take the left," he told them.

"And where will you be, Bishop?" asked one of the stone-faced men.

"Yeah," agreed the other man.

"I'll go straight to six-fifty and work my way back to you. And be careful of getting into any crossfire situation."

"You forget you're dealing with professionals, G-man."

Bishop gritted his teeth, hating every moment of this, hating Frank Lorentian, hating himself in the bargain. He looked into the eyes of the two professional hit men he'd contacted and waited for. Repasi had kept him appraised up to this point of Jessica's whereabouts, well-being, the dispensation of the autopsies, the geography of the crimes. Now it was time to erase all debts.

After this, he'd never again have any dealings with Frank Lorentian, and all Frank wanted was to see his daughter's murderer dead-no FBI involvement, no arrests, no coutroom dramatics, no loony bins or life sentences, just dead.

"You smell something?" asked one of Lorentian's thugs.

"Smoke," said the other.

"Damn it, we're too late," conceded Bishop. "But the bastard's still in the building. You two, usher everyone off this floor and sound the fire alarms. I'm going down to five-twenty-two. Send backup when you can. Got that?''

"No way," disagreed one of the hit men. "We stick together, Bishop."

As soon as the elevator doors opened, it became clear there was indeed a fire on the floor. The two gunmen looked from the smoking door just ahead to one another. ''We got the bastard right here," said the taller of the two.

"Careful, he's armed and dangerous," cautioned Bishop as the two thugs moved on the door, the hallway now becoming choked with smoke and people peeping from their rooms, some now shouting and racing for the stairwells.

The hit men continued toward the door where the hot spot existed, seeing smoke rising from the bottom and sifting through each side. Suddenly the door burst open, flames bursting out at the phony agents, burning their eyes, faces, hands they'd thrown up for protection with their guns extended when suddenly they were each engulfed in a shooting flame.

People had begun to pour from the rooms, racing past Bishop and into the elevator, taking it. Others screamed and ran for other exits. Through the commotion, the flame and smoke, Bishop saw the two hit men had caught hell, their eyes fried, each man flailing like a spiked tarpon, each going to the hallway floor, scurrying to place some distance between themselves and the shadowy figure that suddenly burst from the room, wearing a gas mask, holding a butane torch with the wand out, a dark bag tucked below his arm.