Jeff Abbott - Collision

“What part of go home do you not understand? It’s not your problem anymore. Your flight leaves tomorrow morning. Be grateful and happy you’re alive, Randall.”

The nurse brought his dinner and Randall Choate thought, No, I’m not leaving tomorrow. I’m not leaving until the people who threatened my family are dead. And he felt a debt to the Dragon, a need to see justice done. He nearly laughed. He had not wanted a partner; now he was going to avenge the only one he’d ever had.

The bullet shattered the glass, tunneled through the door, and plunged bent and misshapen into Delia Moon’s right eye.

Ben caught her as she fell, dead. A second shot splintered the lock, the bullet passing above his neck as he knelt, lowering her. He flinched.

A third bullet boomed and the lock shattered.

Delia’s gun; he remembered she’d set it down on the kitchen counter.

Ben retreated to the kitchen. He grabbed the gun. Heard the front door kicked open.

The back door off the kitchen was a French door, studded with glass panes, painted a cheery yellow. The back door was visible from the front foyer, and for a few seconds when he rushed the door, he would be in the line of fire. But he hesitated, telling himself, Stop overthinking, just do; stop overthinking, just do, and over the rattle of his panicked breathing he heard a footstep on the tile.

He’d waited too long, let himself be cornered. Stupid. Now he couldn’t reach the back door. Not for sure, not without shooting the gunman.

So shoot him.

I can’t shoot another human being, he’d said, and meant it, but he also couldn’t stand there and allow Delia to die unavenged and himself to be killed. Pilgrim’s taunt- You don’t have what it takes — ran hard in his ears. Ben put both hands on the gun. He didn’t know what he was doing. But he would have to do it.

The house was suddenly as hushed as an empty church. The noise of his own breathing seemed loud as a drumbeat. He tried to swallow but couldn’t.

Ben aimed the gun at the opening in the far corner of the kitchen, which faced out onto the foyer. Where would the shooter think he would stand or hide? He had no idea. He hunkered behind the kitchen island, watching around the corner. He could retreat entirely behind the island, but then he couldn’t see from which way the shooter would come.

A rush of movement past the corner and Ben fired the gun; he didn’t anticipate the kick, and plaster flew from the corner where his bullet struck, well wide of the mark.

He pivoted further around the kitchen island’s corner, extending the gun again, and Jackie, the kid from the parking garage with the elfin dark Irish face, fired at Ben.

Ben felt a tug in his flesh through the jacket, then heat, and with horror he realized his arm was hit. Shot. He hesitated and tried to fire again and missed, the bullet plowing into the tile.

Jackie kicked Ben in his wounded arm. He gasped and Jackie shoved the barrel of his gun onto Ben’s forehead.

“Drop it!”

Ben obeyed, letting go of Delia’s gun. Ben closed his hand around his arm and blood pulsed between his skin and his cheap jacket.

“You’re Forsberg.”

Ben nodded.

Jackie yanked him to his feet. Dizziness washed over him. “Pilgrim. Where is he?”

“I don’t… know. He… took off.” I’m shot, he thought crazily.

“I don’t believe you.” He shoved Ben back with the gun, caught him off balance. “Tell me where Pilgrim is.”

“No.” Ben collapsed against the granite counter.

Jackie put the gun in his pocket and slipped out a large knife. Steel gleamed in the fluorescents and he seized Ben’s hair with one hand, put the knife close to Ben’s throat. He watched Ben’s eyes widen as the blade drew near to skin. “You ever hear of a pound of flesh? I’ll carve a pound off you. Then I’ll carve off another. Whittle you to the bone.”

Ben closed his eyes. If he convinced Jackie he was truly ignorant about where Pilgrim was, he was instantly useless. And therefore dead. “I won’t tell you.”

The tip of the knife twirled and Ben felt its edge pressing into his flesh. He opened his eyes.

Jackie gritted his teeth into a smile. The knife moved to Ben’s chest, sliced through his shirt, poked at a nipple. Ben felt flesh part under the steel. Then the tip danced along his stomach, downward toward his groin. Stopped.

“You’re holding your breath now. Wondering where I’m gonna stick it. Depends on you. Pilgrim killed my brother, you useless shit. You’re gonna tell me where to find him.”

“I… I…” In the quiet, they heard the rumble of a passing car from the shattered front door.

“Let’s go where we can have a nice productive chat. You help me, you live. I want Pilgrim dead more than I want you dead.” Jackie put the knife back against the side of Ben’s neck and hurried him toward the door, past Delia’s crumpled body.

“I’m sorry,” Ben said to her. He thought he was going to vomit from fear and pain. The knife felt sturdy and sharp enough to decapitate him.

“What are you sorry for?” Jackie said. “I killed her.”

Blood splashed out of the meat of Ben’s arm; sudden, bone-deep pain bloomed bright in his flesh. They hurried through the front door. Jackie shoved Ben across the yard. He staggered, kept his balance. He had to get away. But Jackie was as tall as he was, heavier with muscle, and several years younger. Ben was sure he could not straight-out beat him in a physical fight, especially with a wounded arm, and Jackie had the knife and a gun.

So rattle him. Get him off guard. He became aware of resolve settling into his skin. Odd-a day ago he would have been frozen in panic; now fear was a luxury. “My arm…”

“Shut up your whining.”

“My arm…” Ben faltered again, falling into the turned earth of the un-sodded lot next door to Delia’s house. A “FOR SALE” sign stood in front of him, sporting a stylized logo of a rose. The realtor’s name was Rosie. Cute.

“On your feet,” Jackie said and Ben closed his fingers into the loose dirt. Jackie grabbed his hair again and yanked, baring Ben’s throat.

Ben threw the dirt over his head, dusting Jackie’s face and eyes. He pushed hard back into Jackie, catching the knife between them. Jackie yelled, his hands going to his eyes, staggering at the push.

The cloud of grit caught Ben’s eyes, too, but Jackie got the worst of it. Ben yanked on the Rosie Realtor sign. It pulled free from the soil and he swung it hard into the blur of Jackie’s face. The flat of the sign connected with Jackie’s jaw and cheek with a satisfying thrum. He swung again and knocked Jackie to the ground.

Ben already had one bullet wound; down from loss of blood, he couldn’t risk losing to Jackie in a fight. So he dropped the sign and ran, clawing the dirt from his eyes.

Jackie spat in rage and frustration. He swung the knife hard where he thought Ben was, the razor-sharp edge hissing through the empty air. He pawed one-handed at the blinding grit, trying to clear his vision.

Ben stayed low, running for his car. He shoved his bloody hand into his pants, fingers findng his keys.

Jackie’s hand closed around the weight of his pistol. He fired, aiming at the sound of retreating footsteps, and Ben heard the crack of the shot pressing just wide of his shoulder.

Ben reached his car, got in, hunkered low as he started the engine.

In the rearview he could see Jackie running toward him, wiping his eyes, vision clearing. Jackie paused to sheathe the knife under his pants leg and then, blinking, fired the gun at the purr of the engine’s ignition. The bullet dinged the Explorer’s bumper.

Ben floored the car in a peal of rubber. He veered away from the curb and Jackie’s next shot almost got lucky, starring the rearview mirror on the driver’s side.