Daniel Suarez - Kill Decision

“Get it together, Linda…” But now she had the truck racing down an established roadway; someone up ahead was pulling over to let her fire truck past. She leaned on the horn as well, roaring past.

McKinney glanced at her speedometer and realized she was going sixty in a twenty-five-mile-an-hour zone. But a glance at her rearview mirror again made her stomp the accelerator down. It looked like one of the Bureau of Land Management Forest Ranger pickups was a hundred feet off her tail. It also had its sirens and rack lights on, the headlights alternating on and off.

McKinney roared toward a subterranean intersection with a stop sign. She started to ride the brakes and downshift. A glance in the rearview again. She shook her head. It wasn’t right to kill someone to save herself. She downshifted further and continued to slow, hoping her sirens would warn people as she approached.

McKinney slow-stopped her way through the intersection, and was already accelerating on the far side when she saw the BLM Ranger pickup pull alongside her. Smokey leaned out the window, shouting at her. She could see an automatic pistol in his inside hand, still concealed within the vehicle. McKinney cranked the wheel to the left, veering into them.

The forest ranger vehicle slammed on its brakes and just narrowly avoided being smashed against the stone tunnel wall.

McKinney turned forward as she emerged from the tunnel mouth into a cold Kansas night. She let out a howl of joy and tried to orient herself.

She recognized some of the area from when they came in. There was a truck stop across the wide road on the far side of railroad tracks. A strip of brown grass patched with dirty snow divided the poorly maintained concrete highway.

There were trucks and cars out here now, but she still drove aggressively, fire truck sirens blaring. She crossed the highway, dodging in front of an approaching semitruck and roaring across the railroad crossing.

A glance in her rearview mirror showed the Ranger following close behind. To any normal person this would look like two emergency vehicles racing to a call. She had no idea where to go-only that she had to find a large crowd of people. Lots of witnesses-or police.

McKinney followed a surface road and was surprised to see, of all things, a gambling casino close at hand. She dimly recalled passing it on the way in from the airstrip.

It loomed there along the banks of the Missouri River-the Ameristar, an island of stucco and concrete in a sea of parking lots. She knew one thing about casinos: They had loads of armed security. Beyond it McKinney could see the sparse skyline of what must be downtown Kansas City. Hallelujah. Civilization.

She accelerated toward the casino entrance and hung a right at an absurd, cartoonishly large replica of a locomotive, glittering with lights and a marquee. Nickel Slots! $ 3.99 Prime Rib.

After years abroad in the Third World, she just had to laugh at the absurdity of this situation. Lack of sleep had her half out of her mind.

The forest ranger vehicle came up on her again, but she kept yawing from side to side on the main casino road to prevent them from pulling alongside. Fortunately, they weren’t trying to shoot her tires out. Perhaps they were more concerned about getting the truck back in drivable condition. Other cars leaving and entering the casino pulled over to let the erratic emergency vehicles pass.

They were now approaching the stucco portico of the casino’s main entrance, flanked by glittering neon towers. McKinney roared under its roof and toward the valet station, where cars and a few taxis were parked or idling.

A glance in her rearview showed the forest ranger vehicle slowing and hanging a U-turn. She felt relief flood over her. She’d done it. She’d escaped. Turning forward she realized just how fast she was still going and pounded on the brake. The fire service truck shuddered, screeching as it collided with a concrete crash pylon just short of the nearest waiting taxi. She lurched forward in her seat, but no air bags deployed.

Dozens of people ran toward the truck. All faces turned to her. Security guards and parking valets. She slumped back in her seat, suddenly overwhelmed by intense weariness. She suspected it was the beginning of her body’s parasympathetic backlash to the adrenaline surge.

Not yet. This isn’t finished. Not yet.

She killed the engine, the sirens, and all the lights, then undid her seat belt and climbed down from the cab. Half a dozen men had reached her-a guy in a suit, a couple of old men, a security guard, uniformed parking valets.

“You all right, honey?” A balding middle-aged security guard with a big belly was holding her arm.

She wriggled free. “I’m fine. Call the FBI! Kidnappers are pursuing me. They’re in that federal ranger’s truck behind me!”

The guard frowned at her as scores more people gathered around them. One of the other people in the crowd pointed back toward the entrance. “It’s driving away.”

“Where?” The guard grabbed her arm again and moved to look down the casino drive. “You were running away from federal rangers?”

McKinney got in his face. “If they were real rangers, why are they fleeing a crash scene? Why are they trying to get away?”

He studied her face, and the gathering crowd seemed to be mulling it over. McKinney looked up to realize that she’d really wrecked the truck. The front wheels were six inches off the ground, the bumper and front grille staved in by the pylon, which had torn out of the ground at a forty-five degree angle. Even the sidewalk was buckled.

More armed security guards had arrived, and they were starting to push the crowd of onlookers away. The oldest and apparently most senior of the security guards came up. He was completely bald and looked like an ex-soldier himself, now in his sixties. “What the hell. Ya lose control of her, honey?”

Before the first security guard could speak, McKinney answered, “Call the FBI! I was escaping from kidnappers.”

He frowned and pointed at the U.S. Forest Service truck. “Where the hell did you get a Forest Service truck?”

She was surrounded by a dozen armed security guards in brown shirts, slacks, badges, belts, and nightsticks now. What might normally feel alarming felt greatly reassuring. Her heart rate was returning to normal, but she suddenly felt exhausted.

The senior security guard was staring at her, still surprised.

She spelled it out for him. “Call. The. F. B. I.!”

He patted her on the arm. “Let’s start out with the police, honey.”

Twenty-four hours and a bit of sleep later McKinney sat in a holding room at the FBI Kansas City field office. Half the far wall was a mirror. The other walls were white-painted cinder blocks with initials and profanity here and there etched into the surface. She tried to imagine who could conceive of-let alone succeed-in sneaking razor blades into an FBI interrogation room. This was not a world she was familiar with.

The single table was bolted to the floor, along with several sturdy resin chairs, also bolted in place. Smooth edges. Nothing to hang oneself or cut oneself with. They’d taken her cheap watch when they processed her. She never wore jewelry in the field, but the FBI agents who booked her had looked at her with suspicion when they found she had no jewelry on. What kind of woman has no jewelry? Drug addicts, presumably.

After what seemed like an eternity, the single door to the interview room finally opened and a pair of clean-cut men in suits entered. They weren’t smiling. One held a folder, and they both stood across the table from her, while the door slammed decisively behind them on its own, drowning out the brief interlude of footsteps and hallway chatter.