MIchael Prescott - The Shadow hunter

But if he lived, he would see Kris in his memory. She would be with him every day, bloodied and torn, his victim, his sacrifice. Every time he closed his eyes, he would see her. He would give up the moon for that.

And if he didn't survive… With death came immortality. He would be remembered.

His name, his face, would be known. He, not Kris, would be on the covers of magazines. He, not Kris, would stare out at a world of television viewers from a million picture tubes. And who could say?

Maybe there was a life after this one, when all destinies were fulfilled. If so, he would be with her forever, as he deserved.

But only if he killed her first. To do that, he had to get to Malibu, and time was ticking down.

Ahead was the incline to the coast highway. He eased into the turn lane, then got stuck behind a line of cars at a red light. A minute of waiting followed. He was helpless. If a patrol unit spotted him now, there was nothing he could do except go down shooting.

Finally the stoplight cycled to a green arrow. He followed the traffic downhill, breathing hard, his chest heaving with strain. There was sweat on his face, sweat pasting his shirt to his armpits and his underpants to his crotch. He smelled bad. But he'd made it at least this far.

He pulled into the fast lane, racing between the pale cliffs and the sea. Fear of attracting attention competed with the need to make up lost time. Urgency won.

Hickle accelerated-sixty-five miles per hour, seventy, seventy-five-breaking the speed limit as he hugged the curving shoreline of Santa Monica Bay on his way to Malibu.

Okay, think, Abby Think.

Plan A had proven unsuccessful. Time to go to Plan B-if there was a Plan B, other than just lying here till the whole place went kaboom.

She shook her head, rejecting pessimism. There was always a Plan B, and if that failed, a Plan C and D and so on through the alphabet for as long as she lasted.

Never give up, that was the spirit.

Plan B was to try variant combinations based on Kris's birthdate-August 18, 1959. Abby moved the four cams to 0859, 1859, 5918, 5908. No luck.

How about Hickle's birthday? Travis had told her. It was October

The cams seemed to be getting slippery. No, it was her fingers that were slick with perspiration. She wiped her shaking hands on her blouse and spun the disks. 1007, 1065,0765, and reversals of all these sequences.

Nothing happened.

The gas odor was worse than before. Her stomach coiled. Nausea threatened.

All right/ Plan C. Kicking off her shoe, she tried to slip her foot. through the chain. No use. The circle of steel links dug like small teeth into the skin above her heel, gripping fiercely. Either the chain was too tight, or her darned foot was too big.

Something like panic welled up inside her. She pushed it down. Mustn't freak out. Freaking out was not a survival tactic.

Time for Plan D. So what was it? Well, she could pound the floor, scream for help. Trouble was, she didn't think she could get enough air into her lungs to force out a decent scream, and if she banged on the floor, the downstairs neighbors would either ignore the noise or call the cops. And the cops would take hours to respond to a low-priority call in this district, if they responded at all.

She didn't have hours. The gas was thick. Before long, it would reach the critical mass necessary to set off an explosion and a flash fire.

The temperature in a flash fire could hit 1300 degrees. That was hot enough to fry her up pretty good.

"Damn it, Abby." She blinked sweat out of her eyes.

"You're supposed to be smart, right? And highly trained, with all these advanced skills…"

Skills. She did have skills. Among them was the skill of picking locks.

She had no tools, but maybe she didn't need any.

She pulled the shackle taut, then fingered the cams.

The second one had tightened; it turned with difficulty.

That was the one to work on first. Carefully she dialed the cam through its ten-digit range. On 6 it loosened.

The second number in the combination was 6.

Her heart fluttered. Her vision was blurring in and out. Her general condition was not good, and the prognosis was poor. On the menu tonight, rotisserie Abby, served charred.

Quit it. She needed to concentrate. Easier said than done. Her head was squeezed in a vise of pain, and the bedroom had begun to imitate a carousel, and there was the stench of week-old diapers in her nose and mouth.

Maintaining pressure on the shackle, she tested the other three cams.

Now the first one resisted turning.

She worked it slowly, trying not to think about the gas and the pilot light and what 1300 degrees would feel like. Hotter than Phoenix in July, if such a thing was possible.

The cam loosened when it was set to 8. That was the first number in the combination. Six was the second.

Eight. Six. Put it together, Abby. Eight. Six.

Channel Eight. The news at six… and ten.

The last two digits were 1 and 0. 8610 was the combination.

Had to be. She set the cams in that sequence, and the padlock released.

She was free.

Now get the window open. Hurry.

Prone on her stomach, she crawled across the floor.

Her breathing was awful to hear. Her chest heaved, and she couldn't get oxygen into her lungs, and her head was sizzling, and there was pain like a crushing pressure at the back of her eyes. Sometimes, she thought, I really hate my job.

She came up against the bedroom wall. The window was just above her.

Close, but she couldn't reach it, couldn't raise herself off the floor.

Too weak. Come on, she chided silently, you can do a pull-up, can't you?

With one arm extended, she got hold of the windowsill and, using it as leverage, lifted herself to her knees.

The window was locked. Hickle, the bastard, had actually taken the time to secure the latch. She fumbled at it, but her fingers, glazed with sweat, couldn't find a grip. This whole situation was starting to get on her nerves in a big way. Nothing was easy. And time was running out.

Finally she got the latch open. Okay, lift the window.

She put both hands on the sash bar and strained.

Nothing happened. She had no strength. She battered the glass with her fists. Her blows fell like sighs. A kitten could have done more damage.

Again she tried to raise the window. Still no luck.

Weakness overtook her, and she lowered her head, coughing. God, she was tired. She wanted to sleep… Plenty of time for rest later.

Eternal rest, if it worked out that way. At the moment she was still alive. She would not waste whatever time she had left. The explosion could come at any moment. She had to dilute the fumes with clean air, or she was dead. Open the damn window. Do it now.

She put everything she had into a final effort, pushing upward with her last strength, and the window cracked open a few inches.

Success.

She rested her head on the sill and tried to draw a breath, but her throat had closed. There was air coming in, pure air, and she couldn't breathe it. What the hell was wrong with her lungs?

But it was simple, really. Her vision was graying out, and her ears hummed, and she was going to lose consciousness.

She had driven herself to the point of collapse, and although she had forced the window ajar, it was not enough to save her.

"Nice try, girlfriend," Abby murmured, "but no lollipop."

The floor rushed up, and she fell away into the dark.

"… vehicle is a VW Rabbit wanted for felony evading, license plate…"

Wyatt heard the call on his radio as he cruised back to Hollywood Station after supervising a crime scene on Highland-drugstore hold-up, nobody injured.

The suspect had taken a hundred bucks out of the cash register and three packages of Trojans. Apparently he had a big night planned.