MIchael Prescott - The Shadow hunter

He whipped out the phone and held it to his ear, his gaze fixed on the dark roadside.

"Travis," he barked.

"Sir, it's Hastings." One of the TPS computer jocks tracking down Trendline Investments and its possible connection to Western Regional Resources.

"You told us to call if we found anything definitive."

"Did you?"

"Yes, sir. I'd say we did."

"Give it to me fast," Travis ordered, still watching the darkness.

"I don't have much time."

Abby had propped herself to a sitting position on the fire escape when Wyatt returned, climbing through the bedroom window with her purse in his hand.

She took the cell phone from her purse and powered it on. In the glow of the liquid crystal display she found the menu button and navigated to the first number stored in memory, the number of Travis's mobile phone.

She speed-dialed it.

Wyatt crouched beside her, saying nothing. She knew he had many questions to ask, and she loved him just a little for not asking them yet.

Busy signal.

She hissed a curse and terminated the call, then redialed.

Still busy, damn it.

"What's the matter?" Wyatt whispered.

"Can't get through." She forced the words past gritted teeth.

"You can dial the operator, have the phone company break in on the call."

"It'll take too long." She called again. Busy "Come on, Paul, clear the line."

"I'll cut to the chase." Hastings's voice crackled in Travis's ear.

"We started with Trendline Investments.

Trendline, as a corporate entity, sits on the board of directors of something called Pro Future Opportunities, also incorporated in the Netherlands Antilles. There are three other companies on Pro Future board-all dummy corporations, as far as we can tell. One of them is named Grayfoxx Financial. You following this?"

Travis nodded, his gaze never leaving the blur of shadows at the edge of the road.

"Go on."

"Here's the link. Grayfoxx is the largest shareholder of Western Regional Resources." "Bang," Travis said softly.

"You got it. Essentially, Grayfoxx owns Western Regional, and Grayfoxx and Trendline jointly own Pro Future Our guess is that Mr. Barwood-"

"Owns all of them," Travis finished.

"Right. He set it all up as shells within shells, very complicated, hard to trace. But we nailed him." There was pride in Hastings's voice. Travis supposed he was entitled to it.

"Good work. Now get some rest." Travis ended the call.

Twenty yards to the intersection. The Town Car slowed in preparation for a sharp left turn.

"What was that about?" Kris asked.

Travis couldn't tell her now. Later was the right time. Later, when she was safe.

"Some other case," he said.

"Don't worry about it."

She frowned at him, her reporter's instincts evidently disputing his answer, but before she could ask anything further, the phone chirped again. Was it Hastings, calling with additional details? For a moment Travis considered shutting off the phone to silence it.

Ten yards.

Oh, hell. He took the call.

"Travis," he snapped.

"This had better be-" He didn't finish. On the other end of the line was a hoarse, desperate, anguished voice, Abby's voice, and. she was screaming.

"Code Red, Paul, you hear me, Hickle is Code Red!"

The Town Car was turning onto Malibu Reserve Drive when its brakes squealed, and suddenly the car was reversing fast, and Hickle knew they were on to him.

He sprang out of the foliage, the twelve-gauge in both hands. From this angle he didn't have a clear shot at the side windows so he opened fire on the windshield, hoping to take out the driver. The glass starred but didn't shatter. Behind the web of fractures he saw the driver spinning the wheel as he backed onto Gateway.

Once lined up, the Lincoln could reverse straight to the gate, where the guard must already be dialing 911.

Hickle fired two more shots at the windshield, emptying the Marlin, but although the glass buckled, it still did not give way. The shots distracted the driver long enough for the car to skid partially off the road at a crazy angle. For a moment the Lincoln was stuck, its right rear tire mired in dirt.

Hickle ditched his duffel bag and charged the car, reloading on the run.

He saw movement in the backseat, two figures. One of them was Kris.

The driver shifted out of reverse and plowed forward, but by the time he was back on the road, Hickle had run alongside. He fired three shells at the car's side panel, hoping to blow it apart. No good. The car absorbed the shots with only superficial damage.

Armor plating. Bulletproof glass. Jackbnimble had never mentioned anything about that. Either he hadn't known, or this was some kind of setup. Hickle had no time to puzzle it out. The Lincoln was executing a clumsy K-turn as the driver tried to orient the car toward the exit.

Hickle fired one shot at the front tire, puncturing it, but it didn't go flat. Even the tires were bullet-resistant.

He dug in the pocket of his windbreaker and reloaded.

As the Lincoln completed its turn, he leaped onto the hood, face to face with the driver. Over the ringing in his ears he heard a male voice from the backseat shout, "Get down!"

Hickle pumped the Marlin and fired a shot into the windshield at point-blank range. Charred shell wadding blew back in his face. He shut his eyes against the debris. When he opened them, he saw a hole in the windshield, exposing the Lincoln's interior.

He swung the shotgun into the hole and fired twice, not aiming, hoping for a lucky hit or a ricochet.

The Lincoln slammed on its brakes. He thought he must have hit the driver until, with a scream of tires, the Town Car snapped into reverse.

Inertia rolled him off the hood. He flopped onto the pavement, and the Lincoln stopped. One headlight was dark. The other pinned him in its glare.

He knew what was about to happen even before the car shot forward, trying to run him down.

Reflexes saved him. He plunged off the road, taking refuge in the trees. Behind him, the pursuing car slammed to a halt at the edge of the woods. Hickle threw himself prone on the ground, below the cone of glare from the one intact headlight. By a miracle the shotgun was still in his hand, and now he had a clear view of the Lincoln's underbelly.

He fired a single shot, targeting the chassis.

Sparks and broken metal showered the earth, and he knew that one part of the vehicle was not armored.

The Town Car retreated onto the road, but Hickle was already scrambling after it, cramming more shells into the gun. He fired four times, aiming low. The Lincoln veered away, skidding on something wet and shiny, which was gasoline. He had ruptured the fuel tank.

"Fuck you," Hickle gasped, "I got you now!"

He reloaded, tramping through pools of gasoline, and fired again and again, pursuing the wounded car as it reversed down Gateway. The sedan wobbled on damaged tires and bent wheels. It accelerated, still backing up, and for a moment he thought it would get away.

Then the gas caught fire.

Abruptly the entire front section of the Lincoln was burning-tires, chassis, gas-soaked chrome. The Town Car careened to a stop, and Hickle plucked the last shells from his pocket and loaded them as he loped toward his quarry with death in mind.

Inside the Lincoln there had been chaos and terror from the moment Travis heard Abby's warning and shouted at Drury to back up. Kris had looked at him with an unvoiced question as the first shots crackled out of the darkness. Shotgun fire.

The TPS staff car was shielded by panels of aramid fibrous armor, lighter than steel and nearly as impenetrable, lining the doors, roof, quarter areas, and pillar posts. All the glass in the vehicle had been replaced by bullet-resistant sheets of multilayered transparent composite, a lamination of glass and polycarbonate.