William Bernhardt - Silent Justice - A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

“Well …”

“What do you do for a living?”

He stared into her dark hazel eyes. Somehow, he couldn’t lie to this woman. It would be wrong. Worse than wrong—it would be … like a sin. “I work for a big corporation not far from Tulsa. I’m an accountant.”

“That doesn’t sound like a job that brings in private South Sea island-type income.”

“No, it isn’t.” A shadow fell over his face. “But I know where I could get money. A lot of money.”

“Oh?” Her eyes widened, large and watery. “Then why haven’t you?”

“I don’t know. I suppose … I never had any reason to. Before now.”

She looked at him carefully. His hand was touching hers now, just barely. But she did not move away. “Why would you do this for me? You don’t know anything about me.”

“I do. I mean, I don’t, but …” He gazed into her lovely endless eyes. “I know enough. I know you lost something you cared about very much. Or someone. I don’t know who or what it was, but I know it was important to you, so important you feel like you can’t go on without it.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “But you can. We can.”

Her fingers tightened around his hand, like a drowning person gasping for air. “I wish I could believe you.”

“You can,” he said, and he was never so sure of anything in his entire life. “You can.”

“ BRACE YOURSELVES! ” the bus driver shouted.

Tony lurched forward, trying to see what was happening. He was sitting in the back, but he could still observe the oncoming headlights whiting out the windshield. The bus began to skid, and it seemed like it skidded forever, on and on …

Until they crashed. The impact flung Tony forward, almost over the next row of seats. His head banged down on the hard plastic seat back, cutting a deep gash across his forehead. Backpacks, cups, broken glass flew everywhere. The screams from his fellow passengers pierced his ears.

And the bus was still moving. Not forward this time, but sideways, teetering, losing its grip on the highway.

Dear God, don’t let us turn over, he thought, but it was much too late for prayer. The bus pitched to one side, hitting the highway with a shattering impact.

“No!” Tony wasn’t sure who was screaming now. There were dozens of them, scrambling, fighting their way to their feet, trying to quell their panic.

“Get off the bus! Everyone off the bus!” The bus driver was shouting at them. At first, no one moved. Many of them had been sleeping; all had been resting before the crash. Everyone was too dazed, too stunned by the double impacts.

Then the driver added the kicker: “I think we pierced the fuel tank.”

The driver was silhouetted by an eerie orange glow. Tony pulled himself up from the rubble and saw that it was true. A furious fuel-fed fire engulfed the front of the bus … and was slowly making its way toward the rear.

They screamed. Everyone still conscious scrambled, moving all ways at once. Tony fought his way downstream, back toward his original seat, back to the beautiful woman who had been sitting beside him.

Her eyes were closed. Tony took her shoulders and shook her, first gently, then much less so. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know her name. But she had to wake up. She had to.

She did not rouse. Fine, he thought, clenching his teeth. Then I’ll drag you out. He threw her arm over his shoulder and started toward the rear of the bus.

Before he had moved two feet, he ran into Bobby Hendricks. “There’s no exit!” he shouted in Tony’s ear.

“But—there must be—the back—the emergency exit—”

“There isn’t one!”

Tony looked over his shoulder. He saw three of his colleagues pounding their fists against the rear window, futilely trying to escape.

There was no emergency exit on the left side of the bus. The only rear exit was on the right side, which was now pressed flat against the concrete.

He turned back toward the front of the bus. The flames were still there, burning a steady path through the bus. The blaze licked the ceiling, obscuring everything behind it. It was as if someone were standing at the front of the bus with a flamethrower. The fire was coming straight toward them. All of them.

Tony tried to block the panicked shrieks out of his mind. He released the woman, then started toward the back. Three panicked men were pounding on the rear window, but it wasn’t giving.

We need a tool, he thought. Anything. He saw a picnic basket at his feet and scooped it up. There was a large thermos inside. He raised it like a hammer and began pounding at the window. He pounded again and again, but the window didn’t break. Didn’t even crack.

He turned and saw the flames were still coming, even closer than before. The fire had reached the eighth row of the bus—only twelve more to go. Already the heat on Tony’s face was scalding; it was as if he had dipped his face into the sun.

He had to get the woman away from the fire. He owed it to her; she was only here because of him. As he scanned the bus, all around him, he saw a solid mass of desperate, screaming, flailing figures, all pressed together in an increasingly smaller space.

Tony crawled over the tops of the seats, swearing with each step. It was so hot he could barely breathe. The seats were so hot they scalded his fingers. Don’t think about it, he kept telling himself. Put it out of your mind. You can complain later. Right now you have to move.

Something exploded. The boom split his eardrums as he was buffeted backward. The explosion rocked the bus, though not enough to clear an exit. They were still trapped—those who hadn’t burned already.

He saw the beautiful brunette woman near the fifteenth row, now very close to the fire. Her eyes were still not open. He had to get to her.

Most of the survivors had been thrown together in a huge pileup, fighting their way toward the rear of the bus. Tony had to get past them. He saw a six-inch space at the top and dove for it. Someone else saw him coming and tried to protect his place at the top. It was Bobby. He jabbed his elbow into Tony’s eye.

Tony screamed, then tumbled off the pileup. He landed face first against a window. And as soon as he regained his bearings, he noticed that some of the windows were broken—but since they were pressed against the highway, he could not escape through them.

He fought his way to the beautiful woman, who was still unconscious. He pulled her up and tucked her in a corner, so she would be safe from his crazed, panicked coworkers. She was so lovely, he thought, even now. She deserved so much better.

It was difficult to breathe, even more difficult to move. He propelled himself forward through the broken and lifeless bodies that surrounded him. They were weighing down on him, choking him. Straining with all his might, he forced himself through. He had to get away from the encroaching flames. He grabbed the back of a seat, then screamed. It was like touching a frying pan. The seats were so hot they literally melted between his fingers.

Steeling himself, he placed his hands on the seat again and this time he held fast. The pain was excruciating, but he had to do it.

“I want to get out! Please let me out!”

Tony’s heart sank as he heard the tiny voice behind him. It was a little girl—Bobby’s nine-year-old daughter. Damn! Why had he brought her? Why had he brought any of them?

The girl’s blouse was on fire. Tony reached across and ripped the blouse off her. He scooped her up, then shoved her toward the back of the bus. “Go as far back as you can, sweetheart, then wait,” he told the terrified girl. “Wait for an opening. A door, a window, anything. As soon as you see one, you run for it as quickly as you can.”