Kill Zone: A Lucy Guardino FBI Thriller (20 page)

Nick slammed the hatch shut. “Let’s get you home before they have time to worry. Where to?”

She gave him the address of the vacant house off Lincoln Avenue she’d appropriated, just a few miles from where they were. They drove there in silence, Morgan trying to decide how to get her plan back on track—invite him inside, ambush him there? Send him off and then call the police? Vanish and leave an anonymous tip?—and Nick thinking whatever boring thoughts normal people thought.

Morgan’s father would have relished the abrupt derailment of a plan. He lived for the thrill of being totally out of control. At the whimsy of fate, he called it, often using an unexpected obstacle as an excuse to let loose with a frenzy of violence.
Taste the danger
, he’d sing to Morgan, his eyes wide with bloodlust.

But it was always Morgan who had to clean up after him when he tempted fate—and the police—with his rampages.
 

She understood the thrill—like him, she needed more and more intensity just to feel
anything
, like constantly sharpening a scalpel to cut through thick scar tissue.
 

It was as if her blood was electric, constantly simmering, needing fire, more fire, hotter fire, to finally boil so hot it burned. There was no greater hell than sitting, doing nothing, all that electricity buzzing in her veins and nowhere to go, nothing to do, knowing the next blaze would need to be bigger, brighter, bolder to get that same thrill.

Her father’s thrills centered on sex and violence, an insatiable thirst that made him reckless and got him caught. Morgan wasn’t like that. Maybe it was because she was a girl—no, not a girl, she’d met girls her age and she was nothing like them. She wasn't even like the older ones in high school or college although she could pass for one of them easily. She knew the right things to say, the right way to arrange her face and hair and clothes, understood their need to skirt the edge, thirsting for whatever would make them feel good: sex, booze, drugs, good grades, bad grades, taking risks, wielding power, acting out, acting like angels…

To Morgan they were all the same shade of beige. Boring. They’d never understand what a true thrill was: absolute, total control over someone else. Dominance. Manipulating their life, their future, every moment, every breath, every day until their death.

Better than sex—or so she assumed. She had a feeling she might never know for sure. Sex didn’t interest her, not after what she’d seen. She had no intention of ever lying down, letting any man or woman control whether or not she felt pleasure.
 

The power Morgan felt—like when she’d decided if Jenna Galloway lived or died, or now, as she controlled Lucy’s husband’s destiny without either Lucy or Nick even knowing—
that
was Morgan’s idea of a climax.

No blood, sweat, or tears involved.
 

Well, at least not hers.

Nick pulled into the driveway of the empty house she’d directed him to. He came around to her side of the SUV first, opened her door for her. Such a gentleman.

“Just park it by the garage,” she told him as he lifted the bike from the back of the SUV. “Thanks again.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me in?” he said. “You wanted something more than a ride home, didn’t you?”

She blinked. Startled. And it took a helluva lot to startle Morgan. “Excuse me?”

“You didn’t have to go to all that trouble. Really, a phone call would have worked just as well.”

Her fingers tightened on her knife. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying it’s cold out. Let’s talk inside.” He smiled at her, which only confused her even more. It was a gentle, fatherly smile. As if he knew exactly what she was thinking but still cared. “The disguise is quite good. But you made a mistake using my daughter’s name, Morgan.”

Chapter 22

Fatima pulled her scarf around to cover both the baby and her face. A shrill wail escaped her as her body crumbled in on its self. The high-pitched noise warbled through the room, her shoulders heaving, body swaying, joined by the baby’s shriek.
 

Andre wanted to comfort her, bundle her into his arms, pat her shoulder, anything to ease her pain. But all he could do was watch.

She shuddered to a stop, tears streaking her face.
“Inna Lillahae wa Inna Elaihae Rajae’uon.”
Her voice quivered and broke as she recited the words over and over. Andre had no idea what they meant, but they seemed to comfort her.
 

She sat up, the head cloth falling free, and made soothing noises to the crying baby. Then she moved her eyes to gaze up at Andre’s face. Bold move for a woman from her culture. But he understood. She was desperate.

“I’m going to get us out of here,” Andre promised. Suddenly all his fear vanished. Didn’t matter what the hell he looked like or how weak his body was. He was goddamned Dog Company and he had a job to do.

She met his gaze warily. Then nodded a fraction of an inch.

Good enough. Andre got to his feet and turned to the tool table and shelves to see what he had to work with.
 

Tin of black powder. Assorted sizes of PVC pipe. End caps. Wire. Darius said he needed Andre’s bomb making skills, but clearly he’d already built some bombs on his own. Even had Andre’s favorite special ingredient: highway flares.
 

Seeing all the bits and pieces they’d used to create their masterpieces when they were kids brought back memories. It’d never been about bombs or destruction—not for Andre, not until the Rippers recruited him and he couldn’t say no without risking Grams. Back when he was young, it’d been about creating.
 

Beautiful, bright, colorful lights. Loud noises that were a call for attention, like a symphony gearing up for a concert. One year, he’d even held a fireworks display for the folks on Ruby Avenue—folks who never got to go to the official one down at the Point. He still remembered all that clapping and
ohhs
and
ahhs
. The rush of pride that for one night he’d been able to make everyone forget where they were.

For him creating fire was like painting or sculpting. He molded it, formed it—there was nothing to be frightened of. Fire was his partner. Maybe that lack of fear was why he’d rushed into the flames back in Hajji Baba, only to emerge to find his men gunned down in an ambush.
 

In a warped way the fire had protected him from death, even as it had molded him in its own image. Something dangerous, something people should be frightened of. Out of control.

He shook the tin of black powder. Nearly empty. Useless if he wanted to build a bomb, but a bomb wouldn’t help things. What they needed was a diversion.

He emptied a mason jar of nails, grabbed a few foam Sheetz cups from a pile of trash on the floor, shredded them into the jar, then poured kerosene from the space heater over the foam.

“What are you doing?” the woman asked.

“Jellied gas, the Brits call it.” He carefully stirred the melting Styrofoam to evenly distribute it. “Napalm. Well, its bastard cousin.”

She gasped. “You want to burn us alive?”

“Believe me, lady, playing with fire is the last thing I’d enjoy.” The smell of the kerosene and melted foam burned his nostrils and scratched at the back of his throat. Flames dancing in delight, searing his flesh. Memory cramped his stomach with nausea. But if they were going to get out of here he’d need to renew an old acquaintance.

Fight fire with fire.
 

Or, in Darius’ case, crazy with more crazy.

<><><> 

Jenna tried not to feel guilty about leaving Walden at the hospital, but secretly she was elated. Yeah, it sucked for Walden to be left behind, but he didn’t need her to babysit. She re-loaded her AR-15 and SIG Sauer, pocketed the rest of her spare ammo—not as much as she’d like, but not as if she had time to go shopping for more—hopped into the front seat of the Tahoe, weapons close to hand, and set the radio in the front cup holder.
 

“What’s my fastest route?” she asked Taylor.

“Use your lights and sirens, take the bus lane up Fifth,” he directed.

“I thought Fifth was blocked,” she said as she pulled out the ER parking and turned down the hill.
 

“It is, but not until you get up past Penn. I’m going to have you turn before then.”

“Just don’t land me in the middle of a traffic jam.”

“If we can get you out of Oakland, traffic looks clear.” He paused. “Weird. Traffic cams look like the residential areas are quiet but there’s now a new surge of people heading towards the bombsites in Squirrel Hill and Point Breeze. You’d think they’d be going the other way.”

“Lookee-loos,” Jenna diagnosed. “Steer me clear.”

She followed his directions, weaving through back streets and sometimes down alleys seemingly at random, encountering little traffic. The streets Taylor led her through were peaceful, quiet. With the cell towers' overcapacity, not even Morgan could get through to disturb her.

It’d been weeks since Jenna had felt this relaxed.

How sick was that? Headed into a gang war was more calming than her day-to-day existence juggling work and Morgan? She shook her head. She was leading one fucked up life, thanks to Saint Lucy. And to Morgan, the girl-wonder-psychopath.

Taylor’s voice crackled through the radio, interrupting her thoughts. “Okay, here’s where it gets tricky.”

Jenna straightened, at full alert. “How so?”

“Looks like the only route not blocked is Frankstown Avenue.”

“Why would they block everything except that one road?” Jenna asked.

“I’m guessing it’s their escape route.”

“I think the SWAT guys call that a fatal funnel.”

“Not much I can do about it,” Taylor said apologetically.

“So you want me to navigate through a crowd of gangbangers? Thought you were supposed to be some kind of a genius.”

“Hear me out. It looks like they only left a few men to guard it,” Taylor said.

“Really? And how accurate is your data?”

“No traffic cams there, so all I've got is satellite imagery from twenty minutes ago.” He quickly added. “It’s the best I can do.”

“What about that drone Lucy asked you about?”

“They’re still getting ready to deploy. It will be at least another ten-twenty minutes before we get any images. Do you want to wait? It’s your call.”

Jenna thought. She knew the smart thing to do would be to wait. But she was Lucy and David’s only back up. Twenty minutes could mean life or death. Besides, she was the one who’d found Andre and maybe the cartel’s command center. It was only fair that she be there during the takedown.

“Give me the route. How tough can a couple of Rippers be?”

<><><> 

Morgan held the front door open for Nick. He didn’t hesitate crossing the threshold. Didn’t seem alarmed that she was behind him. Was he a fool? He hadn’t seemed like one in the sessions with Jenna that she’d overheard.

He looked around the living room of the pseudo-Frank Lloyd Wright split level. “The people who live here—”
 

“I didn’t kill them. If that’s what you’re asking.” She gestured for him to sit in one of the leather chairs grouped around a coffee table. “Why? Would that have been a deal breaker?”

He gazed right into her eyes. Not many people could do that. “Yes.”

His nonchalance was irritating. “Don’t worry. They’re visiting their kids in Florida.” She sat down. Finally he did as well.

“You’re not afraid of me. Why aren’t you afraid of me?” She was genuinely curious. Usually she didn’t really care about what was going on inside anyone else’s head. But Nick intrigued her.

“Why should I be?”

“You said you knew who I was. Then you know I’ve killed people. Lots of people.” Three. Nothing compared to her father’s total, but three more than the majority of the population had.

“I know you’ve killed. For your father.”

She frowned, not sure she liked his implication that her father had some kind of control over her actions. But it had certainly been more than
with
her father. “Do you think I can’t kill without him?”

“I know you can.”

“You should be afraid.”

“You have no reason to kill me. It’s not in your best interests. And you’re smart enough to put your own safety ahead of a few seconds of cheap, meaningless thrills.”

“You think life is meaningless?”

“No. Not at all. I think life is precious. Sacred even. I think the momentary excitation you get from taking it is meaningless.” He took a deep breath, his gaze traveling up to the vaulted ceiling as if in deep thought. “Your father. He was out of control at the end, wasn’t he? Chasing that adrenalin rush without a care for his well being… or yours.”

He was right. Too right. Morgan didn’t like that. She was used to being the only person in a room who saw the whole truth. “I’m not my father. Who’s to say what I might enjoy?”