Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) (4 page)

 Woo-hoo, Tina thought. We are gold.

 “Come on! Come on!” Alex shouted, gesturing with his weapon. He kept looking over his shoulder into the bank. Someone or something was coming and they didn’t have a moment to spare.

 Tina swung around next to them, screeched to a halt. As Luther and Nemo tossed in their duffel bags, Alex helped Sara climb inside. “Easy, baby. Get up front and strap yourself in.”

 Luther and Nemo jumped in after her. Alex was about to follow when Tina heard a shout from inside the building.

 “Freeze, Gunderson!”

 Tina swiveled her head. A guy in a navy blue flak jacket stood in a haze of smoke inside the bank, his weapon pointed directly at Alex’s back.

 The Fed. Jackass Donovan.

 Tina had been telling Alex for weeks to get rid of the motherfucker, but Alex had repeatedly blown her off. “In due time,” he’d said, in typical Alex fashion, as if the world could wait until he was good and ready to give it his attention.

 Tina figured that nasty piece of hardware in the Fed’s hands was enough to make him reconsider. She looked at Alex, remembering the only motivational phrase her dear departed prick of a father had ever uttered in her presence. The old bastard had been sucking crack for two days straight when he offered her a hit off his pipe. “What’s it gonna be, hot stuff? Shit or get off the pot.”

 Those words never seemed more appropriate than they did right now.

D
ONOVAN KEPT HIS
Glock leveled at Gunderson, finger resting against the trigger. “I mean it, Alex! Don’t you move!”

 Smoke stung his eyes. Gunderson wasn’t much more than a silhouette in the haze, but Donovan’s aim was good. If he pulled the trigger, the man would go down and go down hard. This was the closest Donovan had ever been to collaring the prick and he wasn’t about to let him slip away.

 Gunderson froze for a split second as he stood outside the van door. For a moment it looked as if he might actually turn and give himself up.

 Then Donovan spotted the remote detonator clutched in Gunderson’s right hand.

 Sweet Jesus.

 He hadn’t counted on a third explosion.

 Before Donovan had time to react, A.J., Sidney, and a handful of SWAT sharpshooters burst into the room behind him and fanned out.

 Donovan immediately threw his hands in the air. “Down! Everybody down!”

 But it was too late.

 With a deafening roar, the teller windows erupted. Plaster, Plexiglas, and chunks of cement and linoleum rocketed past Donovan’s head as he tackled A.J. and Sidney and knocked them to the floor.

 More smoke filled the room, along with the pungent odor of cyclonite and burning flesh. Beneath the agonized wails of the injured SWAT team, Donovan heard gunfire and the faint squeal of tires.

 Gunderson’s van, digging out.

 Move, Jack, move.

 Donovan looked into the dazed faces of Sidney and A.J., checked to make sure they were still in one piece, then jumped to his feet and raced to the hole in the wall.

 The carnage out back mirrored the scene behind him. It was a war zone. Patrol cars in flames. Smoke everywhere. Uniformed cops dead on the blacktop, others wearing the same dazed expression as A.J. and Sidney.

 Down the street, tires squealed as the Channel Four news van smashed through a row of police barriers and shot toward an intersection, a few shell-shocked cops firing after it.

 Donovan scanned the area, sprinted toward an undamaged patrol car. Halfway there, pain stabbed his leg. A dark red stain spread across his right thigh, blood bubbling up through a tear in his slacks.

 Shit. He hadn’t realized he was hurt.

 Reaching the cruiser, he threw the door open and jumped in. His thigh throbbed mercilessly now, but there was no time to think about it. No time to think, period. The news van was still in sight, but it wouldn’t be for long.

 He found the key in the ignition, twisted it, and the engine coughed, roaring to life. Jamming his foot against the accelerator, he spun the wheel and shot toward the intersection.

 The news van was two blocks ahead now, weaving crazily through midmorning traffic. Donovan searched the dash, flipped a switch, and the patrol car’s siren kicked in.

 Traffic parted grudgingly and he punched the pedal, picking up speed—two blocks, a block, half a block—steadily gaining on his prey.

 The van turned, a hard right into an alley. Donovan raced after it, honking his horn as he went. He whipped the wheel and turned into the alley just as the news van cleared the opposite end. It made an arcing left, nearly sideswiped a parked car, and continued on without slowing.

 Donovan sped up, made a quick left.

 Up ahead, the van blasted through another intersection. As Donovan struggled to catch up, some idiot in a Volvo crossed his path. Donovan swerved to avoid him, but clipped the Volvo’s rear bumper and sent it into a spin.

 Stupid bastard.

 Donovan straightened the wheel and continued on without slowing, glancing in his rearview mirror as the Volvo slammed into a lamppost with a metallic crunch. He could only hope the driver was okay.

 The wound in his thigh felt like a lump of molten lava. He probed it with two fingers and discovered something hard and jagged embedded in the flesh. He couldn’t be sure, but it felt like a sliver of Plexiglas.

 Biting back a wave of nausea, he tried to concentrate on the van. It was within striking distance now, its rear bumper only feet away.

 Donovan nudged the accelerator and pulled up along the right rear side. Jerking the wheel hard, he smashed the side of the van.

 It swerved, losing speed.

 That’s right, you son of a bitch, I’m right on your ass.

 Without hesitating, Donovan jerked the wheel again. Metal crunched.

 The van fishtailed, its driver nearly losing control.

 He had them now. One more hit and this race was over. He was about to jerk the wheel a third time when the van’s side door flew open and Alexander Gunderson pointed the business end of an M203 grenade launcher directly at him.

6

S
O BARNEY WANTED
to play.

 Moments earlier, Gunderson was watching him through the van’s rear windows, watching him work the wheel with a ferocity he didn’t know the man possessed. Fucker blew right past that Volvo with barely a backward glance.

 Driving like that took balls.

 Until today, Special Agent Jack had been more of an annoyance than a threat. Gunderson had never considered him much more than a minor itch he’d eventually have to scratch. That opinion had changed, however, with every jerk of Barney boy’s wheel.

 So maybe he wasn’t Barney after all. Maybe he was Chuck Heston, NRA poster child, crashing his chariot into theirs, jostling Gunderson’s crew and forcing Tina, Queen of the Gladiators, to fight the wheel.

 If Jack wanted to play, Gunderson was more than happy to oblige.

 He’d even brought along his toys.

 After that second jolt, he tore himself away from the window and gestured to Gabriel, who immediately tossed him an M4 carbine with an underbarrel launcher. Squeezing past Luther and Nemo, he moved to the side door.

 Sara, strapped in up front, looked at him over her shoulder. “Careful, sweetie.”

 She was trying to mask her fear, but he could see it in the way she kept her shoulder muscles tensed, as if bracing for an impact.

 Poor kid. He’d tried to convince her to sit this one out, but she’d insisted on coming along. Refused to be left behind. She was a True Believer, Sara was—her passion and his skill the perfect marriage. And despite her condition, she was the best soldier on his team.

 She was his muse. His inspiration.

 His only true cause.

 He smiled at her, reached over, and rubbed her belly. Alex Jr. was kicking around like crazy. Probably scared, too. “Hang on, baby. It’ll all be over in a minute.”

 He popped a charge into the breech. With a grunt, he rolled the side door open, then pointed the launcher at Donovan’s windshield.

 “Send up a prayer, motherfucker. You’re about to kiss God.”

T
HE GRENADE LAUNCHER
barked and Donovan swerved. The charge hissed overhead and a parked car behind him exploded, erupting in flames.

 Score one for the good guys.

 But Gunderson wasn’t a quitter. He popped another charge into the breech, let it fly.

 Donovan braked and swerved a second time, hearing another ominous hiss as the grenade streaked past his windshield and blew a chunk out of the blacktop.

 Two-nothing, home team.

 But he’d been lucky. If Gunderson fired that weapon a third time, there was a pretty good chance they’d be peeling Donovan’s hide off these car seats with a pair of forensic tweezers.

 He floored the accelerator, regaining his momentum, and just as Gunderson finished loading up charge number three, Donovan jerked the wheel, hard.

 The van shuddered and fishtailed, the impact knocking Gunderson off his feet. He fumbled the carbine, which tumbled past the doorway, slammed onto the hood of the cruiser, then bounced into the street. Gunderson was about to follow when big hands grabbed him and yanked him back inside.

 But Gunderson’s troubles were far from over. The news van swerved wildly now as its driver fought for control of the wheel.

 Up ahead, a road crew had set up shop in the middle of the street, signs warning drivers to
PROCEED WITH CAUTION
—and the van was doing anything but.

 The next happened so fast it barely had time to register in Donovan’s brain:

 Swerving to avoid the road crew, the news van tilted sideways onto two wheels, then tipped over with a rusty groan and began to roll. Gunderson and a big guy in a ski mask were launched through the open side door by the force of the impact. As they tumbled onto the street, the van rolled and rolled, metal pounding blacktop, windows splintering, until it finally barreled through a row of parked cars and came to rest against the fresh carcass of a BMW.

 Donovan, meanwhile, jammed his foot against the cruiser’s brake pedal, feeling the tires melt beneath him. But it was too little, too late. The patrol car skidded into the mangled leftovers and stopped cold.

 That’s when Donovan’s forehead met the steering wheel and everything went black.

7

A
BABY WAS
crying. Somewhere far away.

 Gunderson lifted his head off the blacktop, felt the burn of road rash against his left cheek, the tickle of blood on his forehead. He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked around, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.

 Someone was lying near him on the road. Dressed in black. Groaning.

 Luther?

 Sounded like him. Looked about his size. Still wearing his goddamn ski mask, the paranoid fuck.

 Luther always said he’d back Gunderson’s play with everything he had—everything except his face. “I’m no superstar,” he’d once told Gunderson. “You tell me what to do, I’ll do it, but my ma ain’t gonna see my face all over the TV news.”

 Luther wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but Gunderson had to respect his point of view.

 But then, Luther wasn’t the concern right now, was he? Something else sat unformed at the periphery of Gunderson’s mind, something he needed to take care of. Unfortunately, his head felt like a can of soda that had been shaken up and left in the freezer too long.

 In the distance, the baby was still crying. Getting closer now. Couldn’t somebody shut that fucking kid up so he could concentrate?

 No, wait. Not a baby.

 A siren. A police siren.

 Then all at once it hit him: Special Agent Jack. The van. Tina losing control of the wheel.

 Oh, shit.

 Sara.

 Body screaming in protest, Gunderson jumped to his feet and spun, scanning the area until he found the van, which lay on its side like a dead elephant amidst a litter of old bones. There was a spray of blood across the cracked front windshield.

 Oh, my fucking Christ.

 “Sara!”

 Gunderson stumbled toward the van, scrambled up and over it, and climbed in through the side door. He nearly stopped short at the sight of the carnage inside.

 Gabe was gone for sure, lying at an impossible angle in back, head canted, eyes open and glazed. Nemo lay faceup across the middle seats, half-conscious and blinking. “What the fuck just happened?”

 Then there was Tina. Jesus. Poor Tina had half a steering wheel embedded in her face, her once blond hair now wet and stained crimson, Queen of the Gladiators no more.

 And Sara.

 She was strapped in front next to Tina, eyes closed, arms dangling, a pregnant Raggedy Ann.

 Gunderson felt gut-punched. He climbed over to her, touched her face, her neck, searched for a pulse.

 Nothing there.

 “No,” he groaned, and unbuckled her seat belt. She fell into his arms, all bony angles and beach-ball belly, as lifeless as a sack of potatoes.

 This can’t be happening. Not this.

 Blood dripped from the car seat. A dark stain spread at the crotch of her dress.

 Gunderson groaned again. He slapped her face, trying to rouse her. “Wake up, baby, wake up!”

 He slapped her again and then again, her head flopping listlessly beneath his blows. “Goddamn you, you little bitch, don’t you fucking do this to me!”

 The sirens were even closer now. He heard movement behind him, Nemo sitting up, probably still blinking.

 “We’re dead, man. We gotta get out of here.”

 Gunderson cradled Sara in his arms. He’d never been much for tears, but he felt them coming on now and struggled to choke them back.

 She was alive. He knew she was alive. Her pulse was too weak to register, that’s all. There’s no way she was gone. Not Sara.

 He turned to Nemo. “Help me get her onto the sidewalk.”

 “Are you kidding me? We don’t have
time
for this shit.”

 Gunderson wrapped his fingers around Nemo’s neck and jerked him forward. “Help me get her onto the sidewalk, needle dick, or I swear to Christ you’ll wish you were Tina.”