“For sure. And you think he’s going to take this fall?” said Rook. “Believe me, there will be a fall.”
They were getting closer to the door, so Nikki piled on. “You’ll be lucky to be alive to take a fall. You’re a detective just like me, Tim. Use your training. Look at this guy’s pattern. He kills his partners.”
“She’s right. You gotta know he’s already thinking about how and when to do you.”
“Turn it around while you have time. Preempt him.” Nikki stopped walking and faced Maloney. “You have my word, I’ll get you the best deal I can.”
“And you’ll live,” said Rook.
“Problem out here?” They turned. Wilton Backhouse stood there, holding the door open. “This more than you can handle, bro?”
Nikki listened for a hitch. Maybe there was a moment of hesitation. But Maloney replied, “No, I got it,” and jerked them forward.
Rook stepped into the enormous crash hall ahead of her and halted. Maloney gave him a shove but was savvy enough to respect Heat’s combat training, and kept a firm grip on her arm. But when Rook moved and cleared her view, whatever strength Nikki had managed to hold on to following her day’s violent ordeal instantly leached out of her. At the far end of the hangar a pool of light illuminated an American subcompact loaded on the launch catapult.
Its two front doors gaped open, waiting.
In unspoken unison, Heat and Rook slowly pivoted their heads, tracing the route along the test runway to the other end of the crash hall a football field’s length away, where the impact barrier—a monstrous concrete block reinforced with steel—sat waiting, immovable as Gibraltar. That wall of the former airplane hangar had been freshly painted over since their last visit nearly a week before. For anyone who had been there, no amount of white latex could erase the ghastly image of Fred Lobbrecht’s blood-and-tissue splatter, least of all the pair slated to take the next ride.
Then, as only he could, Rook tried whatever it took to lighten Heat’s burden. “Shotgun,” he said.
Nikki choked back emotion, willing herself to command this moment. Weakness meant death; focus gave them a fighting chance. “Seriously?” she said, forcing herself to sound anything but fearful. She went for indignant. “You have to be kidding. How is this a good idea?”
“Not really sure how good it is,” said Backhouse. “You caught me off balance when you showed up. I’m just making the most of this situation on the fly. I mean, this isn’t some movie where the guy says, ‘I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Bond…’”
“There’s an understatement,” said Rook.
Backhouse flared. “Hey, you can fuck yourself.” Maloney threw an elbow into Rook’s wound again. Heat fought her instinct to fight. Since she was handcuffed and unarmed, a head butt would only instigate something she couldn’t finish. Rook gave her a sign that he was cool, even though his lips had gone white from biting back the pain.