“I said drop it!”
Movement in his side view mirror, and Ashley turned to see a park ranger, or patrolman, or deputy, or whatever, standing behind the Astro, one hand on the taillight, catching his breath with a Smoky Bear hat and an aimed Glock.
He shouted again. “Drop it, girl.”
Darby spun to face the cop, her lips moving. She was trying to speak. Then the Beretta Cougar thumped to the snow — unfired — and her knees gave out. And just like that, resourceful, scrappy, brave Darby Thorne collapsed like a sack of trash onto a snow-covered parking lot.
Ashley’s jaw hung open. No way.
No freaking way.
This is amazing.
“Stay down,” the cop commanded, clasping his shoulder radio. “Shot fired, shot fired. Ten-fifty-two—”
Slouching in his seat, Ashley put it all together — the police had arrived, distracted by the fire, and naturally the first thing this hick cop saw was Darby, blood-soaked and wielding a handgun, chasing a helpless victim before cornering him inside a van, a half-second from executing him. So bargain-bin Captain America here had no choice but to fire. He had to shoot her. That’s just how it works, you know. And it was so perfect. So stunningly perfect.
The timing, the sheer misfortune. Yes, sir, he’d always been special. Supernatural forces were at work here. This was how a bona fide magic man eludes capture.
The cop moved in close now, gun up, kicking away the Beretta from Darby and twisting her hands up behind her back to cuff them. He was rough, yanking her elbows up into chicken wings, but judging by the pint of blood steaming off the snow, she was already having brunch with the Reaper. The handcuffs engaged with a metallic snick and in the glow of the flames, Ashley could read the officer’s stitched name: CPL. RON HILL.
The cop looked up. “Sir, let me see your hands—”
“Sure.” Ashley raised the nailer.
THWUMP-THWUMP.
DAWN
6:15 a.m.
Ashley Garver whistled Bing Crosby’s White Christmas as he scavenged Corporal Hill’s Glock 17, a bright yellow Taser, and a badass friction-lock baton. He flipped through the cop’s billfold as well, pocketing two twenties and a ten, while noting that the guy’s wife looked like a total wildebeest.
The highway patrolman had squeezed off a reflexive string of gunshots as he went down, shattering the passenger window behind Ashley, punching a hole through the Astro’s ceiling, and blasting a final few into the sky. One bullet might’ve grazed his face; he felt a stinging gash had opened up on his cheek. Or it could just be his scorched skin cracking in the alpine air.
Either way, what marvelous luck. Jelly-side up, indeed.
Ashley decided he’d kill the snowplow driver next. That tall diesel rig was like a stopper plugging the rest area’s parking lot shut. Then he’d finesse the Astro around and get the hell out of Colorado before Corporal Hill’s backup arrived.
Although — hell, bring ’em on.
Ashley could take them all.
He paced down the long parking lot as the Wanapani visitor center burned and collapsed behind him, approaching the headlights of the idling truck. The sky was turning pewter, a brightening gray as the sun readied to break over the horizon, and he checked the remaining ammo in the cop’s Glock. These magazines were notched in the back with little numbers, so you can easily eyeball how many rounds you have left. He saw at least nine. Plus a second full mag he’d plucked from Corporal Hill’s belt. He loaded that one, just in case.
Now he stood in the blinding wash of the truck’s headlights, shielding his face. He concealed the Glock in his jacket pocket, where it fit comfortably. He couldn’t see through the truck’s windshield — too dark — but the orange driver door still hung half-ajar. CDOT stenciled on the side.
“Hey!” he shouted. “It’s safe.”
Silence.
He licked his lips. “Corporal Hill . . . he, uh, sent me down here to tell you the scene is secure, that the situation’s under control. He shot the kidnapper. Now he needs you to transmit a message to the other trucks on your CB.”
Another long silence.
Then, finally, the door creaked and a scruffy face peered out, standing on the foot rail. “I already called in and they said—”
Ashley aimed the Glock. CRACK.
The window exploded. A near miss, but the man fell out of the cab anyway, slamming down hard on his ass in the snow. His Red Sox hat fluttered off.
Ashley passed around the headlights, shielding his eyes.
The driver flopped onto his belly, glass bits crunching underneath him, scrambling upright, reaching for the ajar door to hoist himself back inside — CRACK — but Ashley blew a hole in his arm. The man screamed hoarsely.
Ashley palmed the door shut. “Sir, it’s fine.”
“Don’t kill me.” The man crawled away sideways, on one elbow, clutching his wrist. Hot blood spurting through his fingers, blotting the snow, leaving a red trail. “Please, God, please don’t kill me—”
Ashley followed him. “I’m not going to kill you.”
“Please, don’t, don’t—”
“Stop moving. It’s fine. I won’t kill you,” Ashley said, putting his foot on the man’s fleshy back to pin him. “Stop struggling, sir. It’s all A-okay. I promise.” As he said this, he nuzzled the Glock 17 into the back of the man’s neck. He squeezed the trigger . . . but stopped.
Again, he’d gotten that feeling. That odd electricity.
Someone was standing behind him.
What now?
He turned around, half-expecting to see the ragged ghost of Darby Thorne, back for bloody revenge — but the figure standing behind him was shorter, smaller. It was Jay. Just harmless little Jaybird, in her red Pokeball shirt, about to witness another murder. Honestly, he’d forgotten all about her. But yeah, even with Lars out of the picture, he could still deliver her to Fat Kenny, and fetch a tidy sum for as long as she lasted—
She had something in her hand.
At first he thought it was Sandi’s pepper spray.
But then the seven-year-old raised it — reflecting a glint of firelight — and Ashley realized with a jolt of terror that it was something far worse. It was Lars’s Beretta. She must have picked it up from the red snow by Darby’s body when he hadn’t been looking, and now here it was, in Jaybird’s shaky little fingers.
Aimed at him.
Again.
He groaned. “Oh, come on—”
CRACK.
6:22 a.m.
Ashley Garver flinched again. And again, his eardrums rang in answer to a gunshot he’d never expected to hear.
He opened his eyes. Jay was still standing there by the snowplow, her eyes wide with fear. The Beretta slide-locked in her white fingers. Dirty smoke lingered, curling in the headlights. The charcoal odor of burnt powder.
She missed.
He patted his stomach and chest, just to be certain. No blood, no pressure, no pain. His torso and limbs were all fine.