"Silent Thunder" - читать интересную книгу автора (Johansen Iris, Johansen Roy)

FIVE

"He's gone." Cathy gazed into the sea, where she'd poured the ashes. "So quick. I've been dreading this moment, but now I want it back." She turned toward her sister-in-law but Hannah wasn't sure Cathy really saw her. "Isn't that strange?"

"Are you okay?"

Cathy shook her head. "I don't know if I'll ever be okay again." Her voice held a note of wonder. "How can I live without him?"

"Ronnie. Donna."

Cathy nodded, her gaze going to her mother, who was standing with the children across the deck. "I know. They need me. I should be with them now. I want them to remember me holding them when they think back on this. The ship's already heading back to the dock."

"Are you going back to Boston right away?"

She nodded. "My mother has her SUV parked at the dock, and we'll leave as soon as we get off the boat. The sooner I get the kids back to a normal schedule, the healthier for them." She looked down into the water again for a long moment. "It's not really good-bye, Conner," she whispered. "You'll be with me every day of my life. You know that." She straightened her shoulders and turned to look at Hannah again. "I'm being selfish. It's been all about me. You're hurting too."

"Oh, yes. Big-time." She tried to smile. "But you're entitled."

"I'm entitled to something else, too. You promised me answers. I want those answers. And I also want the man who killed my husband to burn in hell." She stared Hannah directly in the eye. "Keep your promise."

"I will."

"Bradworth told me you couldn't remember anything about those plates. Were you telling him the truth?"

"Yes. I can't recall anything connected to that night without going into a mental tailspin. I've told you before that I can't isolate a specific memory. Everything overlaps and runs together. I can't think of the plates without thinking about that last night with Conner." She said unevenly, "And it may be a while before I have the guts to do that. I'm sorry, Cathy."

"Nothing to be sorry about. I doubt if I could do it either. Then we'll just find a way to get Conner's killer without knowing about the plates. I'll help you all I can, but Ronnie and Donna have to come first." She paused. "I trust you, Hannah. Don't let me down." She didn't wait for a reply as she started toward her son and daughter.

Hannah took a step closer to the rail and looked down into the water. A thousand memories of Conner bombarded her.

"I won't let her down, Conner," she murmured. "And I won't let you down. I swear it."

"Aunt Hannah."

She turned around to see Ronnie standing a few feet away from her. Jesus, he looked like Conner, she realized anew with a pang. The same tight, dark curly hair, the angular face, the elfin arch to his eyebrows. Donna was small and vital like Cathy, but Ronnie was all Conner. He looked older than his eleven years in his dark suit and striped tie. Older and pale and hurting. She held out her hand to him. "Hi."

"Hi." His voice was gruff, and he came forward to nestle against her. "I thought I'd come and be with you. You looked lonely."

"I guess we're all lonely today."

"Yeah." He laid his head against her arm. "It's bad… isn't it?"

"Terrible." She hugged him close and forced herself to release him. "Maybe you should go back and be with your mom. She needs you."

"It's okay. I told Donna to take care of her."

"She's only five, Ronnie."

"But she's smart… sometimes. You just have to nudge her. I think she'll get better in a year or two."

"Oh, she will? I'm glad to hear that."

Eleven going on thirty.

Her eyes stung as she remembered Conner's description of Ronnie.

"Well, I'm glad to have the company, but if you want to go back to your mom, I'll understand."

He shook his head. "Dad would want me here. He worried about you. He told me so."

"Did he? When?"

"A couple years ago. I was just a kid, and I was making a fuss about him leaving to go off with you. He told me that we had to take care of you. That we all had each other, and we had to make sure you knew that we belonged to you too. He didn't want you to be alone." He whispered, "Now he can't take care of you anymore. I have to do it."

She felt as if she were splintering, breaking apart. "I'll be okay," she said unevenly. "It's your mom who-"

He was shaking his head. "He wanted you not to be alone. I have to take his place. I can't do it right now. I'm still a kid, and Mom needs me. But later, when I'm older, maybe I can go away with you and watch out for you like he did."

Dear heaven, she loved him. "Maybe you can." She pressed her lips to his forehead. "We'll talk about it in a year or two. Right now, we just have to get through the next few days."

He nodded, his gaze going to the sea. "It's going to be different. It hurts…" His eyes were glittering with tears. "It hurts bad."

What could she say? Offer comfort when there was no comfort to be had? She gave him the only gift she could. "I love you, Ronnie," she whispered. "And I'm very proud of you. Your dad would be proud of you too…"

Bradworth was sitting on the porch at the bed-and-breakfast when Hannah got back from the dock. He rose to his feet, and said soberly, "My sympathy. I admit I was surprised you phoned and asked me to come here today. I would have come to the dock, but I understood the service was for family only. I know this is a tough day for you."

"Not as tough as the day Conner died."

He shook his head. "But I hoped I'd made it as easy as I could for you and your sister-in-law."

"You made it almost too easy for Cathy," she said bluntly. "You arranged for the cremation, gave her the name of the captain of a boat here. You made sure that there weren't any newspaper reporters harassing her. My brother's remains disappeared from this earth as if he'd never been here."

"I can understand how you might feel antagonistic. Would you rather there had been a publicity stink that would have hurt the museum and your brother's family?"

"You know damn well I wouldn't. The only reason I didn't step in is that Conner would have wanted Cathy and the kids to have as little emotional upheaval as possible."

"Then I did the right thing."

"But for what reason? Why did you want to erase what happened to Conner?" She stared him in the eye. "And you knew what might happen when I phoned you that night. The minute I told you about those plates we found, you knew. You even warned me not to go back there."

"And doesn't that tell you anything? I wanted to keep you safe. I never wanted this to happen."

"Because it made a mess you had to cover up?" she asked bitterly. "Isn't that what you said when you thought I was unconscious on that pier?"

"You misunderstood. Very understandable considering your condition."

"I didn't misunderstand. Were those plates still in the control room when you found Conner?"

He didn't answer.

"Were they, dammit? Answer me."

"No."

"And why would anyone be willing to kill Conner to get them?"

"I have no idea."

"You're lying."

"Think what you will."

"And whoever went after those plates knew about them almost as soon as I did. How?"

He didn't answer.

"How?"

He shrugged. "There was a device planted on the sub to monitor your conversations."

She stared at him in shock. "What? By you?"

"No."

"But you knew about it."

"I was advised when it was planted."

"And you didn't tell me."

"I thought we'd be able to scoop up those bastards before they could do any harm."

"My God, and you used us as bait?"

"I didn't expect them to move that quickly if you found something of interest to them. It would have been smarter of them to avoid killing anyone. I thought they might come back for anything valuable after you'd left the submarine."

"But they didn't, did they? They came in like a SWAT team and blew my brother's head off."

"And I can't tell you how much I regret it."

"Regret? You son of a bitch."

"I'm sorry you became involved in something that had such a tragic end, but your best course of action is to walk away from Silent Thunder and forget all about it. In time, I'm sure we'll find the killer of your brother. Trust me."

She stared at him incredulously. "Trust you? You've got to be kidding."

"What are your options? The museum wants to have nothing more to do with you. What happened could be an embarrassment that would taint the opening of their new exhibit. This exhibit could bring big money to this small town, and the local police are being very cooperative and leaving the investigation entirely in our hands."

"They wouldn't do that. There has to be some other reason."

He hesitated, then said, "You're right. Homeland Security called them and told them they had an involvement."

"Homeland Security?"

"They wield an enormous amount of influence these days."

"You're saying terrorists killed Conner?"

"I didn't say that. I said Homeland Security has an involvement. But you don't want to go up against them, Hannah."

"The hell I don't."

"Then go ahead and see how far you get. All it would take would be for Homeland Security to drop a hint in your file that they're interested in your activities. No one would be willing to hire you with that cloud hanging over you." He leaned back in the rocking chair. "Of course, you could go to the newspapers. The press is always ready to leap on any juicy story. It might mean that your brother's widow and children could be hounded unmercifully, but it might be worth it to you."

"You bastard."

"No, I'm one of the good guys."

"The hell you are. You're not with the State Department. You seem to have a good deal of knowledge of Homeland Security. Is that who you work for?"

"No."

"Who?"

He hesitated. "CIA."

"What? You've got to be kidding. Everyone knows CIA isn't supposed to operate inside the U.S."

"This is our case. We've been working on it for years overseas. Just because it moved to U.S. soil didn't mean that we were going to be shut out. Since 9/11 the other agencies are giving us a hell of a lot more latitude."

"Shit. And you involved Conner and me in your dirty games?"

He gave her a pained frown. "We thought we had you well protected. You don't understand. Choices have to be made when the stakes are this high."

"You're not talking about choices, you're talking about sacrifices. Not my brother. What stakes?"

"I truly wish I could discuss it with you." He got to his feet. "I believe we've said all that can be said. If I can help you, please call on me."

Damn hypocrite. "I'll call on you. I want to go back on that sub."

"You want to make your own search? That's not possible. The museum has severed its ties with you."

"I don't believe the museum has any control over what you do. I want on that sub."

He shook his head. "Go back to Boston and comfort your family. They need you."

"And I need to know why my brother was killed."

His expression hardened. "Let me make this clear. The sub will be under guard, and you won't be permitted even as close as the pier. You're out of this, Hannah."

"No way." She turned and headed for the gate. "I've just started, Bradworth."

Bradworth hadn't lied. There were two guards standing at the end of the pier.

She didn't even try to get past them. She turned and started back toward the bed-and-breakfast. She doubted if she would have found anything valuable on the sub anyway. What Conner's killers hadn't stolen would have been confiscated by Bradworth if he thought it valuable… or incriminating. How in the hell did she know what the bastard was doing?

Well, find out. Go around Bradworth. Think. There had to be another path.

She stopped short, turned, and looked back at the pier.

Of course.

There was a path and she already had the map that would take her down it.

It wasn't there, dammit, Hannah realized in frustration.

Maybe she'd put it somewhere else. In the confusion after Conner's death it was possible.

After thirty minutes more of looking, she gave up and called Cathy.

"I'm sorry to bother you. Are you still on the road?"

"Yes. And it's no bother. You sound pissed."

"To put it mildly. Can I talk?"

"Go ahead. The kids and my mom are fast asleep in the backseat of the SUV. I doubt if a three-alarm fire would wake them. They were totally exhausted."

"And you are too. Sorry, but I wanted to fill you in on what I learned. And get you started."

"Started?"

"I need your help. Bradworth wouldn't answer any questions, and he's trying to close me out. He won't let me go on the sub, he got the museum to fire me, and threatened me with Homeland Security if I went to the newspapers."

"Why would he do that?"

"He's CIA. The bastard knew that Conner and I were in danger on that sub. He knew it, and he didn't warn us."

"Shit."

"And when I got back to my room I couldn't find my satchel with all the information Bradworth had given me about Silent Thunder."

"But he must know you'd already gone through them."

"But I didn't study the videos and DVDs of the sub's journey from Finland furnished by the museum. That's what I was going to do when I got back to my room. They made four stops along the way, mostly for publicity purposes. Baltimore, New York, Boston, and Norfolk. I only glanced at them, but I had a vague recollection of a lot of small craft buzzing around the sub at every stop. In fact, on the first day we arrived here, Conner remarked on a launch that kept making passes beyond the harbor gates. It would make sense that someone interested in those plates we found would want to keep an eye on the sub. My guess is there must be something on the video that Bradworth doesn't want me to see."

"Then why would he give them to you?"

"A mistake? The footage was provided by the museum, and maybe a casual glance wouldn't reveal anything suspicious. But I am suspicious, and I was going to go over everything with a microscope. I'm not going to get that chance now. But there has to be other footage, and we have to go after it. No, you have to go after it. If we can locate some clear shots of the vessels, I can blow up the photos and get registration numbers. I may not know any White House gurus, but I have marine contacts all over the world. Call your friends in Washington and start to stir up the pot."

"I've been out of the loop for over ten years."

"Are you saying you can't do it?"

"Hell, no. I'm telling you it will take more time than I'd like. I'll get on the line with Congressman Preston first thing in the morning and start that pot boiling." She paused, thinking. "Then I'll call Ross Calvin at the White House and see what he can do for me. Anything else?"

"Yes, Silent Thunder. All the information Bradworth gave me is suspect. I need to know everything that you can get on the sub, past and present. Don't take anything for granted. Start fresh and work fast. See if you can find someone who actually served on the sub."

"You don't want much."

"I want everything. Most of all I want to know who killed Conner." She paused. "I don't want to pressure you, Cathy. If you can't do it, let me know, and I'll find someone else."

"Don't you dare." Cathy's tone was fierce. "I'll do it. It will give me something to think about besides Conner lying in that morgue. There's nothing worse than brooding and not being able to take action."

"It's still a long shot. But we have to start with what we have."

"And what will you do if-" Cathy broke off. "One step at a time. I won't stop until I get you what you need, Hannah."

"I know you won't. We're in this together."

"You're damn right we are."

"Then try to sleep if you can't do anything until tomorrow. Good-bye, Cathy."

"Wait. When are you coming back to Boston?"

"I'm packed up and heading for the van in about five minutes. I'll call you from my apartment tomorrow morning and see if you were able to make contact with Preston."

"I'll make contact," Cathy said grimly. "If I have to track him down on a safari in the Congo. Drive safely." She hung up.

Yes, Cathy would find Preston. She had relentless drive, and it would all be focused on getting the information Hannah had asked.

And Hannah had to focus her determination on getting information about those boats that had clustered around Silent Thunder like barracudas around a wounded shark. She grabbed her duffel and carried it down to the van.

Beautiful." Pavski stepped back and admired the worn, battered metal plates as if they were the work of a Renaissance master. "Simply beautiful."

Koppel snorted. "Beautiful? Only if you like chicken scratches."

Pavski refused to let the moron's cynicism dampen the moment. Koppel was useful to him in many ways and efficient at carrying out orders, but he had no sensitivity. Pavski would not let that bother him. He had come too far and worked too hard. The three plates from Silent Thunder's bulkhead panel stood on tall easels in the miniwarehouse that had served as his headquarters since his arrival in New England. Located thirty miles south of Boston, the five-acre storage facility was deserted save for a few furniture makers and powerboat mechanics who conducted their businesses out of the units.

Koppel's eyes narrowed on the columns of geometric shapes. "Can you make any sense of them?"

"Not yet." Pavski switched on the reflector lights angled toward the plates. The scratches were filled with white powder, making them stand out in stark relief from the dark gray plates. "But they're definitely navigational coordinates."

"Not like any coordinates I've ever seen."

"They're Samsovian."

"I'm not familiar with them. Are you sure?"

"Only a few assorted crackpots used them. An instructor at the St. Petersburg Naval Academy developed the system in the early seventies and taught it to his best students. He probably hoped it would catch on, but it never did. I'm a little familiar with the system but not enough to be able to decode this. But a few officers swore by the system and knew it backward and forward, including most of the officers on the Silent Thunder and Captain Heiser."

"Heiser?"

"I'm quite sure Heiser wrote these. He did leave a message behind."

"What good is it to us if only a handful of people can read it?"

"We just find the people who can. I'm making arrangements to do that." He frowned. "But this looks pretty scanty to me. I don't think it's complete. Is this all? You're sure you didn't miss any other plates with symbols?"

"I don't think so, but we didn't have the luxury of time. Once we knew they'd found something, we had to move fast."

Pavski nodded. He wanted to blame Koppel, but knew things probably wouldn't have been different if he'd been there himself. They were lucky to have the plates they had. His gaze went back to the plates. These crude scratches could be worth billions, but that wasn't the point. Koppel didn't understand that those scratchings were more precious than mere monetary value. He didn't hear the call. He had no destiny other than to be a drone in the scheme of things. He pointed at a tiny symbol that resembled a cross within a circle on the bottom of the third plate. "And I don't think this is Samsovian."

"You're sure?"

He frowned. "No, not really. It does look familiar…" He forced himself to look away from the symbol. "No matter. We may have to find a way to correct any possible omission."

"How?"

"I'll have to contact Moscow and get Danzyl with the GRU to do a little work for me. And I have to confirm that last symbol isn't Samsovian. I'll get Dananka to check on that. And since Bradworth must be in contact with Kirov, you might try to tap his phone to get any information, including Kirov's number. He probably has relays, but you can never tell." His mind was moving, weighing possibilities. There might be a quicker way to get what he wanted than try to figure out this damn symbol. "You read the report I gave you on Hannah Bryson?"

"Of course."

"Then you realize how valuable she could be to us now."

"The photographic memory? You think she really can do that stuff? It seems… weird."

"I believe the possibility exists. It's documented in all her records."

"But we've already got the plates."

"Which very likely may be incomplete. I have to know if she's seen anything else resembling them on that sub. She may not even realize it herself. Even an extraordinary memory can be tricky…" But if he had the opportunity, he could make her remember. And if she was of no help to him, then he'd make sure she'd be of no help to anyone else. He'd had her interaction with Bradworth watched closely since the death of her brother, and the CIA man would have been sent scurrying if she'd given him any information about the plates. She'd clearly been traumatized, and that might pass. But it hadn't happened yet, and he still had a chance to stop her from giving anyone the information on those plates. "I have to make sure we're dealing properly with Hannah Bryson, Koppel."

"Properly? I was only waiting for instructions." He pulled out his cell phone. "I'll take care of it."

Bradworth was waiting by Conner's van in the museum parking lot when Hannah reached it. "I don't like the idea of you driving that distance alone. It's not smart."

"Your concern is touching." Hannah loaded an equipment case into the back of the van. "But those scumbags got what they wanted when they killed Conner. There's nothing in this van anyone could want."

Bradworth's jaw tightened. "Your crew stayed for the funeral, didn't they? One of them can drive the van back to Boston. There's no need for you to do it."

"Need has nothing to do with this. This was my brother's van, and I want to take it back myself." She glanced at the "Save Mission Bay" bumper sticker that Conner had lovingly maintained with White-out and Magic Markers long after the original finish had worn off. It was still incredibly hard to believe that she would never see him again. "So don't get in my way, Bradworth." She got into the driver's seat. "Or I'll run you down."

Bradworth watched the van drive out of the parking lot before he reached for his phone.

"She wouldn't listen to me, Kirov. She's driving the van herself."

"I didn't think she'd do anything you asked her to do. If she gets chopped, I'm not going to be pleased with you."

"Screw you. I'm handling it." He hung up the phone.

Let it go, Hannah thought as she pulled onto I-95 and headed south toward Boston. This trip wasn't supposed to be about Bradworth, she reminded herself. It was about Conner.

Since his death, she'd been consumed with logistics, helping Cathy plan his funeral and making the sad calls to his enormous circle of friends. Cathy and the kids had needed her, and she was glad to help. But now it was her turn to remember Conner, and she could think of no better way than to make one last journey in the van they had taken on so many assignments.

Everywhere she looked, Conner was there. In the shell necklace hanging from the rearview mirror. In the picture of Cathy, Ronnie, and Donna clipped to the sun visor. In his collection of reggae compact discs, neatly organized by artist.

He'd liked to torture her with that music, knowing she couldn't stand it any more than his wife and kids could. The bastard.

God, she missed him.

She drove for two hours, and it seemed that every rest stop and roadside diner held some memory of Conner. She'd not only lost a brother but a valued colleague. He had always been so quick to play down his abilities but he was a smart and resourceful partner who encouraged her to trust her instincts and push the envelope even when everyone else was telling her to be cautious. "You don't make history by playing it safe," he'd told her.

He always knew just what to-

A high-pitched shriek erupted from the rear of the van.

"What the hell." It startled her, but she recognized the sound immediately; an alarm from Conner's collection of test equipment. She must have accidentally switched it on while loading up the gear.

The alarm grew louder and more persistent… and annoying. She glanced back at the component racks to try to see which device it was coming from.

The minesweeper. Although it wasn't really used to detect mines, it was designed and built by Conner to detect hidden radio beacons on the ocean floor that relayed information about their secret test dives. The beacons were sometimes planted by foreign intelligence agents but just as often were the work of rival contractors who wanted to monitor their progress. It was always on standby, but Conner had made sure the frequency wouldn't let it go off if it detected police radar or a nearby radio station. Why the hell was it going off now?

It didn't matter. She had to get it to stop before it drove her crazy.

She pulled off the road into a gas station whose red-and-white gas pumps and soda-bottle vending machines made it look as if it had been frozen in the fifties.

She jumped out of the van and opened the back door of the van.

"Can I help you?"

She turned to see a thin, white-haired station attendant. He looked to be at least seventy, with faded blue eyes and ruddy complexion.

He smiled. "Heck of a racket you're making. I'm a pretty good mechanic, but I don't promise I can fix these newfangled car alarms. I'll give it a try, if you like."

Nice guy. "Thanks. I don't think I'll need any help, Mr.-" She looked at the name on his uniform shirt. Larry Simpson. "Mr. Simpson. If I can find it, I can fix it." She hit the gas cap switch. "Fill it up, please."

She climbed in the van and picked up the minesweeper. The pitch went up by a half octave. She frowned and waved it around the van. The pitch lowered as she moved it toward the rear, then heightened as she waved it toward the front. She shimmied between the two front seats, holding the minesweeper in front of her. The pitch went up another octave. She waved it over the dashboard, listening as the pitch wavered even more in her electronic game of hot and cold.

The passenger-side air-conditioning vent.

What the devil?

Affixed to the vent's top shutter, was a small black cylindrical object. She carefully pulled it out and saw that it was attached to six inches of thin black wire.

She switched off the minesweeper and studied the strange device. It looked familiar to her. Where had she seen-

Kudasi, Turkey. A bug. Not exactly like this one but close enough.

Bradworth?

Anger seared through her. The bastard.

She pulled out her cell phone. No signal. Not surprising in these hills.

"Do you have a pay phone?" she asked the attendant.

He pointed to an early 1960s vintage phone booth at the edge of the gravel parking lot. She strode across the lot and a moment later was sliding the glass door of the phone booth closed behind her.

She picked up the handset and brought up Bradworth's number on her cell directory. Be calm. Just tell the son of a bitch to keep his snooping hands off her privacy and hang up.

A roar of flying gravel.

She glanced out the glass door.

Shit.

A silver-blue utility vehicle was barreling toward her.

She grabbed the worn aluminum handle of the booth door and yanked.

Hurry.

The SUV was heading straight for the booth.

With speed. With purpose.

She leaped through the open booth door, stumbled, then regained her footing.

Gravel kicked up from the tires as the vehicle skidded to a stop. Both front doors flew open, and two men leaped toward her. Before she could react, one of the men pressed a wad of gauze over her mouth. It smelled sickly sweet.

She instinctively held her breath. The one whiff had already made her woozy.

Can't let it happen. Can't let the bastards do this.

The other man wrapped his arms around her legs while the first man pressed the gauze even tighter against her face.

Her eyes watered. Her lungs burned.

A shotgun blast rang out.

"Put her down, boys." The station manager, Simpson, was standing in the doorway of his office. He leveled the shotgun at the men. "Real easy now."

The man holding her feet loosened his grip slightly. "You don't understand, sir. We're U.S. Marshals and we're apprehending a suspect. My name is Jim Dennis and this is Ray Fontaine. Lower your shotgun."

"I never heard of Marshals trying to chloroform a suspect. I think that's a bunch of bull. Let her go."

The men slowly placed Hannah's feet on the gravel parking lot. She staggered a few feet away from them, breathing deep to try to clear her head.

"You're interfering with the law," the man who'd called himself Jim Dennis said. "The woman is under arrest. Put down your weapon."

The old man lowered his gun only a little. "And you talk kinda funny. You're not from around here. Show me your ID."

Thank God for that hint of a Russian accent, Hannah thought.

"Of course," Dennis said. "Right after we secure our suspect."

"They're lying, Mr. Simpson," Hannah said desperately. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"Just take it easy, lady," Simpson said. "No one's going to hurt you. Go on over to your van and let me take care of this."

She started moving across the parking lot. Weapons. There might be a weapon in the van. Jesus, her head was spinning.

"Stop, you bitch." Dennis muttered a helpless curse beneath his breath before he turned back to the station manager. "You're in big trouble, old man. You're aiding the escape of a dangerous felon."

"She don't look so dangerous to me," Simpson said. "Prove it. Show me your ID."

She'd reached the van. The back door was still open and the shelves of equipment were before her. What could she use to-?

"Okay," Dennis said. "I'm reaching for my badge. Don't do anything stupid."

"If you're who you say you are, we don't have a problem."

"Misunderstandings can cost lives." Dennis pulled open his brown leather jacket and slowly reached inside. "I've seen it happen. Just stay calm. If you'd like to come closer, I'll show you all the ID you could want to see."

Hannah saw the almost imperceptible signs of Dennis's hand tightening beneath his jacket.

"No!" she screamed. "Watch out. He's going to-"

Too late.

The pistol was already in Dennis's hand, out, and firing three bullets in rapid succession.

The old man screamed in pain as one bullet hit him in the upper chest. The other two were close misses, and pierced the fuel pump next to him.

The old man crumpled to the ground.

Dead? Hannah wondered frantically. What could she do to-

It was already done. Simpson's shotgun discharged as he fell to the gravel.

And the charge hit Dennis in the face. His head exploded.

Fontaine stared in disbelief at Dennis, but he recovered immediately. He started toward Hannah, the anesthetic-soaked cloth in his hand.

Think fast. Weapon. Find a weapon. What weapon?

The gasoline smell was thick in the air. The gas from the pierced fuel pump was gushing and trickling as it made a trail downhill.

Right toward the van.

Right toward Fontaine, who was now running toward her.

And then she knew what weapon to use.

She dove toward the equipment rack and her hand grasped the handle. She took aim and squeezed the trigger.

The signal flare exploded onto the concrete slab and caught the gasoline. The hot, bluish flame raced for the gunman. In an instant the puddle beneath him ignited. It consumed his clothes and then his hair.

And then his flesh.

He screamed.

She closed her eyes, then forced herself to open them. No time for squeamishness. She had to get out of here. This place was going to be a tinderbox in minutes, maybe seconds.

Hannah ran to the station manager. He was conscious, thank God. He was staring in horror at the burning man.

"Can you walk?"

He couldn't seem to take his eyes off the man who was now writhing on the pavement. "Fire… need extinguisher."

"No time." She pulled him to his feet and slung his arm over her shoulder. "We need to hurry. Walk with me, okay?"

He shook his head as he looked back at the pumps. "My station…"

Hannah half pulled, half dragged the man across the two-lane road.

She heard a deep, low rumbling.

The tanks!

She pushed the old man down and hit the ground on her stomach. The gas station exploded, sending shock waves off the hillside next to her. Fiery debris rained down on them as the blast filled their ears and echoed in the distance.

She opened her eyes. Objects were burning all around them. The station, SUV, and Conner's van were nothing more than black, burning hulks. She leaned toward Simpson and brushed an ember off his back. "Are you okay?"

"I guess so." He stared at a charred object only inches from his face. "What's… that?"

She quickly looked away. She felt sick. "I don't know." And, Christ, she didn't want to know. She started unbuttoning his shirt. "It looks like you have an upper-chest wound, but you may have gotten lucky." She hoped to heaven that was true. "You're not bleeding very much. I'll see if I can do some first aid before I try to get you help."