Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) Read online

  CROSSING A SET of rusted tracks half-buried in gravel, Donovan paused, trying to catch his breath. His leg throbbed, dredging up memories of his last encounter with Gunderson. The outcome was bound to be more positive this time.

  He brought his flashlight up to check his progress.

  A collection of train cars in varying states of decay surrounded him. Weeds and tall grass grew out from beneath the cars and shot up between the tracks, showing no sign of disturbance. There was no way to know what path Gunderson had taken.

  Police radios squawked in the distance. Fogerty and his trigger-happy bunch were all over the yard by now. If it had been up to Donovan, he would have left them all back at the bus, but phone calls had been made, and word from on high had reminded him that this was a joint effort that required both federal and municipal cooperation. Like it or not, that included Fogerty.

  Donovan could only hope he’d keep his dick in his pants and not do anything stupid.

  The squeal of another cat spun him to the right. The sound could mean a million different things, but he followed it anyway, heading toward an old caboose.

  A moment later, a CPD chopper roared overhead and swept its searchlight across the yard. About goddamned time. A swarm of rats reacted in panic, surging up from beneath a pile of termite-eaten lumber, hundreds of them scrabbling over each other to avoid the light.

  The sight sent a shiver of revulsion through Donovan. He’d never seen so many rats in one place. Cutting a wide path around them, he continued toward the caboose.

  AS THE CHOPPER roared overhead, Gunderson darted for the shadows, narrowly avoiding its beam. He watched it sweep by at half speed, saw a pack of rats scurry away in slow motion, felt the blood pumping through his veins.

  Pumping sweet life.

  The place was crawling with cops now, but they were well behind him and would soon have other problems to keep them occupied.

  The yard was surrounded by a seven-foot-high aluminum fence, topped with barbed wire. Just beyond these cars, across a rabble-strewn clearing, was Gunderson’s destination: a gap he’d made by prying back a section.

  Even with the aid of the searchlight snaking across the yard, he could barely see in this darkness. But he’d have no trouble finding the gap. He knew this place like he knew the faint pattern of freckles across Sara’s upturned nose.

  Everything was working perfectly. If Donovan managed to avoid getting himself blown to bits by an APD, Gunderson would have the pleasure of destroying him emotionally. He’d enjoy playing Donovan. Seeing him scramble fruitlessly for clues to Jessie’s location. And when the time was right, he’d reel ol’ Barney in and gut him like a two-hundred-pound tuna.

  But best of all, when everything was said and done, he’d have his Sara back.

  Since the day he’d first knelt over her comatose body, searching for a pulse, he’d been dead inside. But now, for the first time in weeks, he felt alive again. Vibrant.

  He hoped and prayed Donovan made it through the yard in one piece.

  This feeling was just too good to let go.

  WHEN DONOVAN REACHED the caboose, he heard another sound. Not a cat this time, but the faint creak of footsteps on wood, followed by the trampling of weeds.

  Gunderson?

  Flicking off his flashlight, he backed against the side of the caboose and listened. Whoever it was, was trying like hell to be as quiet as possible. Definitely moving in this direction.

  Donovan eased his way toward the back end of the caboose, Glock ready. The footsteps slowed, close now, no more than ten feet away.

  Donovan waited, feeling his adrenaline rise.

  The footsteps came closer. Slowly. Just around the corner, on the other side of the caboose.

  Resting his finger against the trigger of his Glock, he raised his flashlight to shoulder level and waited until the footsteps were nearly on top of him.

  Then, in one fluid motion, he pushed away from the caboose, turned, leveled the Glock, and flicked the light on, a startled face caught in the beam. “Hold it!”

  The face didn’t move. Nor did the body beneath it.

  “Hey, boss.”

  It was A.J.

  “Jesus Christ,” Donovan said.

  WHEN THE LIGHT came alive in his eyes, A.J. was sure he was a goner, cursing himself for holstering his weapon. Then he heard Jack’s voice, and sweet relief washed over him. Thank God the boss wasn’t quick to pull the trigger.

  Jack lowered his flashlight. After they both got their stomachs out of their throats, A.J. said, “This place is a labyrinth. Gunderson could be anywhere.”

  “Maybe,” Jack said, keeping his voice low. “But I think he’s close.”

  “Yeah? What makes you think so?”

  Donovan tapped a temple with the tip of his finger, a gesture A.J. had seen a hundred times before. It was true that Jack had always had pretty good instincts, a kind of sixth sense when it came to bad guys, but with this particular bad guy it hadn’t exactly paid off yet.

  A.J. loved Jack, loved working with him, but the guy wasn’t functioning on all cylinders right now. When he’d insisted on taking Gunderson alone in that train car, A.J. had known it was a mistake. Gunderson was not somebody you took alone.

  As soon as word got out that Jessie had been snatched, somebody upstairs should’ve pulled the plug on Jack. Let the FBI take over. They were arrogant assholes, yeah, but they specialized in this kind of shit.

  Of course, you’d never hear A.J. say a word of this out loud. Especially not to Jack.

  He didn’t even like thinking it, but there it was.

  Donovan said, “We’d better split up. If Gunderson’s around here, I don’t want Fogerty’s bozos getting to him before we do.”

  A.J. nodded, understanding the concern. “Watch your back.”

  “You, too.”

  As Donovan headed away, A.J. cut a diagonal path across the narrow strip of land that separated the caboose and another train car. Trampling over the weeds and piles of trash that had collected over the years, he realized how sluggish he felt. A taste of the bean would do him wonders right now. The smooth ecstasy of, say, a little Café Atarazu.

  Moments like these made A.J. realize just how bad his addiction was. Considering the circumstances, coffee should’ve been the last thing on his mind. But he just couldn’t help himself. No doubt about it, he was a bona fide caffeine junkie.

  Oh, well. At least it wasn’t booze.

  Halfway to the adjacent train car, a faint beep brought A.J. to an abrupt stop. What would only be a nanosecond for anyone else stretched to several times that for A.J. as he analyzed the situation:

  That beep—it wasn’t good.

  He was pretty sure it had come from beneath the flattened old hubcap he’d just stepped on, and it wasn’t the kind of sound you expected to hear in the middle of a dump like this.

  No, something was seriously amiss. And it didn’t bode well for Arthur James Mosley.

  In the latter half of that nanosecond, A.J. sensed what that something was, giving him just enough time to close his eyes.

  The prayer, unfortunately, would have to wait.

  23

  THE EXPLOSION KNOCKED Donovan off his feet. He toppled backward, hitting the ground hard, dropping both Glock and flashlight. Pain radiated through his back as something hard and splintery dug into it.

  He rolled away, both ears ringing. Biting back the pain, he pulled himself upright.

  His back throbbed. His vision was blurred.

  The caboose and adjacent train car were completely shredded, flames shooting up from what was left of them. Between them was a small crater in the earth, and in that crater was a sight so horrible, it didn’t even register in his brain as human.

  Donovan had never been a military man, so the only action he’d seen was on the city’s streets. He’d seen some pretty heavy things, but none of it had prepared him for this.

  What was left of A.J. lay in pieces scattered between the two cars, gliste
ning in the light of the flames. Part of a torso. A leg that looked as if it had been run through a meat grinder. A severed hand with only two of its fingers.

  And A.J.’s head. Eyes closed. Half the skull missing.

  Jesus God, Donovan thought, then leaned forward and vomited into the gravel.

  He sat there, dazed, barely remembering what he was here for, knowing that shock had set in and was liable to overcome him. Then another explosion, followed by an ear-shattering shriek, reverberated through the train yard.

  Donovan looked again at the remains of his friend and partner, a renewed sense of rage pounding through him. Patting the ground blindly, he found his Glock half-buried in a clump of dry weeds, then stood up, his feet starting to move involuntarily, carrying him into the darkness.

  Soon he was running, knowing that he could easily suffer the same fate as A.J., yet he barreled forward with complete abandon, thinking only of Gunderson and what he’d do to the bastard when he got hold of him.

  He was pretty sure Gunderson wouldn’t be hiding. The train yard was surrounded by a high fence, and Gunderson was smart enough to have prepared an escape hatch. All Donovan had to do was keep him from reaching it.

  As he ran, yet another explosion rocked the yard. A distant scream. Picking up speed, he zigged and zagged through the last of the cars and emerged at the edge of a clearing.

  It was too dark to see, but Gunderson was out here. He knew it. Could feel him.

  Then, as if in answer to a prayer, the CPD chopper buzzed overhead, throwing its beam down on the clearing. And there, caught in the light, was Gunderson, legs pumping, headed for a break in the fence.

  Donovan ran faster than he’d ever run in his life, his back still throbbing, his breathing ragged, his bad leg about to give out on him as he steadily closed the gap that separated him from his prey. Raising his Glock, he fired a shot into the air, shouting over the roar of the helicopter.

  “Hold it, Gunderson! Freeze!”

  But Gunderson didn’t slow, only a few short yards from his escape hatch.

  Donovan fired another round. “Freeze, goddammit, or the next one goes in your back!”

  Gunderson stopped, pinned in place by the chopper’s search beam.

  He turned around, clutching a Walther.

  Donovan moved in closer, struggling to catch his breath. “Drop your weapon to the ground!”

  Another explosion echoed in the distance.

  Gunderson smiled. “And spoil all the fun?”

  “Do it, asshole!”

  “Don’t forget Jessie, Jack. No food or water. Only enough air for what—a coupla days? Maybe three, if she breathes through her nose.”

  Donovan pulled the trigger. The bullet whizzed past Gunderson’s ear. “Throw down! Now!”

  Gunderson didn’t even flinch. “You keep fucking with me, the worms’ll be snacking on her intestines before Sunday school lets out this weekend. So cut the horseshit and call off the hounds.”

  Donovan had never wanted to take someone out as badly as he did right now. Every gesture, every word this bastard said, was an invitation to pull the trigger.

  And Gunderson knew it. Reveled in it. “This ain’t a drill, hotshot. Get on that radio of yours and tell your buddies to take five, or you can kiss Jessie’s ass goodbye.”

  Donovan stood there, thinking of Jessie and A.J., feeling helpless and outmaneuvered. He knew that his only choice was to do what Gunderson told him.

  He brought out his radio, flicked the call button. “This is Donovan. Everybody fall back. You read me? Fall back and hold your fire.”

  The radio crackled in response, the words unintelligible. A moment later the chopper backed off, but kept its beam on them.

  “Attaboy,” Gunderson said, moving closer. “You say you wanna deal? Looks like I’ve got no choice but to bring an offer to the table.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Oh, I bet you are. So here it is, Jack, a simple proposition: your life for Jessie’s. All you have to do is escort me out of here in one piece—no tails, no surveillance, nobody but you and me. When I’m done punishing you for your multitude of sins, I’ll give your buddies a jingle and tell them where to find her.”

  Donovan searched Gunderson’s eyes. “You expect me to trust you?”

  “Your negotiating position is tenuous at best. Think of it as the ultimate test of daddyhood. Are you willing to die for your little girl?”

  Donovan said nothing. Gunderson already knew the answer.

  “I thought so. So drop the nine or the bitch goes out gasping.”

  Donovan hesitated. If he dropped his weapon, Gunderson would have a free and clear shot at him. But was Gunderson stupid enough to take him out right here in front of Fogerty’s men and a team of federal agents? Donovan didn’t think so.

  In the corner of his eye he saw movement in the shadows. The cops were slowly closing in on them. Carefully avoiding potential booby traps.

  “Tick tock, Jack. She’s losing precious time.”

  Donovan waved an arm at the approaching cops. “Fall back!” he shouted. “The situation’s under control!”

  The movement slowed, then stopped.

  “Nicely done,” Gunderson said. “Now put your weapon down and come on over here.”

  Keeping his eyes on Gunderson, Donovan crouched and dropped his Glock to the ground. He wasn’t dealing with a moron like Willie Sanchez. No last-minute surprises would help him here. His only choice was to play along until he found out where Jessie was buried.

  He stood up again, started toward Gunderson.

  “Damn it, Jack, I’m close to tears. You really do love your pumpkin.” Gunderson’s smile widened. “It warms my heart to see that some of us haven’t lost our sense of family val—”

  A shot rang out and Gunderson’s face went slack. His chest exploded as a bullet ripped through him, the force knocking him backward.

  Before he could completely comprehend what had just happened, Donovan sprang forward, catching Gunderson, blood streaming from his chest and mouth.

  “Jesus,” Donovan muttered, clamping a hand over the wound to stop the flow of blood. But it was pointless. The wound was fatal. Whoever had fired that shot had done exactly what he’d set out to do. The life in Gunderson’s eyes was sifting away fast, and Donovan had precious seconds to get what he needed.

  “Listen to me, Alex, you’ve gotta listen to me. Tell me where she is. Where’s Jessie?”

  Gunderson focused for a moment, moving his mouth, but nothing came out.

  “For God sakes, tell me!”

  Gunderson’s mouth moved again, blood flowing, his voice barely audible.

  Donovan leaned in close.

  “Forget God,” Gunderson croaked, the words coming out in bubbly gasps. “This isn’t over yet. It’s very far from …”

  And then his eyes went blank, his body limp in Donovan’s arms.

  He was gone. Finished.

  Dead.

  Donovan sat there, staring into those eyes, the shock that had threatened him earlier now creeping up again, crawling through his bloodstream, leaving him numb.

  There was movement all around him, cops shouting as they approached, but Donovan had no idea what they were saying.

  After a moment, he looked up to see Fogerty’s bulk emerge from the shadows of a train car. Fogerty holstered a Smith & Wesson, a big shit-eating grin on his face. “Looks like CPD’s gonna have to take credit for this one, boys.”

  And before anyone could stop him, Donovan was on his feet and pouncing at Fogerty. With an angry roar, he knocked him to the ground and hit him over and over again as the fat man squealed like a motherless child.

  It took four uniformed cops to pry Donovan away.

  24

  THE NEWS COVERAGE was merciless. Networks broke into their regularly scheduled broadcasts—pissing off more than a few sitcom fanatics—to tell the country about the federal agent and his kidnapped daughter and the savage but clever fugitive struck
down by police gunfire.

  The moment Donovan was pulled off Fogerty, the leaks had begun, and soon the sky above the train yard was filled with those dreaded newscopters, their pilots dutifully reporting the massive sweep for land mines.

  Three cops were dead and the girl was still missing, and none of it looked good for the grieving father and the ATF. Donovan was painted as a rogue agent. Fogerty was considered by some to be a hero, and by others to be a complete idiot.

  Reporters were waiting for them both outside the train yard, where uniformed cops did their best with crowd control. Donovan had no comment, but Fogerty, playing it up for the cameras as he was loaded into the back of an ambulance, shouted that he was just doing his job and would be speaking to his attorneys tomorrow.

  Somewhere in the suburbs, the families of slain security guards Walter O’Brien and Samuel Kingman thanked God for answering their prayers.

  But how sad about the little girl …

  25

  RACHEL KNEW SHE wouldn’t be going home tonight. No way she’d walk out that door knowing what Jack was going through.

  Two years working for the man wasn’t the only thing that kept her here. She felt his hurt. In the pit of her stomach. Like a mother feels the hurt of a child. Or a wife the hurt of a husband.

  Sure, they all felt it. But not like Rachel.

  She stood in the doorway of the Situation Room, watching Jack struggle to contain his torment. He stared down at a conference table covered with the contents of Gunderson’s train car: guns, knives, convenience-store receipts, Polaroids, a half dozen cartons of Marlboros, an assortment of candy bars, pamphlets touting antigovernment propaganda, a handful of battered-looking books on metaphysics and cult religions.

  The yard had been thoroughly searched, a dozen or more land mines uncovered and defused by the CPD bomb squad. But there’d been no sign of Jessie anywhere, and none of the items on the table gave them the slightest indication of where she might be.

  The oxygen tank from Gunderson’s train car had been traced to a recent warehouse theft at Clayman Medical Supply. Seven portable E cylinders had been stolen, containing about 680 liters of oxygen each. The manager of the supply house estimated that, depending on the rate of intake and barring any leakage, each tank could last between five and ten hours. If Gunderson had used the remaining six tanks rigged to an automatic switchover system, the most optimistic projection gave Jessie approximately sixty hours of air. Two and a half days. And the clock had already started.