Armstrong’s entire face seemed to contort. His teeth were locked together in red-hot rage. “You little—”
“I want to make a deal.”
“A deal?”
“A trade. Him for me.” Ben took a deep breath. “You have no reason to kill Tyrone. He doesn’t know who you are. Sure, he found the penknife, but he didn’t know what it meant. That’s why he sent it to me. I’m the only one who poses a threat to you.”
“I want the knife!”
“Let me call an ambulance and get Tyrone to the hospital. Then you can have the knife.”
“And you?” Armstrong bellowed.
Ben nodded quietly. “And me.”
He laughed suddenly, frighteningly. “Did you really think you could do a deal with me? Did you think you have what it takes to go toe-to-toe with me?” Ben could see veins throbbing and pulsing in the man’s neck, the tightening of his entire body. He was livid with rage, ready to strike out at anything. “You fucking weasel. I’ll bet you’ve got the penknife on you right now.”
Ben stopped his hand just a second after it involuntarily moved toward his pants pocket. Damn!
Armstrong’s smile was an eerie white gash in the darkness. “I’m going to enjoy killing you,” he said as he moved toward Ben.
As Armstrong crossed the platform, he passed Tyrone’s broken body lying in a crumpled heap between them. Ben watched as the man approached, trying to figure out his next move. He’d bluffed his way this far, but what had it gotten him? Where was he going next?
He was still holding his breath, still watching the footsteps, when he saw Tyrone’s hand twitch. Ben caught his breath, tried not to show any reaction. But he kept watching.
It was more than a twitch. The hand was moving. Slowly, so Armstrong wouldn’t notice. But it was moving.
As Armstrong passed beside him, Tyrone suddenly rolled around with a force Ben would not have thought possible. Both arms swung about as Tyrone grabbed the man’s leg and pulled with all his might.
“Son of a bitch!” Tyrone grunted, as Armstrong’s foot slipped out from under him. The gun fired. Ben felt the bullet whiz by somewhere overhead. A second after, Armstrong crashed to the floor. The gun fell out of his hand and slid behind him.
Ben had to think quickly. His first impulse was to go after the gun, but he couldn’t get to it before Armstrong did. If he tried, he’d only be giving Armstrong an easy shot. This was one time when discretion was the better part of valor.
He turned back toward the catwalk and ran.
“I’ll be back for you, Tyrone,” Ben shouted as he raced across the narrow catwalk. It gleamed silver in the moonlight, catching the glow of what little illumination penetrated the dense clouds of smoke and brimstone all around them.
Just as he reached the ladder, Ben heard the first shot peel out. He didn’t have to look back to know what was happening. Armstrong was back on his feet with the gun in his hands. He was mad as hell and ready to kill.
Ben hit the ladder moving as fast as he could. He placed his hands and feet on the outside of the ladder and slid down into the darkness like a firefighter descending a firepole. It was a lot faster than he normally cared to travel, especially when he was high up in the air, but he had no choice. He had to move fast.
He heard another shot ring out, this time much closer. He dared a look up. Armstrong was hovering overhead, gun in hand, firing to kill.
Ben was still looking up when he hit the ground hard. It took him by surprise, knocking him off his feet. He rolled around, scrambling for cover. He pushed back to his feet, then let out a yelp. He’d hurt his ankle in the fall. A sharp burst of pain radiated up his leg; he wouldn’t be moving anywhere very fast.
He limped and lurched to the side of a nearby storage tank, rounding a corner and pressing himself up against the wall.
The shots had stopped. Ben looked all around him, trying to remember which way led to his car. It was impossible; in the darkness, it was a gigantic smoke-filled maze with no landmarks or clearly marked exits. Ben’s sense of direction wasn’t great in the best of circumstances, and these were far from the best of circumstances. All he could do was plunge ahead, hoping for the best, well aware that the killer was hot on his heels. He was the hunted and the maniac upstairs was the hunter. And if he caught Ben, that would be the last note in the concerto.
Chapter 48
EARL HEARD THE shots, first one, then another, close after the first. He raised himself cautiously out of the back of the van, careful to avoid any sudden movement, keeping his head low.
What the hell was going on out there? He’d like to think Ben had the upper hand, but he knew damn well the fool had refused to take the gun with him. Whoever was firing, it wasn’t Ben. And if Ben wasn’t the shooter, chances were, he was the shootee.
Damn it all to hell. He’d promised the boy he’d remain in the van. But this was just too much. First Tyrone, now Ben—how many people were going to die because of him? How many friends were going to fall because this sick bastard kept missing the target?
The hard truth was he was responsible for this mess. It was time he started acting like it.
He quietly cracked the door open. He crawled out quickly, not wanting the light inside the van on any longer than necessary. He didn’t know where Ben was; he couldn’t tell where the shot had come from. Somewhere in the refinery, maybe, or the office building. He couldn’t be sure.
He stopped in his tracks. Wait a minute! He was being just as stupid as Kincaid. Maybe stupider. He knew the killer was armed; he’d heard the shots.
He turned back toward the van, opened the passenger-side door, and popped open the glove compartment. He took the shiny new Sig Sauer out as quickly as possible and closed the door.
Still no sign that anyone had seen him. The man with the gun evidently had other things to do at the moment than watch the parking lot.
Earl gazed at the treasure he had extracted from the glove compartment. It was a nice piece—first class, and if he wasn’t mistaken, pretty expensive, too.
He shoved it inside his belt and lumbered across the lot. There were no lights on inside the building; still, it seemed more likely that they would be in there than running around the refinery. He decided to try that first.
He pushed on the front doors—unlocked, even at this hour. He stepped inside, looking and listening for any sign of Kincaid or Tyrone or the man with the gun. Damn, but this gave him the creeps. The man had already taken Lily, Scat—he couldn’t bear the thought of losing Tyrone and Ben as well.
He gritted his teeth and plunged down a darkened corridor. He just hoped he got there in time.
Ben raced through the dark passages of the refinery favoring his right leg, trying to keep moving. It was like an open-air haunted house, full of dead ends and dark secrets. He plunged down a pitch-black opening only to find his way blocked by a huge storage tank. He whirled around, desperate to find some exit before Grady Armstrong found him.
Ben had no idea where he was going. He was stumbling blind, lurching through the smoky darkness without a plan or a clue.
But Armstrong knew this place, probably knew it well. He had chosen this location for their meeting. He was comfortable here.
That gave him a huge edge—a killing edge, in all likelihood.
If Ben could just get to his van, he could drive out of here. Even if he just got to his car phone, he could call for help, get an ambulance for Tyrone.
Problem was, he didn’t know where it was.
Everyplace in the refinery looked like everyplace else, at least in the dark. There were no landmarks he could use to find his way. Perhaps, he thought, if he just raced ahead in one direction, eventually he would find an exit. Unfortunately, no path ever followed a straight line for long. He’d hit a storage tank, be forced to make a turn, and then be totally disoriented all over again.