The fire extinguisher came crashing down again, this time on the top of his head. He fell forward, the only way to go, collapsing on his hands and knees.
Fight it, he told himself. You’re no good to Ben unconscious. Fight it.
But there was no fighting it. When the fire extinguisher came for the third time, it smashed down with such intensity that it knocked Mike flat onto the gravel. The darkness of the refinery was replaced by a darkness born of his own brain.
“Ben,” he whispered, barely audibly. And then he was gone.
Chapter 50
“I GOT YOUR FRIEND!”
Ben froze, his body pressed against a silvery tank.
“Do you hear me? I got your friend. I’m killing him! Slowly.”
Ben swore under his breath. He scooted out from under the tank, cautiously looking in all directions. How could this happen? He told Earl to stay in the car.
“What do you know?” Armstrong bellowed. “A police officer.”
Ben’s head jerked up. What—?
“Lieutenant M. Morelli, Tulsa Police Department.”
Mike? How did he get here? How did he find him?
“A policeman. Well, well, well.” Ben heard a heavy thumping sound, as if something large had fallen to the ground. “Take that, Lieutenant.”
Ben’s blood chilled as he heard the report of a gun. It was above him, to the left. It seemed Armstrong had returned to the same high perch where this elaborate cat-and-mouse game had begun.
“I told you if you didn’t come alone everyone would die, Kincaid, and I’m a man of my word.”
Ice cold shivers ran down Ben’s spine.
“Don’t worry. He’s not dead yet, though I banged him up pretty good dragging him up those stairs. I like to take my time. You could still help him.”
Ben crawled out into the open. “What do you want?” he shouted.
“You know what I want,” Armstrong answered. “Come to me. Come to me, or I empty my gun in this stupid policeman’s head!”
Ben walked to the bottom of the ladder. He didn’t know what to do. His brain was racing through all the options and potential outcomes. He couldn’t just sit in hiding and let this madman execute Mike, or let Tyrone bleed to death. At the same time, if he did show himself, Armstrong was certain to kill him. And in all likelihood, everyone else. This man had killed so many times, so wantonly—Ben knew he would only keep the others alive as long as he needed them to get the penknife.
It was a no-win situation, however it played out. But he couldn’t run away, couldn’t just leave Mike and Tyrone in this man’s clutches.
Slowly, grimly, he placed his hands on the ladder and began to climb.
A few moments later, he arrived at the top. He crossed the catwalk deliberately, trying to remain alert, ready for anything. He was barely halfway across when he saw Armstrong waiting for him, gun posed directly at Ben’s head.
“Keep walking,” Armstrong growled. His voice was hoarse and his gun hand wavered. Ben sensed that he was dealing with a man who was dangerously close to the end of his rope. The chase had gone on too long and he was tired of it.
But, he also thought, it was possible he could use that to his advantage.
“Step off the catwalk.” Ben did as he was bidden, stopping when he was barely a foot away. The instant he arrived, Armstrong reached forward with his gun hand and clubbed Ben on the side of the face.
Ben tried to roll with it, but it still stung. The hard metal of the gun cut his cheekbone; he could feel blood trickling forth.
“You’ve given me about all the trouble I can stand,” Armstrong growled. “I’m going to enjoy seeing you die.”
Ben scanned the surroundings. He saw Mike lying prone beside them. He appeared to be unconscious, but as far as Ben could tell he wasn’t bleeding or wounded. That gunshot must have been into the air. Just for drama’s sake.
He saw Tyrone, too, still lying in a hideous heap a few feet behind. He looked even worse than before.
“I’ll take the penknife now,” Armstrong said, spitting as he talked. “And no more small change, please.”
Ben cleared his throat and swallowed. “I … don’t have it,” he said.
Armstrong’s eyes narrowed to tiny glowing slits. “You didn’t bring it?”
“Right. And only I know where it is.”
“But you said—”
Ben pursed his lips together. “I bluffed.”
Armstrong’s entire body shook. “But you—you—” He swung his gun hand around again, this time even harder than before. It hit Ben’s face with a crack. Ben cried out; he couldn’t help himself.
Armstrong glanced back at Tyrone, then at Ben. His eyes glowed with rage. “Goddamn you!” The arm swung around again. Ben tried to duck, but he was too late. The metal fist hit him in the jaw, knocking him back onto the catwalk.
“I want the penknife!” Armstrong was spitting, screaming. He seemed to have lost all semblance of sanity. “Do you hear me? I want the fucking penknife!”
“I don’t have it,” Ben whispered.
Armstrong began moving wildly about, flinging his arms around. He fired a shot into the air. He grabbed Ben by his shirt, shaking him brutally.
Ben cast a wary eye on either side of him. Here, beneath the railing, it would be a simple thing to fall off the catwalk. And it was a long way to the ground.
“Don’t think this helps you. Don’t think you’ll get away with this. I’m going to kill you and all your friends. And I’m going to enjoy it. And then I’m going to go to your office, tear the place apart, find the knife, and kill everyone there. And anyone else who gets in my way.”
Ben bit down on his lower lip. The gun was in Armstrong’s hand, pressed against Ben’s forehead. He couldn’t allow this to happen, couldn’t let this maniac slaughter all his friends, his coworkers.
Armstrong’s eyes burned down into Ben’s. “And I’m going to start with you!” Before Ben could react, Armstrong lifted him into the air by his shirt collar and tossed him backwards. Ben skittered across the catwalk, coming dangerously close to the edge. He clutched at the guardrail, trying to keep himself from falling.
“What’s the matter, Kincaid? Scared of heights?” Ben saw the shadow before he knew what was happening, then saw the swift boot impact on his stomach. He bent over, spitting blood, clutching his stomach.
“Move your hands,” Armstrong grunted. “Move ’em or lose ’em.” The boot thudded down into Ben’s gut. All of a sudden, the world around Ben seemed to turn a brilliant white. He felt something crack inside—a rib? He couldn’t be sure, but whatever it was, it burned like fire inside him.
Ben tried to scramble away. It was a mistake; he was woozy on his feet, could barely keep any sense of equilibrium. He saw the ground beneath him wobbling, rushing up to him …
“Sayonara, Kincaid.”
In the nanosecond that he saw Armstrong rushing toward him, his brain flashed on a thousand images, a million memories. He saw his father, his mother, his sister. And Ellen. He saw Christina and Mike, telling him he needed to learn to defend himself. He saw Sensai Papadopoulos, trying to teach him the simplest maneuver. Trying to teach him …
Armstrong came at him at full speed, arms extended. Just before impact, Ben ducked and spun around, showing Armstrong his back. Armstrong’s arms flew over his head; Ben grabbed them and flipped with all his might.
And it worked. For once, it actually worked. Armstrong flew over Ben, thrust forward by the speed of his own momentum. He skittered down the catwalk, careening dangerously toward the precipice. He almost spilled over the edge; at the last minute, he dropped his gun and used that hand to grab the guardrail. The gun fell silently down, down, to the ground far below.