And he was ready.
No, not just ready.
Eager.
20
When he heard the car pulling up, Donovan checked his watch: 8:35. He’d been waiting here twenty short minutes.
He stood in a corner of a dilapidated train car, near the rear door, his back pressed against the mottled fabric that lined the walls. The air was thick with the smell of stale cigarettes and half a century’s worth of mold.
Earlier, a sweep of his flashlight had told him that this had once been a passenger car. A luxury one at that, built at the turn of the century. How it wound up in the middle of a freight yard was anyone’s guess.
A slower sweep had told him that amidst the litter of butt-filled ashtrays and Baby Ruth wrappers, Gunderson had stockpiled enough weapons and ammunition to launch a Cuban invasion. Donovan had them cleared out immediately, of course. No point in taking chances.
His earpiece crackled.
A.J.’s voice: “It’s him.”
Donovan raised his two-way. “Any sign of Jessie?”
“Negative.”
“All right. Stay put until I give the signal.”
Outside, the car approached slowly, its engine rattling. It sounded small and foreign. Probably a beat-up Honda or Toyota, several years old, which undoubtedly matched its surroundings. Gunderson would be sure to steal a car that blended in.
The question was whether Jessie was inside. Could he have stashed her in the trunk? On the floor, between the front and back seats? Or was she with him at all?
The sight of those muddy boot prints had left a queasy feeling in Donovan’s stomach. In his gut he knew Jessie wasn’t in that car, and finding her would be problematic at best. All he’d managed to get from Bobby Nemo was this train yard and the location of Gunderson’s makeshift digs. Nemo had claimed no knowledge of Jessie other than Gunderson’s initial plan to snatch her.
Gunderson himself wasn’t likely to be much more helpful, but Donovan would tie the bastard to a stake and strip the flesh off his body, piece by piece, if that was the only way to break him down. The moment Gunderson took Jessie off that bus, the boundaries had changed. All the rules Donovan had lived his life by went straight out the window.
The car rattled to a stop. A moment later, the door creaked open, then slammed shut. Just outside the train-car door, a cat cried.
Gunderson had a friend.
Donovan’s earpiece crackled again. “Heads up, he’s coming your way.”
Donovan gave his call button two quick jabs, then clipped the radio to his belt and brought out his Glock. Keeping his eyes on the door, he listened intently as boots trudged onto the rear platform.
Welcome home, asshole.
The Fireball was waiting for him. The little orange fuzz bucket had adopted him his first week here and wouldn’t let go. Gunderson had always been partial to cats, liked their independence, but this one was a particularly needy beast, always there to greet him when he came home. It had been cute at first, but now he found it annoying as hell.
He had half a mind to snap its neck.
As he approached the train-car door, the cat meowed and rubbed against his leg, purring like a motorboat. He gave it a quick kick to the ribs, knocking it aside, then unfastened the padlock and rolled the door open.
Darkness greeted him. He had considered having Luther pick up a generator, but had decided against it. Unnecessary noise attracts attention. Not something he wanted to do.
Instead, he had lined the inside of the train car with portable fluorescents-the kind that look like Coleman lanterns-then boarded up all the windows to keep any clue to his presence hidden from the outside world.
He reached inside, just above the doorway, where he kept one such portable hanging from a hook.
It wasn’t there.
Gunderson paused, his senses revving into overdrive. There was something different about the air inside. A hint of human beneath the mustiness.
He stood there, not moving for a moment.
Then he smiled. “Hiya, hotshot.”
“Hello, Alex.”
21
A portable fluorescent lamp flickered to life. Jack Donovan stood to the left, near a corner, the lamp in one hand, a Glock 19 in the other.
“Step inside,” he said quietly. “Keep your hands in view.”
Gunderson did as he was told. He took the threat of a weapon like the 19 very seriously. Once inside, he turned and faced the door.
Donovan set the lamp atop a seat back, then came out of the corner and stood just inside the doorway.
He didn’t lower the Glock.
“Where is she?” he said.
Gunderson ignored the question. “You worked faster than I expected. I take it Bobby didn’t offer you much resistance.”
“I can be persuasive when I have to be.”
“I’ll bet you can. Maybe it’s time I got myself some new friends.”
Donovan stepped forward. “Cut the crap, Alex. Where is she?”
“Snug as a bug in a rug. Better pray nobody steps on her.”
“Tell me or you’re a dead man.”
“I don’t think so.”
Donovan glared at him. Gunderson could sense the gears of desperation clacking away inside the man’s head, trying to calculate the right move, searching for just the right thing to say. Seeing him in agony like this was like feasting on a fine meal. All the risks Gunderson had taken to get to this moment were more than worth it.
And the game had only begun.
“Look behind me, Jack. You see that oxygen tank leaning against the wall back there?” He’d had Luther steal a bunch of them, more than he was able to use. “There are six more just like it buried somewhere nice and cozy, all hooked up to switchover valves. Right now they’re the only thing keeping your pumpkin alive.”
Donovan’s eyes flashed. “You sick fuck.”
“Demerits, Jack, demerits. You don’t want to get on my bad side. Look at it this way. I could’ve just popped that teenybopper cherry of hers and left her for dead. Instead I thought I’d give her a taste of what it’s like to be my Sara.” He looked directly at Donovan. “Have you seen Sara, Jack? Have you gone to visit her? I have, late at night, when nobody was watching. All those machines she’s hooked up to? It’s not a pretty sight.”
“You’re blaming the wrong guy,” Donovan said. “If you love her so much, why was she even in that van? Why put her in harm’s way?”
“You think that was my choice?”
“I think she did whatever you told her to.”
“You’re wrong. I couldn’t have stopped her even if I wanted to. She wasn’t exactly what you’d call a stay-at-home mom. She was committed. To me, and to the cause.”
“Ahh,” Donovan said. “The cause.”
“You’re a drone, Jack. You and the rest of America. You sit on your couches, mesmerized by the glitz of Access Hollywood and Entertainment Tonight, while a New World Order is put into place by a government you’re supposed to trust. The Constitution doesn’t matter anymore. There is no United States of America, only a global economy owned and operated by the Pentagon and big oil. You’re a corporate lackey, Jack. And the corporation is set up to feed off its slaves.”
“Nice speech,” Donovan said. “I might even agree with you to some extent. But why do I get the feeling it’s all hot air and bullshit?”
“Meaning?”
“I’ve read your sheet. I know your history. You’re a thug, Alex. A sociopathic headline seeker who preys on the very people you claim you’re trying to help.”
“Thank you, Dr. Phil.”
“You may have had Sara fooled, you may’ve even convinced yourself somewhere along the line that what you’re doing makes you some kind of noble warrior, but we both know your only real cause is Alexander Gunderson.”
Gunderson brought his hands together and clapped. “Looks like it’s a night for speeches. But don’t you think it’s a little dangerous to be psychoanalyzing me when you’ve got so much at stake?”