“Your plans have caused me a lot of grief. And my friends as well.”
“Good. That makes me happy.” He smiled. “The grief is about to intensify.”
With his free hand, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small, hand-sized black box with an antenna extending from it. There was a red light on the top, not currently illuminated, above two red buttons. “Do you know what this is?”
Ben shook his head. “Some sort of radio signal transmitter.”
“Right the first time. As you may have gathered, I have a certain facility with explosives. A gift from Uncle Sam, courtesy of my army days, before I departed prematurely from my distinguished career of service.” He paused. “I know where you live. You and the kid.”
“You son of a bitch,” Ben muttered.
“And that whore babysitter, and the landlady, and everyone else in your happy little extended family. Guess what? The building is wired. Plastic explosives.” He looked down at his box. “This is a very good transmitter. Even though the house is almost a quarter of a mile away, this will trigger the detonation almost instantaneously.”
“Don’t do it,” Ben said. “It isn’t worth it.”
The man ignored him. “I think you’re familiar with some of my previous work, so you know I’m not bluffing. I can do this. I have done this. All I have to do is push this button. And they all die.”
Ben carefully eyed the distance between his hand and the transmitter. Could he knock the thing out of this lunatic’s hands before he could push the button?
Probably not.
Was he going to throw dice with the lives of everyone in the house?
“What is it you want?” Ben said evenly.
“I read in the paper that you were hoping to get some exercise when the trial was over. So I’m going to accommodate you. That’s why we’re here, in the park. On the jogging trail. You’re going to run.”
“In my street shoes?”
“Already making excuses? I wouldn’t. My fingers are very antsy tonight.” He placed his gun in his coat pocket, keeping his left thumb poised over the deadly red button. Then he gripped the transmitter with both hands. “There’s another device like this one, a transmitter, taped to the side of the bridge, about a mile south on this trail. If you get there and push the button, the little light on my transmitter will light and I’ll know you made it. I’ll give you five minutes.”
“What? I don’t get it.”
“What do you say, Kincaid? Think you can run a five-minute mile?”
“No!”
“Pity. If this light doesn’t shine inside of five minutes, I’m pushing the big red button. And they’ll all die.” He withdrew a stopwatch, keeping his thumb poised over the red button. He clicked the top of the stopwatch. “Go.”
“This is crazy. I can’t—”
“Your time is ticking, Kincaid. Your friends and your nephew are five minutes from doomsday. Less now.”
Ben ran. He barreled down the jogging path, the wind whistling in his face. He wasn’t a particularly fast runner, especially in a suit, tie, and street shoes. But he couldn’t think about that. He had to run; he had to make it. One thing he was absolutely sure of—this maniac meant what he said. He would push the button if Ben failed. What’s more, he was hoping Ben would fail.
Ben blitzed down the path into the darkness. It was hard running at top speed when he could barely see two feet in front of himself, but he pressed on. He glanced back over his shoulder; the crazy was behind him, keeping him in sight. Ben knew if he detoured from the path or tried to run for help, he’d push the button.
Suddenly Ben’s foot hit something—he never knew what—and he went tumbling to the ground. He hit shoulder first, smack on the gravel. It stung like hell; his shoulder felt wrenched.
It didn’t matter. This was costing him time. He pushed himself to his feet, forcing his limbs to work. He had to keep running. He had to.
The stitch in his side felt like a knife. He wasn’t used to this sort of exertion; usually, about the most exercise he got was chasing his cat. His chest was aching and he could barely breathe.
Didn’t matter. He had to keep running. He had to keep running.
Up ahead, he saw the Fifteenth Street Bridge that crossed over to the west bank of the river. He scanned as best he could, never breaking his speed. Finally he saw it, near the bottom.
The transmitter.
He had no idea what his time was, but he knew it was close. He dove toward the little black box, crashing down onto the pavement, punching the button.
He lay on the ground, panting, aching, trying to catch his breath. A few moments later, the man trotted up beside him. “Not bad, Kincaid. Not bad.” He glanced at the stopwatch. “Four minutes and forty-six seconds. Who’d have thought you had it in you? Not bad at all.”
He kicked Ben in the side, just below the ribs. “Get up.”
Ben grabbed his aching side. “Give me a minute.”
“I said, get up.” He kicked Ben again, this time even harder.
Gritting his teeth, Ben pushed himself to his feet. “All right,” he said. His chest ached with each syllable. “You’ve had your fun. I’ve played your game. Can we all go home now?”
The young man’s face was split by a smile so cold, so eerie it illuminated the darkness. “Hell no, Kincaid. We’re just beginning. That was just a warm-up. Now you’re going to do it again.”
Chapter 68
CHRISTINA GLANCED UNHAPPILY AT her watch. “This isn’t like Ben.”
Jones shrugged his shoulders. “He’s probably exhausted. Wouldn’t you be?”
“But that doesn’t explain why he didn’t come back to the hotel room. He told me to meet him here.”
“Maybe he saw a bar on the way and decided he needed a couple of quick shots.”
Loving chuckled. “The Skipper? More likely he stopped at Quick Trip for a quart of chocolate milk.”
“Guys, this isn’t funny. I’m worried.” Christina paced around the hotel room. “He tells us to meet him in the hotel room, and then he doesn’t show up. It isn’t like him.”
“Give him a little more time,” Jones said, trying to relax her. “He’ll show. Don’t you think, Loving?”
Loving slowly moved his head to one side. “I dunno. It is strange. And Christina’s instincts are usually pretty darn good.” He pushed himself off the sofa. “You want I should go look around at the courthouse?”
Christina shook her head. “He wasn’t there when I left. Why would he be there now? No, he must’ve been waylaid somewhere after he left.” She paused for a moment, thinking about what she had said. Waylaid. The word echoed in her brain. “Oh, my God. You don’t think—”
“Think?” Jones jumped to his feet. “What? What are you thinking?”
“Sick heart,” she said succinctly.
Their eyes moved from one to another. “But how?”
“I don’t know,” Christina said. “And we won’t find out sitting here.” She grabbed the phone and punched nine for an outside line. “I’m calling Mike.”
The man holding the transmitter was still laughing.
“Surely you didn’t think we were done. Oh, no, Kincaid. We’re just beginning! After all, we have to get you in shape.”
Ben leaned heavily against the bridge. “What do you want now?”