No need to aim, just point and shoot. He knew what shot shells could do to a human being at close range.
Each disintegrating shell was like a miniature shrapnel bomb, flinging a cloud of lethal debris. Kris would be ripped apart. She would have no time to react, no chance to duck or hide, and even if she tried, there was no place for her to take cover in the Town Car's rear compartment.
She was sealed in a box, and killing her would be, quite literally, like shooting fish in a barrel.
"You should've answered my letters, Kris," Hickle whispered.
As soon as the Town Car stopped at the Reserve's gate, Travis shifted into hyper vigilance He was seated beside Kris in the backseat. Inside his jacket, strapped to his left shoulder, he carried his 9mm Walther.
He unbuttoned the jacket and let his right hand rest on the lapel, ready to draw the gun if necessary.
When the gate rose, Kris seemed to relax a little. No doubt she felt safer inside the compound. She didn't know about the photos in Hickle's apartment, the ones that showed her running on the beach. She didn't know there was no safety here. Quite the opposite.
This was the time and place of maximum jeopardy. If Hickle planned to strike, this was where he would do it.
The Lincoln advanced along Gateway Road, Steve Drury driving at a cautious pace. In the rearview mirror his eyes were visible, ticking back and forth.
Halfway down Gateway now. The intersection with Malibu Reserve Drive was two hundred yards ahead.
"Almost home," Kris breathed.
He glanced at her, silhouetted in profile against the foliage on the left side of the road. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that her face had the perfect bone structure. Probably she worried about getting old, losing her looks, but what she didn't understand was that a beauty like hers was not a matter of smooth skin and ripe complexion, but of the underlying architecture of her strong frontal bone and well-defined zygomatic arches. She would be beautiful when she was eighty, if she lived that long.
One hundred fifty yards to the intersection. Still no trouble. Kris sighed, relaxing a little more-the amateur's mistake. Proximity to home only increased the danger. Hickle would wait until the car had slowed to a crawl, as it would when it turned into the driveway.
Drury had not relaxed, Travis noted. Good man, well trained. He wore a Kevlar vest under his jacket;
Travis had brought it for him. He had brought no vest for himself.
He'd been afraid Kris would see it and panic. Sometimes it was necessary to take certain personal risks to maintain the client's confidence. Anyway, Travis was fatalistic about such things. He always estimated the risks of any undertaking before proceeding with it. Once committed, he put all danger out of his mind. All danger to himself, at least. The threat to Kris was a different story. Nothing could be allowed to happen to her.
One hundred yards to Malibu Reserve Drive. The interior of the car was quiet except for the thrum of tires, the muffled vibration of the engine, and Kris's breathing, slow and steady.
Then a new sound, startling-a loud, insistent chirp.
His cell phone. Who would be calling him at midnight?
He whipped out the phone and held it to his ear, his gaze fixed on the dark roadside.
"Travis," he barked.
"Sir, it's Hastings." One of the TPS computer jocks tracking down Trendline Investments and its possible connection to Western Regional Resources.
"You told us to call if we found anything definitive."
"Did you?"
"Yes, sir. I'd say we did."
"Give it to me fast," Travis ordered, still watching the darkness.
"I don't have much time."
Abby had propped herself to a sitting position on the fire escape when Wyatt returned, climbing through the bedroom window with her purse in his hand.
She took the cell phone from her purse and powered it on. In the glow of the liquid crystal display she found the menu button and navigated to the first number stored in memory, the number of Travis's mobile phone.
She speed-dialed it.
Wyatt crouched beside her, saying nothing. She knew he had many questions to ask, and she loved him just a little for not asking them yet.
Busy signal.
She hissed a curse and terminated the call, then redialed.
Still busy, damn it.
"What's the matter?" Wyatt whispered.
"Can't get through." She forced the words past gritted teeth.
"You can dial the operator, have the phone company break in on the call."
"It'll take too long." She called again. Busy "Come on, Paul, clear the line."
"I'll cut to the chase." Hastings's voice crackled in Travis's ear.
"We started with Trendline Investments.
Trendline, as a corporate entity, sits on the board of directors of something called Pro Future Opportunities, also incorporated in the Netherlands Antilles. There are three other companies on Pro Future board-all dummy corporations, as far as we can tell. One of them is named Grayfoxx Financial. You following this?"
Travis nodded, his gaze never leaving the blur of shadows at the edge of the road.
"Go on."
"Here's the link. Grayfoxx is the largest shareholder of Western Regional Resources." "Bang," Travis said softly.
"You got it. Essentially, Grayfoxx owns Western Regional, and Grayfoxx and Trendline jointly own Pro Future Our guess is that Mr. Barwood-"
"Owns all of them," Travis finished.
"Right. He set it all up as shells within shells, very complicated, hard to trace. But we nailed him." There was pride in Hastings's voice. Travis supposed he was entitled to it.
"Good work. Now get some rest." Travis ended the call.
Twenty yards to the intersection. The Town Car slowed in preparation for a sharp left turn.
"What was that about?" Kris asked.
Travis couldn't tell her now. Later was the right time. Later, when she was safe.
"Some other case," he said.
"Don't worry about it."
She frowned at him, her reporter's instincts evidently disputing his answer, but before she could ask anything further, the phone chirped again. Was it Hastings, calling with additional details? For a moment Travis considered shutting off the phone to silence it.
Ten yards.
Oh, hell. He took the call.
"Travis," he snapped.
"This had better be-" He didn't finish. On the other end of the line was a hoarse, desperate, anguished voice, Abby's voice, and. she was screaming.
"Code Red, Paul, you hear me, Hickle is Code Red!"
The Town Car was turning onto Malibu Reserve Drive when its brakes squealed, and suddenly the car was reversing fast, and Hickle knew they were on to him.
He sprang out of the foliage, the twelve-gauge in both hands. From this angle he didn't have a clear shot at the side windows so he opened fire on the windshield, hoping to take out the driver. The glass starred but didn't shatter. Behind the web of fractures he saw the driver spinning the wheel as he backed onto Gateway.
Once lined up, the Lincoln could reverse straight to the gate, where the guard must already be dialing 911.
Hickle fired two more shots at the windshield, emptying the Marlin, but although the glass buckled, it still did not give way. The shots distracted the driver long enough for the car to skid partially off the road at a crazy angle. For a moment the Lincoln was stuck, its right rear tire mired in dirt.
Hickle ditched his duffel bag and charged the car, reloading on the run.
He saw movement in the backseat, two figures. One of them was Kris.
The driver shifted out of reverse and plowed forward, but by the time he was back on the road, Hickle had run alongside. He fired three shells at the car's side panel, hoping to blow it apart. No good. The car absorbed the shots with only superficial damage.
Armor plating. Bulletproof glass. Jackbnimble had never mentioned anything about that. Either he hadn't known, or this was some kind of setup. Hickle had no time to puzzle it out. The Lincoln was executing a clumsy K-turn as the driver tried to orient the car toward the exit.