I pushed the corpse onto the front seat. Leaning over it, I turned the ignition and the engine fired to life.
Graham released the door. It blew inward, thumping against the corpse’s legs. “I’ve got the gas.” He held up the bloody shirt.
“Wrap that around these.” I passed the bundle of twigs to him. “Shape it into a torch.”
I ran around the vehicle and helped Beverly load the other corpse into the passenger seat. Then I darted to the hood. After grabbing the free ends of the jumper cables, I hurried to the gas tank and watched as Beverly snaked the second shirt inside of it.
“The lights,” she said quietly. “They’ve stopped moving.”
Ice crept down my spine as I looked at the headlights. They peered through the dark winds from about fifty yards away.
Abruptly, they blinked off.
I glanced at the reliquary. My gaze lingered for a moment. Then I placed the foamy material on the ground, using my boot to keep it in place. I touched the jumper cables to the material. A small spark appeared.
Dropping the cables, I covered the spark with my hands. Gently, I blew on it, giving it life. The foam started to burn.
“Light your torch,” I told Graham. “And make it fast. This fire won’t last long.”
He touched the torch to the foam. The cloth burst into flames.
“Get up the hill.” I grabbed the torch from him. “And pray this works.”
Chapter 27
Jeremy Pascal frowned as his car slowed to a crawl. Fifty yards away, he saw dim lights. They blinked on and off at irregular intervals. He assumed the lights belonged to the reconnaissance vehicle. But why were they blinking like that? Was the car’s battery failing? Or was the blowing dirt sporadically blocking the beams?
“Park here,” he muttered softly.
The driver pressed the brakes. The car ground to a halt and Pascal lifted his binoculars. Staring through the windshield, he thought he saw several shadows scurrying about the area. But the dust storm made it impossible to be certain.
“Can you see anyone?” Pascal squinted into the lenses.
“Nope.” The driver turned off the ignition. “Want me to try calling them again?”
“Don’t bother. The storm is probably blocking satellite reception. Anyway Herman and Mickles are good at what they do. I’m sure they’ve got everything under control.”
Pascal’s massive hand unlatched the door and shoved it open. The wind threatened to slam it shut, but his arm held firm. Wrapping a scarf around his face, he stepped outside and quietly closed the door. He was reasonably certain Herman and Mickles had already captured the salvage team. But he’d learned long ago never to take any situation for granted.
Two large box trucks and four SUVs pulled to a halt. Their lights darkened. Their engines fell silent. Numerous men emerged from the vehicles.
Pointing his fingers, Pascal signaled a flanking maneuver. His men pulled out guns and divided into two groups.
Crouching down, he led one of the groups to the northwest. He stayed low and maintained an easy pace, avoiding any sudden movements.
An uneasy feeling started to nag at Pascal. He wasn’t all that surprised that Herman and Mickles hadn’t picked up his calls. What really bothered him was the lack of flares. His team knew better than to hunker down and invite suspicion. They should’ve been out in the open, giving signals.
Soft crackling echoed across the soil. Puzzled, he froze in place.
The ground rumbled. An earsplitting boom struck the night sky, drowning out the brutal air currents. The blinking headlights disappeared, replaced by a giant fireball.
Shielding his eyes, Pascal stared at the fire. “What the hell?”
Adopting a moderate pace, he strode forward. Mid-sized flames licked the dark sky, sucking at the oxygen. Large chunks of metal and plastic lay near the mangled wreckage.
He scanned the area for Mickles and Herman. Seeing no one, he circled to the side. Something sharp stung his face. His hand flew to his cheek and came away bloody. Grunting in frustration, he backed up a few steps. The explosion had sent smaller pieces of glass and metal airborne, adding a new element of danger to the dust storm.
Kneeling in the dirt, he studied the wreckage from a safe distance. The force of the explosion had caused a small hill of dirt to collapse. It partially covered the SUV’s metal remains. Several fires raged inside the vehicle, crackling loudly.
Farther to the north, he noticed a medium-duty truck, half buried under a mound of dirt. He figured it belonged to the salvage team.
Peering through his binoculars, he noticed the truck’s front left tire was flat. A large piece of cargo, shaped like a box, was lashed securely to the flatbed. He was pleased to see the explosion hadn’t damaged it.
He waited for the wind to die down. Then he inched forward. Something crunched under his boot. It felt hard, yet soft. Glancing down, he noticed a bloody, dirt-covered object.
It was part of a hand.
Looking around, he saw other bits of flesh lying on the ground. Quickly, he put the pieces together. Mickles and Herman must’ve confronted Reed’s salvage team. A fight had raged between the two sides, largely drowned out by the heavy wind.
During the battle, someone had accidentally shot the gas tank. The fuel had ignited. The truck had exploded. Everyone, from the looks of it, had died.
Pascal strode forward, ignoring the spinning glass shards as they carved thin lines across his body. Upon reaching the SUV, he saw part of a charred corpse lying on the ground, smeared with blood and dirt.
Using his boot, he nudged the body, turning it over. The face had melted away, but Pascal recognized enough to know it was Mickles.
Pascal swung his long knife over his head. The blade slammed into the melted roof and cut through it easily. His throat opened.
And he shouted a primal scream.
Chapter 28
“Mr. President.” The unwelcome voice was loud and grating. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
President Walters’ blood boiled. Hank Gar was an old colleague from his days in the Senate. They’d been at each other’s throats from the beginning, taking opposite sides on every major political issue. The president didn’t mind opinions that differed from his own. After all, that was the nature of politics. But he didn’t like snakes.
And Senator Gar was a snake.
The senator had achieved his position through ruthless means, engaging in fear mongering, false rumors, and lies. After joining the Senate, he’d only gotten worse. It was widely suspected among Washington insiders that Gar participated in all sorts of questionable activities. But reporters, who appreciated his boisterous personality and colorful sound bites, generally gave him a pass.
“How are you, Hank?” The president offered his hand. “And how’s Lizzie?”
Senator Gar strolled forward. He was a political cartoonist’s dream come true. A thick, bulbous head rested comically on his short, stocky frame. He’d combed his wispy white hair backward, in a vain attempt to obscure a small balding patch on his crown. His exaggerated facial features consisted of bulging eyes, a skinny nose, floppy ears, and a big, round mouth.
The senator pressed President Walters’ hand. “I’m fine, Mr. President. And Lizzie’s well, too. She’s a busy woman, juggling all those nonprofits of hers.”
“I bet.” The president studied the senator’s appearance, noting the man wore an expensive black suit, a white collared shirt, and a red power tie. Clearly, he had something important to discuss. “What can I do for you?”
“I don’t want to waste your time, so I’ll cut to the chase. Recently, my staff came across some disturbing information. It seems some taxpayer dollars have gone missing.”