He grabbed her arm. "Jamie! Jamie!"

She swung a fist at him. "Get away!" she wailed. "Get away!"

"Jamie, it's me, Jack. We've got to go!"

Her voice lowered to gasping sobs. "He blew up! He… just… blew up!"

"I know. And we could end up just as dead if we don't get out of here now."

He pulled her to her feet and into a staggering walk down the driveway.

"But…" She looked over her shoulder. "Shouldn't we do something with him?"

"What do you have in mind?" He propelled her along, not allowing her to slow down. "Dig a grave? Call a minister and have a funeral service?"

"You bastard!" she hissed. "You cold-hearted—!"

"I'll take that any day over stupid fuck-up, which is what I really am."

That stopped her. Her tone was softer when she spoke. "Hey, I—"

Jack shook her. "Quiet."

He pointed down to the pair of glowing lights to the right of the driveway entrance. He shoved Jamie into the brush to the right and followed her in.

"They're here."

23

"Hey," Lewis said. "There's a car."

Hutch stopped the Lincoln. "Not just a car—the car."

Jensen leaned close to the side window and peered through the downpour at the black Crown Vic. He took a deep breath and smiled as he let it out, fogging the window. With one delay after another along the way, his hopes of catching Grant and her mystery friend here had diminished almost to zilch. But what do you know—here they were.

"Lewis, go check and see if it's locked. If not, get inside. If yes, hide in the trees and keep watch."

Lewis stepped out and trotted over to the Vic. He tried the door, turned and dashed back to Jensen's window.

"Locked," he said as the window opened a few inches. "But if I get the slim jim—"

"Forget it. You'll set off the alarm. If we don't catch them up at the house, I want them hauling ass back down here thinking they can jump in their car and drive away. But you're not going to let that happen, are you, Lewis."

"I could just flatten the tires."

"Really?" Sometimes these guys were so stupid. "And then how do we get it out of here? Or do you think we should just leave it for some hick sheriff to find and wonder who owns it and start poking around that cabin up there? You think that's a good idea?"

He sighed. "I guess not. But why's it always me gets—"

"Shut up and listen. They show up here, you do what you have to do. I don't care about Grant. You get a chance, off her. But no killshot on the guy unless he's holding."

"Why not?"

"I've got some questions and he's got the answers."

Like who he is and how he found out about this place.

"But—"

"Get out of my face and hide. Now."

He raised the window and slapped Hutch on the shoulder.

"Up that driveway on the left there."

"You want me to turn the lights off?"

Jensen thought about that a second. A darkened approach would be good, but Hutch didn't know where the driveway curved and might land them up against a tree.

"Keep 'em on. Just take it as fast as you can."

The less time Grant and company had to react, the better.

Hutch made the turn and hit the gas. The Lincoln fishtailed left and right.

"Damn rear-wheel-drive shit!" he said, but kept going. "How long is this?"

"About six-hundred yards. Don't slow down. Keep pushing her."

At about the halfway point, Hutch shouted, "Shit!" and slammed on the brakes.

The car swerved to the left, slamming Jensen against the door.

"What the—!"

And then he saw it.

"What the fuck is that?" Hutch shouted. "It looks like somebody's head!"

Which was exactly what it was—plus the neck, upper chest, and right arm, all connected. Wide, glazed eyes in a bearded face stared accusingly at the car from the side of the road. The pelvis and legs jutted from the brush on the opposite side. Shredded innards decorated the driveway ruts and median.

"What happened here?" Hutch's quavering voice had jumped an octave.

"I don't know. Just keep going, damn it! We've got a problem!"

Actually, a problem had just gone away. But Jensen couldn't let Hutchison know that.

No more worries about Blascoe shooting his mouth off.

But how had it happened? Had Blascoe decided to end it all? Had he been running from Grant for some reason? Or had he gambled that the lump under his skin wasn't really a bomb?

And where were Grant and the former Jason Amurri?

The cabin hove into view. He'd have the answers pretty soon.

Jensen pulled out his long-barreled .44 Magnum. Hutch and Lewis carried Colt Double Eagle .45s. None of this 9mm shit. He didn't shoot often, but when he did he wanted results. He wanted whoever he put down to stay down.

The car stopped and he heard Hutch work his slide to chamber a round.

"Safety off, be ready to fire at will," Jensen told him. Probably unnecessary, but it never hurt. "Same thing goes for you as for Lewis: Save the guy for me. Go!"

They leaped from the car and dashed up to the porch. The front door lay wide open. Jensen took the doorway while Hutch, pistol held high, ducked from window to window.

"Nothing moving in there," he said as he returned.

Probably headed down through the brush back toward their car, but he had to make sure they weren't hiding inside.

"Okay. I go in and head left, you take the right. Quick search, make sure the place is empty, then we go back to their car."

Hutch nodded and they made their entrance in a low crouch, pistols extended in the two-handed grip. They flanked the couch, checked the kitchen, then the two rear bedrooms.

Hutch stood in the center of the great room, his pistol lowered. "Nobody's home." He pointed to the couch. "But catch that. Looks like blood."

Yeah. It did. And what was that aluminum pot next to the couch. Had Blascoe, or maybe Grant and her friend, done a little surgery? Uh-huh. There was the bomb submerged in the water in the bottom of the pot. Clever. Some hot water to maintain the temperature, a sharp knife, and—

Jensen felt a draft on his face. He looked up at the open door. How long had that pot been sitting in the breeze? Long enough to…?

He backed away. "Hutch, I think we'd better get—"

The pot exploded. Something sharp dug into his face above his right eye as the blast knocked him back.

24

Jamie huddled and shivered against Jack as they crouched in the brush. The car sat ten feet away. Keys in one hand, Glock in the other, Jack watched it through the downpour. The good part about the pounding rain was that it drowned out the sounds of their approach. The bad part was that he had no light, not even starlight, to scope out whoever was watching the car.

And someone had to be watching it.

He'd seen people do amazingly stupid things, but leaving a getaway vehicle unguarded… uh-uh. Jensen was calling the shots here—either on-site or over the phone—and Jensen was no dummy.

Above and behind them, the thud! of an explosion.

"What—?" Jamie started to say, but Jack clamped a hand over her mouth.

He tried to shut out the sound of the rain, the feel of it pelting his face and hair, tried to funnel everything into his eyes as he studied the area around the car. Movement on the far side of the road caught his eye. Was that—? Yeah, a man had stepped out of the trees and was crossing toward the car. He stopped by the hood.

His face was little more than a pale blur, but he seemed to be looking up the hill, waiting for whatever he'd heard to happen again.

It wouldn't. Jack had figured the bomb would go off sooner or later. He was glad it had happened now.

He put his lips against Jamie's ear and whispered, "Wait. Don't move."

Pulled out the car keys, then crouched and began to snake through the remaining brush toward the front of the car. The rain's loud tattoo on the hood and roof covered his approach. Reached the front bumper and moved around it until he was only a few feet from the sentry. Raised his Glock and hit the unlock button on the car remote. As the locks clicked up and the interior lights came on he leaped to his feet and caught the guy whirling toward the passenger compartment, pistol up and ready but pointed in the wrong direction.