Blood Trade: A Sean Coleman Thriller (33 page)

He turned his head and saw that Carson was doing the same thing, though he looked
far more tormented than she did. Carson’s eyes targeted Sean. His mouth hung a bit
open, and he looked as though he wanted to tell Sean something but couldn’t quite
bring himself to speak.

“What?” said Sean.

When Sean saw Carson’s eyes hurtle toward the window behind him, Sean spun around
and found a small red dot illuminated at the center of the glass.

Jessica launched herself forward, throwing her body over her daughter protectively.

“No!” Carson yelled in warning as Sean’s eye caught a thin red beam flash directly
across it.

Sean slung his head to the side just as the window loudly exploded from the center.
Burning pain tore along the back of Sean’s skull as he lost his balance and toppled
to the floor.

Fierce, freezing wind howled into the small room as gunfire popped off, muffled by
the rough weather. It sounded like fireworks in the distance, but its proximity was
surely close. Sparks flew from the ceiling, and then the room went pitch black.

Anna screamed in panic.

Sean scrambled along the floor amidst the chaotic screaming. The wind peppered him
with blowing papers and other loose objects. The bitter cold air made it hard to
breathe.

The gun was no longer in his hand. He didn’t know where it was. The room was black,
and there was a sick moaning sound to his right. He believed it was coming from Carson.

When Sean’s hand went to the back of his own head, he felt moisture. Warm blood.
Seemingly a lot of it.

“Sean!” Carson called out from the dark, sounding very weak and resigned.

“What?” Sean snarled.

“Run!”

The word was spoken with such dejection that it came across like a dying request.
Had Carson been hit by one of the bullets?

It had to have been Dr. Phil who’d fired the shots, Sean rationalized. He must have
gotten back, seen Sean through the window with a gun in his hand, and tried to take
him out. Feeling warm drops of blood tapping the back of his neck and not knowing
the extent of his injury, he feared the doctor might have been successful.

A splintered thought darted through Sean’s mind as he crawled toward the door. Carson
had tried to warn him of the laser sight. Jessica hadn’t. She’d decided at that moment
that not only was Norman Booth’s death worth the life of her daughter, but so was
Sean’s. Like Dr. Phil, she was now
all in
.

He could hear Jessica whispering words of comfort to her daughter in the dark. He
knew she was fine. He also knew
he
wouldn’t be fine unless he heeded Carson’s advice.
The doctor was likely on his way inside the building to finish the job.

A small ray of light from the hallway beamed in through a half-inch hole in the door
sliced open by one of the bullets. Sean yanked the door open and stumbled out into
the hallway. He heard a loud thud from somewhere near the stairs. He ran in the opposite
direction, down the hallway toward the room where Jessica had come from earlier.
His shoulder knocked a plaque of some sort from the wall as he rounded a corner and
found himself at the edge of a small landing area where he saw some loose boots and
a utility sink. The sink’s faucet was pouring water.

He spotted a door at the side of the landing as the sound of someone jogging along
the tile floor echoed from down the hallway. Sean was through the door in no time,
entering a large, dim room that was so cold and full of clutter that he knew it had
to be a garage. The ticking sound of a recently killed car engine confirmed his speculation.

He desperately ran his hands all over the wall beside him, his
fingers raking through
filth and grime as he cursed for a light switch. He found a mounted plastic box that
felt like a garage door opener and pressed its center. He let out a gasp of relief
when the loud sound of grinding metal gears fired up.

A dull light from above snapped on, the bulb embedded in the garage door operator.
He saw bare sheet rock walls and Jessica’s car. Large blue tarps hid a big object
beside the car. The Chevy Cavalier was covered with an even layer of snow except
for the windows where beads of water drained down them.

He lunged to the car and looked through its side window. He found no key in the ignition.
He remembered the keys in his pocket. He dug them out, but knew he didn’t have enough
time to test them out on the car. He didn’t even think he had enough time to look
for something to use as a weapon, even a crowbar or shovel. He was convinced that
his pursuer would bust through the door behind him at any second, brandishing his
own
weapon—whatever piece that laser sighting was mounted to.

Sean bolted for the slowly opening garage door. When he heard a commotion break out
behind him, he dove to his chest and slid under the door. It was a hard landing and
he felt something crack beneath him, but he rolled until he was outside. There he
was immediately engulfed in the savage, biting wind and heavy snow. The elements
pounded him mercilessly and he was almost knocked to his side as he scrambled to
his feet. The keys were no longer in his hand.

A gunshot ripped out from somewhere back in the garage, and the sound of tortured
steel competed with that of the howling wind. Sean let a wicked gust of air dictate
in which direction he ran. There were no lights outside the building, at least none
turned on. The night and the dense snow gave him some cover. He took advantage of
it as best he could, working himself into a full-fledged sprint away from the front
of the building and off in the direction he thought was east.

Chapter 29

“J
ust another hundred yards,” said Martinez in near exuberance. “It will be on the
right. A building.”

When the police cruiser rounded another bend, the land flattened out and the road
widened. Lumbergh watched Martinez’s broad, bloodthirsty smile gleam in the rearview
mirror. The chief quickly pulled over to the inside shoulder of the road. He positioned
the cruiser under the broad, overhanging limbs of a drooping pine and popped the
transmission into park.

“What are you doing?” asked Martinez, his eyes narrowing.

“Did you think I was going to drive right up to their front step and let them see
a police car?”

The intern’s face was riddled with confusion. “I . . . I guess not.”

Lumbergh reached into the glove compartment and began pulling out shotgun shells.
He shoved them into his jacket pocket.

The smile returned to Martinez’s face. “Can you fire a shotgun, Chief? You know,
with your arm?”

Lumbergh reached under his jacket, wincing as he did, and awkwardly peeled the sling
from his shoulder. He tossed it to the floor mat in front of the passenger’s seat.
“I can now,” he replied, trying to convince himself it was true.

He wasn’t sure he could effectively grip the forestock of the weapon with his left
hand, but with his arm free of the sling he believed he could at least steady it.
If not, he still had his Glock holstered at his side. He loaded some extra clips
for the handgun into a pocket as well. After he killed the engine, he jammed his
keys
in with the clips. He turned on his police radio and fiddled with the channel.

“What are you doing?” Martinez yelped out, pressing his face against the grill. His
frenzied eyes flashed back and forth from the mirror to the radio.

Lumbergh ignored the question, speaking into his radio instead. “This is Police Chief
Gary Lumbergh of Winston calling for Sheriff Richard Redick. Please come back.”

“Chief!” Martinez screamed. “Why are you calling him?”

“I’m telling him where we are.”

Martinez slammed his forehead into the grill twice. “No! You said you were going
in alone! You said you didn’t
need
anyone’s help! You promised me!”

“I
am
going in alone, Martinez,” said Lumbergh. “I’m not waiting around for them
to get here.”

“Then why?” Martinez cried, leaning back and repeatedly kicking both of his feet
against the grill.

“Because if I don’t come back, I don’t want you freezing to death in the car.”

Martinez stopped kicking. He leaned forward, pressing his nose to the grill. His
eyes were crazy and he was desperately out of breath.

“That’s right, Martinez. You sure as hell aren’t coming with me.”

“No!” Martinez bellowed as if a rockslide was crumbling down on top of him. “Liar!
Mentiroso! Mentiroso!
”

When Redick came on the air, Lumbergh ignored the temper tantrum going on behind
him. He let the sheriff vent out his anger over what Lumbergh had done to him and
his deputy and the expense of tires shot out in misplaced anger. Lumbergh then raised
his voice and spoke over Martinez’s ballistic shrieking, giving the sheriff detailed
directions to his location. He provided no other information.

“What in the hell’s going on in the background? What’s that
noise?” questioned Redick,
frustrated over Lumbergh’s refusal to elaborate on the situation.

Lumbergh turned his head to Martinez and watched the wiry, unhinged little man bounce
off the back of a car like a rubber ball.

Lumbergh held the radio close to his mouth. “The squeals of a baby pig.”

Chapter 30

C
lusters of tall, wavering pines heavy with snow were barely visible. They bordered
the open, fairly flat ground Sean ran along. It could have been a dirt road below
his feet, but it was hard to tell in the snow. He saw no tire tracks. The doctor
must have come in from the opposite direction.

There were lots of hiding spots. Trees. Snowdrifts. Sean knew he was leaving tracks
though, and even with the snow coming down as hard as it was, they wouldn’t be immediately
covered up. Anyone with a flashlight could effectively pursue him. Though he was
freezing cold and felt lightheaded, he knew he had to put more distance between him
and the building before he stopped running.

He glanced back over his shoulder; the wind instantly brought tears to his eyes.
He could no longer see the building or anything beyond blowing snow. He felt his
pants sliding down from his waist and he tugged them back up.

His hand then went to his head and he cringed when he felt the burning of an open
wound. His fingers searched for a bullet or an entry wound. They found neither. It
had to be a graze, albeit a bad one considering the amount of blood he had lost.
The back of his head still felt warm from whatever was oozing out, so he pressed
the palm of his hand tightly to it. He hoped the pressure would end the bleeding.

After a minute, he jammed his other hand into his front pocket, limping along as
he did. His fingers were already turning numb from the cold, but he managed to detect
the edge of the cellphone
he’d taken from the desk. He pinched it in his grip and
yanked it from his pocket. It fell to the ground in multiple pieces.

“No!” he moaned, halting and falling to his knees.

He sifted through the snow and found jagged pieces of plastic and some exposed wires.
The phone must have been demolished earlier from his dive under the garage door.
He wasn’t sure if it was fixable, but the weather and the darkness made it impossible
to even try. He picked up every piece he could find, hoping he had them all, and
shoved them back into his pocket.

He climbed to his feet and pulled his pants up again. It was then that he saw a single
light cut through the night from a distance away. It was in the direction he’d come
from. It looked like a pinprick at first—so small that he had almost missed it. It
quickly grew larger, however, and took on the shape of a rectangle. Whoever had the
light was moving along at a good pace.

It was possible that it didn’t belong to the doctor, but it likely did. The doctor’s
actions had made it clear that he wanted Sean dead. If Sean got away, everything
he and his family had been working toward would be brought to an immediate end. As
far as they were concerned, a free Sean Coleman meant a dead Anna. It was obvious
how they stood on that ultimatum.

He pressed his hand back to his wound and continued running. He tucked his head low
between his shoulders, enduring the weather as best he could in just a sweatshirt,
loose jeans, and hiking boots.

A humming noise began to filter its way through the whistling wind, and when he spun
his head to look for its source, he found that the light had grown much closer. It
was approaching so quickly that he discounted the possibility that it was a flashlight.
It had to belong to a vehicle, and the hum that was loudening in volume was the sound
of its engine.

He was certain he hadn’t been spotted yet. The falling snow was too dense. Visibility
was too limited. That would change at any second. The vehicle was just about upon
him.

He had no more time to think. He clenched his teeth and darted for the shoulder of
the road. He leaped over a snow bank sandwiched by two trees. He expected to find
ground on the other side, but there was nothing but air. He fell ten feet before
his legs sank into the side of a snow-covered hill as if they were two large lawn
darts.

The vehicle flew by on the road above him, its single headlight flaring up the night
for a moment. Even before he could force his legs from the snow and climb to his
hand and knees, he heard a reduction in the engine. It had to belong to a snowmobile.
The sound was too distinct. The driver likely stopped accelerating once the footprints
he was tracking came to an abrupt end.

The slope he was on was steep, but the older, crunchy snow below the fresh powder
gave him some traction to keep from falling down it. He worked down the incline quickly
but deliberately, sliding on his chest at times and moving his arms in a swimming
motion. Once a couple of large pines were between him and the view from the road,
he clung to a bare aspen and positioned himself behind a long snowdrift covering
an overturned tree.