Centralia (13 page)

Peter and Amy had arrived at the Oceanview less than an hour ago. Even if the manager had called as soon they left the office, it would have given their pursuers barely forty-five minutes to assemble and travel. As he had suspected before and now realized in truth, their response time was incredible.

But what did the Feds want with him? What had made him such a wanted man?

Peter quickly surveyed the situation. Three SUVs, but he had no idea how many men per vehicle. Could be upwards of six. Eighteen total. Too many. He’d be severely outmanned and outgunned. He needed to think. The room had only one entrance, the front door. There was a small window in the bathroom but it wasn’t large enough to fit an adult through. They were trapped like mice in a
corner with nowhere to hide. And a clowder of tomcats was on the way.

He had to change the playing field, which at the moment was unfavorably tilted toward the tomcats.

Turning to Amy, he said, “Get a gun from my stuff and lock yourself in the bathroom. Get in the bathtub and keep your head down. If anyone comes in who isn’t me, shoot.”

Five rooms lay between theirs and the staircase to the second level, a distance of about sixty feet. He could cover that in a couple seconds. And that’s all the time he had. The last of the SUVs had stopped as soon as it entered the parking lot, blocking any exit by vehicle. The other two were slowly approaching the motel. Peter could feel vigilant eyes behind the tinted glass of the two lead vehicles scanning the area, planning, anticipating.

Amy hadn’t moved yet. “Go!” Peter said. “Now.”

He pulled open the door and, as quickly as he would dash across a bed of fiery coals, ran for the staircase, keeping his head down and his eyes straight ahead. The vehicles braked, the tires stuttered on the asphalt, and the doors clicked open. By then, though, he was on the bottom step, throwing himself up the stairs two at a time.

At the top of the stairs, a breezeway partially concealed by a supporting wall made of cinder block offered some cover. A cylindrical sconce with a yellow bulb was attached to the wall. Peter hit the bulb with the handle of his gun, shattering it and welcoming partial darkness to the breezeway.

He caught a glimpse of how many men were on the ground below. Eight total, all dressed in black combat gear as if they’d been deployed to take down an international terrorist guilty of murdering thousands. Just like the Feds to overplan. The third SUV, the one that had stopped by the entrance, remained where it was,
doors closed, engine idling. A sentinel keeping close watch over the events unfolding.

One of the men signaled to two others to go into the room. They knew Amy was still in there. Peter didn’t have long to do what he needed to do. The men wore body armor, so his shots had to be precise.

Two more men headed for the staircase, while the remaining four crouched by one of the SUVs. Peter’s only tactical advantage was his high position.

Before the two ascending the stairs reached the landing, Peter rushed down the steps. Rounding the corner at the landing, he found the two men three steps away. By the looks on their faces, it was obvious they weren’t expecting him to run into their line of fire.

Quicker than their eyes could register his movements in the dimming light, and certainly quicker than they could aim and fire, Peter squeezed off two shots, hitting the lead man in the forehead and the one behind him in the neck. Even before the lead man’s legs could buckle, Peter tackled him and tumbled down the steps.

At the bottom of the stairs, still clutching the dead gunman’s body close to his and now in full auto mode, Peter rolled and positioned himself so he was protected by the man’s body armor. Without taking time to plan or reason or even aim, he fired twice more, hitting one of the remaining four men square in the face.

From inside room five, Peter heard a gunshot, then another and another.

The shots distracted the three remaining men by the SUV long enough that Peter could squeeze off another two rounds, hitting one man with a fatal shot.

Standing, Peter lifted the dead gunman with him. He wouldn’t
be able to hold the guy for long; he was too bulky in his gear and too heavy. In an act of calculated desperation, Peter sidestepped closer to the room, shifting his eyes from the men taking cover behind the SUV to room five’s open door.

No more gunshots came from inside the room, and he hoped it didn’t mean the worst.

Before Peter reached the room, one of the gunmen emerged, eyes wild and mouth in a snarl, clutching Amy in his arm, the barrel of his handgun pressed against her temple.

But there was only one. Did that mean Amy had shot and killed the other? What had Peter gotten her into? What had he done to her? She’d be the one needing counseling if they got out of this.

Sweat poured from the man’s brow and wet his face. He gritted his teeth and said, “Put it down, Ryan! Now. Or she’s a goner.”

Before Peter had time to weigh the potential consequences of his action, before he had time to argue with himself that Amy’s safety came first, before anyone had time to react, he pointed and squeezed. A single shot struck the man directly in the nose. He collapsed as quickly as if someone had cut off his legs at the knees, and the gun rattled to the concrete. Amy screamed and jumped back into the room.

There were two left, plus those in the SUV by the entrance, idling quietly, hiding behind the vehicle’s tinted windows, waiting.

From inside the room, another muffled gunshot pierced the evening air, and a bullet ricocheted off the exterior of the SUV. Amy had fired it.

The two men behind the Tahoe shifted away from the room’s opening and returned fire. Amy shot again.

Seeing his opportunity, Peter dropped the dead man from his arms and rushed the SUV, advancing on the men from behind.
As he rounded the rear bumper, he met one of the gunmen head-on. They were close enough to shake hands. The man lifted his weapon to fire, but Peter was quicker, and before his opponent had a chance to squeeze the trigger and lodge a round deep in Peter’s skull, he shoved the guy’s arm to the side and simultaneously drove the palm of his hand into the man’s face, jamming upward on the nose. The gunman’s head snapped back as if a coiled spring had been released. Blood immediately oozed from his nose, and he stumbled back into his comrade. Peter lifted his own gun and squeezed off one, two shots, and that was all it took.

Not waiting to see if the third Tahoe would awaken from its slumber, Peter made a dash for the motel room and shut the door.

Inside the room, one of the gunmen lay on his back, his eyes blank and staring at the ceiling, jaw slack. A single hole just above his right eye oozed blood.

Peter looked at Amy, who was crouched behind the bed and shaking. She clutched the handgun with both hands at chest level. “Did you do that?” Peter asked.

She glanced at the body, then back to Peter. “He didn’t shoot himself.”

Peter positioned himself so he could see out the front window but remain concealed by the curtain and wall. “We have one more vehicle. I don’t know how many are in it. It’s just sitting there.”

“What are they waiting for?”

“Us. Waiting to see what our next move is.”

“What is it?”

Keeping one finger hooked on the curtain so he could maintain a visual with the lone Tahoe, Peter scanned the parking lot, the road, the carnage outside the room’s door. The sky was almost black now; only a subtle glow of light remained above the treetops. More stars had appeared too, glistening in the evening sky, watching from above but totally oblivious to the violence that this parking lot had just seen. Peter’s heart still pounded, adrenaline-infused blood still surged through his arteries, but his stomach had twisted itself into a tight knot. He didn’t like killing. If he had at one time, it was a different Peter Ryan because this Peter Ryan, this man who was a foreigner to his own past, handled killing as well as he handled eating chicken gizzards. In the heat of battle, it seemed like some base instinct took over, and his combat skills went into full self-preservation mode. But in the aftermath, looking at the collection of casualties in the parking lot, he wondered who these men were when they weren’t being used as killing machines. Did they have wives who would grow ashen at the news? Children who would never again hear their father’s voice reading a bedtime story? The thought made Peter sick.

God in heaven, forgive me. Deliver me from this evil.

He immediately wondered where this impulse to pray had come from and, at the same time, marveled that he honestly felt the pressure lift. He still felt remorseful, yes, but somehow absolved as well.

He took another look out the window. The Tahoe hadn’t moved, but its headlights seemed to glow brighter in the darkening night. “We need to get out of here.”

Amy said, “I was hoping for something a little more specific than that.”

No matter what they did now, the men in the Tahoe would see them and be ready to react. And the longer they waited, the greater the chance that more men with guns would arrive, this time coming in larger numbers and toting heavier weaponry. Only one option remained.

“We need to make a run for it,” Peter said.

They’d have to take one of the other Tahoes because the Accord was boxed in. And besides, if it came to a game of bumper cars, a Tahoe would hold up much better against another SUV than the smaller, lighter Honda. He hoped the keys were still in the ignition, waiting for a fast getaway.

Amy stood and moved toward the door on rigid legs.

“I’m sorry it came to this,” Peter said, nodding toward the dead gunman on the floor.

Amy closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath.

“Amy, we need to do this now.”

She opened her eyes and nodded.

“Give me your gun. I’m going to go first and cover you while you make a run for the nearest SUV. Get in the passenger side and start it. I’ll be right behind you.”

The only time she’d be exposed was from the door to the front of the Accord. From there she would find cover from the Accord and then the Tahoe. If the men inside the distant Tahoe decided to show themselves and start throwing bullets, they wouldn’t have a clean shot at her. Peter hoped they wouldn’t have any shot.

He put a hand on her shoulder. “Ready?”

She swallowed hard. “Do I look like I’m ready?”

“You can do this. Just stay low, behind the car. It’ll give you the cover you need. On the count of three.”

Amy wrung her hands like she was trying to squeeze water out of an invisible dishrag and took another deep breath.

“One. Two.”

He slid in next to the door so as soon as she opened it, he could slip out and lay down fire on the Tahoe. It was a good thirty yards away.

“Three.”

Amy turned the knob and swung open the door.

Peter stepped out, aiming both handguns at the black SUV and squeezing off rounds as he ran for the Accord, Amy right on his heels. He squatted behind the hood of the car and continued shooting.

The Tahoe’s doors opened, but Peter couldn’t see how many men emerged. He thought it was two. Short bursts of gunfire echoed through the air, and rounds popped against the Tahoe at the rear of the Accord. Some of the rounds hit the motel’s facade, busted room five’s window, tore the wood molding to shreds.

Peter ducked, trying to stay as low as possible, and made his way around the Accord to the other Tahoe’s driver’s side door. Amy was already in, the engine running. Another burst of gunfire came, as quick and sudden as thunder on a summer’s night. One round hit the top edge of the SUV’s rear window, shattering the glass.

“Get down,” Peter yelled.

Amy put her head between her knees and screamed.

Peter threw the Tahoe into gear and stomped on the gas. Adrenaline surged through his veins like nitromethane. His heart sledgehammered against his sternum. Yanking the steering wheel to the right and laying down rubber on the asphalt, he just missed the beams supporting the motel’s second-story deck and made a tight U-turn in the parking lot. He wasn’t about to head directly at
the other vehicle, not with the men sending so many rounds their way. The chances were too great that one would find its way into the cabin and ricochet around until it found a soft target. Instead he headed for the far end of the parking lot, intent on running over the ten yards of lawn and overgrown gardens and getting to the road that way.

But the other Tahoe predicted his move and, with the gunmen already inside, was heading toward them, positioning to intercept Peter’s path.

With no other course of action, Peter pressed the accelerator to the floor and, right before impacting the opposing SUV, spun the wheel to the right. His vehicle smashed into the rear quarter panel of the oncoming Tahoe and spun it around so the two slammed together in an odd metal-on-metal waltz, facing opposite directions, driver’s side against driver’s side.

Not waiting for his opponent’s next move, Peter kept his foot on the gas while the Tahoe’s wheels clawed at the dirt. Finally the tires found traction, and the SUV jerked forward, bounced through the garden, and landed on the solid asphalt of the road.

In the rearview mirror, no more than twenty yards behind them, the pursuing vehicle stuttered onto the road and spun its rear wheels, stirring up a cloud of smoke.

Again the concussion of rapid gunfire cut through the air; rounds banged against the back of the Tahoe like leaden popcorn. One entered the cab and destroyed the rearview mirror.

“Stay down,” Peter said to Amy. “We’ll get out of this.”

“How?” She still had her head between her knees and now her hands covered her ears.

Peter didn’t answer because he didn’t know. But they would get out of it. They had to. Karen and Lilly were waiting for him, and
they were all that mattered now. Getting to them. Finding them. Hugging them again.

A flash memory assaulted Peter’s mind.

He’s in the passenger seat of a Humvee, bouncing over a desert road, stirring up a storm of dust.

Shots pop off the vehicle’s armor, enter the cab, and ricochet around. Men holler, scream, curse, return fire. Someone’s been hit. Droplets of blood cover the inside of the windshield.

It’s chaos. Utter chaos.

Heading north, the road was lined with oaks and maples and pines; a mantle of darkness had descended on the forest. The Tahoe’s headlights cut a swath of light across the road and about twenty feet on either side. A gully ran along both shoulders, two feet deep and at least five feet wide. There was no hopping off the pavement this time like he’d done back in Indiana. Doing so would get them no farther than ten feet before the thick trunk of an ancient oak stopped them dead in their tracks.

Ahead the road turned slightly to the left. Peter took it without slowing; the Tahoe handled well for an SUV and managed the curve with only minimal drift.

Behind them the other Tahoe’s headlights grew larger in the side mirror. More gunshots erupted, and Peter could see the muzzle flash from the automatic weapon on the driver’s side. He instinctively ducked and swerved into the oncoming lane. The speedometer read sixty-five. He’d have to go faster, but the road was unfamiliar and the darkness now almost suffocating.

He pressed the accelerator closer to the floor, but still the headlights behind them grew closer until the vehicle tapped their bumper
 
—a monster with blazing eyes, nudging them, sniffing its prey, calculating its next attack.

Seventy-five miles per hour. Undergrowth whizzed by in darkling blurs. Peter didn’t want to go much faster. To lose control and spin into the trees would mangle not only the Tahoe but its occupants as well.

More shots cracked through the air. Peter’s Tahoe found a will of its own and lurched to the right and almost ran into the gully, but Peter was quick on the wheel and corrected course. One of the rounds had struck a tire. He couldn’t tell which one at first, but the vehicle kept wanting to pull. Then came the awful grinding sound of the rim on asphalt. The right rear tire had been shredded.

Peter needed to make a decision. The Tahoe couldn’t last long on three tires, and it was only a matter of time before they shot out the other ones.

He hit the gas hard; the SUV’s large engine whined and moaned and pulled the vehicle forward, putting some distance
 
—at least four car lengths
 
—between them and their pursuers.

He said to Amy, “Sit back and put on your shoulder belt. And hang on.”

They were approaching a slight bend in the road to the right. Midway through the curve, Peter cut the Tahoe’s headlights and took his foot off the gas. The lights behind him rounded the bend and approached rapidly. When they were merely two car lengths away, Peter mashed the brake. The antilock braking system kicked in, vibrating the pedal beneath his foot.

Peter braced himself.
This is crazy.

Less than a second later, the oncoming vehicle met the Tahoe’s bumper. The impact was sudden and violent.