The Chain(93)

“They must be on the upper level,” Pete whispers. “Stairs are a classic place for an ambush. Watch out.”

Rachel nods and tries not to make so much noise with her boots.

They move forward slowly.

Broken glass, wet snow, stale air. Rust, dried blood, death.

They get only halfway up the concrete steps before someone starts shooting.

“Handgun, three o’clock!” Pete screams and returns fire with the MP5 as he runs to the top of the steps. He shoots three more times as his target ducks behind a piece of machinery and vanishes.

He smiles grimly to himself. The bastards have wasted their chance.

He looks at his clip. The MP5 is empty now. He drops it and pulls out his trusty .45.

“Did you hit someone?” Rachel whispers.

“No.”

“Be careful of the kids,” Rachel says, following him up the steps.

Her hands are shaking and she forces herself to grip the pistol tighter. She can’t lose it now, not when they are so— An overhead arc light comes on.

Rachel spins the nine-millimeter in a 360 around her. The abattoir is a filthy concrete ruin with bits of old farm machinery and garbage everywhere. Near her, two more pigs are hanging from hooks in the ceiling. One of them has been freshly slaughtered and is dripping blood into a bucket.

But none of that is relevant.

What’s relevant is what she sees thirty feet away at the end of the upper level of the abattoir: Ginger is standing there with her twin brother, Olly, both holding pistols aimed at Kylie and Stuart.

Kylie and Stuart are crying and terrified; their wrists are handcuffed in front of them. Marty is sprawled near them on the floor, apparently only semiconscious. His head is bleeding and he’s breathing hard and moaning in agony. Ginger is holding Kylie by the collar of her T-shirt and pointing the gun straight down onto her skull. Olly has his arm around Stuart’s neck and the barrel of his weapon is shoved into Stuart’s ear.

Pete and Rachel both freeze.

“Mom!” Kylie cries.

“Let her go!” Rachel screams at Ginger.

“That doesn’t seem likely, now, does it?” Ginger says.

Rachel aims the nine-millimeter at Ginger’s face. “I’ll kill you right here,” she says.

“You’re that confident about hitting me from this distance? How many times have you even fired a pistol, Rachel?” Ginger asks.

“I won’t miss you, you bitch.”

“Drop your gun or I drop the kids.”

“We’re not dropping our guns,” Pete says. “That’s not how this is going to work. You’re going to let the children go and we’ll leave, and you’ll have plenty of time to get your crash bags and your dummy passports and everybody wins.”

He sways a little before catching himself and getting his balance.

“Whoa, steady there, sailor boy. Why don’t you sit down and take a load off?” Ginger says, looking significantly at Olly.

“You should listen to me,” Pete mutters, inching his way closer. They are a confident pair. Overconfident. Another few feet and he’ll have a clear shot at Olly. Stuart comes only halfway up his chest, so if he aims at the top of Olly’s skull, the big powerful .45 round will kill Olly instantly. Has to be soon. The adrenaline in his system has definitely plateaued and he’s on the downslope now.

“Clicking the hammer back is such a cliché,” Ginger says. “Do you really need me to do that? Are you so dense that you need a visual aid? I will kill this little girl if you don’t drop your goddamn gun.”

“Then you’ll die,” Pete says. He’s about twenty feet from them now. A fast shot might just do the trick.

“Put the gun down now, asshole!” Olly barks with a cool, imperious air.

Pete takes aim at the top of Olly’s skull. He should act. He should act now. But everything hurts. Everything aches. His hand is shaking.

“You need to drop the gun now or—” Olly begins.

There’s a loud bang, and a bullet from Ginger’s .38 hits Pete in the torso and he’s down.

Rachel dives behind a concrete blood-collecting trough as another bullet misses her by inches.

“You shot him,” Olly says to Ginger.

“The theatrics were getting on my nerves,” Ginger replies. “Now, Rachel, it’s your turn. Drop the gun and put your hands up or we kill Kylie. Olly, keep your arm around that one’s neck but put your gun in little Kylie’s cheek.”

Olly sticks the barrel of his pistol in Kylie’s right cheek.

“Mommy!” Kylie wails.

Rachel’s stomach lurches. Her eyes are streaming. Pete is shot; Marty is down. And she’s so exhausted. Weeks of this. Years of this. Everything has gone wrong since that very first oncologist’s report from Mass. General.

She’s doomed and part of her wants to lie down on the filthy floor, close her eyes, and sleep.

But she can see Kylie’s face, and Kylie is her world. She crouches behind the blood trough and points the nine-millimeter over its lip at Ginger.

“Drop your gun and put your hands up!” Ginger screams as the snow whirls around her.

“No! You drop your gun,” Rachel replies, tears running down her cheeks.

“Put your hands up and we’ll let you go. You and the kids. Like your friend said. We know the game’s over,” Olly says. “Ginger here has screwed it up for us. Not for the first time. We’ll let you go and you’ll let us go. We can make a deal. Give us twenty-four hours and we’ll be in South America.”