The Thirteenth Skull (Alfred Kropp #3)(20)

I clawed at my shoe as the wind tugged at my wig, pushing it forward until I was looking at him through a curtain of gray curls.

The fingertips of my right hand brushed against the hard casing of the poisoned pen. An inch ... a half inch ... but in a situation like that a half inch might as well be a mile.

He was too strong, too determined, too focused. Even if I managed to grab the pen, by the time I got the cap off— assuming I could—the dagger would be slicing my carotid artery and I would be one dead old lady.

So I spit right in his eyes. His grip loosened for an instant, and I gained the half inch I needed. I flicked the cap off the pen, pressed the button, and slammed the needle into his neck.

His eyes flew open and then froze that way. His body went stiff as a board beneath me. The dagger fell from his hand.

I picked it up and scooted toward the front of the ambulance. It was slowing down. I glanced over my shoulder and saw we were in the emergency lane, coming up on the scene of a pileup that blocked all three westbound lanes.

The ambulance screeched to a stop. I slid off the back before the paramedics could exit the cab. I sauntered over to the guardrail, just another old lady out for a stroll on the interstate with her six-inch dragon-headed dagger. Unfortunately, a cop was standing about twenty feet away. I looked at him and he looked at me, and so I gave him a little nod like, Hey, sonny, don’t mind me. I’m just your average old lady out for a stroll on the interstate with my six-inch dragon-headed dagger. Then I threw one leg over the concrete railing and steeled myself for the thirty-foot plunge to the embankment below.

The cop shouted something and started to run toward me, his hand resting on the butt of his revolver. Like he would actually shoot an old lady, dagger-wielding or not.

Still, on the off chance that he might actually shoot a dagger-wielding old lady, I froze on the barrier.

I shouldn’t have.

A black Lincoln Town Car pulled up behind the ambulance and two men in dark suits jumped out. One had a semiautomatic pointed at my head. The other man was focused on the cop.

“That’s all right, Officer,” he said in a gentle Southern drawl. “We’ll take it from here.” He looked at me and smiled. “Hello, Alfred.”

The cop didn’t lower his gun. He didn’t know who to aim at now—me or the dark-suited guy.

Dark Suit pulled an ID from the breast pocket of his jacket and held it up.

“Vosch,” he said to the cop. “FBI.” He smiled a second time at me. “Step down, Alfred. You made a good run, but it’s over.”

“I gotta call this in,” the cop said. He still hadn’t lowered his weapon.

The man who called himself Vosch nodded, still smiling, while his buddy ripped the dagger from my hand, pulled me from the barrier, and handcuffed me.

“Look ...” I said to the cop.

“Shut up, Alfred,” Vosch said pleasantly. Then he said to the cop, “Terrorism, murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and interstate flight.”

The suit with the gun—now he had the muzzle jammed into my rib cage—dragged me toward the car as I shouted at the bewildered young cop, “These guys aren’t FBI! Check out their wheels—since when do FBI agents drive Town Cars?”

I was slung into the backseat. Vosch’s partner slid in beside me and slammed the door. The driver, a big guy with slits for eyes and a crooked nose, glanced at me in the rearview mirror.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Kropp,” he murmured.

I could see Vosch talking to the cop, who had put away his gun, which I interpreted as a sign that he was buying Vosch’s story. Vosch was showing him some papers, probably a phony warrant for my arrest.

“At least tell me why you guys want to kill me so bad,” I said.

They laughed.

Vosch walked back to the car and got in beside the driver. We roared straight back a few yards, spun around and then proceeded the wrong way to the next exit. I could see cars jamming all three lanes; the interstate was backed up for miles.

We exited onto Kingston Pike and headed east, toward downtown. I waited for the killing blow. It was the perfect time: I was handcuffed and helpless, trapped behind dark-tinted glass. They had been trying awfully hard to kill me and this was the perfect opportunity.

The blow didn’t come. As we waited at an intersection for the light to change, I said, “Something’s happened. Where are you taking me?”

Nobody answered. Vosch hit the speed dial on his cell phone. After a few seconds, he said, “He is acquired. Alive, oui. We will be there in ten minutes.” He had lost his Southern accent. Now he sounded French. He closed the phone and slipped it into his breast pocket.

“Whatever you guys want—whatever it is you’re after—I don’t have it,” I blurted out. “I don’t have anything!”

“Be quiet,” Vosch said.

“Just promise me you won’t hurt anyone. Take me, but don’t kill anybody else because of me, okay?”

The guy beside me leaned forward and whispered something to Vosch in French. Vosch nodded, whispered something back. The guy beside me pulled a truncheon from his coat pocket and slammed it against my head.

05:04:10:51

I woke to the sound of a train rumbling nearby. For a few precious seconds, before the memory of what happened in the car came crowding back, I was ten years old again, lying in my bed in Ohio. My mom was in the next room watching TV, and I was drifting off to sleep, listening to the trains pass on the tracks about a half mile from our house. I’ll never say I had a perfect childhood, but there were moments in it that were perfect, and that was one of them.