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.