“What did you want me to use? Harsh language?”
“Right.” Travis picked up the phone on Jack’s desk. “I’ll call an ambulance.”
Yet another voice echoed through the room. “Don’t bother.”
Travis looked up and saw an older man in the doorway, his hands in the pockets of a long overcoat.
“And who the hell are you?” Travis asked.
“I’m with the FBI,” the man replied.
“Isn’t everyone?” Travis said. “Or so it seems today.”
“I’d be happy to show you my ID.”
“Why don’t you start by telling us your name?”
“As you wish,” the man answered calmly. “My name is Special Agent William Henderson. You may have heard of me.”
74
10:49 P.M.
THE OTHER MAN—THE man they believed to be Henderson—whirled around to face the newcomer. Curran raised his gun and covered both Hendersons.
“Wait a minute,” Travis said. “If you’re Henderson, who the hell is he?”
“One of them is lying,” Curran growled. “The question is which.” Curran pointed at their first Henderson. “I’ve been suspicious of this one since he entered the picture. He doesn’t look or act like any fed I’ve ever met.”
“No, it’s him!” shouted the first Henderson, pointing at the newcomer. “He’s with the mob!”
“He’s lying,” the new Henderson said calmly. “Believe me, I’ve known who I am for years.”
“How did you find us?”
“I followed Agent Janicek. When I arrived, I spotted this man hiding in the brush.” He indicated the first Henderson. “When he made his move, I followed him in.”
“You’re with Janicek?” Travis said. “Janicek just tried to kill Moroconi.”
“That can be explained.”
“I called the FBI,” Travis said. “They said they’d never heard of anyone named William Henderson. Either one of you.”
“What did you expect them to do? Give you my phone number? My men and I work for a special subdivision called Bureau 99. It’s kind of an FBI within the FBI. My work is extremely sensitive; I have one of the highest security clearances in the Southwest. After all, if the mob can get to me, they can get to any of the federal witnesses I’ve relocated.”
“Our first Henderson knew the password,” Cavanaugh reminded them.
“True,” Travis said. He addressed the newcomer. “What’s the password?”
“Which one? I know a dozen of them.”
“See?” the first Henderson insisted. “He doesn’t know it. That proves he’s the imposter.”
Curran grabbed the newcomer by the neck. “I don’t trust anyone connected with this Janicek creep.”
While they were talking no one noticed Moroconi pulling himself off the carpet and wiping a smear of blood from his face. He quickly surveyed the situation. “Him!” Moroconi shrieked, pointing.
The first Henderson glared at him.
“He’s not the FBI! His name is Kramer. He’s a fuckin’ hit man!”
Kramer slammed into Henderson like a linebacker, square in the stomach, knocking him into Curran. Henderson doubled over and went reeling onto the floor; Curran fumbled for his gun. Kramer kicked Henderson’s head against the desk. Henderson’s eyelids fluttered, then closed.
“Grab him!” Travis shouted.
It was too late. Kramer was out the door. Moroconi started after him; Curran grabbed Moroconi around the waist. Moroconi swung his arms back and clubbed Curran on the shoulders. They both fell to the floor, struggling.
Travis didn’t have time to help. Curran would eventually recapture Moroconi and Cavanaugh could look after Henderson. He wanted this killer Kramer.
Travis bounded downstairs and hit the first floor just in time to see Kramer fly out the front door. He leaped over the sofa, ran through the door, and hit the grass running. Kramer was making a beeline for the northern grove of trees, trying to disappear in the thick, dark brush. Travis couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him. If he let Kramer get too far ahead, he would lose him.
Damn! Travis ran as fast as he was able. Damn these stupid shoes, and damn me for getting so badly out of shape. He was doing the best he could, but Kramer was getting away from him. His lead had already doubled; soon Travis wouldn’t be able to see him at all.
A sudden cry up ahead told Travis he had gotten a lucky break. Kramer must’ve tripped over a stump or something; Travis saw him fly into the air, then crash to the ground. It was just the chance he needed to catch up.
Kramer was lying prostrate in the mud when Travis reached him. Travis unstrapped his multistrike gun and aimed. “Don’t move.”
Kramer did not freeze. He lurched forward, grabbing at the gun. Travis managed to shove him back to the ground. This time he held the gun against Kramer’s face. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”
Kramer’s face was covered with dirt and sweat, but that didn’t prevent Travis from seeing the cold sneer that crossed his face. “I don’t believe you.”
Travis gritted his teeth and wrapped his finger around the trigger. Pull it, damn it! He knew he only had seconds at best before Kramer came at him again, but in the space of a single second every horrible memory raced through his head. Jack. Angela. Her face on the bloodstained pavement.
This was totally different, he told himself. This was a man who had tried to kill him. This was a life-and-death situation! He had to pull the damn trigger.
But he couldn’t do it.
Kramer knocked the gun out of Travis’s hands. Before Travis could move away, Kramer kicked up his feet and caught Travis in the abdomen. Travis sprawled onto the ground. He felt as if his chest were on fire. Before he could think what to do next, another kick landed in the same spot. He clutched his chest, writhing in agony.
Travis rolled onto his side, trying to squirm away, propping himself up with one arm. His ribs ached; he felt certain at least one was broken, maybe more.
Kramer reared back with his foot and kicked Travis once more in the gut. Travis screamed. His eyes were watering. The pain was so intense he couldn’t think. Every time he tried to move, Kramer kicked him again.
Kramer shoved him over, then kicked him in the side. “Fuckin’ piece of shit,” he muttered. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna kill you. I’m gonna hurt you. Then I’m gonna burn you. Yeah—Byrne burns.” He laughed. “Then I’ll kill you.”
Kramer removed his lighter from his pocket and lit it. He held it against Travis’s face.
Travis cried out. Even after he moved his face away, he could feel the flame burning his flesh. Kramer moved the lighter to the other side of Travis’s face. Travis screamed again. There was nothing else he could do. He couldn’t run, could barely breathe.
Kramer lowered the lighter to the edge of Travis’s jacket and watched as the windbreaker caught fire. “Welcome to hell, Byrne,” he said. His eyes glowed with excitement.
Then, as he watched the flames catch on, he pulled out his gun, cocked the hammer, and aimed at Travis’s kneecap.
Travis heard the shot. He winced involuntarily, bracing himself. It took him several moments to realize … he wasn’t wounded. Before he could react, he felt about a hundred and fifty pounds slam down on his stomach.
After he regained his breath, Travis cleared the tears from his eyes and tried to figure out what had happened. He was still alive. His kneecaps were intact. And Kramer’s body was sprawled across his lap.
And his jacket was on fire.
“Aren’t you going to thank me?” Cavanaugh ran forward and beat the flames out with her coat. “Another second and you would’ve been about two feet shorter.”