Page 42

Forty years ago, when Ripley first slid behind the wheel of a car, her father had warned her: ‘Speed is the devil’s handshake.’ Tonight, she was squeezing that hand for all it was worth.

The Nissan fishtailed as Sarah took a hard right. Ripley followed suit. For a split second, the cruiser’s back end threatened to swing wide, but Ripley countered with a sharp adjustment. The vehicle straightened while her heartbeat jackhammered against her ribs.

This is stupid, Mia. You’re too old for this cowboy crap.

The thought, unbidden, slithered into her mind.

She saw Max’s chubby-cheeked smile, her son’s worried frown, the comfortable armchair in her living room that she might never see again.

For a split second, the image was so vivid and achingly real, that her foot eased off the accelerator.

Screw that, she thought. This bitch wasn’t getting away. Mia had spent her life getting rid of the bad guys to make the world a better place for her family, and this case had confirmed something she knew deep down – the only way she’d stop doing this job was if frailty or death intervened.

Yes, another bad guy might take the place of the one she put in the ground, but Ripley wasn’t just punching a clock here.

Every scumbag she took down was a message.

It was her way of shouting into the void: You do your worst, and someone, somewhere, will hunt you down and fuck you up for it.

It was her small, violent contribution to the eternal, bloody cycle of good versus evil, and she’d be damned if she let Sarah Webb write the final chapter.

The gap between the vehicles had narrowed now.

Eighty yards. Seventy. Close enough for Ripley to make out the shape of Sarah’s head, still facing forward, still pretending she was just a writer who’d punched a serial killer and helped catch a bad guy.

What a performance she’d put on. Ripley’s mind flashed an image of Frank Sullivan nailed to his recliner, stones where his eyes should have been.

Diana Jewell, headless in her koi pond. Thomas Webb, crucified to a chair in his own office.

All paths led to Sarah Webb.

But how? How had she managed to kill her own father when she was with Ella? A distraction? A premeditated setup? Ripley didn’t have all the answers, but she had enough. She had Sarah Webb in her sights, and that was a start.

The Nissan shot through a yellow light at an intersection.

Ripley blew through the red, grateful that no cross-traffic materialized to complicate her pursuit.

Her pulse raced as adrenaline flooded her system.

It had been years since she’d engaged in a high-speed chase, yet the old instincts remained sharp as ever.

Her body remembered what her mind had filed away.

Webb slowed unexpectedly at the next intersection, and Ripley nearly rear-ended her. At the last second, she stood on the brakes. The Explorer’s nose dipped as the anti-lock system kicked in. Then Sarah accelerated again. Her brake lights winked out like red eyes closing.

‘Playing games with me now?’ Ripley shouted.

The road ahead opened up. Four lanes of smooth asphalt with minimal traffic.

Sarah picked up speed again, pushing ninety, then a hundred.

Ripley stayed with her, maintaining a steady fifty-yard gap.

No need to close in completely. Not yet.

She wanted Webb somewhere isolated, somewhere she couldn’t escape on foot if things went sideways.

Ripley didn’t have a pistol anymore, so if she needed to threaten the subject with death, she’d have to deliver it via her fists.

Even better.

The Explorer’s high beams illuminated the Nissan’s rear license plate with crystal clarity.

Florida tags. Registered to Sarah Webb, no doubt.

Ripley wondered if the car contained evidence.

Maybe Webb had the missing eyes, the missing head, the missing finger.

Maybe there were more alabaster stones rolling around in the glove compartment. The thought made Ripley’s stomach turn.

They flew past the last outposts of commercial development.

Fast food chains and gas stations and the occasional factory.

Then the landscape opened up into darker territory.

The buildings thinned out and scrubby palmettos replaced them and crowded the roadside.

Ripley’s cell sat useless in her pocket.

Each time her hand inched toward it, Webb would execute another serpentine turn.

The Explorer’s radio remained silent too.

Ripley had tried to reach dispatch three miles back, but out here, between jurisdictions, the channels crackled with dead air.

Even if she could alert Bauer or Ella, what coordinates would she give?

Webb’s erratic navigation had spiraled them through a dizzying sequence of unmarked roads and service lanes.

Ripley’s mental map had dissolved into guesswork.

Not to mention that the moment she divided her attention between pursuit and communication was the moment Webb might disappear into the Florida wilderness.

Where the hell was she going? Did Webb even know herself, or was the woman just driving until she found freedom, however long that might take? She was driving west, away from the coast. Away from civilization.

The digital clock on the dash read 9:17 PM. Max would be asleep by now, tucked into his crib at the safe house. Ripley pictured his chubby cheeks, the way his eyelids fluttered when he dreamed. Her son would be there too, watching over him. Would they miss her if she never came back?

The thought wrenched something loose inside her. When you were young, mortality was an academic concept. At her age, with a family that needed her, it became a lot more real.

‘You’re not taking me from them,’ she said to the Nissan ahead. ‘Not tonight.’

As if in response, the Nissan swerved suddenly. Sarah took a hard left onto a narrow two-lane road with no name that Ripley could discern. The turn came so abruptly that Ripley nearly missed it. She cranked the wheel and felt the Explorer rock dangerously on its suspension.

The new road was poorly lit, with no streetlamps to guide the way.

Only the moon and the headlights prevented total darkness.

The asphalt was rougher here, full of potholes that the Explorer absorbed with its heavy-duty shocks.

The Nissan ahead wasn’t so lucky. Ripley could see it bouncing and jolting with each imperfection in the road surface.

Then the Nissan’s brake lights flared again, more decisively this time. The gap between vehicles closed rapidly. Ripley eased off the gas, suspicious of another fake-out, but Sarah continued to slow. Sixty miles per hour. Fifty. Forty.

Up ahead, Ripley spotted what had caused the deceleration. The road curved sharply to the right, with a solid brick wall running along the outside edge. It looked like the perimeter of some long-abandoned commercial property. The wall was at least ten feet high and solid enough to stop a tank.

Sarah took the curve at thirty-five, still too fast for safety. The Nissan drifted wide, nearly scraping the wall. As the car straightened out on the far side of the curve, Ripley saw her opportunity.

The road ahead was straight for at least a quarter mile. No oncoming traffic. No witnesses. Just Sarah Webb, a murderer who’d killed Ripley’s mentor and friend.

Ripley floored it. The Explorer surged forward and closed the gap.

She angled slightly to the left and aimed for the Nissan’s rear quarter panel.

The PIT maneuver. Standard procedure for ending a pursuit when conditions allowed.

She’d performed it in training a dozen times, though never at this speed, never for real.

The impact came with a sickening-but-satisfying crunch of metal on metal. The Explorer’s front bumper connected with the Nissan’s left rear panel. Ripley felt the shock travel up her arms as the steering wheel bucked in her hands. She maintained pressure, pushing the Nissan’s tail outward.

Physics took over. The smaller car’s back end swung wide as its front wheels lost traction.

The Nissan spun ninety degrees, then one-eighty, all while maintaining its forward momentum.

Sarah fought the spin, but inertia won. The car completed a full three-sixty before its passenger side slammed into the brick wall.

Ripley hit the brakes hard. The Explorer skidded to a stop twenty yards past the crash. Through the rearview mirror, she could see that the Nissan had come to rest perpendicular to the road, and its right side had crumpled against the brick.

No steam or smoke, though. None of the wheels had burst, either. Which meant the car might still be functional.

She threw the Explorer into park and reached for the door handle.

Then she hesitated. Procedure dictated that she should call for backup, wait for additional units to arrive before approaching the suspect vehicle.

But did anyone know she was out here? Sarah Webb might not stay put for long if the engine hadn’t seized up.

No. This ended now.

Ripley pushed the door open and stepped out into the cold Florida night. She took a moment to scan her surroundings. Trees. Wall. Road. No buildings in sight. No witnesses. Just her and Sarah Webb and whatever came next.

When she reached the driver’s side, Ripley could see Sarah through the window.

She was slumped forward with her forehead against the steering wheel.

Blood trickled from a cut above her right eye.

The door had buckled slightly in the frame but looked operational.

The airbag hadn’t deployed, which seemed an oversight for Japanese engineering.

Ripley grabbed the handle and pulled. The door resisted for a moment, then gave way with a metallic groan. Here she was. The monster hiding in plain sight, and now Ripley had her at her mercy.

‘Webb,’ Ripley barked. ‘Show me your hands.’

Sarah didn’t move.

Ripley reached in and pressed two fingers against Sarah’s neck.

The pulse was strong and steady. She wasn’t badly hurt, just stunned.

Ripley’s first overtly-unprofessional thought was that she could steal a few blows against Sarah’s skull and blame any damage on the crash, but a concussion was no match for life behind bars, which is what this bitch deserved.

‘It’s over, Webb. Wake up.’

Sarah’s eyes fluttered open. For a brief moment, she looked disoriented and vulnerable. Ripley had so many questions she didn’t know where to start.

‘You killed three people, including my mentor, and your own dad. Was it worth it?’

‘Agent Ripley,’ Sarah mumbled. ‘You shouldn’t have followed me.’

‘Save it. Get out. We’re going to-’

Sarah’s hand moved, too fast for Ripley to intercept. From between her legs, she produced a snub-nosed revolver.

Small, deadly, and now pointed directly at Ripley’s midsection.

‘Step back.’

God damn it. Where had she been hiding a revolver?

Ripley raised her hands. ‘It’s not worth it, Webb. We all know you’re guilty.’

‘I’m not guilty!’ Webb cried.

‘Then why are you pointing a revolver at me?’

‘Because,’ Webb breathed, then stopped. ‘I came too far. This needs to end.’

‘Yes it does.’

Sarah slowly rose to her feet, not taking the gun off Ripley. She wasn’t as injured as her cuts made her out to be. Then, Sarah gestured with the gun barrel for Ripley to get in the driver’s seat.

‘Go on. You’re driving,’ she said.

Ripley stared down the weapon that could end her life.

She had options, but none of them seemed wise given the circumstances.

Sarah didn’t look comfortable with a pistol, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t fire off a fatal bullet.

Ripley could attempt to disarm Sarah, but a few frenzied shots were sometimes worse than a purposeful one.

Ripley could refuse, but Sarah had desperation on her side, and desperate people pulled triggers without thinking about the consequences.

No. If Ripley wanted to walk away from this roadside attraction with all her internal organs still on the inside, she needed to stay in control.

Or at least, create the illusion of it.

So, she decided to play along until the balance shifted.

‘Fine. Where are we going?’

‘Not yet. Throw your cell away.’

Ripley had a thousand pictures of her grandson on her cell, and if Sarah wanted it, she could prize it from her dead hands. ‘Not going to happen.’

‘I’ll shoot you.’

‘So shoot me.’

Webb cocked the trigger and moved it closer to Ripley’s chest. Ripley didn’t move.

‘Go on. Shoot me.’

‘Not here. Needs to finish this properly.’

‘And how do we do that?’

‘Get in,’ Sarah gestured. ‘Drive.’

Ripley slid behind the wheel of Sarah’s Nissan having somehow won the cell phone battle.

There was no GPS on the thing, so Ella wouldn’t know her location regardless.

Still, she wasn’t giving up pictures of Max at the request of some hack.

Webb slid into the back seat. There was a plastic water bottle in the cup holder, half-empty.

A receipt for gas tucked into the center console.

The mundane artifacts of everyday life, utterly disconnected from the cold barrel of a gun now pressed against the back of her neck.

‘Go,’ Sarah instructed.

Ripley pumped the gas. The damn thing was still alive.

And they were off. Ripley rolled past her abandoned cruiser. Ella and Bauer might track it, but by then, it could be too late.

‘Let them find your car,’ Sarah said. ‘We’ll be finished by the time they track it.’