Page 142 of The Chain

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.