Collision(31)

“Stop or I’ll kill him,” the gunman said in English.

Pilgrim shrugged. “Kill him. I don’t care.”

The gunman retreated toward the other door, hauling Ben with him. “I’ll shoot right through Ben if I have to,” Pilgrim said.

“No!” Ben yelled.

“Then do it, big mouth,” the gunman said.

“But you”—Pilgrim said—“get to live if you tell me who took the woman from the lake house. Where is she?”

The gunman said, “You came to the roof to save this man, so you want him alive.”

“Don’t let him—” Ben started but the gunman yanked on his throat and Ben went a shade of blue for a few moments. He fell silent.

Pilgrim shrugged. “Shoot him; he keeps interrupting me.” If only Ben Forsberg would have the guts or the stupidity to fight, to break away and run, then Pilgrim could shoot the gunman in the knees, get the answers he needed. “I’ve killed everyone you people have sent at me today. But you, I’ll let you walk, just tell me where she is.”

Ben remained silent, but Pilgrim saw rage win out over fear in his eyes and thought: If Ben decides to fight, it’ll be interesting. Be ready.

“Your only way out is to talk to me,” Pilgrim said.

Ten seconds passed that felt like ten days, and the gunman said, “The woman. She’s in a silver van a couple of blocks away. With an Irishman.”

“No. I killed the Irishman.”

“You left another Irishman behind. A brother.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jackie.”

“Who do you and Jackie work for?”

The gunman shook his head. “I told you enough. You, dumb ass, open the door.” He pivoted Ben slightly—he didn’t have a free hand, without releasing either Ben or his gun, which was aimed at Pilgrim—and he turned Ben toward the door so Ben could grab the handle.

Two heads together, struggling, with one square inch of suddenly clear temple, and Pilgrim nailed the open space. A thunking round powered through scalp, bone, and brain. The gunman sagged, Ben sinking to his knees with the body.

Pilgrim started toward the gunman, pistol out and down toward the body, making sure the man was dead.

Ben reached over and grabbed the gunman’s pistol. And raised it at Pilgrim.

“Uh, hello,” Pilgrim said. “Your life. Just saved. By me.”

“Okay, thank you. Thanks. Appreciate it.” Ben didn’t let go of the gun. His muscles felt thin and taut as wire.

“Ben. Put the gun down.”

“No. I’m getting out of here. You stay put. I’m just going to head downstairs and call the police . . .” The gun started to waver.

“And they’ll give you back to Homeland Security,” Pilgrim said. “They suspect you were involved in killing Adam Reynolds. They found your business card in Nicky Lynch’s pocket. Right?”

The gun wavered in Ben’s grip. Every nerve ending warned him to run, to put distance between himself and this nightmare. But he couldn’t make a stupid move. Not now. He needed the truth about the past day if he had a prayer of clearing his name. “Who are you?”

A distant rise of sirens. The police, approaching.

Pilgrim lowered his gun, raised a palm. “I can answer your questions and you can answer mine. We can help each other. But not if we’re both in custody. Which is where we will be in five minutes if we don’t move.”

“This is all a mistake.”

“What it is, Ben, is a double. A special kind of frame, done to you and me both. We’ve both been set up to take the fall here. We’ve both been screwed.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I work for the government, but I can’t go to the police. Neither can you. Not yet. Not until we know who framed you, who tried to kill me. This Teach I’m searching for, she’s my boss. And whoever took her,” Pilgrim said, “is the same person who framed you and set me up to die.”

“We have to go to the police.”

The sirens drew closer. Someone had heard the rattle of gunfire over the hum of nightlife. “Police will defer to Homeland, to Kidwell’s special group. You want a buddy of Kidwell’s to start beating you again?”

“No . . .”

“Then come with me. Now. We need to find out who’s targeted us and why. Later, you want to walk away, you want to go to the police, I’ll let you. But right now, we have to run.”

“It looks worse if we run.”

“Forget looks. Worry about reality.”

The sirens grew louder. Ben handed him the gun.

They ran down the stairwell to the top floor. “Vochek,” Ben said. “There’s a woman with Kidwell . . .”