Made to Be Broken (Nadia Stafford 2)

Only a guess, of course. He might be moving closer to the building to lure us in. Or he might be searching the parts heaps for that carburetor he needed. As Jack would say, it didn't matter. Consider the possibility his target was the office, consider the possibility it wasn't, and give neither the dangerous weight of expectation.

Chapter Twenty-seven

I motioned to Jack that I'd loop around the two intervening junk piles, letting him take the straightaway along the dark fence. Again, he didn't argue. With his cast, he was in no shape to creep through a minefield of rusting metal. He was in no shape to be hunting a killer at all, but there was no sense trying to tell him that.

I picked my way through the part-strewn strip between the fence and the first heap. As I circled behind it, the going got tougher. In the city, "darkness" means you have to squint to read signs. In the forest, you're almost guaranteed a "can't see your hand in front of your face" black. But in a rural area? Conditions can change by the minute. With a full moon and stars, it's brighter than any city street. Once those astral illuminations sneak behind the clouds, though, every source of light makes a huge difference. By the fence, the office floodlights had been more than enough. But when I passed behind that first mound, the building disappeared, and so did the light.

I waited ten seconds, hoping my eyes would adjust more, my racing pulse reminding me that with each passing moment, I could be losing my best shot at Fenniger. I gave up, started forward, and knocked my knee against a tire. The rubber absorbed the sound, but it was lesson enough - better a dim light than a loud crash. I turned on my penlight, holding it under my hand, the beam lighting only the ground at my feet. Then I continued through the automobile graveyard.

There was an eerie unnaturalness to the place that made my hackles rise. It looked like something from a postapocalyptic nightmare, the wrecks like mutilated corpses, front ends hacked off, tops peeled away, empty headlight sockets staring blindly. The stink of gasoline and rust and vinyl blocked any natural scent. The wind carried only an icy, metallic chill that seared my lungs. When I rounded the last heap, the office light opened up a landscape of fields and fences and barns - a natural view that eased my nerves.

I turned out my light and crept along in the shadows. Finally I had a clear view of the building. Fenniger was less than ten feet ahead, stepping away from the very parts heap I was using for cover. I stopped. He kept going, cutting across the dozen empty feet between us and the office door.

I eased forward for a better view. To the left of the door was a lit window. Did that mean someone was inside? If so, Fenniger was exposed now. Either he was taking a huge chance or he expected to find someone there. Not a blind pickup but a meeting.

I should have considered that. Jack would have.

Damn.

A second party meant a potential witness.

Unless...

I lifted my gun, my fingers automatically adjusting their position as I analyzed my target. Shoulder shot. The right - No, his left hand was poised by his open jacket, ready to grab his firearm. I shifted my target.

A single silenced shot. Take him down. Drag him away from the building before whomever he was meeting knew he was there.

And I expected him to take the bullet without a peep?

Shit.

Maybe there was no one inside, and the light was just on for added security. If so, I could follow him inside - an even better place for an interrogation.

If he was meeting someone, I'd just need to be patient, like Jack said. Let him do his business, wait for him to leave, and when he was far enough away, grab him, gag him, and drag him to the back of the lot.

Still, I hoped the light was just -

Fenniger raised his hand. The knock rang out through the silent yard.

Damn.

Don't expect. Don't even hope. View all options with equal dispassion. Easy for Jack to say - the guy who viewed everything with dispassion.

At the clank of an opening dead bolt, I realized I'd made another mistake. When Fenniger's back was to me, I should have scampered to the car wreck ten feet to my right, where I could hide and see whoever opened the door. Now I'd be running right across that person's field of vision.

The door opened. I could tell only by the light flooding out. For all I knew, there were a half dozen people inside.

"Shit," a voice rasped from within. "I told you - "

Fenniger's hand swung up, as if to shove his contact back inside. I withdrew into the shadows, shuddering with frustration.

The harsh spit of a silenced shot stopped the speaker midsentence.

Not a meeting, but a hit.

As I pulled farther back into the shadows, metal clanged far to my right. I spun. A figure vanished behind a wrecked car.

Jack.