Page 73 of Killer Clone

The truck veered hard, swiping the curb before slamming into the embankment. It shuddered to a stop, nose angled toward the bridge.

Hagen yanked the wheel, skidding the Explorer to a halt. He was already moving before the brakes fully engaged, feet pounding the pavement as he bolted toward the railway line. Stella was ahead of him.

“FBI! Stop!”

The hooded figure was already running, hitting the grassy incline with a thud.

They had him. They just had to cuff him, and it would all be over.

Hagen had his weapon out but kept his finger off the trigger as he sprinted, closing the distance.

But the guy scrambled, blood streaking the back of his hand. He headed for the bridge, stumbling but fast. The train rumbled past in front of him.

Stella shouted, “Stop! Stay where you are!”

He didn’t.

At the top of the bridge, he lunged forward, grabbing on to the last wagon of the passing train. Momentum yanked him off his feet, carrying him away down the track.

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Stella climbed to the top of the embankment and watched the freight train rumble away, heading east. The train wasn’t moving fast, just slow enough to allow someone to leap on board without killing themselves. But as it left the bridge, the locomotive picked up speed. The tracks rattled until they eventually sank into silence.

She slipped her gun back into her holster.

Hagen had paced away, his phone to his ear. He returned after a minute. “Police’ll talk to the freight company. They’ll stop the train a couple of miles east of here. He’s not going anywhere.”

She wished that were true.

“A lot of places to leap off a train within a couple of miles.”

“Maybe. But not many that are safe, and there’s not much we can do for now unless you feel like chasing a train.”

Hagen’s nostrils flared. He definitely looked like he wanted to drive after the locomotive.

She shook her head. “Forget it. This isn’tThe French Connection. Let the cops run him down. If he stays on thetrain, the police will pick him up down the line. Let’s check the Toyota.”

She scrambled down the bank toward the truck. Whoever the driver was, Stella hated the motherfucker. She regretted not opening fire when he fled. If he’d still been armed, she could’ve defended her decision. But she hadn’t seen a weapon, and he hadn’t tried to shoot once he’d left his vehicle.

Stella peered through the window, careful not to touch anything. There was no sign of the gun. She almost gagged as she spotted some vile-looking brown sludge in a capped plastic water bottle sitting in the cup holder. A paintbrush was shoved into the substance. She made a mental note to deal with that and the backpack lying on the passenger seat—or maybe have Hagen handle that stuff.

The back seat contained some food wrappers, two empty tequila bottles, and something yellow that stuck out from under the passenger seat. She slipped on a pair of gloves before reaching inside to pull out a pair of battered license plates.

“Pennsylvania.”

Her stomach twisted. So the killer had come all the way from Pennsylvania to bait them like this. A friend of Maureen King’s, perhaps. The guy who’d tied the knots for her, maybe.

“It’s a Toyota Tacoma. I think I know where this is going.” Still holding his phone, Hagen peered over her shoulder. His face was grim. “Just a sec, Mac. I need you to run some plates for me.”

As he read the numbers, something thumped from the bed of the vehicle.

Stella eyed Hagen. From the look on his face, she hadn’t imagined the noise. They turned.

The thump came again.

Pulling their weapons, they sidestepped to the back of the vehicle and looked inside the empty bed.

It thumped again.

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