Page 72 of Killer Clone

A door stood open on the wall of the garage. A sign hanging from a single nail indicated that the stairs led up to the rest of the building.

They were getting closer. “We should check the place out.”

Stella put away her phone. Her face was serious. She joined him.

“Yeah, we should. But there’s no other car or sign of anyone here. Patrick could’ve come, met someone, and moved on with them to another location.”

“Maybe. Or maybe the unsub bugged out afterward. But we should still check it out.”

They reached the stairway door. Dirt had built up on the edges of the steps, but recent footprints smudged the area in the middle.

Stella stopped in the doorway. “Or maybe he’s still here and just headed out to load up on coffee.”

Tires squealed on pavement, and the daylight at the garage’s entrance flickered, swallowed by the shadow of a battered white Toyota Tacoma as it lurched halfway down the ramp before screeching to a stop.

Hagen reached for his gun.

Stella shouted, “FBI. Stay where you are!”

The Toyota’s engine clunked and the wheels screamed as the truck shot up the ramp in reverse.

Hagen and Stella raced to their Explorer. He leaped inside, gunned the engine, slammed the gear into reverse, and floored the gas. Stella was still pulling on her seat belt and shouting into her phone as the SUV spun around. Hagen stomped on the gas again.

The wheels spun. Black smoke rose in the rearview mirror, and the smell of burning rubber leaked through the air vent as they raced up the ramp.

For a second, as the Ford Explorer reached the top and flew out onto the street, the four-thousand-plus-pound vehicle was airborne. Hagen drifted up and out of the seat. Conversely, Stella’s seat belt strapped her down hard, but her phone floated away from her ear. Hagen held the wheel steady even as he saw, away to his left, the white Tacoma speeding away.

Their vehicle smacked the ground, and Hagen jerked the wheel. The tires screamed again, and Stella shifted despite her restraint, her shoulder colliding with the passenger door. The Toyota reached the end of the road. Its back end spun, and their quarry raced around the corner and out of sight.

Hagen willed the SUV on. His foot flattened the pedal. The engine roared. The RPMs bounced into the red, and the needle on the speedometer climbed past the vertical.

They had to gain on him. They had to catch him before he joined the highway, or they’d have a high-speed chase amid civilian vehicles in midday traffic.

In this moment, he wished very much to be driving his Corvette.

Hagen reached the end of the road. He kept his foot down and pulled the wheel hard in the direction the back end was swerving. His tires slid across the pavement. The steering wheel vibrated under his fingers, but the SUV straightened out.

There, twenty yards ahead of him—and approaching the bridge above the railway, where a freight train rolled slowly east—was the Toyota.

A boomechoed down the empty street just as the Tacoma’s back window shattered. A short whistle pitched a high tone over the roof of the SUV. The freight train running parallel to them hooted back.

The damn guy was shooting at them.

Stella drew her weapon and pulled on the slide. Leaving just one hand on top of the steering wheel, Hagen hit the button on the door and lowered Stella’s window.

A second shot boomed.

The side window next to Hagen’s hand shattered, spraying pieces of black plastic and glass. Stella unclipped her seat belt, stretched her body out of the cab, and fired.

A small tower of dust exploded from the surface of the road just behind the Tacoma. Stella shouted, “Keep it straight.”

Hagen gripped the steering wheel tight with both hands. His foot was still hard on the gas. Past the shattered rear window of the Toyota, the hooded figure reached behind him and stretched out his arm.

He was going to fire again. And Stella was half out of the vehicle, completely exposed.

But before he took a shot, the truck’s back tire blew out. Rubber shredded, flinging debris across the pavement. The vehicle lurched violently, fishtailing as the driver fought for control.

Too late.

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