Page 102 of The Burning

“Stop! Stop!”

I fire two shots at the backhoe cab. I’m midway across the lot, sprinting, my .38 trained on the operator. A flash of light to my right. I glance over, see headlights bearing down. The scream of an engine. Too close and coming fast. I twist, get off a shot at the driver.

The vehicle rams me. A knife-stab of pain in my hip. My feet leave the ground, and then I’m airborne. Engine roaring. The world a blur around me. My left shoulder and hip slam against the ground. My head bounces. Stars scatter and my vision goes dark. Vaguely, I’m aware of my body skidding on gravel. I roll, my arms and legs flopping.

The next thing I know I’m lying still. Cold and wet against my face. The same cold seeps into my clothes. Pain courses through me, but I can’t quite isolate where. The knowledge that I’m in dire straits dances in the periphery of my consciousness. I bring up my right arm, but my .38 is gone.

I blink to clear my vision. Spit grit from my mouth. Two seconds and the world comes back into focus. I see a black-clad figure approach. Leather boots crunching. I raise my head, look around, shake off another round of dizziness.

Where the hell is my gun?

“Be still,” comes a deep voice.

I hear the rise and fall of the backhoe engine. In my mind’s eye, I see Tomasetti’s Tahoe being crushed. Adrenaline rushes through me and I roll onto my stomach, try to get my arms and knees beneath me so I can get up. My muscles betray me. A wave of nausea hits me. I raise my head, spit, see blood. My head swims, so I lie back down, focus on pulling myself together.

Hands grasp my left shoulder and turn me onto my back. Pain streaks up my spine, and I groan. My head lolls and I find myself looking up at the gray sky. Snow coming down. Cold and wet soaking into my back.

“You made a very foolish decision, Kate Burkholder.” Isaiah Hofer kneels next to me. He’s wearing a black coat, the wool damp with melting snow. Black leather gloves. His expression is strangely sympathetic as he tucks my .38 into his waistband. “But then I expected no less from you.”

He leans over me, his hands moving over my shirt and trousers, being especially diligent with my pockets. While he searches me, I take inventory of my injuries. Headache. Fuzzy brain. Pain in my right hip. My back. I glance left. The vehicle that struck me is ten feet away, wipers and headlights on, engine purring. Hofer slides my radio from my belt, plucks the mike from my shoulder. Impersonally, he unbuckles my duty belt, slides it off me, and drapes it over his arm.

I blink, try to clear my head and assess the situation. Even dazed, I know things couldn’t be much worse.

“Where’s Tomasetti?” The words come out as little more than a croak.

“Apparently, he made the same miscalculation as you.” He looks right, toward the backhoe.

I follow his gaze and the ground seems to break away beneath me. The rock bucket rests atop the crushed roof of the Tahoe. The windshield and windows are buckled. There’s no movement. No sign of Tomasetti. No sign of life.

Horror overtakes me and I sit up, snatch Hofer by the throat, my hand squeezing with every ounce of strength I possess. “You son of a bitch.”

I don’t recognize my own voice. It’s primal, suffused with panic and terror and rage.

Twisting, I get my elbow beneath me, try to get a better grip on him, my heels digging for purchase. “Where is he?” I shout.

I don’t see the blow coming. The impact is like a stick of dynamite going off in my head. My hand falls away from his throat. I fall back to the ground. When I’m flat, he leans close, both hands going around my neck. I grasp his wrists with my hands, my fingers digging and scratching. I twist, raise my legs to kick, but it’s no use. He’s stronger and I’m in no condition to fight.

Tomasetti.

Shadows crowd my vision. Sound fades. The only thing I hear is the pounding of my heart. Darkness overtakes the light and it’s as if I’m seeing the world through a tiny hole. I’m aware of movement and voices. The sensation of being jostled and my body being dragged.

And then I feel nothing at all.

CHAPTER 27

I wake to the sensation of being inside a moving vehicle. Bumping over rough terrain. Engine purring. I feel heat blowing down from an overhead vent. I open my eyes, see rain on the window. I’m in the rear of my rented SUV. My hands are bound behind my back. I look toward the driver’s seat, see the back of Hofer’s head.

Raising my head, I look around, try to get my bearings. I see trees outside the window, but recognize nothing. We’re off-road. Woods all around. My equipment box from my Explorer, where I keep my tactical gear, is next to me. Inside, I keep extra ammo. My Kevlar vest. A first aid kit. Water. Next to the box, I see a coil of rope that I don’t recognize. None of it will help me with my hands bound. I look forward, spot my shotgun in its case between the seats. If I can get to it, I might be able to stop Hofer.

I test the binds on my wrists. It feels like rope, but my hands are numb; I can’t be sure. My .38 and radio are nowhere in sight. I glance down at my clothes, but I can’t tell if the knife I keep clipped to the inside of my waistband is still there or if Hofer took it.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The image of Tomasetti’s Tahoe flies at me. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead or injured. The need to go to him runs like a freight train through my chest. Panic threatens, but I beat it back, knowing if I succumb I won’t survive.

I look toward Hofer. Find him looking at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes are level on me, his expression inscrutable and cold.

“You’re back,” he says.