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He paced back andforth, his mind racing with thoughts of revenge. He had planned this for solong, and now it all seemed to be falling apart right in front of him.
“This is yourfault,” the voices of the dead told him. The ones who’d died because of the WM120, the ones who’d died because of him.
No,notbecauseof him. Yes, he’d been the lead engineer. Yes, he’d been the one responsiblefor the safety of the vehicle, the one who’d signed off on the project at WM,but that didn’t mean anything.
“It meanteverything,” the dead whispered to him. “You killed us.”
No, it wasn’t him.It was the others. The ones who had lied and deceived, who had done everythingthey could to force through the inferior materials for the brakes, then coveredup the fact that they knew about the danger.
He’d tracked themdown, one by one, and with each one he’d found, he’d been able to quiet thevoices of the restless dead for a little while longer.
Each time, though,the voices had come back, and he’d known that his job wasn’t done. He’d knownthat the dead required more justice than he’d been able to provide. Each time,he’d had to find someone else who deserved punishment, someone whoseinvolvement had contributed to the pain of so many.
A part of him knewthat he should be fleeing now. He should be running as fast as he could,leaving behind his ruined plan. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He hadinvested too much time, too much energy, and too much of his own sanity intothis project. He couldn’t let it all end in failure.
Sydney Locksencould still die if he merely slowed the FBI agents down enough.
His van waswaiting just outside. He knew that if he could make it to the vehicle, it wouldbe easy to drive out of there, to put some distance between himself and thepolice. He could try to disappear. It wouldn’t be easy, but his mind had beenable to plan everything so far. He would presumably be able to plot the stepsrequired to vanish somewhere the cops couldn’t find him.
If he did that,though, the voices would never be silenced. They would continue to haunt him,to torment him, until he was driven to the brink of madness once again.
No, he couldn’trun. He had to finish what he’d started. He had to keep punishing those who hadcrimes to pay for, those who seemed to go through the world without beinghaunted the way he was, even though they deserved it.
Steven heardfootsteps approaching and quickly hid behind a stack of crates. Peering througha small gap in the boxes, he saw three figures approaching: a man and two women.They had to be the FBI.
In that moment,Steven knew more people who deserved to pay for all of this. They hadinterrupted his work. They were here to let Sydney Locksen live when shedeserved to die. That made them as guilty as she was. As guilty as any of themhad been.
“You. You’re theguilty one,”the voices said, the way they always did.
“No,” Stevenwhispered to them. “It wasn’t me. It was them, it was all of them.”
It was only awhisper, but even so, he saw the figures look in the direction of his hidingspot.
He slipped awayfrom it. He wasn’t armed. He’d taken pride in his machines being enough to dowhat was needed. He was neutral, impartial. He didn’t choose the moment whenthey died, didn’t make any physical action that would directly bring about thedeaths of those who had to die.
Their deaths weren’this fault, either. He was simply doing what he had to do.
Now, though, itmeant that he wasn’t in a position to take on two armed and trained FBI agents,not head on. His only advantage was how dark it was here in the R&Dfacility. It meant that Steven could slip away in the gloom, avoiding the beamsof the agents’ flashlights.
Steven movedthrough the shadows, his heart pounding in his chest. He had to be careful notto make a sound, not to give away his position. He didn’t know how much time hehad before the agents found him.
As he creptthrough the darkness, he began to hear the voices again. They were louder now,more insistent.
“You can’t escapejustice forever,” they whispered in his ear. “You can’t keep running from yourguilt. You should give yourself to them. Jump out, let them shoot you. Get whatyou deserve!”
Steven gritted histeeth, trying to block out the voices. He knew he had to keep moving. He wouldmove around the agents, wait for his opportunity, and try to slow them downenough so Sydney Locksen would die. Perhaps he could even mete out justice tothem, too.
With luck,thiswould be the act that finally silenced the voices.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Amber’s flashlightflicked around frantically, like a moth flitting through the darkness. Shetracked its movement with her gun, the way she’d been trained, knowing that shehad to be ready to meet any threat.
“He’s heresomewhere,” Simon said, as the two of them looked behind a stack of crates.There was no one there. “In the building. The van outside makes it clear. He’sjust playing cat and mouse with us.”
Yes, but was hethe cat or the mouse in that game? That was what worried Amber, what made hertake every step nervously. At the same time, she was determined. She, Simon,and Francesca had to get to Boon’s latest victim before time ran out. They hadto catch Steven Boon, or more people would die. It was clear that he wasn’tplanning on stopping anytime soon. He would keep finding targets, keep findingreasons to put more people in his deadly mechanisms.
Amber couldn’tallow that to happen.
