Collision by Jeff Abbott Page B

for you if you tell me.”
    “She is dead,” he screamed. He drew his knee up to his bloodied crotch.
    “You wouldn’t kidnap her just to kill her. Where is she?”
    He mumbled an answer, gasped in exquisite pain.
    “Who do you work for?”
    One of the lenses on the man’s sunglasses was shattered, either from the crease of a graze or from falling on the floor, and it resembled an empty eye staring back at Pilgrim. The man grimaced and frowned, and shuddered a final breath.
    Then a shot thundered on the roof. Pilgrim remembered the person he needed to keep alive.
    The roof door opened and Ben bolted for the cover of the closest AC unit. He was down and hidden before whoever came through the door had closed it.
    Ben crouched against the metal of the unit and tried to breathe silently. He listened, trying to hear which way the man moved. Instead he heard the hubbub of the ordinary world: brakes on the street, music rising from the festival nearby, a car honking, the hiss of the air-conditioning system.
    Then he heard a footstep. Close. As though the hunter were taking the measure of the wind, breathing the scent of Ben’s fear.
    Ben had no weapon. Nothing. He had the clothes on his back, shoes, a belt . . . He stopped and carefully slid the belt free from his pants. He grabbed the end of it, opposite the buckle. The silver buckle wasn’t heavy but it would hurt if it hit a face, a nose, a mouth.
    Fighting a killer with a belt? He was an idiot. He tried not to shiver.
    “You’re not the one I want,” a voice, accented, called.
    Ben didn’t move. No point—the man knew where he was. He just didn’t know if Ben had a weapon, was trying to urge him out rather than fight.
    “You tell me where Pilgrim is, and I’ll let you live. I have no gripe with you. Him I want. He killed my cousins.”
    The man stepped around the corner of the unit, a heavy gun in his hand. Ben swung the belt overhead, as hard as he would swing an ax. The buckle cracked against the wrist bone, the shot blasting into the ground, close to Ben’s foot.
    The man—Ben saw heavy shoulders, a mole on his chin, a snarl of teeth—instinctively grabbed at his wrist, more surprised than hurt, and Ben barreled into him before he could lift the gun into Ben’s chest.
    Pilgrim ran up the roof stairs. The shot probably meant Ben Forsberg was dead. Jesus, he needed someone still alive to tell him what the hell was happening. He went through the door low, gun out, and halfway across the expanse of roof he saw Ben struggling with another man. The gunman was trying to shoot Ben in the head, but Ben fought hard, if not well, keeping the man’s gun aimed upward. But Ben was quickly losing the battle.
    Pilgrim lifted his gun, aiming to shoot the gunman in the shoulder as the two men fought.
    Then the gunman saw Pilgrim and head-butted Ben. But Ben didn’t release his grip on the gunman as he fell backward, and the bigger man toppled. The two of them vanished behind an electrical unit.
    Pilgrim ran to the mechanism. The gunman cradled Ben Forsberg in a headlock, the gun aimed at his temple, a thick arm around Ben’s throat. He held Ben up as a shield. Pilgrim aimed at the man’s head. “Let’s talk,” he said in Arabic.
    “Stop or I’ll kill him,” the gunman said in English.
    Pilgrim shrugged. “Kill him. I don’t care.”
    The gunman retreated toward the other door, hauling Ben with him. “I’ll shoot right through Ben if I have to,” Pilgrim said.
    “No!” Ben yelled.
    “Then do it, big mouth,” the gunman said.
    “But you”—Pilgrim said—“get to live if you tell me who took the woman from the lake house. Where is she?”
    The gunman said, “You came to the roof to save this man, so you want him alive.”
    “Don’t let him—” Ben started but the gunman yanked on his throat and Ben went a shade of blue for a few moments. He fell silent.
    Pilgrim shrugged. “Shoot him; he keeps interrupting me.” If only Ben Forsberg would have the