hollowed-out cheeks. Charlie pegged him as early thirties. He wasn’t a serial killer, but that left plenty of room for him to be guilty of all kinds of other horrible crimes.
“The dead ones we left in the library’s supply closet?” another of the orange-uniformed unknowns responded like he was making a joke. This guy was older, shorter, and heavier, with deep lines in his face and grizzled dark hair. He grinned, revealing a missing front tooth. “Depends on if we really managed to burn that mother down.”
“They found ’em,” Fleenor said shortly. “They found everybody. You think this guy being on our tail is an accident? By now there’s bound to be a BOLO out on this damned big yellow school bus.”
“Could be something like a busted taillight,” Abell said. “Not that it matters.”
“I still say you shouldn’t have killed Brother Frank.” Ware sounded both uneasy and angry. Of medium height and weight, he was a physically attractive man with even features and thick brown hair, the kind of clean-cut, WASPy guy that nobody was afraid of on sight. Known as the Beltway Strangler, he’d murdered fourteen women, most of them prostitutes, and left their bodies beside the D.C. Beltway. “Offing a preacher—that’s gonna piss God off. I
told
you.”
“Makes you feel any better, the last thing Brother Frank said was a prayer,” Torres said, and snickered.
“It was
prayer group.
” Ware shook his head. “Killing people there’s just bad karma. And a
preacher.
”
Torres said, “Going to prayer group was the only way us
hombres
muerto caminando
”—Charlie quickly translated that as dead men walking and realized he was referring to himself and his fellow residents of death row—“were going to get to the library today. Except for Fleenor. Hey, Dirty, who’d you have to suck off to get the gig with the kids?”
Fleenor snorted. “Fuck you,
amigo.
I bribed one of the guards with a month’s worth of smokes to get put on that damned community outreach panel. I hadn’t done that, we wouldn’t even have known these little bastards were coming, much less when and where.”
“So you lost some smokes,” Torres retorted. “You know what kind of shit I had to put up with from that fat librarian to get those guns hid in there?”
“You killed him,” Fleenor said. “You got payback.”
“You could’ve waited till Brother Frank left,” Ware said.
“You had a problem with what was going to go down, you could’ve stayed in your cell and taken your chances on being the next one hit,” Abell said to Ware. “You didn’t, so shut the fuck up. All of you, shut the fuck up. We got enough problems.” He looked toward the front of the bus, his gaze skimming the hostages. “Kiddies, ladies, you just sit tight. Sayers, Creech, Ruben, make sure nobody does anything they shouldn’t. Anybody gets out of line, kill ’em.”
Creech and Ruben were the names of the two unknown orange uniforms who’d been talking, Charlie gathered by their reactions. They moved out into the center aisle, going down on their haunches like Sayers to keep from being spotted through the windows, casting meaningful looks at the hostages, guns at the ready. Charlie had a bad feeling about what was getting ready to happen as the bus jolted onto the gravel on the shoulder of the road. The driver had chosen to pull over to the side where the mountain rose above them; on the other side a narrow slice of young trees was all that stood between them and a drop that was obscured by floating gray mist but that Charlie estimated had to be somewhere in the region of five hundred feet.
Abell was talking to Torres, Fleenor, and Ware, all of whom were gathered around the rear exit with him now in a tight little clump, in a low tone that Charlie couldn’t overhear. Their body language told her that they were edgy and primed for action. Wetting her lips, Charlie glanced at the side-view mirrors again and watched the flashing bar
“The dead ones we left in the library’s supply closet?” another of the orange-uniformed unknowns responded like he was making a joke. This guy was older, shorter, and heavier, with deep lines in his face and grizzled dark hair. He grinned, revealing a missing front tooth. “Depends on if we really managed to burn that mother down.”
“They found ’em,” Fleenor said shortly. “They found everybody. You think this guy being on our tail is an accident? By now there’s bound to be a BOLO out on this damned big yellow school bus.”
“Could be something like a busted taillight,” Abell said. “Not that it matters.”
“I still say you shouldn’t have killed Brother Frank.” Ware sounded both uneasy and angry. Of medium height and weight, he was a physically attractive man with even features and thick brown hair, the kind of clean-cut, WASPy guy that nobody was afraid of on sight. Known as the Beltway Strangler, he’d murdered fourteen women, most of them prostitutes, and left their bodies beside the D.C. Beltway. “Offing a preacher—that’s gonna piss God off. I
told
you.”
“Makes you feel any better, the last thing Brother Frank said was a prayer,” Torres said, and snickered.
“It was
prayer group.
” Ware shook his head. “Killing people there’s just bad karma. And a
preacher.
”
Torres said, “Going to prayer group was the only way us
hombres
muerto caminando
”—Charlie quickly translated that as dead men walking and realized he was referring to himself and his fellow residents of death row—“were going to get to the library today. Except for Fleenor. Hey, Dirty, who’d you have to suck off to get the gig with the kids?”
Fleenor snorted. “Fuck you,
amigo.
I bribed one of the guards with a month’s worth of smokes to get put on that damned community outreach panel. I hadn’t done that, we wouldn’t even have known these little bastards were coming, much less when and where.”
“So you lost some smokes,” Torres retorted. “You know what kind of shit I had to put up with from that fat librarian to get those guns hid in there?”
“You killed him,” Fleenor said. “You got payback.”
“You could’ve waited till Brother Frank left,” Ware said.
“You had a problem with what was going to go down, you could’ve stayed in your cell and taken your chances on being the next one hit,” Abell said to Ware. “You didn’t, so shut the fuck up. All of you, shut the fuck up. We got enough problems.” He looked toward the front of the bus, his gaze skimming the hostages. “Kiddies, ladies, you just sit tight. Sayers, Creech, Ruben, make sure nobody does anything they shouldn’t. Anybody gets out of line, kill ’em.”
Creech and Ruben were the names of the two unknown orange uniforms who’d been talking, Charlie gathered by their reactions. They moved out into the center aisle, going down on their haunches like Sayers to keep from being spotted through the windows, casting meaningful looks at the hostages, guns at the ready. Charlie had a bad feeling about what was getting ready to happen as the bus jolted onto the gravel on the shoulder of the road. The driver had chosen to pull over to the side where the mountain rose above them; on the other side a narrow slice of young trees was all that stood between them and a drop that was obscured by floating gray mist but that Charlie estimated had to be somewhere in the region of five hundred feet.
Abell was talking to Torres, Fleenor, and Ware, all of whom were gathered around the rear exit with him now in a tight little clump, in a low tone that Charlie couldn’t overhear. Their body language told her that they were edgy and primed for action. Wetting her lips, Charlie glanced at the side-view mirrors again and watched the flashing bar
Similar Books
