The Shadow Hunter

Travis to deal with. If she wanted to survive, she had to take him out too.
    “Nice job, Abby,” Travis said, his voice clear and close through the wall. “I’ll bet Raymond was thinking of you when he died.”
    She didn’t answer. Talking would only betray her position, and she knew she couldn’t manipulate Travis the way she had played with Hickle. Travis was too smart and knew her too well.
    “You’ve helped me out, actually. I was wondering how I’d explain one of my nine-millimeter rounds in your body. The police would ask questions about that. Now it won’t be an issue. You want to know why?”
    She wouldn’t be goaded into giving a reply. She waited.
    “Cat got your tongue? I’ll tell you anyway. See, when the police find you, the Beretta will be in your hand. My prints won’t be on it. It’s not my personal weapon; that gun was confiscated by the sheriff’s department for ballistics tests after the little dustup inMalibu. This Beretta is one I got from the TPS supply room. Only, when the police look at the sign-out sheet, they’re going to see your signature. I can forge it.”
    She was sure he could. He had many talents, some of which she’d never guessed until today.
    “They’ll think you weren’t satisfied with your five-shot Smith, so you stopped by TPS and checked out a backup that packs more firepower. Then you went on a vendetta against Hickle. Tracked him down, and there was a running gun battle, slugs deposited everywhere—rounds from his rifle and your Smith and your new Beretta. There’ll be no way for the evidence techs to ever piece it together and no reason for them to try very hard, since the bottom line will be obvious. Double homicide. I’ll be inconsolable when I hear the news.”
    None of that mattered, except for one thing. He had told her he would be using the rifle now. It was the only way he could kill her and pin the blame on Hickle.
    The rifle had to be nearly empty. She had lost count of the rifle shots, but there must have been at least six or seven by now, and Hickle’s Model 770 had a ten-round magazine. Hickle might have carried spare mags in his pocket, but it was equally possible he kept the ammo in his duffel, and she doubted he had lugged the duffel with him on the run. There was a fair chance Travis was down to only three shots. He couldn’t blast wildly. He would have to get close. If she ran, he would pursue until he had a clear shot.
    “Abby,” Travis called, “did I ever tell you how much I love you?” He was laughing.
    She ignored his words. They meant nothing. But from the direction of his voice, she knew he was closer to the second doorway than the first. It was all she needed to know.

58
    Travis held the rifle in both hands, ready to fire. The flashlight was lashed to the long barrel with a strip of his shirtsleeve; its glow moved wherever the muzzle pointed. The Beretta was holstered again, to be wiped clean and left with Abby once she was dead.
    He was ready. He would enter the office, and then it was a simple matter of kill or be killed. Either Abby would get him, or he would get her. He couldn’t hope to flush her out of hiding, and he could no longer force her to waste her ammo. Even if he had been willing to use the Beretta, he could not fire through one doorway while covering the other exit. That was a job for two men, and he was alone.
    Still, he had the advantage. Abby’s survival instinct was strong, but her conscience was stronger, and it was her conscience that would make her hesitate for an instant before shooting him. He, on the other hand, would not hesitate at all.
    He drew a few quick, shallow breaths, overbreathing like a diver preparing to submerge, then readied himself to go in.
    In the adjoining hall—running footsteps.
    She’d fled, using the first doorway.
    He sprinted around the corner, the glow of his flashlight swinging down the hall and spotlighting a blurred, disappearing figure. He almost fired but didn’t trust his aim, and then she spun and shot at him once, driving him back behind the wall. When he looked out again, she was gone.
    There was only one exit she could have taken. The door to the stairwell. She was trying to get out.
    She’d made a mistake. He knew it. He charged down the hall, the flashlight bobbing with the rifle in his arms.
    Heading downstairs, she would be an easy target. He would have the high ground. He could fire on her from the landing and finish her before she could take