The passenger-side air-conditioning vent.

What the devil?

Affixed to the vent's top shutter, was a small black cylindrical object. She carefully pulled it out and saw that it was attached to six inches of thin black wire.

She switched off the minesweeper and studied the strange device. It looked familiar to her. Where had she seen-

Kudasi, Turkey. A bug. Not exactly like this one but close enough.

Bradworth?

Anger seared through her. The bastard.

She pulled out her cell phone. No signal. Not surprising in these hills.

"Do you have a pay phone?" she asked the attendant.

He pointed to an early 1960s vintage phone booth at the edge of the gravel parking lot. She strode across the lot and a moment later was sliding the glass door of the phone booth closed behind her.

She picked up the handset and brought up Bradworth's number on her cell directory. Be calm. Just tell the son of a bitch to keep his snooping hands off her privacy and hang up.

A roar of flying gravel.

She glanced out the glass door.

Shit.

A silver-blue utility vehicle was barreling toward her.

She grabbed the worn aluminum handle of the booth door and yanked.

Hurry.

The SUV was heading straight for the booth.

With speed. With purpose.

She leaped through the open booth door, stumbled, then regained her footing.

Gravel kicked up from the tires as the vehicle skidded to a stop. Both front doors flew open, and two men leaped toward her. Before she could react, one of the men pressed a wad of gauze over her mouth. It smelled sickly sweet.

She instinctively held her breath. The one whiff had already made her woozy.

Can't let it happen. Can't let the bastards do this.

The other man wrapped his arms around her legs while the first man pressed the gauze even tighter against her face.

Her eyes watered. Her lungs burned.

A shotgun blast rang out.

"Put her down, boys." The station manager, Simpson, was standing in the doorway of his office. He leveled the shotgun at the men. "Real easy now."

The man holding her feet loosened his grip slightly. "You don't understand, sir. We're U.S. Marshals and we're apprehending a suspect. My name is Jim Dennis and this is Ray Fontaine. Lower your shotgun."

"I never heard of Marshals trying to chloroform a suspect. I think that's a bunch of bull. Let her go."

The men slowly placed Hannah's feet on the gravel parking lot. She staggered a few feet away from them, breathing deep to try to clear her head.

"You're interfering with the law," the man who'd called himself Jim Dennis said. "The woman is under arrest. Put down your weapon."

The old man lowered his gun only a little. "And you talk kinda funny. You're not from around here. Show me your ID."

Thank God for that hint of a Russian accent, Hannah thought.

"Of course," Dennis said. "Right after we secure our suspect."

"They're lying, Mr. Simpson," Hannah said desperately. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"Just take it easy, lady," Simpson said. "No one's going to hurt you. Go on over to your van and let me take care of this."

She started moving across the parking lot. Weapons. There might be a weapon in the van. Jesus, her head was spinning.

"Stop, you bitch." Dennis muttered a helpless curse beneath his breath before he turned back to the station manager. "You're in big trouble, old man. You're aiding the escape of a dangerous felon."

"She don't look so dangerous to me," Simpson said. "Prove it. Show me your ID."

She'd reached the van. The back door was still open and the shelves of equipment were before her. What could she use to-?

"Okay," Dennis said. "I'm reaching for my badge. Don't do anything stupid."

"If you're who you say you are, we don't have a problem."

"Misunderstandings can cost lives." Dennis pulled open his brown leather jacket and slowly reached inside. "I've seen it happen. Just stay calm. If you'd like to come closer, I'll show you all the ID you could want to see."

Hannah saw the almost imperceptible signs of Dennis's hand tightening beneath his jacket.

"No!" she screamed. "Watch out. He's going to-"

Too late.

The pistol was already in Dennis's hand, out, and firing three bullets in rapid succession.

The old man screamed in pain as one bullet hit him in the upper chest. The other two were close misses, and pierced the fuel pump next to him.

The old man crumpled to the ground.

Dead? Hannah wondered frantically. What could she do to-

It was already done. Simpson's shotgun discharged as he fell to the gravel.

And the charge hit Dennis in the face. His head exploded.

Fontaine stared in disbelief at Dennis, but he recovered immediately. He started toward Hannah, the anesthetic-soaked cloth in his hand.

Think fast. Weapon. Find a weapon. What weapon?

The gasoline smell was thick in the air. The gas from the pierced fuel pump was gushing and trickling as it made a trail downhill.

Right toward the van.

Right toward Fontaine, who was now running toward her.

And then she knew what weapon to use.

She dove toward the equipment rack and her hand grasped the handle. She took aim and squeezed the trigger.

The signal flare exploded onto the concrete slab and caught the gasoline. The hot, bluish flame raced for the gunman. In an instant the puddle beneath him ignited. It consumed his clothes and then his hair.

And then his flesh.

He screamed.

She closed her eyes, then forced herself to open them. No time for squeamishness. She had to get out of here. This place was going to be a tinderbox in minutes, maybe seconds.

Hannah ran to the station manager. He was conscious, thank God. He was staring in horror at the burning man.

"Can you walk?"

He couldn't seem to take his eyes off the man who was now writhing on the pavement. "Fire… need extinguisher."

"No time." She pulled him to his feet and slung his arm over her shoulder. "We need to hurry. Walk with me, okay?"

He shook his head as he looked back at the pumps. "My station…"

Hannah half pulled, half dragged the man across the two-lane road.

She heard a deep, low rumbling.

The tanks!

She pushed the old man down and hit the ground on her stomach. The gas station exploded, sending shock waves off the hillside next to her. Fiery debris rained down on them as the blast filled their ears and echoed in the distance.

She opened her eyes. Objects were burning all around them. The station, SUV, and Conner's van were nothing more than black, burning hulks. She leaned toward Simpson and brushed an ember off his back. "Are you okay?"

"I guess so." He stared at a charred object only inches from his face. "What's… that?"

She quickly looked away. She felt sick. "I don't know." And, Christ, she didn't want to know. She started unbuttoning his shirt. "It looks like you have an upper-chest wound, but you may have gotten lucky." She hoped to heaven that was true. "You're not bleeding very much. I'll see if I can do some first aid before I try to get you help."