The Survivors Club (43 page)

About the Author

L
ISA
G
ARDNER
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Perfect Husband
,
The Other Daughter
,
The Third Victim
, and
The Next Accident
. She lives in New England with her husband, Anthony, and two highly spoiled dogs and two incredibly pampered cats, where she is at work on her next novel,
The Killing Hour
.

BY LISA GARDNER

The Perfect Husband

The Other Daughter

The Third Victim

The Next Accident

The Survivors Club

PRAISE FOR LISA GARDNER’S NOVELS

The Survivors Club

“One cannot read this excellent new novel by bestselling author Gardner without wondering what actors might play these characters. . . . Rocks and rolls right up to a nail-biter ending.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“This should cement Lisa Gardner’s place on the bestseller lists. The Survivors Club has it all—provocative plotting, an astute eye for detail, engaging characters, and a razor-sharp emotional edge.”

—Stephen White,
New York Times
bestselling author

“Hot dang, a new Lisa Gardner book! I love her hot, fast thrill rides. I’m always first in line to grab my copy of her newest release the day it arrives in stores. For my money, when it comes to suspense, nobody does it better.”

—Jayne Ann Krentz,
New York Times
bestselling author

The Next Accident

“[An] accomplished psycho-killer tale.”

—
Kirkus Review
s

“Harrowing. A fiendishly well-choreographed dance of death.”

—
Booklist

“A suspense-laden, twist-filled tale.”

—
The Providence Journal-Bulle
tin

“Gardner has created psychological terror at its highest. . . . Definitely a must read.”

—
The Snooper

“The suspense is constant. . . . A satisfying novel.”

—
The Plain Dealer

“Lisa Gardner has shot to the top of the suspense field at an astonishing rate. A remarkable talent.”

—
Romantic Times

The Third Victim

“Riveting, hold-your-breath suspense!”

—Iris Johansen

“Gardner deftly probes the psychology of school shootings while developing a cast of complex, compelling characters. . . . A suspenseful, curl-up winter read, this thriller teems with crisp, realistic dialogue
and engaging characters.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“An extraordinary book . . . Deftly [Gardner] has crafted
multi-dimensional characters. . . . Their emotions are well-
expressed in crisp, pertinent dialogue and the tensions are
sustained . . . with seemingly effortless ease. Scenes shift,
the pace varies: all to perfection.”

—
The Romance Reader

The Other Daughter

“Sheer terror . . . A great read.”

—Iris Johansen

“Suspenseful, engrossing page-turner . . . one of those
books that keep you up late, enslaved by the ‘just one
more chapter’ syndrome.”

—
Mystery News

“Once again, Gardner serves up suspense at a
furious pace.”

—
Publishers Weekly

The Perfect Husband

“A streamlined bang-up addition to the oeuvre of Tami
Hoag, Karen Robards, Elizabeth Powell and, these days,
even Nora Roberts.”

—Publishers Weekl
y

“Readers get loads of angst, great procedural stuff,
some hair-raising action scenes, and a villain to keep you
awake at night. What more can any thriller reader want?”
—
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine

“Scary, gritty, terrifying. Lock the door, leave on a
light.”

—The Oakland Press

“A page-turner.”

—
Rocky Mountain News

“A chilling story of revenge and betrayal, with one of the
creepiest villains I’ve ever read.”

—Iris Johansen

“An unforgettably evil villain and a throat-gripping
climax make The Perfect Husband a real page-turner!”

—Tess Gerritsen

“I loved this book! I was up till 2 a.m. finishing it!”

—Karen Robards

“Nail-biting suspense . . . a taut roller coaster of a story that kept me up very, very late.”

—Kay Hooper

Turn the page for an exciting
early look at Lisa Gardner’s latest thriller, THE KILLING HOUR, coming in hardcover from
Bantam Books in July 2003.

The
Killing
Hour

LISA GARDNER

CHAPTER ONE

Quantico, VA
3:01 p.m.
Temperature: 95 degrees

“God, it’s hot. Cacti couldn’t take this kind of heat. Desert rock couldn’t take this kind of heat. I’m telling you, this is what happened right before dinosaurs disappeared from the earth.”

No response. Another awkward stretch of silence. “You really think orange is my color?” the driver tried again.

Finally a reply: “‘Really’ is a strong word.”

“Well, not everyone can make a statement in purple plaid.”

“True.”

“Man oh man, is this heat
killing
me!” The driver, new agent Alissa Sampson, had had enough. She tugged futilely on her shockingly orange, definitely vintage 1970s polyester suit, smacked the steering wheel with the palm of her hand, then blew out an exasperated breath. It was ninety-five outside, probably one hundred and ten inside the Bucar. Not great weather for polyester suits. For that matter, it didn’t work wonders for twenty-pound bulletproof vests. Alissa’s suit bled bright orange stains under her arms. Kimberly’s own mothball-scented pink-and-purple-plaid suit didn’t look much better.

Alissa’s fingers drummed along the steering wheel, her other hand leaving a damp palm print on the edge of her seat.

The street was quiet. Nothing happening at Billiards; nothing happening at City Pawn; nothing happening at the Pastime Bar-Deli. Minute ticked into minute. Seconds came and went as slowly as a bead of sweat trickling down Kimberly’s sunken cheek, across her pale jawline, then over her already wet neck to join the sopping collar of her white silk shirt.

New agent Kimberly Quincy still didn’t move. She kept her gaze out the window. Focus. Control. Patience. Above her head, fastened to the roof but ready to go at any minute, was her M-16 rifle.

“Here’s something they never tell you about the disco age,” Alissa muttered beside her. “Polyester doesn’t breathe.” She twisted abruptly in her seat. “God, is this thing going to happen or
what
?”

Alissa was nervous. A forensics accountant before joining the Bureau, she was highly valued for her deep-seated love of all things spreadsheet. This, however, wasn’t a backroom gig. This was frontline duty.

In theory, at any time now, a black vehicle bearing a two-hundred-and-ten-pound highly armed suspected arms dealer was going to appear. He might or might not be alone in the car. Kimberly and Alissa, plus three other agents, had orders to halt the vehicle and arrest everyone in sight.

Phil Lehane, a former New York cop with the most street experience, was leading the operation. Tom Squire and Peter Vince were in the second backup vehicle. Alissa and Kimberly were in the third. Kimberly and Tom, being above-average marksmen, had cover duty with the rifles. Alissa and Peter were in charge of tactical driving, plus had handguns for cover.

In consummate FBI style, they not only planned and dressed for this arrest, but they had practiced it in advance. During the initial run-through, however, Alissa had tripped when getting out of the car and had landed on her face. Her upper lip was still swollen and there were flecks of blood on the right-hand corner of her mouth.

Her wounds were superficial. Her nervousness, however, now went bone-deep.

“This is taking too long,” she muttered. “I thought he was supposed to appear at the bank at three. Now it’s three-ten. I don’t think he’s coming.”

“People run late.”

“They do this just to mess with our minds. Aren’t you boiling?”

Kimberly finally looked at her partner. When Alissa was nervous, she babbled. When Kimberly was nervous, she grew clipped and curt. These days, she was clipped and curt most of the time. “The guy will show up when the guy shows up. Now, chill out!”

Alissa thinned her lips. For a second, something flared in her bright blue eyes. Anger. Hurt. Embarrassment. It was hard to be sure. Kimberly was another woman in the male-run world of the still very chauvinistic Bureau, so criticism coming from her was akin to blasphemy. They were supposed to stick together. Girl power, the Ya Ya Sisterhood and all that crap.

Kimberly went back to gazing at the street. Now she was angry, too, and the air in the car was strained. Damn. Double damn. Shit.

The radio on the dash suddenly crackled to life. Alissa swooped up the receiver without bothering to hide her relief.

Phil Lehane’s voice was hushed but steady: “This is Vehicle A. Target now in sight, climbing into his vehicle. Ready, Vehicle B?”

“Ready.”

“Ready, Vehicle C?”

Alissa clicked the receiver. “Ready, willing, and able.”

“We go on three. One, two,
three
.”

The first siren exploded across the hot, sweltering street, and even though Kimberly had been expecting the noise, she still flinched in her seat.

“Easy,” Alissa said dryly, then fired the Bucar to life. A blast of hot air promptly burst from the vents into their faces, but now both were too grim to notice. Kimberly reached for her rifle. Alissa’s foot hovered above the gas.

The sirens screamed closer. Not yet, not yet . . .

“FBI, stop your vehicle,” came the sound of Lehane’s voice blaring over a bullhorn two blocks away as he drove the suspect closer to their side street. Their target was a suspected arms dealer with a penchant for armor-plated Mercedes and grenade launchers. In theory, they were going to arrest him while he was out running errands, hopefully catching him off guard and relatively unarmed.

“Stop your vehicle!” Lehane commanded again. The target, however, didn’t feel like playing nice today. Far from hearing the screech of brakes, Alissa and Kimberly caught the sound of a gunning engine. Alissa’s foot lowered farther toward the gas.

“Passing the movie theater,” new agent Lehane barked over the radio. “Suspect heading toward the pharmacy. Ready . . .
go
.”

Alissa slammed the gas and their dark blue Bucar shot forward into the empty street. A sleek black blur appeared immediately to their left. Alissa hit the brakes, swinging the back end of their car around until they were pointed down the street at a forty-five-degree angle. Simultaneously, another Bucar appeared on their right, blocking that lane.

The suspect now had two FBI cars in front and one hard in back. Kimberly had a vision of a beautiful silver grille gunning down on them with a proud Mercedes logo. She popped open the passenger door while simultaneously releasing her seat belt, then hefted her rifle to her shoulder and aimed for the front tire.

Her finger tightened on the trigger.

The suspect finally hit his brakes. A short screech. The smell of burning rubber. Then the car stopped just twenty feet away.

“FBI, hands on your head! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!”

Lehane pulled in behind the Mercedes, shouting into the bullhorn with commanding fury. He kicked open his door, fit his handgun in the opening made between the window frame and the door and drew a bead on the stopped car. No hands left for the bullhorn now. He let his voice do the work for him.

“Driver, hands on your head! Driver, reach over with your left hand and lower your windows!”

The black sedan didn’t move. No doors opening, no black tinted windows rolling down. Not a good sign. Kimberly adjusted her left hand on the stock of the rifle and shrugged off the rest of her seat belt. She kept her feet in the car, as feet could become targets. She kept her head and shoulders inside the vehicle as well. On a good day, all you wanted the felon to see was the long, black barrel of your gun. She didn’t know yet if this was a good day.

A fresh drop of sweat teared up on Kimberly’s brow and made a slow, wet path down the plane of her cheek.

The street was silent now. No more sirens, no more gunning engines. Beside Kimberly, Alissa’s breath came as a shallow pant. To Kimberly’s right, in Vehicle B, Tom Squire held a rifle, while his driver, Peter Vince, covered with the FBI’s handgun of choice, a Glock .40. Five agents, one felon. At least they hoped it was one felon. Damn tinted windows.

“Driver, put your hands up,” Lehane ordered again. “Driver, using your left hand, lower all four windows.”

Movement in the car at last. Suddenly, with just the faintest buzz, the driver’s-side window glided down. For the first time, Kimberly could see inside the car. From this angle, she could just make out the silhouette of the driver’s head as fresh daylight surrounded him in a halo. It appeared that his hands were held in the air as ordered.

“Driver, using your left hand, remove the key from the ignition.”

Lehane was making the guy use his left hand, simply to work the law of averages. Most people were right-handed, so they wanted to keep that arm in sight at all times. In theory, the driver would be commanded to lower the windows, then remove the car key from the ignition, then drop the car key out the open window, all with his left hand. Then he would be ordered to use his left hand to open the door. Then he would be ordered to step slowly out of the car, keeping his hands up at all times. He would slowly pivot 360 degrees so they could visually inspect his form for weapons. If he was wearing a jacket, he would be asked to hold it open so they could see beneath his coat. Finally, he would be ordered to walk toward them with his hands on his head, turn, drop to his knees, cross his ankles and sit back on his heels. Then they would finally move forward and take their felony suspect into custody.

Unfortunately, the driver didn’t seem to know the theories behind a proper felony vehicle stop. He still didn’t lower his hands, but neither did he reach for the key in the ignition.

“Quincy?” Lehane’s voice crackled over.

“I can see the driver,” she reported back, gazing through the rifle sight. “I can’t make out the passenger side, however. Tinted windshield’s too dark.”

“Squire?”

“I think . . . I think there might be someone in the back. Again, hard to tell with the windows.”

“Driver, using your left hand, remove the key from the ignition.” Lehane repeated his command, his voice louder now, but still controlled. The goal was to remain patient. Make the driver come to you, do not relinquish control of the situation. There were five of them, fully armed, in position. Everything was A-okay.

Kimberly’s finger was itching on the trigger. “Come on, asshole. Remove the key.”

Still the driver did nothing in the sleek black car. Was it her imagination, or was the vehicle now slowly rocking up and down. Someone was moving around. . . .

“Driver, this is the FBI! Remove the key from the ignition!”

“Shit, shit, shit,” Alissa murmured beside Kimberly. She was sweating hard, streams of moisture pouring down her face. Leaning half out of the car, she had her Glock .40 aimed in the crack between the roof of their vehicle and the open door. Her right arm was visibly shaking, however. For the first time, Kimberly noticed that Alissa hadn’t fully removed her seat belt. Half of it was still tangled around her left arm.

“Driver—”

The driver’s left hand finally moved. Alissa exhaled forcefully. And in the next instant, everything went to shit.

Kimberly saw it first. “Gun! Backseat, driver side—”

Pop, pop, pop!
Red mushroomed across their windshield. Kimberly ducked and dove out of the car for the shelter of her car door. She came up fast and spread cover fire above the top of her door. More
pop, pop, pop.

“Reloading rifle,” she yelled into the radio.

“Vince reloading handgun.”

“Taking heavy fire from the right, rear passenger window!”

“Alissa,” Kimberly called frantically, “cover us!”

Kimberly turned toward her partner, frantically cramming fresh rounds in the magazine, then realized for the first time that Alissa was no longer to be seen.

“Alissa?”

She stretched across the front seats. New agent Alissa Sampson was now on the asphalt, a dark red stain spreading across her cheap orange suit.

“Agent down, agent down,” Kimberly cried. Another
pop,
and the asphalt exploded two inches from Alissa’s leg.

“Damn,” Alissa moaned. “Oh damn, that
hurts
!”

“Where are those rifles?” Lehane yelled.

Kimberly shot back up, saw that the doors of the Mercedes were now swung open for cover and that bright vivid colors were literally exploding in all directions. Oh, things had definitely gone FUBAR now.

“Rifles!” Lehane yelled again.

Kimberly hastily scrambled back to her side and got her rifle in the crack of the car door. She was frantically trying to recall protocol. Apprehension was still the goal. But they were under heavy fire, possible loss of agent life. Fuck it. She started firing at anything that moved anywhere near the Mercedes.

Another
pop,
her car door exploded purple and she reflexively yelped and ducked. Another
pop
and the pavement mushroomed yellow one inch from her exposed feet. Shit!

Kimberly darted up, opened fire, then ducked back behind the door.

“Quincy, rifle reloading,” she yelled into the radio, her hands shaking so badly now with adrenaline that she fumbled the release and had to do it twice. Come on, Kimberly. Breathe!

They needed to regain control of the situation. Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t get the damn rounds into the magazine. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Hold it together. A movement caught the corner of her eye. The car. The black sedan, doors still open, was now rolling forward.

She grabbed her radio, dropped it, grabbed it again and yelled: “Get the wheels, get the wheels.”

Squire and Lehane either heard her or got it on their own, because the next round of gunfire splattered the pavement and the sedan came to an awkward halt just one foot from Kimberly’s car. She looked up. Caught the startled gaze of the man in the driver’s seat. He bolted from the vehicle. She leapt out from behind her car door after him.