Free The Naked Edge by David Morrell Page B

shared meals with them, slept in the same room, and gotten to know all the pathetic, painful outrages that had been done to them throughout their lives. Social conservatives would argue that those outrages were nothing more than excuses these men used to justify their outrageous acts. There was truth to that viewpoint, Bowie thought. No matter how damaged people were, they needed to accept responsibility for their actions. They needed to exert control over themselves. Without discipline, chaos reigned. He had learned that lesson with great difficulty.
    “I'm going to do a one-eighty!” the voice yelled.
    Leaning closer to the radio receiver, Bowie heard tires squealing.
    “They're blocking us that way, too!” the voice yelled.
    Yes, chaos needs to be eliminated , Bowie thought.
    Melancholy, he reached for a transmitter next to him. He pressed its “on” button and saw a red light appear. When he pressed another button, a green light appeared.
    In the distance, a sound like thunder rumbled through the night.
    9

    Speeding toward the car, the state trooper stared beyond it toward the flashing lights of the Jackson police cars that blocked a main street through the small town. Almost got them , he thought. One thing they're not is reporters .
    Suddenly, the quarry ahead executed a 180-degree turn. With equal abruptness, the trooper pressed his brake pedal enough to give him traction but not lock the brakes. He swerved so that his patrol car blocked the left side of the almost deserted street. The cruiser following him performed an equivalent maneuver, blocking the right side of the street.
    He scrambled outside, drew his Glock .40, and took a position behind the engine area, aiming toward the vehicle that sped toward him. His fellow officer did the same. If the car tried to ram them, they would flee toward the protection of the storefronts on each side. If the car stopped and its occupants decided to try shooting their way to freedom, the troopers would teach them the error of their ways.
    The car sped closer, veering to the right, hoping to slip between the cruiser and the sidewalk.
    It exploded, the shockwave hurling the trooper backward, slamming him onto the street. The flash seared his vision. The ringing in his head was agony. As his mind spun, he felt pressure in his chest, air being sucked from his lungs.
    Wet. Why does my face feel wet? He pawed his cheeks. Blood. My God, I'm bleeding.
    Chunks of metal crashed around him. Something soft and wet fell on him. Beyond the ringing in his ears, he heard the other trooper screaming. Then he realized, he was the one who was screaming.
    10

    As the pickup truck worked its way up a slope, Cavanaugh heard the blast from the direction of town. Using only parking lights so that the truck would be difficult to follow, Jamie drove, Mrs. Patterson and William sitting next to her. With no more space in the cabin, Cavanaugh sat in the truck's uncovered back.
    He felt the explosion as much as he heard it. In the murky distance, a fireball illuminated the night, showing him that the explosion came from the direction of town.
    The truck's back window slid open. “My God, what caused that ?” Jamie asked through the opening.
    Cavanaugh was reminded of what Garth had said when he'd arrived at the ruin of Cavanaugh's home— looks like a war zone . “This is beginning to feel like Bosnia did.”
    He sensed Jamie thinking as the truck jounced along a deep rut. “You never told me you were there.”
    “It's not something anybody who was there wants to remember. One thing you could count on—just when things got quiet, somebody'd start shooting again or blow something up.”
    The lane got bumpier, sending vibrations that jostled Cavanaugh in the back of the truck. From the direction of town, he heard sirens. A lot of them. Through another break in the trees, he saw that the flames silhouetted the hills close to town.
    “How much farther?” William asked, uneasy.
    “Five