Assassin's Express by Jerry Ahern

to trace out the killers, the terrorists, the bombers—whatever you called them. But as soon as the thing with Jessica Pace was over, he would go back to Europe and spend the rest of his life—and every dime he had if need be—to find the person most directly responsible for Bess being killed. He felt the Camel burning the flesh of his fingers, looked at it a moment, then snapped it out the open car window. To find that person was the only way he’d ever exorcise what was in him. The feelings for Bess, the grief that she was gone from him—all of that would never leave, he knew. But at least if he got her—
    â€œHank!”
    Frost turned and stared across the front seat. Jessica Pace, standing by the open passenger door, looked back at him.
    â€œWhat—what do you want?” he asked her, his voice sounding lifeless to him.
    â€œYou see those guys—that car over there?”
    â€œWhat—?” Frost followed her stare, past him and out the open window at his side.
    It was a green sedan that seemed identical to the one that had followed him from the airport in Los Angeles, the one he’d forced the FBI man/cabdriver to lose. There were two men, one inside it and the other walking from it, but from the distance Frost couldn’t see faces. He realized, too, that there was no reason to suppose he would have recognized the faces anyway. “Jessica,” he snapped, “reach over into the rear seat—that small black case. Take the Bushnells out of it and try to see if you recognize any faces.”
    â€œThey’ll see!” she blurted out. “They’ll know we’re watching them.”
    â€œYou let me worry about that. If they’re straight, they’ll just think we’re rude. If they’re after our tails, they’ll at least know we’re onto them. Just do as I say, huh?” Frost lit another cigarette. He snatched the map from the glove compartment, checking the road ahead as well as the standard gas-station map allowed. The way the road wound, there were either mountains or canyons, he assumed.
    â€œIt’s Boronovitch—he’s a KGB man,” Jessica half-gasped.
    Frost glanced at the girl, then back through the window, tossing the map onto the back seat. “Boronovitch, huh? With a name like that I’d have sworn he was Irish. Get all the way in and get that door closed,” he snapped.
    â€œWhat are you going to—?”
    â€œThe one guy’s out over at that phone now, right? Trying to call—shaking the coin return? Probably out of order. If he’s using a phone, means he doesn’t have a radio, so let’s ditch them before he finds a phone that works.”
    â€œWhat are you—?” She interrupted herself, slamming the door closed.
    â€œLock it,” Frost commanded, starting to fumble his seat belt into position. “And buckle up, kid!”
    â€œYou aren’t—”
    â€œYeah!”
    â€œThe way you drive? And with this trailer? Let me—”
    â€œKeep that .380 peashooter handy, huh?” Frost glanced behind him—then swore at himself. All he could see was the trailer. He peered into the side-view mirrors, turned the key, and checked the gas gauge—almost full. A thought flashed across his mind—why hadn’t Jessica Pace used the bathroom at the service station twenty miles back up the road? Or why hadn’t she just walked back into the camper trailer then while he’d been filling up? Why the rest area—? He could have stopped anywhere on the road shoulder and she could have gotten out and used the bathroom in the trailer. Frost looked out the open driver’s window, spitting his Camel onto the pavement as he glanced toward the green car and started the engine of his own car. He shouted out the window, “Hey—you guys in the green car—”
    The one coming back from the phone kiosk turned, looking across the