by Graham Smith
There’s a junction ahead so I swing the wheel right and join the new road in a four-wheeled drift that I’ve only got the merest control of.
Behind me I hear Cameron gasp in fear. He’s mumbling something but I doubt it’s the rosary he’s saying. A selfish, conniving, inconsiderate prick like him isn’t the kind of person who worships another.
Taking this turn was a mistake. We’re on a wider road, which is dead straight, there’s little traffic to protect us, and there are deep ditches at either side of the road.
The SUV appears behind me and I can imagine its occupants smiling as they realise there is little I can do by way of defence, let alone mounting a counter attack.
There’s a crack and I hear Cameron throwing himself down on the back seat.
I take a glance in the rear-view mirror and see the guy in the SUV’s passenger seat hanging out of his window.
It’s the gun in his hand that gives me the greatest concern.
43
To throw off the gunman’s aim, I swerve from side to side as much as I dare. It’s a risky tactic and it bleeds some of the compact’s speed.
The driver of the SUV only needs to nudge the rear of the compact, at one end of my sweeping arcs, for me to lose control.
With ditches at either side I have nowhere to go but forward.
The SUV holds left as I veer right, and a surge of power from its engine sees it gain enough ground to prevent me from cutting back to the left.
I see a vicious smile on the passenger’s face as he points his gun at the rear of the compact.
Whether he’s trying to kill Cameron, or shoot out our tyres, is a moot point. At a range of five feet, the odds of him missing are low.
There is only one course of action available to me, so I take it.
My foot slams down on the brake, causing the SUV to fly past us. There’s a shot fired by the passenger but I don’t hear the bullet striking the car.
As soon as we’ve slowed enough to turn, I wrench on the wheel and plant my boot back on the gas.
The SUV will catch us again, there’s no doubt about that, but at least I’ve bought us a couple of minutes.
I look in the mirror and see they have turned and are coming after us.
The move won’t work a second time, but I’m not done yet.
As the SUV hangs on our rear again, a truck lumbers into view. It’s laden with a large bulldozer, which overhangs its trailer-bed.
I weave a little but there is no sign of the gunman now the truck is here. I have the beginnings of a plan, but it’s risky at best; downright suicidal if it goes wrong.
As I weave, I increase the amount I cross the road. The truck is still approaching, and the SUV is hanging at the centre of the road as the driver waits for the optimal time to give us a nudge that will send us careering either into the oncoming truck, or one of the roadside ditches.
I keep this up until the truck is less than fifty yards away.
The compact is on the right-hand verge of the road when I stamp on the brakes for a second time. I have to give the SUV driver credit when he reacts a fraction of a second after I do. Just as I had hoped he would.
He’s too late though. We’re side-by-side now, with him between us and the truck.
While he’s still braking, I haul the wheel left and slam the side of the compact into the SUV.
My foot is hard on the gas and I am holding the wheel over, forcing him towards the truck.
The SUV brakes.
The truck swerves.
I keep pushing the SUV towards the truck’s chrome fender.
At the final second before impact, I tease the wheel right and disengage the compact from the SUV.
It takes me a second to bring the compact fully under control, and when I look in my rear-view mirror I see the SUV’s crumpled front end and the truck’s brake lights.
For the time being, the SUV is out of action.
The damage to the compact will cost me at least a couple of thousand bucks when the rental company gets it back but, so far as I’m concerned, it’s worth every cent. We’ve survived and that’s all that matters.
As Cameron straightens in his seat I realise that my mouth is dry and I have sweat oozing from every pore.
Like the damage to the compact, it doesn’t matter in the slightest.
It’s now time to start thinking about our next step. ‘Cameron. Use my phone to find out where we are and how far away Boston is.’
44
Cameron doesn’t like the way Jake has taken over, but he knows that challenging him would be a bad idea. Not only has Jake proved resourceful – saving their lives twice now – he’s also beyond furious at the way his girlfriend was killed.
For the time being he has to go along with Jake, and wait for a chance to arise for him to slip away.
Since the incident with the SUV, his son has been quiet and aloof. Cameron is sure that Jake is plotting their next move, as well as trying to come to terms with the girl’s death. As he knows he’s due some blame, he keeps his mouth shut and tries to figure out a way to regain his control over events.
Dusk has now fallen and the faithful little compact’s engine has never missed a beat as they’ve travelled north. When they stopped for gas they examined the car, and saw that one side and the rear end were dented far beyond the talents of even the best panel-beater. A headlamp was also smashed and the front fender now hangs lower than it should.
The car’s wounds are superficial but they are noticeable, so he agrees with Jake when he parks the compact in a multi-storey car park and leaves it to its fate. As a rental car it’ll have a tracking device, so the company will find it in a day or two.
They’re in a town near Brockton, twenty or thirty miles south of Boston. Their exact location isn’t important to Cameron. What is important, is that they have escaped their pursuers, and for the time being they are safe.
Jake uses his phone to find a motel, and his charm to borrow a charger from the receptionist. The only bags they have are Jake’s backpack and the laptop case Cameron uses as a briefcase.
‘First we eat. Then we sleep.’
Those six words are the most Jake has spoken to him in an hour, but Cameron doesn’t take offence; he might have, if he cared what Jake thought of him.
All of Cameron’s thoughts are on how to rebuild his life. With what amounts to a death sentence hanging over him, should his employer catch him, his options are somewhat limited.
Not exhausted though.
Cameron still has a few cards up his sleeve to enable him to start anew in relative safety – providing he picks the right location and deals himself the right hand.
Jake leads him out of the crummy motel and along the street until they find a diner. They look at the menus in silence, only speaking to give the bored-looking waitress their orders.
‘Look, about what happened on the boat with Tanya. I’m sorry. I didn’t for one minute think they’d shoot when there was a woman in front of me.’
‘Her name was Taylor. Not Tanya.’ Cameron sees Jake’s fists clench and unclench. ‘Now sit there, and don’t say another word about her, because if you do, I’ll be coming over this table and condemning John to death by beating the living shit out of you.’
Cameron heeds his son’s warning and doesn’t speak. Getting the girl’s name wrong was a tad clumsy, but he’s seen enough of Jake’s determination and resourcefulness to know that he’s more than capable of carrying out his threat.
As soon as Cameron finishes his food, Jake stands and nods towards the door. ‘Let’s go.’
As much as Cameron wants to discuss their next move with Jake, he can tell his son is hanging on to both his temper and his composure by the slenderest of margins. One wrong word or another ill-timed comment will be more than enough to tip Jake’s scales towards violence.
On the walk back to the motel he sees a liquor store, but decides that alcohol would not be a good addition to their current situation. Not only
do they both need to keep their wits about them, he doesn’t want to make a drunken mistake. Plus, he doesn’t know if Jake is a mean drunk.
Maybe once Jake has calmed down he can get him drunk and wait until he passes out to make his escape.
Under the shroud of darkness the motel looks even more depressing. It looks as if rooms are available by the hour, and the fact there’s a titty bar across the street does nothing to give him confidence that he’ll get a good night’s sleep. After being awake most of the previous night, and the stress of today’s attempts on his life, Cameron is starting to feel every year of his age.
If this were a normal day, and he was alone, he’d get his head down for a couple of hours, have a few drinks in the titty bar, and wait to see what offers came his way.
A jaw-clicking yawn drives that idea from his head.
Back at the motel, he washes his face in the bathroom and dries it with the threadbare towel that has been provided.
While in there he dismisses the idea of climbing from the window as it’s way too small.
Cameron leaves the bathroom to find Jake unplugging his cell from the borrowed charger.
‘I’m gonna make a couple of calls. You stay here.’
The second the door closes behind Jake, Cameron moves to the bedroom’s only window. He tries to open it but it’s jammed fast. Decades of being painted without being opened, have locked the window’s sash in the closed position.
With that escape route closed, he puts his ear to the door and hears nothing.
Neither the door’s handle nor its hinges squeak when he teases it open and looks outside. He turns his head left, then right.
Jake is at the end of the corridor, looking his way. Cameron gives his son a thumbs-up and retreats into the bedroom.
45
Now I’m alone, outside the crummy motel room, I start to shake. Today has been the most intense day of my life. I have no military training to prepare me for gunfights, or life and death situations with a murderous SUV. All I have are my wits and a refusal to quit.
I want to rage and shout and scream at the world for the injustice that saw Taylor catch that bullet instead of Cameron. I also feel an intense need to hate myself – for bringing Taylor along on this crazy trip, for not protecting her, and most of all, for leaving her body on the yacht.
As much as I want to berate myself, and find a bunch of guys to fight with so I can vent the fury that is threatening to overwhelm me, I stay calm and pull my cell from my shirt pocket.
I’m dreading the first call, and what I’m going to ask the second person I have to call is beyond any call of duty, or blood. That will be the most difficult conversation of my life and I’d make the first call a thousand times before making the second even once.
I select Alfonse’s name and press call.
‘What’s going on, Jake?’
I tell Alfonse everything in brief, clipped sentences that don’t allow my voice to crack, as the grief of verbalising Taylor’s death envelops me.
Alfonse’s response is a ragged breath followed by soft-voiced condolences.
I don’t acknowledge them. Can’t.
‘Right. So, you’re holed up in a motel with your father and you want to get him back to Casperton ASAP for John’s sake; you’re pretty sure that your father will abscond at the earliest given opportunity, and the guys who are after you are powerful enough to track cell signals. Have I missed anything?’
‘Just the fact that if Cameron gives me so much as half a reason, I’ll not be able to stop myself pounding on him until he’s nothing but a bloody pulp.’
‘I feel the same, Jake. However, as nice as the idea seems, beating on your father isn’t going to get you out of the mess you’re in. From what you’ve told me so far, you’re lucky to be alive. What we need to do is work out how to keep you that way. Options for travelling back to Casperton include, road, rail and air.’
‘Rail and air are out. The minute our names go on a passenger list we’re at risk of being traced by the guys who are after us.’
‘Agreed. That leaves road. Even if you could trust your father—’
‘Please don’t call him that. He’s not my father. I don’t want him to be my father. Call him Cameron.’
Alfonse inhales deeply. ‘Even if you could trust Cameron to not run off, and shared the driving so you didn’t have to stop travelling, it’d still take you a couple of days. If you’re travelling with someone who’s a prisoner in all but name, then you’re looking at three to four days by the time you add in rest stops.’
Alfonse isn’t telling me anything I haven’t already thought myself. Four days of being trapped in a car with Cameron is more than I can bear.
My need to avenge Taylor’s death is growing by the hour and if it takes four or more days to get to Casperton, I’m not sure Cameron will be alive when we get there.
It’s time to get to the real reason for my call. ‘I was hoping you could help me out there.’
‘Say the word and I’m on a plane to share the driving with you.’
‘Thanks, but after what happened to Taylor there’s no way I’m letting anyone else join us until I know we’re safe.’
‘So how can I help you?’
I spend five minutes explaining my plan to him and listening to his suggested refinements.
Alfonse isn’t just my best friend, he’s the best kind of friend any man could have. His loyalty is unfailing, he’ll drop whatever he’s doing to help me and he’s secure enough to tell me when I’m wrong. I’m lucky to have him in my life.
Right now, I want to do anything bar make the second call.
I take several deep breaths, offer up a blasphemous prayer to the gods of forgiveness, and hit the call button once again.
46
The ringing of my cell wakes me from the fitful slumber I’ve experienced since climbing into the motel’s ratty bed.
As a precaution against Cameron absconding during the night, I had positioned my bed behind the door; it also prevented anyone getting into the room without me knowing.
I answer the call and listen to what Alfonse has to say.
As always, he’s come through for me and has fulfilled my request to the letter. Now it’s just a case of Cameron and me getting ourselves to the collection point, and we’ll be flying back to Casperton.
I look at my watch and see we have two hours to make the journey. How Alfonse has managed to get this organised during the night, I don’t know. All I can guess is that he’s called in some favours and promised a lot more in exchange.
Alfonse bids me goodbye. The exact details of what he’s told me are sketchy in my head, but it’s not a worry as I know he’ll also email them to me.
My cell sounds its email tone less than a minute after Alfonse has hung up.
I open the email and start reading.
Cameron and I have to be at Hopedale Airport by 10 a.m. It’s 6 a.m. now so I’m sure there will be enough time. I use my phone to check, and it’s just under an hour away. Time is on our side.
I go back to the email and absorb its details, and the probable cost to Alfonse in terms of favours.
There are few implications that I can see, so I think about the person who has helped to make this possible.
Claire Knight is a rising star at the company that controls the oilfield to the north of Casperton. A good-looking woman, who’s forsaken romance for a career in a male-dominated industry, she is hard and ruthless when she needs to be, yet kind and compassionate when a gentler approach is required.
That she’s getting the company jet to make a detour to pick up Cameron and me, is testament to her kindness. On the other hand, she’ll have extracted her pound of flesh from Alfonse for the favour.
I know from first-hand experience that Claire gets what she wants. The night she lured me into her bed is a case in point. She seduced me, set the pace, and asserted not just her body, but her personality on me.
Cameron grumbles in his sleep but
I can’t make out the words. As much as I’m loath to touch him, I grab his shoulder and give him a shake. ‘Wake up. We leave in ten minutes.’
There isn’t a big hurry, but I want to take a slow meandering journey to the airport rather than a direct one.
It’s not that I think we’ll be followed again, more a precaution in case we are.
Now that I’ve got my plans in place, and will soon be arriving in Casperton with Cameron, I have to share the information.
I can make a call or send a message.
I chicken out and send a message. The reply won’t have an aggrieved tone and there will be plenty of opportunity for my character to be assassinated when I get back to Casperton.
Cameron heads to the bathroom and I hear water running.
While he’s in there, I put my bed back where it should be and check how much money I have in my wallet.
There’s enough to buy us breakfast and put enough gas in the compact to get us to the airfield. Beyond that, I’ll be relying on my card for any expenses we run up.
Cameron exits the bathroom and I sling my backpack over my shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Where?’
‘Casperton.’
‘How?’
‘I’ve chartered a plane. Get your ass in gear.’
47
Hopedale Airport is little more than a single runway that bisects a small industrial estate. I watch in trepidation as a small jet swoops in over the trees and touches down.
The plane taxies to the end of the runway then turns in its own length as the pilot stands on the left brake.
A door folds open and Claire Knight’s face appears. Her long, brown hair flaps in the breeze from the engine as she walks down the steps. She’s dressed in a pastel skirt-suit and, as is her way, wears her clothes as if they are an advertisement for her sexuality. Her skirt is at least an inch too short for the boardroom and the cut of her blouse shows a generous amount of cleavage.