As if in response to Evan’s thoughts, Floyd dropped to his knees on the guy’s belt, squeezing another strangled howl of pain out of him.
Time to go.
The few minutes’ rest had done their job. Evan took a deep breath and heaved the dead man off him, rolled him into the dirt. Floyd was too preoccupied to notice. The guy under him had a lot on his mind too. Evan pushed himself to his knees. A gun lay on the ground a couple feet away—the dead man’s gun. He leaned forward, holding his breath and stretched out his hand. He needn’t have worried. He could have picked it up and emptied the magazine into the ground at Floyd’s feet without him noticing.
He grabbed it, slick with blood, stuffed it down the back of his pants. Cautiously he stood up, crept backwards towards the SUV, placing each foot carefully, his eyes never leaving Floyd’s back as he went to work on the unfortunate wretch underneath him.
He stopped a moment, his conscience putting stupid, irrational thoughts into his mind. His hand moved towards the gun stuffed down his pants. He pictured himself walking the few paces to Floyd, pressing the gun into the back of his head and pulling the trigger. Feeling the gun buck in his hand, all his problems disappearing into the ether as Floyd’s head exploded in a red mist.
Or, if he couldn’t find it in himself to kill him, force him at gunpoint to leave the guy alone, let him die in peace. Then keep him there while he called the police.
No.
It was too fraught with risk. Floyd was sure to have a gun as well as his bow. He was a professional killer—trained by the U.S. Army, his skills honed to perfection in the worst corners of the globe. It was too big a risk to take. And for what? To save a man, one prepared to nail McIntyre’s hand to a table and cut off his finger, a few minutes pain. He deserved everything he got.
Besides, in a way, he owed Floyd. If not for him, he’d be nailed to a table himself at this very moment, a knife poised over his fingers as the man grinned at him in sadistic anticipation.
In a long list of bad decisions, it was the worst he ever made.
He kept moving backwards, didn’t see the dead dog behind him. He stood on one of its front legs stretched out along the ground. The sudden, unexpected feel of it under his foot caught him by surprise. He pulled his leg away quickly, not knowing what he’d trodden on, and lost his balance. He blamed it on the blow to the head. Whatever it was, he went over backwards and bounced off the SUV, landed on his ass. The gun stuffed down the back of his pants stabbed into his tailbone, forcing a grunt of pain through his teeth.
Floyd heard the noise as Evan hit the deck. He twisted around, unintentionally grinding his knees harder into his victim’s gut. The guy gasped, his whole body rigid. His arms and legs shot out like he was doing a star jump on his back, his fingers touching the gun he’d dropped when Floyd shot him.
Evan pushed himself away from the dog and staggered to his feet, holding onto the SUV for support. Vaguely aware of a man in the backseat, crouching down, he pulled the driver’s door open.
On the ground, Vasiliev’s man discovered an inner strength hidden deep inside him, something that pushed away the pain if only for a few seconds.
Those few seconds were all he needed.
His hand closed around the gun butt, his finger finding the trigger. Floyd saw movement out the corner of his eye. He turned away from Evan, saw the gun in the guy’s hand. Instincts honed by bloody skirmishes in streets and dirty alleys across the globe kicked in. He threw himself flat along the length of the man under him, reaching for the gun. The arrow shaft snapped under his weight, driving it deeper. The two men writhed and struggled in the dirt, bodies pressed hard together, the guy coughing blood in Floyd’s face as Floyd grabbed his wrist.
Evan was in the driver’s seat now. The key was in the ignition, thank God–he hadn’t even looked. He turned it, revved the big engine into a manic howl in his panic, too preoccupied to see the man who loomed up behind him from the backseat.
Outside on the ground, Vasiliev’s man called again on that inner strength, that unexplained energy that gives a madman the strength of ten men, gives a mother the strength to lift a bus off her trapped child. His gun arm rose steadily, inexorably, towards Floyd’s head. Floyd butted him full in the face. The guy jerked, a violent spasm wracking his body, the back of his head crashing into the ground as the gun went off. The bullet went wild, ten feet over the SUV’s roof.
Evan felt the shift flex in his hand as he slammed it into gear and hit the gas. He caught a blur of movement in the mirror, saw Vasiliev himself poised over him. Not as big as his enforcers, he was still a big man. Solid and powerful, even if he was running to fat around the middle. He hadn’t always been the boss. He’d come up through the ranks. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out the sort of skills that takes.
He threw his right arm around the headrest and clamped it across Evan’s throat, crushing it into the headrest, cutting off his air, as the car started moving. He caught hold of his right fist in his left hand, locked them together and pulled with both arms like his life depended on it.
Evan choked and gurgled, stomped hard on the gas, like he wanted to push the pedal through the floor. Immediately hit the brake. The car bucked, lurched, came to a rocking stop. Vasiliev flew forward, face first into the headrest. His arms slackened with the jolt. Evan sucked in a huge breath, a high, wheezing wail coming from his mouth. Then the arm was back, clamped twice as hard, squeezing the consciousness from him.
Outside, Floyd pushed his body up off the man under him and drove it back down, twisting from side to side, grinding the broken arrow in further, anything to stop the guy’s crazy strength. The guy’s arm dropped a fraction. He fired again. Another wild shot, lower this time—directly at the SUV as it bucked to a standstill.
Broken glass showered Evan as the back window exploded. A thousand tiny cubes of glass splattered his face. Then blood, hot and sticky, flesh, little bits of brain and bone, as the bullet entered Vasiliev’s head at the base of his skull and punched a gaping hole through the top of his head. Vasiliev twitched, the pressure around Evan’s neck falling mercifully away. He gulped in air with a sound like a sucking chest wound, hit the gas again, bouncing Vasiliev’s lifeless body off the backseat as the car surged.
The last thing he saw in the blood-spattered mirror was Floyd’s arm rising with the gun in it. He was sitting astride the man below him. Evan ducked instinctively but Floyd wasn’t aiming at the SUV. The gun was reversed in his hand. He brought the butt down onto the guy’s head like he wanted to do with his bare hands what the bullet had done to Vasiliev’s head.
Evan swore he felt it all the way from inside the SUV. He hoped for the guy’s sake, it was a lethal blow.
He didn’t, actually.
After the day he’d had, he didn’t care if Floyd kept the bastard alive for a week.
Chapter 46
EVAN DIDN’T BRAKE AT the end of Hendricks’ driveway. He threw the SUV to the right, the big car on two wheels as it hit the pavement. In the back Vasiliev rolled sideways into the door, knocked it open, his body hanging half-in, half-out, arms trailing along the ground.
Evan glanced in the door mirror. He had to get rid of the body, get rid of the car.
He put his foot to the floor, covered the half mile to where his own car was hidden in seconds. The SUV skidded to a halt on the shoulder, ten yards past the dirt road. He jumped out and bundled Vasiliev’s slack body back into the SUV, cramming his arms and what was left of his head in. He slammed the door on him, thrust his hip into it to get it shut. Then he sprinted down the road to get his car. He’d drive it out and back the SUV in, then put as much distance between him and Floyd as possible.
He stopped dead, his feet sliding on the grass, and stared open-mouthed before he got half way. He didn’t need to get any closer to see both rear tires had been slashed—Floyd again. Shit. He ran back to the SUV and backed it down the road, hauled Vasiliev’s heavy body out again, dragged it into the underg
rowth behind his car. The guy was big and bulky and the road was rutted. By the time he’d got his carcass hidden, Evan was sweating, the sweat mingling with the blood and brain matter and whatever else his face and hair were covered with.
He didn’t want Vasiliev found, wanted to take it to Guillory first. He covered the body the best he could, then stood up straight and took a moment. Resting his fists on his hips, he arched his back and stretched, easing out his aching muscles. His head throbbed with a curl-up-and-cry-for-your-momma headache, his arm was sore as hell from the blow with the piece of lumber, his neck bruised from Vasiliev’s forearm crushing it into the headrest. A stinging open cut on his chin made him wince when he touched a dirty finger to it.
He was getting too old for this.
He’d have to take the SUV now, he had no choice. Despite the inside looking like a slaughterhouse after a busy day’s killing.
His phone pinged.
He didn’t want to look now, had to put some distance between him and Hendricks’ place. He looked anyway, it might be Guillory.
Charlotte.
He groaned. This he didn’t need. The text was brief and to the point.
Call me. Now!!!
He wasn’t going to call, three exclamation points or not. After the day he’d had, she was the last person he wanted to talk to. He’d call her back once he’d got his head together—inside and out. He stuffed it back in his pocket as it started to ring. He ignored it, let it go to voicemail, and got in the SUV.
He couldn’t help himself slowing as he passed Hendricks’ driveway, craning his neck in an attempt to see into the yard. It was impossible, the house was in the way. Through the broken back window, he heard something that might have been a scream, or it might just have been the wind. It sent a shiver rippling up his neck all the same. He put his foot to the floor and the SUV responded instantly, surging away, before he caught himself, dropped back to a normal speed. The last thing he wanted was to be pulled over for speeding with a roof lining covered in blood and brains and looking like he’d been rolling in them himself.
His phone rang again.
She wasn’t going to give up. He pulled the phone out of his pocket, answered it without looking, his eyes flicking between the road ahead and the rear-view mirror.
‘Hi, Charlotte.’
There was a short pause.
‘It’s not Charlotte, it’s me.’
The me was Guillory. In the midst of all the pain and trauma of his day so far, it made him smile that they were at the point where it’s me was all that was needed between them.
‘Hello, you, then.’
‘Where are you?’
He picked up on her tone of voice immediately. This wasn’t a half-joking, half-serious question with the implication she knew exactly where he was, like she’d suspected.
No, her tone was urgent. It wasn’t something he heard often in her voice. An unpleasant churning sensation started up in his gut. Despite the tone of voice, he couldn’t tell her anything other than where he was.
‘I’m just leaving Hen—’
A loud snort came down the line.
‘Why am I not surprised?’
It wasn’t the time for wiseass replies.
‘I was going to call you as soon as—’
‘Just shut up a minute.’
The buzz in his gut got angrier, his heart joining in the excitement.
‘Your sister called me.’
It wasn’t what he was expecting her to say. He had a feeling what was coming was a lot worse than whatever he was expecting.
‘Charlotte called you?’
‘Yes. Because she couldn’t get hold of you. Don’t you ever answer your phone?’ She let out a short, exasperated laugh. ‘That’s me asking, by the way, although I’m sure she’s a hundred percent behind me.’
He didn’t say anything for a long moment. His mind was split between a reply along the lines of well, excuse me, but I’ve been busy fighting for my life, and assimilating what she’d just said.
His eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror. He did a double take, missed what she said next. A police cruiser was behind him, the light bar and siren off for the moment. Had they seen him talking on the phone? The last thing he needed was to be pulled over for a patronizing lecture on the dangers of driving and talking on the phone because they were having a slow day. Their day wouldn’t stay slow for long once they saw the interior of the car. He wouldn’t stay at liberty for long either.
‘Evan! Did you hear what I just said?’
He ignored her, his eyes stuck to the mirror. They’d be checking the license plate now. They’d see it was registered to Vasiliev. Would they know who—or what—he was? Would they pull him over just for the fun of it? To let him know he wasn’t such a big shot. He eased off the gas. He had to force their hand, one way or the other. If they were going to roust him, they’d slow with him, the lights would come on. If they weren’t, they’d pass.
He put the phone in his lap out of sight.
‘Evan!’
It was almost a scream. He couldn’t concentrate on two things at once. He hit the red button, looked in the mirror.
Yes.
The cruiser was pulling out to pass. They weren’t going to pull him over. He relaxed slightly, let out the breath he’d been holding, felt slightly nauseous with relief.
Then something hit him with the force of one of Floyd’s arrows burying itself in his gut.
His face.
Any second now the cruiser would pull alongside. The two cops would look in like they always do, aggressive stares that said you were lucky today. They’d sit there for a few seconds to make their point before pulling away, showing him they could drive as fast as they damn well liked.
That’s what they’d normally do.
But not today.
Today, they’d be getting those hard stares ready, maybe practising them in the mirror behind the sun visor, before they pulled alongside. Then those hard stares would slip off their faces like birdshit off a windshield, their jaws would go slack, as they stared at a man who looked as if his whole head had been dunked in a bucket of blood. There’d be a fast scrabbling flurry of action, the light bar would go on, the siren too. They’d run him off the road. Excited fingers un-snapping the buttons on their gun holsters as they piled out the cruiser.
Not such a slow day after all.
That’s exactly how it happened.
Except it was worse. It was the same two cops who’d caught him coming out of Hendricks’ place the other day. So, after the hard stares turned into astonished gawking like a pair of inbreds, their faces took on identical grim smiles of satisfaction.
We shouldn’t have let you off so easily last time, sort of smiles. It won’t happen again smiles.
Evan sat in the SUV as the two cops walked towards him, cocky swaggers in their gait, hands on the butts of their guns. He wound down his window in anticipation, thought about putting his foot to the floor, driving right over them and never stopping. Wiping those smug looks off their faces. It was a nice thought.
His phone rang as the cops got to the window. He glanced down. Guillory calling back. Of course it was. What took her so long?
‘I’ve really got to take this call.’
The cop in front shook his head.
‘Uh-uh.’
‘It’s from—’
The cop put his hand on the roof and stuck his head in the open window, bringing the smell of cheap aftershave with it.
‘I don’t care if it’s the good Lord himself calling to give you the heads up on the second coming, you touch that phone and you’ll have to pull down your pants to answer it next time.’
The cop behind laughed at his partner’s turn of phrase and spat on the ground.
Evan picked up the phone.
The front cop’s eyes bulged.
‘You think I’m joking, boy?’
Evan wanted to know how they’d got onto boy so fast, not a single patronizing sir
leading up to it. It didn’t bode well. No doubt they looked at his face and saw there were so many cuts and bruises there already, they could add a few of their own and nobody would be the wiser—except Evan, of course, and he didn’t matter. He thrust the phone out the window, making the front cop jump backwards, his hand going to his gun instinctively before he saw it was only a phone.
‘You answer it. It’s Detective Guillory.’
The name didn’t register at first. His eyes narrowed like he thought it was some kind of a trick, even if he couldn’t see how it might pan out. His partner reached around him and snatched the phone out of Evan’s hand. He answered it and put it to his ear, didn’t say anything. His eyes never left Evan’s. He’d got the hard stare back in place. Then he grinned suddenly and held the phone at arm’s length, leaning his head away.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Evan?’ the cop repeated, his grin growing wider. ‘You’re Evan, are you?’
Evan nodded.
‘We’d like to know what the fuck you’ve been doing too.’
The other cop grunted, hitched his belt up and pushed out his chest.
‘Just talk to her,’ Evan said, forgetting to tell the one nearest him how scared he was at the display.
‘Who is this?’ the cop with the phone said.
He listened, his head nodding like it was on a spring. The grin gradually slid off his face the longer he listened. He held the phone out towards Evan, his eyes flat. No more hard stare, no amusement, just flat.
Evan took the phone, not wanting to know what Guillory said to him to produce the sobering reaction it did.
‘Kate. Sorry about—’
‘Your nephew is missing.’
Chapter 47
EVAN’S FIRST REACTION WASN’T a thought or a mental picture of his nephew. It was on a more instinctive, primeval level—a smell, a bad taste in his mouth.
The Evan Buckley Thrillers: Books 1 - 4 (Evan Buckley Thrillers Boxsets) Page 83