by Olah, Jeff
He didn’t like the way that sounded or where this may go. “And?”
“Declan wounded one of them, maybe two.”
“One or two of them, he didn’t tell you who?”
“He didn’t know, but that’s not really the problem.”
“It’s not?”
“No,” she said. “We’ve been tracking Kevin Rodgers’ phone. We think he’s with Mrs. Mercer and her family, and they’re leaving the city.”
“That’s good, can you give a location, at least a—”
“They’re coming back, they’re in the next room.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You need to get to Mrs. Mercer, but don’t come back here. And whatever you do, stay away from Blackmore.”
“What?”
“Goodwin has that place on lockdown and is now hell bent on taking it back.”
“You got anything else for me?”
“The Foundry has been shut down from here. Doesn’t look like anyone is going back anytime soon.”
His head was spinning again, the nausea from minutes before returning with a vengeance. “You got a location for Mercer?”
There was a hesitation and what sounded like a sigh. “It looks like she just turned off Sixth Street and is heading east on Highway Ten.”
“Thank you.”
Her voice dropped again. “But …”
“But what?”
“Jerome Declan just turned off Sixth as well, looks like he’s following her.”
Gentry wanted to drive his fist into the steering wheel, but knew that wasn’t going to help. He turned to look back toward the highway and then again began to nod. “Okay.”
There were a few seconds of nothing and then a male voice. The words were muddled, but whoever it was sounded close. And when they stopped she was back. “I’ve got to go.”
“Again, thank you.”
The line was dead, Madeline Fillmore was gone.
Gentry powered off the satellite phone and tossed it into the back seat. He pulled his foot from the brake and through the blinding pain, pushed the gas pedal to the floor.
“Natalie … I’m on my way.”
84
Owen looked into his mirrors once again. It was subtle, just his eyes darting between the rearview and the driver’s door. He hadn’t wanted to alert the others, specifically Nat and the kids, but over the last several minutes, and as he guided the Bronco around a burned-out Prius, he was beginning to think it wasn’t just his imagination.
They were indeed being followed.
“Hey.” Travis had been quiet, almost too quiet. Now he spoke, but waited until Noah was in the middle of one of his stories, distracting Natalie and Ava. “You seeing this?”
Owen nodded and again checked the driver’s side mirror. “Yeah.” He also kept his voice low. “Noticed it when we were on the ramp, coming off Sixth, kinda hard to miss.”
“Whatta ya thinkin’?”
“Nothing yet. They could just be lost, maybe looking for help or something.”
Travis turned in his seat, now staring at the side of Owen’s head. “You don’t really believe that?”
“No.”
Noah had finished his current thought and was now looking from his sister to his mother, gauging their reaction, But Natalie had turned away, and now sat forward, pulling the seat belt away from her chest. She cocked her head to the left and looked at Owen through the mirror.
“What’s going on?”
He knew he wasn’t going to be able to keep it from her much longer and was already preparing himself for the questions. “There’s a car behind us, behind Lucas, maybe a few hundred yards.”
“Okay?”
He could see the thoughts running around in her head and decided to get out ahead of them. “And they’re getting closer, looks like they don’t care that we know.”
“What do we do?”
Owen had been asking himself that same question. “Get Kevin on the radio and ask him to pull alongside, I’m going to slow us down a bit, see what they do.”
“You’re going to slow down, won’t that—”
“Yes, it might bring them closer, but I need to see what they’re going to do with that.”
Natalie’s hand shook as she keyed the mic and put her face to the walkie. “Kevin, do you know that we’re being followed?”
“Yeah, we spotted them on the ramp. What are you guys thinking?”
Her voice wavered a bit. “Owen wants Lucas to pull beside us. He’s going to slow down and see what they do.”
“Ten four.”
Noah had slipped his legs back and was now kneeling on the seat. “Dad?”
“Yeah buddy?”
“Are they bad guys?”
He didn’t like lying to his son, and could no longer see the point. With everything Noah had experienced in the last two weeks, the truth was probably the best option. “I don’t know.”
The nine-year-old twisted in his seat, his hand on Ava’s shoulder for balance. “Why are they following us? Do you think they want to hurt us like the men with the guns, the ones who hurt Mr. Kevin?”
Something hit him. He’d considered it when he first noticed the black Mustang, but now it seemed so simple. Owen looked ahead and then reached his hand into the back seat. “I need the walkie.”
Natalie looked through the windshield and then back over her shoulder. She dropped the radio into Owen’s hand, squeezing it gently before he pulled away. To Noah and Ava, she offered a wide smile. “It’s going to be okay.”
Noah returned his mother’s gesture; however, Ava just stared at the floor, a tear running down her face and dropping into her lap.
Owen looked to his left, Lucas now pulling even with him. “Kevin?”
“Yeah buddy, how you wanna do this?”
“Ask Lucas if he sees that red Suburban up ahead, it’s pushed into the center divider?”
There were a few seconds where the Bronco sat in absolute silence. Owen dropped his speed to just below twenty and looked to his left once again.
“We see it.”
“Okay, that’s where we’re going. Stay on my window and when I stop, let’s not get out, see what they do.”
“If they keep coming?”
“I’ll deal with it, but no one else gets out. You all good with that?”
“For now.”
Owen slowed once again. He avoided looking back into the mirror and hoped that Nat wouldn’t call attention to his previous request. He had a plan, but that didn’t include risking the lives of his family and friends, not again.
He handed the radio to Travis and reached into the console for the Glock. “I may need you, are you—”
“Sure.” Without missing a beat, Travis lifted the SIG just enough that Owen could see. “Whatever this is, I’m ready.”
Within twenty yards of the red Suburban, Owen pulled to a stop and finally looked back into the mirror. He offered Natalie a half smile and then turned in his seat. His eyes were on the black Mustang, but he spoke to his family. “I’m going to wait to see what they do. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”
Natalie shot back. “What if it isn’t?”
“I’ve got that figured out too.”
“Are you going to let the rest of us know what that is?”
“No, not yet.”
Natalie sat forward, unbuckled her belt. It looked like she was going to climb into the front seat. “Excuse me Owen?”
He glanced again through the rear window. The black Mustang had also rolled to a stop, now one hundred feet back. “Nat, we don’t really have a choice here. This isn’t up for discussion.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Look.” Owen pointed through the windshield. Travis had seen it as well. Fifty yards beyond the Suburban and partially obscured by the random vehicles left behind, a horde too large to count. Too massive to appreciate in a single glance. They stretched from one side of the five-lane highway to the other. Marching shoulder to should
er, their numbers so great, they blotted anything and everything beyond.
There was a collective gasp from the back seat. Owen could see that his daughter had also lifted her head and now clung to Natalie’s arm.
“So,” Owen said, “we really don’t have a choice, but I also don’t think we should start—”
The Mustang flashed its lights and after a count of five, flashed them again.
Travis saw it and so did Natalie. She tilted her head, brought her eyes in line with Owen’s. “I don’t like this.”
“It’s gonna be fine.”
Now the Mustang laid on its horn and again flashed its lights.
Travis gripped the Sig in his right hand and reached across his body, going for the door handle.
“No,” Owen said. “Not yet.”
There was another flashing of the lights, and another horn, this time they sat on it, at least five seconds.
Static and then Kevin was back. “Owen.”
“I know.”
“What are we doing?”
As his friend’s voice trailed off, Owen glanced into the mirror. The driver’s door of the Mustang slowly swung open and a shadowed individual stepped out. It didn’t take but a second for Owen to place him as the man from the intersection. The man stayed behind the door, but appeared to be waving.
“Kevin, who is this guy? What’s he want?”
“His name is Jerome Declan. He worked for Goodwin and like I said before, he’s trying to get to Gentry.”
Another voice came through the radio, it was Lucas. “That’s the man who shot you.”
Kevin must have still had the mic keyed. There was a rustling and then what sounded like a door opening. “LUCAS NO!”
Owen turned away from the radio and looked to his left. Lucas had climbed out and was walking toward the rear of the 4Runner. As he began to raise his right arm, Owen could see that the teen was holding the nine millimeter he’d given him the day before.
He instinctively reached for the door. “NOOOOO!” As his feet hit the ground, Lucas fired four shots, the sound deafening in the small space between the two vehicles. “GET BACK!”
For a moment, he lost sight of Lucas, but now heard the passenger door of the Bronco opening. “TRAVIS DON’T!”
In the distance, a series of seven shots came in quick succession. The first four slammed into the rear of the 4Runner and the fifth caught Lucas on the left side of the neck, tossing him to the ground beside the rear driver’s side tire.
The final two rounds skipped off the left corner of the Bronco and blew out the back window of the red Suburban.
Behind him, Kevin had opened his door and was attempting to swing his legs out. Owen waved him back and then started toward Lucas. There were a few seconds where the highway went dead silent, the air thick, his pulse the only sound pounding in his ears.
“LUCAS!”
Owen stayed low, moved to the back of the 4Runner, and dropped to one knee. Gripping the Glock in his left hand, he placed his right on the paved roadway and glanced quickly between the front and rear tires. Fortunately, Lucas was hidden from the man in the Mustang, but was now crawling on his hands and knees.
There wasn’t a path back to Lucas that didn’t put him dead center on the highway. There also was no more talking, no negotiating. The man that had come after his family twice in the last twenty-four hours wasn’t going to stop, but now neither was Owen. This needed to end today.
“TRAVIS.”
Travis kept his voice low. “I don’t have a shot; I’ll need to come back around.”
“Just get to Lucas, no one else gets hurt today.”
Owen stood and raised his left arm. He sighted the man standing partially hidden behind the door of the Mustang. He fired two shots, spaced so closely they almost appeared to be one. They hit the grill of the black sports car and mangled the lip of the hood.
As he stepped out away from the SUV and fired another two shots, he could hear the screams of his wife and his daughter, their pleas for him to return, to stop what he was doing and come back.
But it was too late for that.
Although it was just shy of one hundred feet, the man behind the door of the Mustang appeared to smile as he flinched at the third and fourth shots fired by Owen. There was a desperation in his eyes, a look that was equal parts lunacy and pure evil as the projectiles came within inches of his head.
And as Owen continued forward, the man Kevin had called Jerome Declan stepped out away from the door and squeezed off six more rounds. Three of the shots were short, they embedded into the road, sending fragmented pieces of concrete skyward. The next two narrowly missed Owen’s left arm, screamed between the 4runner and the Bronco, and again exploded into the back of the red Suburban.
As the final round nicked his right shoulder and a lightning bolt of white hot pain shot through his arm and into his hand, Owen narrowed his focus. The world around him drifted away. The light breeze coming in off the ocean, the distant moans of the approaching crowd, and the screams and shouts of his family and friends. They all seemed to fade into some sort of vacuum-sealed nothingness, compartmentalized away in a filing system he no longer had access to, hidden away so he could do what they needed him to do.
Owen took another step forward and then another, his pace increasing as he again raised the Glock.
But the man wearing the maniacal grin and clutching the black pistol now had a different look, something Owen didn’t recognize. He stared down at his hand, back at Owen, and took a step to the right. He tossed the weapon into the car and slipped back behind the driver’s door.
The man’s gun had either jammed—which was unlikely—or it was empty. Either way, it appeared he was attempting to retreat or go for another weapon. There was a second where Owen began to consider his options, but then found himself hunched forward, left arm extended, and sprinting toward the Mustang and Jerome Declan.
Twenty feet, and then ten, and then as the Declan looked back, Owen launched himself. Every ounce of his two-hundred pounds used as a battering ram against the outside of the door.
Like he’d run into a block wall, the collision sent a spasm down his right side, the pain dull, but coming everywhere all at once. He dropped the Glock, momentarily losing his vision, and the feeling along his left side. His ears hummed and he tasted blood, must have bit into his tongue during the impact.
Behind the door, Declan had been clawing his way toward the back seat and was struck just above the knees. He was pulled back and thrown out onto the pavement, just a few feet from where Owen now lay flat on his back.
Their screams and shouts were still muffled, but as he rolled to his left and attempted to get to his knees, the world slowly started to come into focus. Owen looked back toward the Mustang, shook his head, and blinked. He was able to make out the vehicle and the man lying on his side, but no details. It was like he was looking through the wrong prescription, heavy coke-bottles layered over his perfect twenty-twenty.
The man, muted at the edges, got to his feet first. He took two quick steps and as Owen began to push away from the ground, he kicked him in the shoulder, sending both men back to the pavement.
Owen’s head skipped off the ground, another jolt of agony, this time behind his eyes. However, when he opened them to the sound of barking and galloping paws, his vision had started to clear. Things were still a bit hazy, deeper shadows, not much detail, but it was something.
With his knees back under him, Owen pushed to stand. The voices from behind were clearer now as well. There was Natalie shouting his name over and over, Kevin calling Zeus, and what sounded like Harper wailing something awful.
And as the man ten feet away also got to his feet, the animal Owen wasn’t sure he liked now stood beside his left leg. The massive German Shepherd inched toward Declan, his hind legs planted, his teeth bared, and his growl deafening over the voices from behind.
Owen looked down at Zeus and then turned to Declan, noticing something he hadn’t
until just now. His Glock 17 lay on the pavement less than two feet from the man who’d tried to murder his family.
Zeus again inched forward and continued to growl as he locked on Declan’s face. He looked like he was waiting to be released, just needed to hear the command.
“Your dog,” Declan began to grin. He raised an eyebrow and motioned toward the Glock. “I’m going to kill him, and then I’m going to make you watch as I kill …”
Owen was through listening. It didn’t matter what Declan said next, or what he did. Owen was willing to take a bullet, or two, or even three. As long as there was air in his lungs, and blood running through his veins, he wasn’t going to stop. And the man who shot his friend was about to find out why coming back was a bad idea.
Exploding from his right leg, Owen focused only on forward movement. He easily covered the ten feet, rocketing through Declan’s midsection as Zeus placed himself between the men and the weapon.
As they hit the ground, he pulled himself back and knelt over Declan. “You should have stayed away.” Owen hit him with a balled fist, just below the right eye, caving in Declan’s cheek and ripping a three-inch gash in the skin.
Declan kicked his legs and attempted to shield himself, although Owen landed another brutal left and then a series of thunderous blows. The final strike breaking Declan’s nose, and nearly relieving him of consciousness. “Go ahead.” He coughed blood and tried to bring his hand up under Owen’s left elbow. “You think this is going to end here? You think you and your family are just going to walk away?”
Owen gave him a quick shot to the side of the head, pushed off him, and stood. He then motioned for Zeus to come and picked up the Glock “Get up.”
“Shoot me.”
Owen lined the end of the barrel with Declan’s left leg and pulled the trigger. Declan jumped from the pavement, howling something incoherent, his inner thigh oozing blood as he clutched it between his hands. “I’ll kill you.”
Although not necessarily what he had intended, the fact that he’d only superficially wounded Declan was a good thing. Through his blinding rage, he hadn’t thought about having to drag the nearly two-hundred pound man across the highway.