by L. T. Ryan
He looked back as he made the turn. The car was close. The driver slammed on the brakes. Small spires of smoke rose around the tires as the brakes ground the vehicle to a halt.
Ahead, Jack's worst fear was realized. The alley was a long corridor that led nowhere. It was walled in. He'd get to the end and scale the wall if he had to. Let the men shoot him in the back. No way Jack would watch the bullet hit him.
A brick canyon rose around him. Footsteps echoed throughout. Theirs. His own. It didn't matter. The sound and the fear and his survival instinct propelled him forward, sprinting toward the end of the corridor.
A shot rang out.
Jack tensed, but kept moving. He waited for the pain and the burn, the seared skin, the impact that would knock him off his feet. But it didn't come. Were they toying with him? Sending a signal to stop? Maybe because he was really there to help?
Perhaps the shooter had he simply missed.
A second shot that missed by inches answered that question. They wanted Jack dead.
The corridor closed in on him as he approached the end of the alley. Nowhere else to go. Except up. Sixty feet, at least. Small brick, packed with mortar. No real hand or foot holds. Absent the sound of gunfire, all he heard was the whooshing of his heart. He couldn't recall it ever beating so fast. The explosion of energy and adrenaline, and the tranquilizer's lingering effects all competed against one another for the precious oxygen his blood transported.
How had he not collapsed yet?
A third shot. It slammed into the wall above him, reducing brick and mortar into dust. It coated his hair and skin.
Jack glanced back. One man stood at the end of the alley, silhouetted against the sunlight. He hadn't advanced. The further away Jack was, the harder it would be to make the shot with a pistol. Of course, the guy only needed for him to reach the end. Then he could make his way down, confident that Jack had nowhere to go, and no means to defend himself. Except that the man had been firing a weapon in broad daylight. How long would he remain there? How much time would it take for the police to respond?
Perhaps the area was bad enough the residents paid little attention.
The guy had to be waiting on something, or someone. Maybe his partner to join him. Maybe they planned on apprehending Jack. But why? Who would go to all this trouble to do so? It wasn't as though he'd come into the country announced. They had to have tracked his progress across the Atlantic. Which meant a leak somewhere. He thought back to the airstrip. How many men had been there? Had Frank been in on it from the beginning? He must've been. That, or Frank was dead now, because he certainly hadn't been waiting in that room with Jack.
Jack thought back to the airstrip when he went down. Where was Frank? There was shouting. Frank's voice, rising above the others. Had they taken him down too? Jack had a glimpse of Frank in front of him. Reaching out to him. What had he said?
If Frank was still alive, he had the answers. But in order to get them, Jack had to get through this situation alive. And the chances of that were looking pretty damn slim.
The wall halted his progress. It was almost over. He'd stop, and the guy would approach and would fire while out of reach.
Jack's heart continued pounding as though he were still sprinting. It was dark enough down here that the guy wouldn't be able to accurately aim from the other end. He'd get about halfway down before the next shot.
Jack placed his hands on the cool brick as though he expected the wall to open up in the middle for him. It didn't.
But the darkly painted door to his right did.
Chapter 54
Johannesburg, South Africa.
BRETT HAD FOLLOWED Noble's movements for several minutes. Now, he remained focused on the screen, wondering what the guy was doing at the end of a dead-end alley. He didn't put it past the realm of possibility that Noble had a contact in the city. What if he was now meeting that person, arming himself, or securing transport out of Johannesburg?
Then the dot on the screen moved, not out of the alley, but to the right, then behind it. Too slow to be in a vehicle. But what was at the location? The map didn't provide satellite imagery, and Brett didn't have time to try to find the location on another application that did.
"What are you doing, Jack?" Brett said, referring to the target by his first name for the first time in years. He had to ignore their history together. To do otherwise could cloud his decision-making at a critical juncture. The results of that would be the wrong person dying.
The dot once again stopped, at a place between the alley and the next named street.
"What are you doing, Jack?" Brett said again, well aware that he was humanizing the man.
Chapter 55
Near Lake Erie, Ohio.
THE DRIVE TOOK about as long as Charles expected. Which was to say, too long. But as long as the trip paid off the way he expected, he could deal with the commute. The campground had an unassuming sign posted about six feet off the side of the road. A dirt and gravel path led through the woods. A camper was the first structure he saw. Christmas lights wrapped around the door and windows, and lined the extended canopy. Coals burned dim in the fire pit.
The contact was Trooper Johanson. An idiot, according to Gilly. But a trained one. Which meant he sat on his position all night.
Charles pulled over in front of a cabin that looked deserted and placed a call to Gilly to let him know he was there. The trooper told him to wait for his call back.
TROOPER JOHANSON HAD been asleep. According to his clock, it'd been at least an hour. He stared at the ringing cell phone for a moment before composing himself enough to answer. As he said his hellos, he caught sight of the cabin and studied it for any changes. The light had gone out.
"Your relief is there," McGillicuddy said.
"OK. Who is it?"
"Someone I know. We're doing him a favor. Got it? So you just tell him what you know, what you've seen, and then you get your ass back here without giving him any trouble."
"What's he look like?"
"Just get out of your car and go stand behind it. He'll find you."
"Yes, sir."
"And remember," McGillicuddy added with a pause.
"Yes?"
"Don't give him any lip. I'm serious. This guy has a temper."
Has a temper, Trooper Johanson thought with a smile. Almost every person he knew in law enforcement had a temper. At least around him.
PAOLO IGNORED THE guilt he felt over leaving Essie in the cabin. Not like she noticed when he'd left. She'd opened her eyes again, but her focus, if there was one, remained on the ceiling.
The middle-aged couple that had been sitting on opposite sides of the fire pit near the entrance told him they'd walk by and check on her before turning in, while he went out for a drink. They also told him that the bar he was now sitting in was closer than the one he recalled passing on the drive in. Saved him at least forty minutes. And he was only a short walk away. If the couple found anything amiss, the man promised to drive up and let Paolo know.
He stared into his mug, at the last sip of beer remaining. Down it and go, he thought. He lifted the glass, tilted it back and swallowed what was left. Set the mug on the counter. Dropped one foot off the stool to the floor.
"Another?" the woman tending bar asked.
She wasn't all that pretty, but her smile felt inviting. Enough so that Paolo decided to have another drink before heading back to the cabin.
CHARLES SPOTTED THE truck from fifty yards away as he rounded the corner. It looked like the guy had left enough space for Charles to park in front. He drew closer, spotted a man standing near the tailgate, looking up at the sky.
Charles rolled down the passenger window and pulled to a stop.
"Gilly sent me," he said.
The man approached Charles's vehicle, leaned over. "Trooper McGillicuddy?"
"Who the hell else would I refer to as Gilly?"
"Right, sir. I mean, yes, sir. No problem."
"Would you s
hut the fuck up, you blabbering idiot?"
Trooper Johanson nodded quickly and looked down at the ground, hands tucked behind his back.
"Which cabin is it?" Charles asked.
Johanson pointed toward the cabin that had a light on before he fell asleep.
"How many people?" Charles asked.
"Two," Johanson said. "Man and a woman. She looked kinda sick or something."
"What kind of 'or something'?"
"I don't know."
"Then why would you say it?"
Johanson glanced away. Charles could hear the guy thinking what a prick Charles was.
"She just kind of shuffled around, if you know what I mean."
"I think I do." Charles stared at the cabin. He'd always shook his head at people who said something was so close they could taste it. But now he knew. Revenge had a taste, a flavor. And it was sweet.
"Anything else, sir?" Trooper Johanson asked.
"Stop calling me sir, for starters. Second, tell me what you've seen."
"Not a whole lot, I guess."
"You guess?"
"They got here and been inside, mostly. I mean, the whole time. The entire time I've been here, they've been inside."
Charles studied the guy. He truly was an idiot. How he'd made the state troopers, Charles didn't know. He wished the guy worked in the city. A cop like that, he'd have him on his payroll in no time at all.
"Anything else?" Johanson asked.
Charles shook his head as he reached into his pocket. Pulled out a wad of bills. Peeled off three hundred dollar bills and extended them toward Johanson. The guy stared at the money, but didn't make a move.
"Take it, you moron," Charles said.
"I don't think… I don't know if I can."
"If you don't take this, so help me God, I'm gonna call Gilly and tell him to fire your ass."
Johanson reached out for the money, then turned and got inside his truck.
"Jesus," Charles muttered, watching the guy back up and then pull away. At least he waited until he was past the cabin before cutting on his headlights. That would've made a mess of the whole thing.
TROOPER JOHANSON FELT dirty. No other way to put it. He'd worked off duty, outside his jurisdiction - hell, he'd crossed state lines - and taken payment from a man that he doubted had anything to do with law enforcement. Except for maybe being wanted by it.
And he'd been told to do it by his boss. So if anyone gave him crap about it, he'd refer them to Gilly, as McGillicuddy's good buddy back at the campground called his boss.
As far as Johanson was concerned, he'd washed his hands of the whole thing.
PAOLO GOT THE attention of the bartender. "One more, my dear."
She smiled and winked and took his mug and refilled it.
CHARLES APPROACHED THE cabin from behind. He'd gone right of it, past two others, then about one hundred feet to the rear. Plenty of tree cover, which, he figured, would provide a guy his size with just enough cover. To his disappointment there were no windows in back. He had planned to locate the targets and shoot them from outside. If he'd known he would end up inside, he would have gone through the front door to begin with.
Seconds away from death, and the guy is still pissing me off , Charles thought. No bother, though. Soon enough Paolo would be dealt with. Then, anyone within the organization who thought they could pull a stunt like the man had would have second thoughts about doing so.
He walked to the corner, continued around the side and stopped before he reached the front. Someone approached, crunching gravel with every step. They came from the other side of the cabin. Charles surveyed the landscape in front of him. Didn't appear anyone was outside. He flattened himself against cabin's exterior. Whoever it was, they'd pass by and not notice him.
It was in their best interest to do so.
But the person didn't pass by. They stepped from the gravel onto the porch. Hard soles, like boots, clicked against the two-by-fours that spanned the space. The knob jiggled. The door opened.
"You doing all right?" a guy said in soft tones.
Paolo.
Charles pushed off the wall, stepped softly onto the porch. The door hung open. A gap of six inches. Dark inside. Dark outside. He couldn't see in, and he doubted they could see out.
But he was armed. Maybe Paolo was, too. Charles had surprise on his side.
He pushed through the door, sighted the man and squeezed off a suppressed round into the back of his head. The guy lurched forward and collapsed to the floor.
Charles walked up to him, spat. He pulled out his phone and used the screen to illuminate the floor.
"Shit."
It wasn't Paolo.
Charles wasn't averse to taking a life. He'd done it plenty of times, whether deserved or not. But he'd just fired a round in the middle of the night. Sure, his pistol had a suppressor attached, but that didn't silence the shot, only muffled it a bit. Someone had to have heard.
Against his better judgment, he felt along the wall and flipped on a light switch. He had confirmation then that the man he shot was not Paolo. And the guy wasn't breathing.
What to do now? He couldn't leave with Paolo alive. At the same time, he couldn't remain in the cabin. Someone heard. Someone would investigate. It wouldn't be long until the cops swarmed the place.
He glanced up and for the first time noticed the woman in bed.
"Esmeralda?" he said.
She said nothing. Her eyes were open, focused on the ceiling.
"Where's your brother?"
She still said nothing.
"Well, if I can't have him dead, I can take you alive. He'll figure it out. And when he comes for you, bye bye, Paolo."
Esmeralda didn't put up a fight when Charles lifted her off the bed and slung her over his shoulder. He cut the light. Stopped at the front door. Inched it open. Scanned the area. No one was out. None of the lights were on.
He smiled.
Maybe they figured it was a hunter's shot. Far off in the distance. Taking down a bear, or something.
"THIS ISN'T RIGHT," Trooper Johanson said out loud. He'd taken an oath. And his gut told him he'd broken it outside that cabin. He'd put that man and woman's lives at risk. They could be dead now.
He glanced at his clock. Not twelve minutes had passed since he left. If he picked up his speed, he could be back there in eight. Would it be enough?
He could only hope so.
"YOU SURE YOU have to leave?" the bartender asked Paolo. "We don't close for a while. And since I'm the one closing the place down, you can stay as long as I'm here."
Paolo smiled at her. "As much as I am enjoying your company, I must get back."
"You sure you're all right to drive? Might not look it, but this area is crawling with cops."
"No, I don't think I am." He downed the remaining beer in his mug. "Fortunately, I only need to walk to the campground."
"I can give you a lift when I'm done, you know. Go right past there. Maybe I could even bring a bottle for us to share."
"Ah, only one problem." He held up a finger.
"A woman," she said.
He nodded. "But not like you think. She's my sister, and she's not well, I'm afraid."
"You sure she needs you?"
The words had a sobering effect on him. He glanced down at the bar top. A condensation ring have formed and remained where his mug had been. The liquid wept toward him.
"She does," he said. "And I must go now."
He rose and dropped a hundred dollar bill on the counter for the bartender with the sweet smile.
THE WOMAN HAD lain down in the trunk like she'd done it a hundred times. With a brother like Paolo, perhaps she had. Charles chuckled.
He glanced at his GPS. Seven hours, give or take, until he reached the city. If he pushed a little, he might even beat the morning traffic.
TROOPER JOHANSON CUT his lights after he passed the first cabin. The solar LEDs that lined the dirt and gravel road were enough to navigate
by. He slowed to a crawl as he neared the cabin he'd watched over earlier. The man who'd paid him off had left. Only tracks where his car had been parked remained.
Johanson pulled into the same spot and studied the cabin. The inside light was on again. Porch light still off. Looked like the door sat ajar.
He checked his pistol. Exited the truck. Stuck to the edge of the road as much as possible to avoid letting the crunching gravel announce his presence.
The shades were drawn over the window. There was no way to see inside without going to the door. Johanson didn't expect to see much. An empty room. Maybe some clothes strewn about for extra effect. He guessed it possible that the two men tussled. If so, they could have broken a chair, or the bed, or the lamp.
Except that the light was on.
Don't start assuming, he thought. That's how troopers die. The biggest mistake he could make was to assume that it was safe inside. He'd walk in without a plan, his guard down. He didn't want to go home to his parents in a body bag.
So he crept across the porch, careful to keep his heels from tapping on the wood. Johanson pressed his left index finger against the door. It glided a couple more inches, then stopped. He leaned forward, gun at chest level, pointed inside.
It looked empty, at first. Then he realized there was someone on the floor.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," he said.
Then Johanson did something out of character. He ignored his instinct to call it in, and he went inside the room to check on the man.
PAOLO THOUGHT ABOUT going back. Telling the bartender he'd go home with her. Why the hell not? Essie wasn't going to wake up anytime soon. And if she did, she'd stay put until he got back.
Wisps of smoke rose out of the fire pit. The middle-aged couple's lights were out. He thought about stopping, asking if everything checked out. But the guy hadn't come to find him. And he didn't sit out on his porch now, waiting to update Paolo with Essie's condition.