The Moores Are Missing

by James Patterson

  As Carver tumbles through the icy air, a trailing boot catches Thurston a glancing blow on the side of his head. Both Carver and Thurston slam to the ice. For a second or so the two men lie still.

  Carver’s the first one to move.

  He rolls over and scrambles for his weapon. His gloved fingers close around the trigger as he sits up to bring the weapon to bear on the still dazed Thurston.

  Behind the two men, Shed 3 explodes.

  Carver, his body forming a barrier between Thurston and the worst of the explosion, is sliced clean in two by a twisted sheet of flaming metal. Thurston feels a flash of searing heat before everything turns black.

  Chapter 64

  After finding the six dead from Carver’s crew and seeing Shed 3 going up in flames, three of Donofrio’s crew have had enough. They take off in one of the compound Hummers. With the road to East Talbot impassable, they head across the lake.

  Donofrio is making his way across to the two remaining sheds when he sees the taillights fading into the storm just as Miller and Anders emerge from the main house heading toward what’s left of Shed 3. Donofrio stops in his tracks.

  He’s loyal to Miller—he’s got a slice of the action and, truth be told, it’s been pretty sweet so far—but this situation is way beyond messed up. Miller’s been holed up in the house snorting coke for what seems like days. He’s acting like he’s running an army but the fact is his army is now down to less than six. As tight as Miller might be with the local cops, something on this scale will be investigated once the ice storm stops. Unless Miller gets very lucky, there’ll be feds crawling all over Isle de Rousse before the weekend.

  It’s time to call it.

  Donofrio gets out his radio and brings his three remaining guys in.

  Let Miller and Anders duke it out with whoever this guy is. The Australian might not be this supernatural Chenoo deal but Donofrio knows one thing: he ain’t normal.

  Chapter 65

  Nick Terraverdi makes it to East Talbot around five. If he hadn’t already been in Hanover he wouldn’t have attempted the journey. As it was he’d skidded off the road more times than he cared to think about.

  Still, he had to come. If this is what he knows it is—that little adventure Cody Thurston had told him about back in New York—then he needs to be there to stop this from turning into another fucking Waco.

  In the entrance to the police station Terraverdi finds Bernie Slater, the Robbery / Homicide guy who’d called Boston about the three dead bodies at the Top o’ the Lake Motel. A friend at Boston who knew the Russians’ link to organized crime had called the FBI. Since Delamenko and his boys crossed several state lines this was a fed case. Terraverdi had pulled a couple of favors to be the one assigned.

  “So what’s the situation?” says Terraverdi after the preliminaries.

  Slater’s a thirty-year vet. He moves slow but Terraverdi wouldn’t like to be on the wrong side of him. Like most state cops he’s not given to warmth when it comes to the FBI but Terraverdi’s seen worse.

  “I was in the motel,” says Slater. “With a friend.” He looks at Terraverdi, who says nothing. “Okay, well, like I say, I was there with a friend. Then this shit happened and I come out to see three bodies. Two in the corridor and one in the bedroom. The woman had been shot—something automatic, large caliber. The first guy had a fuckin’ crossbow bolt through his fuckin’ head…”

  “Jesus,” says Terraverdi.

  “That ain’t the kicker. The second guy? The one in 205? He’s taken one in the balls and one in the noggin from a nail gun.”

  “A nail gun?”

  Slater nods. “Uh-huh.” He glances toward the station office where Riggs is sitting at a desk. “The asswipe there, Riggs: he’s the local sheriff. He told me these guys must have been passing through. Can you believe that shit? Three connected Russians from Southie take a fuckin’ winter break up here and wind up dead.”

  “Three?”

  “Oh,” says Slater, “I forgot that part. There’s a witness who saw a third guy get whacked in the parking lot. From my experience? I’m saying he’s Viktor Delamenko. Anyway, this Delamenko was already wounded—I’m guessing nail gun—and jumped outta the bedroom window. Our wit says another guy put one in Viktor’s head and took him away in the back of a Jeep. You ever heard anything like that?”

  He’s about to reply to Slater when a muffled boom echoes across Lake Carlson.

  “Christ Almighty!” says Slater. “What was that?”

  Terraverdi sighs.

  Thurston, you motherfucker.

  Chapter 66

  Thurston opens his eyes and sees nothing except white.

  He blinks a few times, raises his head, and slowly the world reassembles. Light and sound and smell rush in.

  Behind him, Shed 3 burns, the flames ripped diagonally away from where he is lying in the snow—a few degrees different and he’d have been toast.

  Thurston pushes what remains of Carver off him and staggers upright. Thurston’s goggles are gone and parts of his weatherproof parka look like someone took a cheese grater to them, but there doesn’t appear to be any major physical damage: a cut to his head and a ringing in one ear. Right now, Thurston’s more concerned about his weapons.

  The Remington is screwed. The same goes for the crossbow, which lies in a tangled mess about three yards away. Thurston finds Carver’s weapon but it too is hopelessly damaged.

  Thurston starts moving toward the main house as fire takes hold of Shed 2. Once that went it’s only a matter of time before Shed 1 completes the set. Thurston keeps to what cover he can find and makes his way down to the lake shore.

  The house looks deserted as Thurston approaches from the lake. Coming up under the extended deck he forces a side window and slips inside. Thurston moves through the house room by room, becoming increasingly confident the place is deserted. It looks like the tactic he’d used back in Afghanistan has worked, driving out the enemy from their stronghold. If it hadn’t been for running slap into Carver he’d have been picking off Miller and Anders right now. Thurston takes a large knife from the kitchen and puts it in his pocket: it’s not much but it’ll have to do.

  In the basement, Thurston comes across a metal door that looks like somewhere Miller might keep weapons. Thurston slowly turns the lock and pushes the door open.

  It’s not an armory. It’s a dungeon.

  The walls are painted black with a low red vinyl couch running along one side of the room. Various sadomasochistic items are dotted here and there on the bare concrete floor. A large-screen TV sits on one wall.

  Huddled on the red couch are three teenage girls dressed in skimpy clothes. They look terrified and Thurston can’t blame them. He is an apparition from Hell. Blood from the cut on his head has run down to form a grisly red mask over one side of his face. His blood- and smoke-scarred parka hangs in tattered strips down his back.

  Thurston approaches the girls and bends low. They scrabble back away from him like startled birds as he approaches.

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” he whispers, holding his hands up. “But you have to listen to me if you want to get out of here alive, okay?”

  There’s no response but Thurston carries on. “Are there any more of you in the house?”

  They look at each other and then the youngest of them nods.

  “Mercy’s somewhere upstairs,” she says.

  “Mercy?”

  “She’s his favorite,” says another girl.

  “Miller’s?”

  “Uh-huh. Yeah. But she done something wrong. Spoke back to him or sump’n, I dunno. Nate don’t like anyone speakin’ back to him. He’s got her up in punishment.”

  Miller frowns. “Punishment?”

  The girl raises her eyes to the ceiling. “In the storeroom.”

  Thurston stands. “I’m going to get Mercy, okay? You stay here until I come back. I’m going to get you out of here.”

  As he leaves the dungeon Thurston looks back
. None of the girls look like they believe him.

  Chapter 67

  The pseudoephedrine in the three sheds would be worth something north of two hundred million dollars once it’s channeled into Europe via Reykjavik. With Shed 3 gone already, Miller’s looking at being wiped out if the others follow.

  Which they do.

  Miller and Anders are less than fifty yards from Shed 2 when it blows. The shock wave knocks them flat on their asses and, before they can get to their feet, Shed 1 erupts, sending a second monstrous fireball up into the steely sky. The air fills with the stench of burning chemicals as glowing embers are whipped away on the wind, mingling with the snow and ice.

  Miller staggers to his feet and, peering through the storm, contemplates the ruins of his empire. Next to him, Anders, brushing splinters of metal from his sleeve, remains silent.

  Miller’s head sinks to his chest and remains there for a while. When it comes up again his eyes glow with a dull red hate.

  “Get everyone together,” he says, the words rumbling like thunder. “I’m going to skin this motherfucker.”

  “There ain’t no one, Nate.” Anders brushes splinters of metal from his sleeve and turns his face away from the wind. “They’ve gone, man. Every last one of ’em.”

  Miller turns to face the giant. “And you? You thinking of lightin’ out too like all the other pussies? Because, if you are, then be my guest.”

  Anders’s face clouds. He steps closer to Miller and jabs a finger in his boss’s chest. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” he growls. “And don’t forget, Nate, I was in for ten percent of the product we just watched go up in smoke. You ain’t the only one who’s suffering here.”

  Miller holds up a placatory hand. “Yeah, okay, I know.” He turns away from Anders and stalks back toward the main house. “Let’s go kill that fuckin’ Australian.”

  Chapter 68

  Thurston pauses on the second-floor landing.

  At first, all he can hear is the muffled rattle of ice hitting the walls of the property. The sound rises and falls with the wind.

  But then Thurston picks up another noise he can’t quite identify. He moves toward a door at the end of a corridor and the sound crystallizes into something human. The sound of crying.

  Thurston opens the door cautiously.

  The room is some kind of storage space, one wall lined with metal shelving stacked high with cardboard boxes, cleaning products, and household items. It’s cold.

  Chained to a radiator against one wall is a young girl wearing nothing but a bra and the padlocked dog collar connecting one end of her chain to the radiator. Bruises stand out angrily on her pale skin and one of her eyes is caked in dried blood. She shivers uncontrollably, both knees drawn high, arms wrapped tightly around her shins.

  At the sight of Thurston, she shrinks back against the radiator. Thurston takes off his tattered parka and wraps it round her.

  “What’s your name?” he says.

  The girl tries to speak but her teeth are chattering so much that Thurston has to lean in close.

  “M-M-M-Mer-Mercy,” she stammers.

  “I’ll try and get you out of here, Mercy,” says Thurston. He turns his attention to the collar but the thing is solid.

  “You know where the key is?” he asks. Mercy shakes her head. She points a trembling finger at the door.

  “Miller’s got it?”

  She nods, her eyes widening at the name.

  “Does he have weapons in the house?” says Thurston.

  Before the girl can say anything, from downstairs comes the sound of a door opening and closing. Mercy flashes a look of pure terror in Thurston’s direction.

  Someone’s in the house.

  He signals for Mercy to stay quiet and moves toward the door.

  Mercy has a strange look on her face that Thurston can’t figure out. Then, too late, he realizes what she’s doing: making a calculation about her survival chances. A calculation coming down heavily on the side of Nate Miller.

  “Here!” she screams. “Up here! He’s here!”

  Thurston can’t blame her. She’s a child. Besides, with things as they are, Miller might be the kid’s best option. Unarmed and trapped upstairs, his own chances don’t look too good right now.

  Leaving Mercy screaming, Thurston moves into the corridor and sprints toward the stairs. Looking over the landing rail he sees Miller coming up, holding a shotgun.

  Thurston jerks his head back in the nick of time.

  A blast from Miller’s gun punches a hole in the ceiling, the round passing so close to Thurston’s face he can feel the heat. Thurston runs past the storage room to the window and slides the sash up. He’s looking out at a high sloping roof extending out over the deck. Behind him he hears Miller clattering up the stairs.

  Thurston launches himself through the window as another shotgun blast shatters the glass. He hits the roof and rolls out of control toward the guttering. Thurston tries to grip something but the glaze ice makes it an impossibility and he skids out into space.

  For a split second Thurston hangs in the air and then slams, back first, onto the padded cover of the hot tub six yards below.

  It saves his life.

  The cover splits and Thurston feels the air pushed out of his lungs as he drops into the water. He pushes up and scrambles over the side as Miller gets a bead on him from the upper window. A blast splinters the edge of the hot tub and Thurston slithers across the iced-up deck, his breath rasping as he desperately tries to get oxygen back into his lungs.

  “He’s on the deck!” yells Miller, and Thurston glimpses Anders at the fold-back doors.

  Anders is holding a US Special Ops M4A1 assault rifle. It’s a big gun but looks like a toy in the giant’s hands. Slung under the barrel is an M203 40mm grenade launcher.

  Thurston jumps off the deck as Anders fires the grenade.

  Behind Thurston the hot tub and deck railing disappear and Thurston feels a sharp pain in his thigh. As he slides helplessly down toward the lake he sees a huge shard of fiberglass embedded in his leg.

  After sliding fifty or sixty yards, Thurston hits the lake and skids three yards more before coming to a halt, the blood from his leg wound tracing a smear across the ice.

  He staggers to his feet and begins moving as quickly as he can. Anders reaches the edge of the deck and starts firing. Thurston zigzags as the bullets tear into the thick ice. Now Thurston hears a second blast and realizes that Miller has joined Anders at the deck edge. At this range, Thurston knows he’s a difficult target and he pushes forward, ignoring the pain. Every yard is a yard closer to safety.

  The shooting stops and Thurston glances back to see Miller and Anders clambering down toward the lake. With eight inches of plastic buried in Thurston’s leg, he knows they’re going to gain on him once they get onto the lake.

  He needs an edge.

  Chapter 69

  “We get him alive,” says Miller. “I want this bastard to suffer.”

  He and Anders are tracking Thurston across the lake. It’s not difficult. Thurston’s wound is leaving a trail anyone could follow.

  “He’s heading north,” says Anders. “Maybe he’s planning on getting into the woods.”

  “He ain’t gonna make it that far,” says Miller and points. About a hundred yards ahead, Thurston lies on the ice.

  “Go get him,” says Miller. “Drag him back to the house. Have us a party.”

  “My pleasure,” says Anders. He shoulders his rifle and unhooks the axe from the pouch on his belt. “He might be missing an arm or two.”

  “Fine with me, man,” says Miller. He takes out a cigarette and bends away from the wind. “Just bring him back still breathing. We owe this cocksucker.”

  Anders walks toward Thurston, the axe swinging easy at his side.

  He’s going to enjoy this.

  Chapter 70

  As Anders approaches, Thurston forces himself to remain still. For this to work the guy has to be close.<
br />
  Thurston’s using an old spec ops “fishing” tactic with himself as bait. He hasn’t picked this part of the lake by chance. Less than fifty yards to Thurston’s right lies the marshy estuary area that forms one of the northern boundaries to the compound.

  The lake ice here is thinner. Much thinner. Thurston has edged as close as he dares to where the thick ice gives way to the thinner skein put in place by the ice storm. Lying on his back, Thurston hears it creaking below him like the deck of an old wooden ship.

  Anders is about twenty yards from Thurston when he hears the first crack. He turns and sees a slice of black water opening behind him like a devil’s smile. Miller, some thirty yards farther back, sees it, too, and begins to back away.

  Anders stops, unsure of what to do. He slowly takes his assault rifle off his back and takes aim at Thurston.

  The ice shifts and Anders almost falls. With his arms windmilling as he tries to regain balance, the M4A1 slips from his fingers and disappears into the water. Thurston twists and swivels around to face Anders. As the ice disintegrates, Anders sprints hard toward the Australian, his axe raised high.

  Thurston gets ready.

  He’s gambled on Anders’s greater weight being enough to break the ice and drop him into the lake.

  It isn’t working: Anders is closing in fast.

  Behind him, black water cracks open at a frightening rate but Anders is still closing in. Thurston gets to his feet and picks up the knife. With the storm whipping across the lake, Thurston balances the blade and waits. He doesn’t want this to become a hand-to-hand fight.

  When Anders is less than three yards away, Thurston takes his shot. Bending on one knee he throws the knife and hits Anders high in the chest.