Panic

by Jeff Abbott

  The deputy took the proffered ID, studied it with care. He handed it back to Dezz, peered in at Carrie. ‘You got ID, ma’am?’

  ‘She doesn’t need it, she’s with me,’ Dezz said. The deputy looked in the backseat at Jargo.

  ‘Hello, Officer,’ Jargo said.

  ‘They’re witnesses. With me,’ Dezz said.

  ‘Registration?’ the deputy said.

  ‘Did you hear one word I said to you?’ Dezz said. ‘Special agent. On a case. In a rush. I’d simplify it further but special and agent both have two syllables.’

  ‘Cute. Registration, please, sir.’

  Dezz handed him the card and the deputy studied it. He handed it back to Dezz.

  ‘Thank you. May we get on down the road, please?’

  ‘I’m curious.’ The deputy was young, brash-looking, a later-life version of the smart-ass who sat in back rows lobbing spit wads but figured out after high school that police work was steady hometown employment. Carrie didn’t look at him; she looked straight ahead at the road. ‘What case you got of interest down here?’

  ‘I really don’t have time for a summary,’ Dezz said, ‘and it’s confidential, so we’re-’

  ‘Not rushing off just yet,’ the deputy said.

  ‘I’m a federal agent-’

  ‘I heard you the first three times. But you’re in our jurisdiction, and I haven’t heard that you’ve spoken with our sheriff.’

  ‘I planned to call the sheriff shortly. We hadn’t located our subject yet, and I saw no need to waste his time.’

  ‘Her time,’ the deputy said. ‘Step out of the car, sir, and we’ll give her a call about your case.’

  ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘Sir. All due respect, you can’t come down and run ninety on our roads.’ The deputy leaned down close to Dezz’s window. ‘Let’s just call-’

  ‘Let’s not.’ Dezz’s fist lashed out like a hammer into the soft of the throat, crushing the windpipe. The deputy staggered back from Dezz’s window, his sunglasses askew, mouth working in circles for air. Dezz drew his gun and fired a silenced shot. It burst the forehead between the Stetson and the cheap sunglasses.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Carrie screamed. She saw a car cresting the hill, approaching them. Dezz floored the pedal; the sedan shot forward. Dezz readied his gun, steering with one hand.

  ‘Dezz!’ Jargo yelled.

  The approaching car – a puttering Chevrolet, ten years old – braked at the sight of the deputy lying dead in the road, and Carrie saw the driver’s face widen in shock. She was a thirtyish blonde in glasses, wearing a Wal-Mart apron and fluffy bangs. Dezz fired twice as they zoomed past. The driver’s window vanished in glass dust and a bloom of red. The Chevrolet left the road, smashed into fencing that marked the edge of a cow pasture, the front of the car crumpling like foil.

  ‘Not. A. Word.’ Dezz steered back into the center of the lane and shoved the speed up to one hundred.

  Jargo leaned forward and closed his hands around his son’s throat.

  ‘That was idiotic,’ Jargo said.

  ‘We don’t have time to shit around with cops.’ Dezz sounded calm, as though they’d just stopped to inspect peaches at a roadside fruit stand.

  ‘I ordered you to take the goddamned ticket!’ Jargo said. ‘Listen to his lecture, smile and nod, be smart.’

  ‘Dad. The only ID I had at hand was the federal. He was calling it in, no matter what, and I couldn’t let that happen. Better, tactically, to kill him now than to have to run later. It only put us two minutes behind schedule.’

  Jargo eased his grip off Dezz’s throat, slapped the back of his son’s head. ‘The next time you disobey, I’ll shoot you in the hand. I’ll ruin it. You won’t ever work again. And I’ll cut you off, and I’ll…’ Jargo fell back in the seat. He lowered his voice. ‘Do not disobey me.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Dezz said.

  ‘You didn’t have to kill that woman,’ Carrie said in a thin voice.

  ‘I just shot out her window. So she couldn’t get a look at us, spot our license plate.’

  Carrie fought down the urge to vomit. She couldn’t show weakness around him. Not now.

  Jargo said, ‘Let’s put the unfortunate deputy and witness out of our minds. We have a job to do.’

  Carrie knew his request was for her benefit; the two innocents were already long gone from Dezz’s mind. She checked her gun, wiped a hand across her mouth.

  ‘Carrie, those deaths just now, they’re regrettable,’ Jargo said. ‘Truly. But I can’t think of them as people, you see? I can’t imagine them as someone’s baby, or that they had a whole and worthy life to live. You have to keep your eyes on the prize. It’s the only way to stay sane.’

  Carrie knew he – they – were cold beyond belief. Worse than insane. They chose to murder without guilt.

  Evan, please don’t be at this house. Don’t.

  ‘Find a back way,’ Jargo said. ‘Pull up the GPS map for me. Just because Evan called Carrie doesn’t mean he’s free of Gabriel. This could be a trap, Gabriel or the CIA pulling us in.’

  A trap, with Evan laid as bait. She didn’t want to think about that. ‘Evan…’

  ‘Carrie, I know. You don’t want him hurt. We don’t either. I have my own reasons for wanting to be sure Evan is safe.’ The lie – she was sure it was a lie – sounded smooth on Jargo’s tongue.

  Dezz pointed at the GPS screen. ‘There’s an access road a half mile from the front entrance of the ranch. We’ll go in that way.’

  Get to Evan first, Carrie told herself. Find him and get him out of there before Dezz and Jargo kill him.

  The hill rose from the back ranch road in a sharp incline, limestone breaking through the thin soil in heaves and cracks, thirsty cedars and small oaks competing on the scrubby land. Dezz took the lead, Carrie the middle. Jargo brought up the rear.

  Dezz stopped so suddenly Carrie nearly walked into his back.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I heard a hiss.’ For the first time Carrie heard a tremble in Dezz’s voice.

  ‘Snakes are still hibernating now,’ Jargo said. ‘No need to be afraid, little boy.’ Annoyance and arrogance blended in his tone; stinging still, Carrie decided, from Dezz’s earlier disobedience.

  ‘I don’t like fucking snakes,’ Dezz said. He took a tentative step forward. Carrie went around him to take the lead, easing down through the trees. Dezz walked as if he were navigating a minefield, one cautious step after another.

  ‘Dezz, it’s okay.’ Carrie wished a rattlesnake would whip its head out from under a rock, sink its fangs into Dezz’s face or leg or butt. ‘I think you heard the wind in the branches.’

  He didn’t move.

  ‘Dezz hates snakes. Reptiles. Anything that lives belly on the ground,’ Jargo said. ‘I should get him a cobra as a pet. Help him overcome his weakness.’

  Dezz moaned in his throat.

  ‘Now you know how to punish him when he won’t listen to you,’ Carrie said to Jargo. ‘Put a copperhead in his bed.’

  They heard a crash of metal, then another crash, a gunshot, a scream, the roar of an engine moving away from them.

  Jargo grabbed Dezz’s arm and the three hurried down an incline, then climbed up another small hill. They ran past a stable and a limestone pool, heard the rev of a second engine, heard the distant crack of another gunshot, saw a bald man racing a motorcycle down the driveway.

  ‘Gabriel,’ Jargo said.

  Dezz bolted, hurrying down the driveway, Jargo following. He called back over his shoulder, ‘Carrie, secure the house.’

  She didn’t stop and Jargo raised a gun toward her and said, ‘Do what you’re told.’

  Evan wasn’t on the motorcycle; he might be in the house. This is my chance. So she nodded and ran back toward the house.

  Seeing Gabriel talking to a parked Suburban, Dezz hunkered down among the cedars. Jargo knelt next to him.

  Evan, Dezz mouthed. He’s in the car. Jargo nodded. The
y waited through two minutes of talking.

  Dezz couldn’t see where in the Suburban the dumbass was. But then he heard, from under the car, a clear yell: ‘I’m coming out…’ And Gabriel training his pistol at the SUV’s underside.

  Dezz stood, aimed, and fired.

  The bald man jerked, blood popped from his back, and he fell with a choked cry of agony.

  ‘Don’t kill Evan,’ Jargo whispered to Dezz. ‘Wound if you must. I prefer him alive to answer my questions.’ He gripped Dezz’s arm. ‘Clear?’

  ‘Totally.’

  Jargo frowned. ‘You’ve not had a confidence-inspiring day.’

  ‘Benefit of the doubt, Daddy.’ Then Dezz yelled, ‘Freeze! FBI!’ and started down the hill. Jargo stood, glancing back at the house where Carrie had vanished. Silence. He hoped Gabriel worked alone. Traitor-baiters often did; they trusted no one. It was, Jargo knew, a sad and smart way to live. He drew back into the trees to watch. In case Evan came out shooting.

  Gabriel crawled for his gun, face contorted in pain. Another bullet kicked up the limestone crush by his head and he stopped.

  ‘I told you to freeze,’ Evan heard a voice say. Not angry. Calm. A young voice. Almost amused. ‘It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a strongly worded suggestion.’

  ‘Oh, shit!’ Gabriel said. ‘Him… him…’

  ‘Evan? The cavalry’s arrived,’ the voice called.

  ‘Your house-’ Gabriel gasped, and a second bullet hit him, this time in the shoulder. Gabriel shrieked, twisted in the dirt with a stunned look on his face. Evan could see a man’s legs walking toward him.

  Your house. Evan fought down the sudden surge of terror in his chest, his guts.

  The voice called, ‘Be still now, Mr. Gabriel. You keep moving, you make me very nervous. I don’t like being nervous.’ Then the voice brightened. ‘Evan? You under the car or in it?’

  Evan gave no answer. That voice. It was the voice from his parents’ kitchen. The voice of his mother’s murderer. Rage surged up in him.

  ‘Hey, Evan, the good guys are here. FBI. Come on out, please.’

  Evan didn’t trust anyone who said he was FBI but who shot a wounded man.

  ‘All’s well, Evan. It’s safe now. If you’ve got a gun, toss it out, we don’t want any accidents.’

  Gabriel groaned and sobbed.

  ‘Evan. I don’t know what this crazy old bastard told you, but you’re perfectly safe. I’m FBI. My name is Dezz Jargo and’ – a pause for emphasis – ‘I know your dad. He’s sick with worry about you. We tracked Mr. Gabriel here. I need you to come out. We’re gonna take you to your dad.’

  Jargo. Evan imagined Jargo would be an older man. This guy looked too young to run a criminal ring.

  ‘Show me your credentials,’ Evan yelled.

  ‘Well, there you are!’ Dezz called kindly.

  ‘He’s a fucking liar,’ Gabriel yelled, and the walking legs delivered a sudden kick to Gabriel’s head. Blood and two front teeth flew free from the mouth, and Gabriel lay still. Evan couldn’t tell if he was still breathing.

  ‘Evan, come out now please,’ Dezz said. ‘For your own safety.’

  Evan fired at Dezz’s feet.

  Carrie moved from the garage to the kitchen. Silence, except for the television, tuned to CNN.

  ‘Evan?’ she called. ‘Evan, honey, it’s me. Carrie. Come out.’

  Silence. A shiver took hold of her chest as she went into each room. Afraid she would find him dead.

  He had called, he had to be free.

  Unless it was a trap, and as soon as Evan called her, Gabriel killed him. She tried to think. Gabriel was ex-CIA. These files – she wasn’t sure what they contained that made Jargo sweat – were of interest to Gabriel because he’d gone freelance, or he’d turned traitor, or he’d gone back to work for the Agency. Smoke and mirrors, this world was nothing but smoke and mirrors and she could not see the truth of anything except Evan lying in the bed, saying, I love you.

  She moved through the downstairs rooms quickly, efficiently. She hurried upstairs. The last time she had seen him he was lying in bed, asleep, perfectly at peace, and now he had endured all this hell. His mother dead, and she had been powerless to stop it or to protect Donna or him. His mother, strangled. Hers had been shot.

  Please, Evan, be here, not down there with Dezz. Or be gone. Gone far away where I can’t find you.

  She tore through each room, praying to find him first.

  Dezz howled and jumped at the missed shot, but he didn’t retreat far. Instead he gave a twisted laugh. ‘Fucking funny way of saying thanks for the save,’ he called. ‘Gabriel was aiming for you when he was telling you to come out. I saved your ass.’

  Evan waited. He thought Dezz would run for cover. It was sensible. Dezz didn’t. But he didn’t come any closer.

  ‘Your father,’ Dezz said, ‘his name is Mitchell Eugene Casher. Born in Denver. He’s been a computer consultant for nearly twenty years.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, if I’m just FBI, I know that. But I’m his friend, Evan. His favorite ice cream flavor is butter pecan. He likes his steak medium. His favorite television show of all time is Hawaii Five-O and he often bores people with plot summaries. Sound familiar?’

  It did. ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘Evan, I have to trust you now. Your father does special work for the government. I handle his cases. I’m here to protect you. Your family has been targeted by very bad people. Including Mr. Gabriel here, who was kicked to the curb by the CIA.’

  The voice. He compared Dezz’s voice to the voice that had spoken behind him, when he’d knelt in the kitchen, a gun at his head, his mother’s dead face six inches from his. Now he wasn’t sure. Those whole horrible moments fogged in a haze. He tried to remember the voice that had spoken while his mother was dead, the voice in his ears while he was dying at the end of a rope. ‘Be a good boy and come out. I’ll share my candy with you.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me like I’m four years old,’ Evan said.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of talking down to the famous director.’

  Evan waited. A caramel wrapper dropped by Dezz’s feet.

  Evan thought, If I shoot him, there is still one more. If the two of them are still together.

  ‘Got a friend at the house who’s worried about you,’ Dezz said. ‘Carrie’s here with me.’

  Evan thought he had heard wrong. ‘What?’ His chest tightened. A lie. It had to be a lie.

  Ten seconds of silence and Dezz said, ‘Sorry, Evan, stay still, I just need to take a simple precaution,’ and he shot out the right front tire of the Suburban. The heavy SUV sank and settled down where the tire blew.

  ‘I can’t risk you shooting me and driving off,’ Dezz said. ‘We’re not doing a Mexican standoff. I want to take you to Carrie. And to your father. Come out, hands up, we call him. Get everyone back together. Nice family reunion.’

  Evan gritted his teeth. No. Dezz was a liar, a killer. He wouldn’t believe anything he said about Carrie. These men had found invisible files on his computer, erased his computer back to a default state in seconds, found Gabriel’s hideout in the middle of nowhere. Learning his girlfriend’s name was nothing. It was a trick, it had to be a trick, to lure him out.

  He had to get out of here. But he couldn’t drive the Suburban, not with a shredded tire.

  The Ducati. It stood near the front of the Suburban, where Gabriel had parked it. The Suburban faced the gate. The bike was to his right, and Dezz stood over to the left and halfway up the hill. No way Gabriel pocketed the keys when he got off the bike, ready to shoot Evan. Right?

  Gabriel gave out what sounded to Evan like a long, dying sigh.

  Evan would have to leave the suitcase behind, with the cash and his damaged laptop inside. He had the South African passport that Gabriel had shown him in his pocket and Gabriel’s CIA ID. The duffel bag was in the car, too. But, he remembered, on the passenger side. He played the sequence of escape in his mind. Ro
ll out on the passenger side of the Suburban. Ease the door open, grab the duffel – it held the small locked box he’d taken from Gabriel, and his film gear. Shoot at Dezz to chase him back up the hill. Jump on the bike, go through the gate. It was probably suicide. But at least he was going down trying.

  ‘Bring Carrie down here, let me see her, and I’ll come out,’ he called.

  Silence for a second, and Dezz said, ‘You come out and I’ll bring her to you.’

  Dezz paced about twenty feet away. Close into the trees.

  He’s waiting for you to go for the motorcycle. No, Evan decided. He was just waiting. He could see Dezz’s face now: blondish hair, thin features, he looked sick-boy sallow, junkyard mean, flat-out crazy.

  Did you kill my mother? He’d heard two voices, that he was sure of, but this was only one guy.

  Stay focused. Keep your hand steady when you fire. His father’s voice in his ear, although he’d never been very good at target practice when his father had dragged him to the range, and he hadn’t been in years. Evan wriggled out from under the car on the passenger side, the Suburban’s chassis between him and Dezz. He opened the door. He grabbed the duffel, put the strap over his shoulder.

  Dezz ran straight for him, aiming, yelling, ‘Evan, great, arms up please where I can see them, okay?’

  Evan fired over the hood and Dezz’s jacket sleeve jerked as if tugged from behind. Dezz dropped to the ground and Evan kept firing over Dezz’s head until the gun emptied. He reached the motorcycle.

  The keys gleamed in the bright sunlight. He cranked the engine, squeezed into gear, spinning gravel, and shot through the narrow opening of the gate. He did not look back because he did not want to see the bullet coming for him. So he did not see Jargo step from the oaks, shoot at his shoulder, and miss, did not see Dezz stand, take careful aim, and a running Carrie shove Dezz as he fired. Evan heard the crack of the two pistols, their echoes bouncing around the mesquite-studded hills, but nothing hit him. He bent over the cycle, low, the duffel killing his balance, still holding the emptied gun in one hand, his chin close to the handlebars, and all he saw was the road leading away from death.