The Survivor

by Gregg Hurwitz

  Frantic, Nate let his hands slap to the table, an outburst he regretted immediately. Appearing calm and sane was a necessity.

  Abara’s cell phone chimed, a text message, and he glanced at the screen.

  “What?” Nate said. “What’s that?”

  “Confirmation of your medical records.” He replaced the phone in his pocket, some of the severity draining from his expression. “You want a cup of water, bathroom break?”

  “No. I want you to tell me what time it is.”

  “Six thirty-seven,” Abara said.

  Nate pictured Janie and Cielle at home, waiting to hear from him. Pavlo’s men on standby ready to swoop in. His knees bounced frantically beneath the table. “You have to let me out of here, or—”

  A junior agent entered with a fat file and a concerned expression and asked Abara to step outside.

  Abara rose. “One sec.”

  “I got five hours and change until my daughter gets cut in half with a chain saw,” Nate said.

  Abara paused, hand on the knob. “I won’t dawdle.”

  For a small eternity, Nate drummed his fingers, paced the room, glared at the one-way mirror. Finally Abara returned.

  “Here’s where we are.” He slid a sheet of paper across the table at Nate. A large stamp proclaimed, ATTORNEY WORK PRODUCT—CONFIDENTIAL. There was the witness list, the eight familiar names.

  The whole black plot, confirmed.

  “Anastasia Shevchenko had two prior DUIs and was driving on a suspended license,” Abara said. “Which means they’ll nail her on a Watson murder. She’s staring at a life sentence. They have her dead to rights.”

  Finally they were into the meat of the matter. Nate forced himself to slow down, to parse the matter properly so they could come out the other end rather than run frenzied circles. “So her only way off,” he said, “is if Pavlo kills the witnesses.”

  “Pretty much. She smashed that family to shit and ran away, like you said. At which point her old man swung into cleanup mode, reported her Jag stolen, all that. So her lawyers—her dad’s all-star roster of lawyers—are trying for the no-driving defense. It must be proved that she was behind the wheel when the car was moving for her to be found guilty.”

  “No other witnesses?”

  “No.” For the first time, Abara looked weary, his eyes puffy. But beneath the fatigue was something harder-edged—a calm fury. Knocking off a van load of witnesses to protect a drunk driver probably hit a level of lawless disregard that even an FBI agent didn’t encounter every day. “After the hit-and-run, she ran to Nebesa, a Ukrainian club—she’s there every fucking Tuesday. Given who her old man is, good luck reversing an alibi out of that joint.”

  “How did Urban get his hands on the witness list?”

  “Not sure. He had some known associates who are skilled hackers, so maybe they cracked it out of the prosecutor’s hard drive. It was confidential as hell, that’s for sure. The prosecutor went to great lengths to protect the names. Blacked out the police report. All proceedings in camera—judge’s chambers with only one side present, no transcript available to the defense. The judge had had a turn or two around the dance floor with Pavlo, knew the colorful backstory. She figured the risk of witness intimidation was high enough to keep the names of material witnesses secret.”

  “And the trial is…?”

  “Next month.”

  “Thus the urgency,” Nate said. “Why didn’t the witnesses know about all this?”

  “If they knew who they were testifying against, it might spook them.”

  “Might?” Nate said. “Might?”

  “Never know. One of them might be a crazy-ass loose cannon. Like you.”

  Nate blew out a breath. “So what now?”

  “We’ll get to those witnesses right away, make sure everyone’s safe until this thing settles.”

  “How quickly can you get Pavlo in custody?”

  “A case like this takes a while to build,” Abara said, “let alone file.”

  “Your confidence is comforting.”

  Abara’s mouth tensed. “Believe me, crimes this … flagrant? The entire justice system is taking this personally. Whatever warrants we need, whatever resources we want, judges will line up to sign their names. But that doesn’t mean a conviction’ll be easy.”

  “What would you need to make it airtight?”

  “A confession.” Abara snickered at the thought. “Flipping his daughter, maybe, in exchange for immunity on the drunk-driving murder. Getting any of the club witnesses to change their story. In other words, shit that won’t happen given who Shevchenko is and the power he has over these people.”

  “With what you do have, can you get to an arrest?”

  “Probably. But with his lawyers? He’ll be out on bail. Plus, his men…”

  “What about his men?”

  “We know some of the names in his orbit,” Abara said. “The old-school blues with the tattoos, all that. Yuri Ivashko just applied for naturalization. Valerik Koval. Dimitri Zotov. Sure. We can roll them up, see if we can make something stick. But word is, Pavlo has a new hitter off the boat from the old country, a stone-cold pro.”

  “Misha,” Nate said. “Number Six.”

  “We don’t know who he is, let alone where to find him.”

  Nate’s teeth ground, a muted shriek of frustration inside his skull. “My family,” he said.

  “We can dispatch agents to your house right now.”

  “If sedans pull up to our front door, you might as well paint a target on my daughter’s forehead,” Nate said. “Can you get her and Janie into Witness Protection?”

  “We will make sure they’re safe.”

  A cold flutter moved through Nate’s stomach. “That’s not what I asked.”

  Troubled, Abara pivoted aside in his chair and regarded his reflection in the one-way. “A lot of people have been waiting for a break on Pavlo Shevchenko for a long time, not least of all the DA’s office. The head deputy of Major Crimes wants to press the strongest plays with the cleanest links and the most physical evidence—solicitation of murder for Danny Urban and the names on that list. As for you, your wife, your daughter, unfortunately, none of you are witnesses. You’re not actually testifying to anything.”

  “That asshole kidnapped me. He made a death threat against my daughter.” Nate’s voice rang around the cold box for a while. He studied Abara’s even stare and said, “Right. No hard evidence. For that.”

  “Not a scrap. It’s your word against Pavlo’s. Watch your average rape trial to see how well those cases turn out.” Abara’s even features tensed into a grimace. He smelled of cologne or scented deodorant. “Plus, no one’s been killed.”

  “Yet,” Nate said.

  The two men stared at each other, the cold of the room chilling Nate’s lungs. His arms were crossed, his left wrist giving off an ache that would have been agonizing if he were of a mind to focus on it.

  Abara spidered his fingers on the table. “I have a buddy at the Marshals Service. I’ll call him to look into WitSec for your family. But it’s a long shot. And there’s a process—”

  “What the hell are we supposed to do in the meantime?” Nate didn’t like the panic he heard creeping into his voice beneath the anger.

  “As I said, we can roll a couple sedans right now.”

  “It’s not right now I’m worried about. Right now they’re home safe, at least for five more hours. I’m worried about what happens in a day, a week, a month, while you guys build your case.”

  “Look, we can send a patrol car around at intervals, keep an eye on them—”

  “Like you did me after the bank robbery? Because within eight hours Pavlo had me ensconced in a fucking ice block!” The throbbing intensified in the bones of Nate’s left hand. He clasped it under the table, but it refused to form more than a loose claw. “Given that man’s reach, are you really telling me that half-assed police protection is a good idea?”

  Abara pursed his li
ps. Said nothing.

  “The FBI can’t move into our house and play nanny indefinitely,” Nate said. “I get it. Then let me out of here. Now. I’ve got just enough time before that deadline to get my family safely off the grid.”

  “You’re wanted on charges. Remember? Terrorist threat to an airliner.”

  Nate stood quickly, his chair toppling, and Abara matched him, one hand raised calmingly.

  “You’re not keeping me in here,” Nate said. “If you can’t protect my family, I will.”

  “You gonna shoot your way out, Nate?”

  “You saw what I did at the bank.”

  Abara’s pulse beat at his temple. A tense smile. Then he said, “Why don’t we sit a second.”

  “I don’t have a fucking second. You put me in jail, Janie and Cielle are dead. Plus, tell me a guy like Pavlo can’t get to me in jail. Easier than on the street. He’ll have me gutted in there.”

  Abara eased back into his chair, strummed his fingers. “Despite all logic and reason, I like you, Nate. So I’m not gonna lie to you. Having a patrol car check on your family at intervals does carry some risk—”

  “Some risk? It’s like filing a restraining order when there’s a raving psychopath kicking down the door.” Nate grabbed the edge of his rising temper, reined it in. He pulled out his chair, sat, folded his hands. “If it was your wife, your daughters, what would you do?”

  Abara chewed the inside of his lip for a time. Then moved his finger a few centimeters and clicked off the digital recorder. “You’re a dog guy, right?”

  Nate tried for patience but failed. “Is this another heartfelt family anecdote with a not-so-hidden moral? Because if so, let’s skip to the end.”

  “I have a dog, too,” Abara continued, as if Nate had not spoken. “And he’s a man-about-town. Likes to roam. Before I leave for work, I open our side gate and let him out for the day. But we have years of trust built up, the way trust is built up between a man and his dog. You feel me?”

  Nate risked a hopeful glance at the turned-off recorder. “Yes.”

  “You’re tangled up in some serious shit right now, with a lot of outstanding legal issues. And you’re a resource, still, in the Shevchenko case. If I let you roam while I look into the Witness Security Program for your family, I have to trust that you won’t go far in case I need you. You’ll want to stay close anyway in case I can push WitSec through.”

  “How will we be in touch?” Nate asked.

  “Your cell.”

  Paranoia swelled. “Can Pavlo track it?”

  “I don’t care who his contacts are, he’s not gonna be able to triangulate a cell signal. That takes major resources. I can’t get that done officially sometimes.” Abara moved to the door, then stopped. “I have determined that you are not an active terrorist threat. Which doesn’t mean that the charges against you are dropped. While you’re out in the cold, find a good lawyer.” He produced Nate’s cell phone from a pocket, held it out on his palm, an offering. “You’d better get a long-term plan in place.”

  “By the time this gets resolved, I’ll be dead.” Nate grabbed the phone from Abara’s palm. “I don’t need a long-term plan.”

  Abara nodded solemnly and stepped aside, shoving the door ajar.

  Chapter 37

  The rough October winds were acting up, fallen palm fronds littering the streets like knocked-off fenders. Dialing his cell phone, Nate urged the cabdriver to step on it. The house was mercifully close, mere miles from the Federal Building.

  As they screeched onto Montana Boulevard, Janie finally picked up. “Nate? What happened? How’d it go?”

  “Good and bad I’ll explain later any sign of Pavlo’s men?” The words came out in a rush, together, one long sentence.

  “No. Cielle’s been keeping watch at the windows. They don’t seem to be—”

  “I’m almost home. Finish packing up the Jeep. We’re leaving now.”

  An abbreviated pause, but Janie read his voice and simply said, “Okay. Got it.”

  Rocketing past the multimillion-dollar houses with their lit front gardens and spit-polished sedans, he saw his situation in stark contrast with his former life. When had everything careened so drastically and suddenly off track? It was as if he’d taken a left turn and dropped into the Grand Canyon.

  He asked the driver to let him off around the block. Then he cut through the Rajus’ side yard, his left foot dragging through the fallen leaves. He’d been told that ALS symptoms could intensify at night, and so far he’d found that to be true, his body weakening as darkness encroached. His fingers fussed at the gate latch, numb and ineffective, until he knocked it open with an elbow and spilled into his backyard. Empty. No sign of anyone watching. The lights were on upstairs but not down, probably so no one could see Janie and Cielle loading the Jeep. He banged on the rear sliding glass door, and Janie rushed down the stairs, dropping a duffel bag, and let him in.

  He slammed the slider behind him and locked it. Casper scrambled in from the other room, excited, slipping on the tile and ramming his muzzle into Nate’s crotch. Nate scratched his ears, guiding him aside. “Where’s Cielle?”

  “Grabbing a last few things in her room. Go get her. I packed you already.” Janie was flushed, breathing hard, tamping down her fear. The Beretta swung heavily in her jacket pocket, its etched grip protruding. The sight of it there, so out of place, did something painful to his heart.

  Janie hoisted the duffel and started for the garage.

  The phone rang.

  Even across the kitchen counter, the illuminated LED screen was visible in the dark room: NEW ODESSA.

  Janie stopped. The phone rang again.

  Nate lifted it from its base. It shrilled in his hand. He clicked TALK. Moved the trembling receiver to his ear.

  Pavlo’s voice, rich with age: “Where is my item?”

  “I have until midnight.”

  “No. It is done. Your time is up.”

  Nate’s throat went dry. “We agreed that—”

  “Your VIP trip to the bank to get inside box would have happened by now. Do you have what I want?”

  Nate breathed through clenched teeth. “Yes. I have it.”

  “What is it?”

  Janie’s eyes were on him, wide and wild.

  Nate tried to weigh his options, but time was moving too fast for him to keep up.

  “Well?” Pavlo asked.

  “A list of names,” Nate said.

  A sigh of pleasure came through the receiver, almost a hiss.

  “I’ll bring it to you. I’ll leave right now.” Nate gestured furiously for Janie to finish loading the Jeep, but she didn’t move. She just stood there, the weight of the duffel tugging at her arm.

  “No,” Pavlo said. “Tell me names.”

  Any name Nate gave carried with it a death sentence. A drop of sweat ran from his hairline, stinging his eye. Casper whimpered at his side and shifted paw to paw.

  “Now,” Pavlo said.

  “Patrice McKenna,” Nate blurted. The schoolteacher Danny Urban had already murdered. The one safe name to give—they couldn’t kill someone who was already dead.

  A pulse of excitement beneath Pavlo’s words. “Yes. Now others.”

  Nate’s last thought remained, banging about his head like a bird stuck in a room. You can’t kill the dead—his personal theme since he’d come in from the ledge, the source of his fearlessness in the face of bullets, ice blocks, rescue saws, but there was something else, something—

  “Aiden O’Doherty,” he blurted. The last death notification he had served, the teenage boy who’d died in the car crash.

  He heard Pavlo breathing through his nose, nothing more.

  Nate cast his memory back to the previous six death notifications he’d served, naming the names of the dead.

  Paula Jenkins, overdose.

  Martin Padilla, drive-by.

  Shin Sun-won, knife in the stomach.

  Wally Case, suicide dive in front of a bus.r />
  Clarissa and Frederick Frigerio, shot in a convenience-store robbery.

  When Nate had finished, Pavlo said, “Fine. Now bring list to me. I want to see with my own eyes.”

  Nate hung up, and Janie sprang back into motion, hauling the bag to the Jeep. Nate took the steps up three at a time, Casper at his feet, calling Cielle’s name as he charged down the hall. She was in her room, clutching an armload of photo albums, phone pressed to her ear.

  “No, Jason.” She tugged at a maroon streak in her hair. “I told you. Do not come over right now.”

  Nate grabbed her arm. “We gotta go.”

  “He’s almost here, Dad, and—”

  Casper’s head jerked toward the door, his tags jangling. The patch of hair rose at the base of his ridge. His ears lifted, squaring off at the tops, then flattened back against his skull. He took several slow, stalking steps toward the hall.

  Cielle still hadn’t moved, but the cell phone bobbed beneath her thumb, giving a barely audible click as it turned off. Nate raised a finger to his lips and flattened a hand: Stay here.

  He crept down the stairs, Casper a half step ahead, slinking like a great cat. The door to the garage was closed, and he could not hear Janie beyond. He started for her, but Casper moved swiftly across the kitchen and growled at the sliding glass door. Nate followed, flipped the lock, and had barely tugged the door open when Casper skimmed through. The dog stopped ten feet away at the near edge of the lawn, snarling down at something.

  Nate moved out into the night air, took a few steps across the brief patio, and stared down.

  Two oversize footprints crushing the grass, facing the house.

  With mounting dread, Nate turned slowly and looked over his shoulder.

  Yuri finished slipping inside and stood in the kitchen, staring out at Nate through the narrow gap in the door.

  No gloating. No anger. Just an empty, gray-eyed stare.

  A shushing noise as he tugged the sliding glass door closed.

  The glass threw back only a reflection of the yard, the porch light a scorch mark in the corner of the pane. Before Nate could move, Yuri’s chalky hand ghosted into sight behind the double panes and flipped the lock.