by Maureen Tan
A bullet whizzed past my face.
It hit the windshield above Alex’s head. The bullet’s angle didn’t completely shatter the glass. Instead, the windshield cracked outward from the bullet hole, becoming a web work of opaque glass crystals.
I couldn’t see the road.
I hung on to the wheel with my right hand and slammed my left hand hard into the glass. I was rewarded by bleeding knuckles and a fist-sized view of the terrain beyond the road. I saw the bait shop parking lot. To the right was the shop itself. The corroded propane tank was to the left.
With my left hand back on the steering wheel, I jammed my left foot down on the clutch, shifted into third, and tapped the brakes.
The sniper shot out a tire. Left front.
I used my whole body for leverage, felt pain rip through my right arm as I hauled the wheel to the right.
Still, I couldn’t keep the Blazer on the road.
Behind us, death.
Ahead of us, disaster.
Another bullet struck the truck.
Side panel, left rear.
The truck left the road completely, tearing through vines, rocking and jolting as it slewed through the red mud of the parking lot.
Alex cried out. Once.
I kept my eyes focused forward, desperately yanking the steering wheel, trying to avoid the propane tank. Maybe empty. Maybe not.
I continued steering, fighting to maintain some control. I shifted into second and braked again, tried to slow—
Behind us now, enough vine to provide some cover.
I couldn’t avoid the old wrecked car in front of us.
It eliminated any further need for braking.
We smashed into it at ten, perhaps fifteen miles per hour.
I collided with the steering wheel.
Hurt.
I didn’t have time to worry about it.
The hood buckled. The radiator burst.
But we were stopped.
I looked at Alex.
He was in a crumpled heap on the floor. His eyes were closed. Blood covered his forehead.
My breath caught in my throat.
For a mere heartbeat, I was back in time.
* * *
He looked at me through ragged holes cut in the mask.
His eyes were like a cat’s—light brown flecked with yellow.
Then he grabbed my arm and wrenched me to my feet.
He pulled me to the car’s right rear door.
Blood had spattered the glass, ran down it in rivulets—
* * *
No! I had lost enough.
I would not lose Alex.
I couldn’t help him from where I was.
I pushed open my door, crouched low as I circled around the back of the truck to Alex’s door. The smell of petrol told me that the last bullet had punctured the tank.
I pulled Alex across the rubber matting until his hips were almost at the door, then grabbed him beneath the arms and dragged him from the truck.
His elbow brushed the seat and he groaned.
I half-dragged, half-carried him into the thick vines and weeds behind Willie’s Bait Shop.
26
As I pulled him through sharp-edged grass, woody vines, and thorny branches, I assessed Alex’s injuries.
There was a knot on his forehead and a bleeding gash. His elbow was a tight, hot, swollen purple shot through with red. The bites on his left arm still bled and now were joined by a growing number of scratches and gouges on both of his arms. His breathing was high-pitched and wheezy.
I dragged Alex five meters. No more.
I hadn’t the strength. Or the time.
I abandoned him behind the bait shop, beneath a dying oak, under a tangled, ropy tent of kudzu. His eyes were still closed, but his groaning was louder. I left him, praying that he’d be safe from whatever reptiles might lurk there, knowing that the man who was after us—after me—was infinitely more deadly.
I’d set my trap.
Used myself as bait.
And Alex had become my victim.
The sniper I could take care of myself.
But I needed John. Or someone. Anyone. To help me save Alex.
* * *
I ran back to the Blazer, pausing just before I reached it. I stood in the cover provided by the corner of the bait shop, held Alex’s semiautomatic, and made sure the shooter hadn’t yet arrived.
Still clear.
I moved again, stayed low, and hurried to the truck. I grabbed my purse, dumped it, and retrieved my cigarette lighter.
Minutes, I thought. I had minutes to signal for help.
The air reeked of petrol.
It dripped from the tank, gathered beneath the truck, traveled outward in rivulets. I followed several wet trails with my eyes and chose the puddle nearest me.
I flicked the lighter, produced a flame, touched it to the edge of the puddle, held it there. With a sudden roar, the petrol ignited, flaring violently, scorching my hand and heating my face. I dropped the lighter, flung myself away from the blazing puddle as an orange-blue flame traveled toward the truck.
I ran.
I didn’t stop until I reached the corner of the shop. Then I dropped to the ground and peered out at the truck.
In the distance, birds sang.
Overhead, the sky was blue and bright.
The breeze carried the smell of petrol.
I waited.
I watched.
The Blazer exploded.
Flames shot through it, consuming the interior.
Thick, black smoke boiled into the sky.
Pieces of truck rained all around me.
In the midst of it all, I remembered.
Everything.
* * *
Sunlight dappled the dusty earth beneath the olive tree. It touched the dark stains on my white dress, dried the wet splashes on my skin.
“Watch her while I get the papers. And then—”
The man who had saved my life turned away, stuck his head and shoulders in through the open door of our car. He reached into the backseat, lifted out my mother’s attaché case.
“Messy, but intact. Well done.”
He put the case inside the Mercedes, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, carefully wiped the blood from his hands as he walked back toward us. As he passed our car, he tossed the handkerchief through the open front door, into the front seat.
“Now for our little problem.”
For a moment, he stood looking at me through ragged holes cut in the mask. His eyes were almost yellow.
He reached down, grabbed my arm, wrenched me to my feet, pulled me to our car’s right rear door, shoved my face against the window.
Blood spattered the glass, ran down it in rivulets. So at first I couldn’t see—
Two crumpled bodies. Covered in blood. Gaping flesh where faces had once been.
I didn’t want to see.
I screamed, threw myself backward, fighting his grasp, fighting to break free.
He held on, lifted me from the ground.
I kicked him, pummeled him with my fists.
I bit him.
He dropped me.
I landed on my feet, ran—
He caught the back of my dress, spun me around, slammed me against the car. He pulled open the back door, forced me into the car, shoved me against the still warm bodies.
I screamed, clawed my way out.
I ran away.
“Talk about this and you’ll end up like them,” he shouted after me.
I escaped into the olive grove, ran until I stumbled and fell, scrambled forward on all fours, hid behind the nearest tree. I huddled there, fist against my mouth, listening, not making a sound.
Birds sang in the distance. A gentle wind rustled the leaves overhead. Sunlight danced on the dry earth.
Maybe the bad men had gone away.
On hands and knees, I crept from my shelter.
Both cars were still there.
Th
e white one was off the road, among the trees. Broken branches covered its hood, lay across its windshield. The front passenger-side door was open.
The gunman stood beside it, still wearing his mask. Then he held a lighter to a long piece of cloth that hung from the gas tank, waited until it was on fire.
He hurried to the roadside where the black Mercedes was waiting, its motor running, smoky exhaust pouring from its tailpipe. The gunman slid in next to the driver. The car pulled onto the road, roared away, left a cloud of dust and exhaust in its wake.
The smell of petrol carried on the wind.
The white car exploded.
Flames shot through the passenger compartment. Thick, black smoke boiled up into the sky. Pieces of metal rained around me. Stavros’s foot hit the ground beside me. It was still encased in a polished black boot. The laces were neatly tied.
I got to my feet. I ran away. Away from the thing on the ground. Away from the smoke and the flames. Away from the men with their masks and their gun. Away from what was inside the white car.
I ran and I ran and I ran.
* * *
A stranger was stalking me.
A stranger who was undoubtedly Sir William’s henchman. Blond. Burly. Dressed in muddy, olive-colored overalls and a lightweight camouflage jacket. He carried a Kalashnikov submachine gun with an optical sight. Illegal in the States. Which hadn’t stopped him from possessing or using it.
I lay flattened beside the low, dilapidated porch, waiting for a clear shot. Alex’s SIG-Sauer was in my left hand. My right arm was weak and spasming, almost useless.
The fellow hunkered down low, eyes moving constantly, searching the area between us. The thick smoke and the burning truck made visibility a problem for him and for me.
He came closer, and the breeze cooperated.
There was a moment of clearing.
I began squeezing the trigger.
The deep rumbling roar of an approaching motorcycle sent my quarry diving into the cover of the kudzu vines and interrupted my shot.
The sound grew louder, became stationary, changed to the sound of a motor idling. Then it cut out with the motorcycle still out of sight somewhere down the road.
John on his Harley, I thought. A good Samaritan would have blundered directly onto the scene. But John would approach cautiously, carrying his bulky Browning, ready to fire. He would creep through the billowing smoke, perhaps end up in the shooter’s sights. Perhaps die. More likely, he would kill the fellow with a bullet that didn’t come from the SIG-Sauer.
That problem was best avoided.
I crept forward, nearer the burning skeleton of the Blazer. I crawled on forearms and knees, with my chest and stomach dragging, until the heat from the Blazer scorched my skin. I kept my breathing shallow and tried not to inhale too much smoke.
A cough could end my life.
I squinted, tried to penetrate the swirling smoke.
The breeze cooperated again.
Suddenly, I could see the shooter.
He was crouched in a tangle of vine, his attention split between John and me, his submachine gun poised at a point between us, waiting for a target.
I gave him one. But first, I aimed at his head. Any nonlethal shot was too risky, and I didn’t know if he was wearing a bulletproof vest.
Then I shouted.
He whipped around as I fired.
His finger was already depressing the trigger, spraying the area with bullets. But he was too late.
His head exploded as the bullet tore through it, front to back.
It was easier to claim self-defense that way.
* * *
“All clear,” I called.
John came running through the smoke. He paused long enough to kick the Kalashnikov out of the reach of a dead man. Good training.
I turned my back on him, intending to go to Alex.
I made a mistake.
I took a breath at exactly the wrong moment, at the moment that the breeze swirled the smoke around me. I ended up with a lungful.
I doubled over, gasping for air, gagging violently. Pain stabbed through my chest, but I managed to stagger forward another few steps before falling to my knees. I bent forward and wrapped my arms around my chest, trying to protect my rib cage. I cradled my right arm in my left and, despite the agony in my chest, consciously kept the gun in my left hand pointed at the ground.
John’s arms kept me from collapsing completely. Suddenly, they were around me, supporting me. He hung on as I worked my way through the pain.
Finally, with eyes still streaming, I turned my head and looked at him.
“You left it a bit late.” Cough. “Need help.” Cough. “Alex—”
I was seized by another bout of coughing, this one less violent than the last. But I couldn’t tell John what I needed until I could drag more oxygen into my lungs.
John held me tight, patted my back, and talked as he waited for the spasm to pass.
“I went for petrol and supplies. I watched the road every minute, except when I went inside to pay. He must have gotten past me then. Sorry, love. You weren’t supposed to be here. I thought I left you sleeping—”
He stopped speaking.
Because I was staring at him, half expecting to be staring into the muzzle of a gun.
Of course, there was no gun.
Sorry, love. You weren’t supposed to be here.
The voice was so familiar.
This time, he would kill me. Just as he’d killed my mama, my papa, Stavros.
Nonsense. That was the past. A different time. A different man.
The voice.
So familiar.
John’s voice.
The same man.
Abruptly, past and present merged with startling clarity.
John was holding me, helping me.
No gun.
No mask.
But I knew.
Alex’s semiautomatic was still in my hand.
I pulled away from the support of his arms, lifted the SIG-Sauer. Pointed it point-blank at his face.
“I remember,” I said.
* * *
He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch away. He faced death calmly.
I looked at the familiar, narrow features, watched the breeze ruffle his fine blond hair, and knew that I could kill him.
His pale blue eyes remained fixed on my face.
“Your parents were a job. A hit. For the sake of national security.”
I stared at him. Stared at the monster my partner—my friend—had kept hidden for all the years I’d known him.
He’d saved my life.
And I’d saved his.
Thus proving our competence. Little else.
Killing him would be easy. I could claim self-defense.
But Alex needed help.
Sooner or later someone would see the smoke and come to investigate. Sooner. Or later. John was here. Now. And I knew he had a cell phone.
I ran my eyes over his slim body, over his dark jeans and olive-drab turtleneck and lightweight jacket. The only telltale bulge was that of his shoulder holster. I saw nothing that was the size and shape of his phone. Perhaps he’d left it in the shack. Or in the Harley’s saddlebags. It would take me time to search for it.
In the meantime, Alex suffered.
I lowered the gun.
“Please. Phone for an ambulance. For Alex.”
27
He traded me the SIG-Sauer for a phone call.
He held out his hand and said: “Give me the gun, Janie.”
I made the deal willingly.
He walked back to the Harley.
I followed the trail of broken vegetation past the back of the bait shop and knelt down beside Alex.
He was feverish, muttering incoherently, fighting for consciousness and not winning. His arm was a nasty mess, purple and swollen from wrist to shoulder. The sleeve of his shirt was stretched tight, the rolled-up cuff digging deeply into his swollen biceps, his veins b
ulging.
My touch on his arm made him cry out.
Perhaps unconsciousness was a blessing.
I pillowed his head on my lap, stroked back the dark hair that was plastered against his forehead, and waited for John.
“You’ll be all right,” I murmured over and over again. “You’ll be all right.”
I wasn’t sure I believed my words.
John returned and hunkered down well out of reach. His Browning was in his hand, and he kept it pointed at me. Undoubtedly, he knew that if he let me live, he’d never be safe.
“The ambulance is on the way,” he said. “The dispatcher said twenty minutes.”
I moved my chin in Alex’s direction, intending to use John’s sympathy to my advantage and actually fearful that lack of circulation would cause more damage to Alex’s arm than the venom had.
“Do you have your pocket knife? I need to cut his shirt away.”
John glanced at Alex, then shook his head.
“You’re too dangerous to trust, Janie. I’d be foolish to give you a weapon. Especially a knife.”
I was good with a throwing knife, and he knew it. I’d once saved his life that way. But under the circumstances—
“For God’s sake, you have the fucking gun. Do you think I’d risk—”
His unyielding expression made his thoughts clear.
“You do it, then,” I said.
His eyes traveled from my face to Alex’s arm and back. Then he pushed a hand covered in supple leather into his back pocket and retrieved his knife. He tossed it to me.
I caught it left-handed, flicked it open, automatically estimated its weight and measured the length of the tapering blade against the length of the hilt. The knife was well balanced enough to be thrown accurately and, if aimed at the right spot, heavy enough to inflict serious damage. I would wait for the right moment and then—
“Jane—”
John waited until I raised my head and met his eyes before moving the point of the Browning. He aimed it at Alex.
“—if you make one wrong move, I’ll kill lover boy. You have my word on it.”
I nodded and began slicing through the looser fabric at Alex’s shoulder. Then I slid the razor-sharp blade, sharp edge upward, down his arm. The taut fabric split easily until the blade reached the folded cuff. I tucked the blade beneath the thick wad of fabric and tugged upward, sawing at the sleeve.