by Kyle Mills
And where there were power and remotes…
“Move for the doors,” he said. “Watch for booby traps. I repeat. Watch for traps.”
He crept out from behind the couch, every muscle tense as he waited for the inevitable explosion that would engulf the house. Instead, a quiet whine became audible behind him.
He spun toward the sound, swinging his gun until the sights were fixed on a small, three-wheeled robot struggling across the carpet. A child’s toy.
He kept his finger on the trigger as the robot stopped a few feet away and a camera boom on top tilted to look up at him. A moment later, a voice that he assumed belonged to Burt Seeger came over the tiny speakers.
“If my neighbors weren’t a complete pain in the ass about noise I’d have packed the house with enough C4 to blow you into the next state. This is a gift, son. One soldier to another. But if I ever see you again, you’d better kill me. Because if you don’t, I’ll cut your head off and put it on your mother’s fence post.”
Riju shouldered his weapon and nodded. “Understood.”
Burt Seeger leaned forward in his chair, deeply shaken for what he calculated was only the fifth time in his life.
What he’d said was a lie. If he’d had the time and material to set it up, pieces of his house would still be raining down on his neighbors’ obsessively manicured lawns. He’d had to work with what he had—a backup generator, a bag of switches from Radio Shack, and a Web-controlled robot he’d bought for Susie.
Of course, it had been a given that they would eventually find him based on what he’d done at Chris Graden’s house. But this wasn’t eventually. It was less than twelve hours since he’d taken those shots. And in that time, they’d tracked down and mounted a very smooth operation against a forgotten special ops guy whose wife had been a patient of Richard Draman’s more than a decade ago.
Seeger glanced back at the computer screen, looking at the frozen face of the man who had been in his living room. He was a pro—Seeger could smell them a mile away. If he and Susie had been there, they’d be dead. Neither one of them would have even known what happened.
He leaned back and stared at the dark ocean through the windows of his friend’s beach house. His good old friend. How long until they sent someone here? An hour? Five? Sure as hell not ten.
He walked to the room where Susie was sleeping, her wrinkled face peeking out from beneath the comforter. Every day she seemed a little more tired. An old body slowly smothering a young soul.
He knelt next to her and tugged gently on the blanket. “Hey, Susie. Wake up.”
Her eyes fluttered and finally opened. “Uncle Burt?”
“I’ve been thinking. It’s too cold to be at the beach. We should go somewhere else.”
“But all we do is move around. I want to stay here. I’m sleepy.”
“I know you are, honey. I am too.”
35
Upstate New York
May 10
Richard Draman scooped a few more leaves on the pile and settled into it again. He’d spent twenty-nine hours in that spot, and it was starting to feel depressingly like home. The ground beneath him was leveled and the rocks removed, a water bottle and a walkie-talkie hung from a branch above him, and Seeger’s .22 rifle rested on a clean towel at his feet. Despite its low caliber, it looked like it meant business with a camouflage stock, homemade silencer, and deep black barrel.
Richard leaned forward and peered at the four-way stop through the foliage. Nothing.
The heavily wooded lots in the neighborhood were at least ten acres apiece, each hiding an opulent home sequestering an equally opulent family. It made for a sparse population base that translated into an average of twenty-four cars, three dog walkers, and seven joggers per day—each bringing a brief moment of panic followed by a long stretch of boredom.
Seeger had called that morning, and the more Richard tried not to dwell on the conversation, the more it consumed him. After men armed with assault rifles had infiltrated his home, Seeger had concluded that there was nowhere he could go that he and Susie would be safe. His only option was to buy a used RV and drive randomly around the country, staying on back roads and stopping in obscure campgrounds only long enough to sleep.
Not exactly the life Richard had pictured for his daughter, and one that would quickly prove too much for her.
The breeze that had been with him most of the day died, leaving him in silence. He’d never understood the cliché before, but it really was too quiet. Too much time to think about everything that could go wrong. About how desperation was rarely the foundation of good decisions.
Carly’s static-ridden voice startled him out of a half doze. “He’s coming! Do you read me? He’s coming!”
Richard jumped to his feet and grabbed the walkie-talkie, feeling a jolt of adrenaline that Seeger had warned him would throw off his aim. “I read you.”
“Don’t miss, OK?”
He frowned and picked up the rifle, resting the barrel on a branch that he’d stripped of leaves. At military school, he’d wondered about the wisdom of teaching a bunch of juvenile misfits to use firearms, but it had been one of the few fun activities available, and he’d gotten pretty good. Of course, that was decades ago, and the targets had been meaningless and stationary.
Richard squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. What had Seeger said? Live in the moment during these kinds of things. Everything that had happened before didn’t matter, and there probably wouldn’t be a later.
Comforting.
After a few moments, the vehicle appeared—a black stretch limousine with heavily tinted windows. He allowed for the fact that it wouldn’t come to a full stop at the sign and followed the leading edge of the rear tire in his scope, holding his breath and waiting until his heart was between beats.
There was the muffled crack of the gun, but beyond that, nothing changed. The limo accelerated through the crossing and disappeared from view just like all the cars before it.
Richard dropped the gun and ran through the trees, ducking branches as he zigzagged along a faint trail. His breathing got heavier and his speed slowed as he moved into less familiar territory, looking left to the road whenever the foliage thinned.
He was almost convinced that he’d missed when he spotted the limo riding its rim onto the gravel shoulder.
36
Near Fayetteville, West Virginia
May 10
Burt Seeger eased the RV through a deep rut, glancing behind him at Susie who had lost interest in the miniature stove and was now playing with a mechanical arm holding the television.
“Sit down, honey. You’re going to fall.”
“No I’m not. I have perfect balance,” she said, opening a drawer and going through the drinking glasses cleverly secured in it. “That’s what Mrs. Klein, my gym teacher, says. Perfect.”
The twenty-five-foot vehicle was older than she was and smelled vaguely of mold, but she didn’t seem to notice. There had been a little concern on her part when he’d sold his SUV to a used car dealer, but it had completely disappeared when their cab pulled into the driveway of the man selling the old camper. Not only was she certain it was the coolest thing ever, but it was also apparently totally rad.
He, on the other hand, saw it more as a necessary evil. Picking up pension checks was definitely out, so money was limited. And after what had happened at his home and the motel, staying in one place would be suicide.
The isolated dirt track narrowed, and Seeger rolled to a stop. They were ten hard miles from the nearest paved road and had turned off everything that could send an electronic signal. He’d feel more comfortable when there was a little more distance between them and Hagerstown, but they’d be safe for long enough to do what needed to be done.
“End of the line,” he said, walking to the back of the RV.
Susie opened the door and watched him drag a large box toward it. After kicking the rusty stairs into position, he got out and bounced the crate down them wi
th Susie trying her best to help.
“Step back, honey. You could get hurt.”
“It’s too heavy for you, and I’m not a baby.”
“You’re right,” he said, keeping a close eye on her as he dropped the box the rest of the way to the ground and she lowered herself down the steps after it.
“Uh, Burt? Are we lost?”
“Of course not,” he said, trying to stretch the kink out of his back.
“Where are we, then?”
“The woods.”
“I know that,” she said emphatically. “What woods?”
“You know. The one with trees and grass in it.”
“You’re being evasive.”
“Evasive? Good word.”
“Mom says it to dad sometimes.”
“Well, what’s really important is in the box.”
“What is it?”
He held out a knife. “A little project. Why don’t you open it?”
She took the knife and ran the blade over the tape.
“Be careful. It’s sharp.”
“I can open a box. I’ve done it lots of times before.”
She seemed to have it well in hand, so he retreated, examining the dents and rust spots on the dingy white RV. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed or obscured.
“It’s paper and tape,” she said, pulling out a roll of each.
“That’s not all. Dig a little deeper.”
She rummaged around and came up with a can of paint. “There must be fifty of these things in here! No wonder it’s so heavy.”
“And they’re all blue. That’s your favorite color isn’t it?”
Her ancient face crinkled up for a moment, and she looked back at the RV. “No way! We’re going to paint it?”
“We are indeed.”
“Are you serious? We get to spray paint the whole thing blue?”
“You said you like blue, so we can’t be driving around in a white one, can we?”
She yanked the top off the can and started for the vehicle with a mischievous look in her eye, but he caught her by the collar.
“Hold on there, young lady. Boring stuff first. We have to tape up all the chrome and glass. You want it to look good, don’t you?”
She didn’t seem completely certain, but dutifully grabbed some tape and padded toward the rear bumper. “I’ll do the low stuff. You do the windows. But let’s go fast. It’s gonna get dark, and I don’t want to do this my whole life. I want to paint!”
He watched her for a few moments, frowning when she crouched near the rear wheels. The pain caused by that simple act was visible on her face, and it scared him. He’d known some hard men in his life, but in many ways, this little girl was tougher than any of them. The fact that she was losing her ability to hide her fatigue and suffering meant that it was getting worse. Probably a lot worse.
“Hey, sweetie? You know what? I hate painting. I’ll end up getting more on me than on the camper. Let’s make a deal. If you let me tape, I’ll let you paint.”
The sun hit her fully in the face when she looked up at him, fading her skin to an ashy gray that he hadn’t seen before. “Really?”
“Yeah. Otherwise I’ll be blue for a week. Now why don’t you go in and rest up for a while.”
Watching her struggle up the stairs, he realized how dead he’d felt over the past few years. He’d become trapped in a house he’d always hated, unable to let go of the last part of a woman who would have been horrified at what he’d become. And now that he knew he could never go back, he found he didn’t care. It had been long past time to let go of things that were gone.
Unfortunately, his newfound life was starting to look like it might not last all that long. The people coming after them would never stop—not of their own volition anyway. And being prey had a distinct disadvantage. A predator could make mistake after mistake. But the game was less forgiving for the hunted.
Richard’s plan to level the playing field was an interesting one, and hopefully it would work. But in the extremely likely event that it didn’t, he’d protect Susie until someone put a bullet in him. He owed her at least that much for rescuing him.
37
Upstate New York
May 10
Richard slowed when he came to the edge of a driveway cutting across his path, stepping from the trees and strolling along it toward the road. He made a show of checking the mailbox, but concentrated on his peripheral vision as the limousine stopped about twenty-five yards away.
The man who had been in the front passenger seat was frowning down at the damaged tire, and the driver was already headed toward the trunk. Richard wandered in their direction, trying to get his breathing fully under control and leafing casually through the letters he’d found.
“You guys all right?” he said as he approached. Despite his mouth being bone dry, his voice sounded reasonably natural.
“Just a flat,” the man looking down at it said. “Not a big deal.”
Both were as tall as he was, with expensive suits stretched across thickly muscled backs. Richard examined their waists, finding the bulge of a gun on both.
“I’ve got a jack and a lug wrench at my house if you need it.”
“I think we’re good, thanks,” the man said, going back to help his companion with the spare and leaving the limo’s front doors open and unprotected.
Right on cue, Carly came jogging up the other side of the road, limping slightly from the unhealed wound in her thigh. She was wrapped in formless sweats and a baseball hat in an effort to not attract the attention she did in her normal uniform of running shorts and a tank top. It seemed to work, because after a quick glance the two men went back to trying to free the spare.
She slowed to a walk, her footfalls going quiet as she abandoned the gravel shoulder in favor of asphalt. When she got within ten feet of the open driver’s door, Richard started moving casually toward the passenger side. The bodyguards continued to ignore them, and he gave a subtle nod.
Carly dove through one door and Richard the other, ending up facing backward on his knees in the seat, clawing at the door handle. The bodyguards appeared from behind the trunk and ran at him, one already reaching into his jacket. The silver metal of a gun flashed in the sun, but it was too late—the doors slammed closed, and Carly found the lock button, sealing them in.
Outside, the two men were screaming unintelligible orders as they approached to within a few feet of the window with their guns thrust out in front of them.
According to Seeger, they’d be hesitant to shoot. Even in the unlikely event that the glass wasn’t reinforced, a bullet could be deflected as it passed through, killing the man they’d been hired to protect. To Richard’s ear, though, they didn’t sound hesitant.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
It took a moment for Richard to tear his gaze from the gun barrel trained on him, but he finally managed to shift his focus to the man in the backseat.
In magazine and newspaper photos, Andreas Xander looked every bit the ninety-one years he reported, but in person, he looked a hell of a lot closer to the century mark.
His skin was gray and crisscrossed with broken blood vessels, falling from jutting cheekbones. The whites of his eyes had gone milky yellow and were rimmed in red as they flicked between his two captors.
“Tell them to lower their guns,” Richard said, aiming the pistol Seeger had given him in the old man’s general direction. “We don’t usually do this kind of thing, and you don’t want us any more nervous than we already are.”
“What the hell’s the matter with you two?” he said, reaching for the oxygen tank sitting next to him and increasing the flow to the tubes in his nose. “Are you a moron?”
Outside, one of the men was dialing a phone with his free hand. There wasn’t much time.
“Answer my goddamn question!”
“What question?” Richard said.
This time Xander enunciated as though he were speaking to a small
child. “Are. You. A. Moron?”
“I don’t think you should go around insulting people holding you at gunpoint,” Carly said.
Xander lifted an arm and they both jerked back a little, but he just pointed an arthritic finger toward the steering column. “The keys aren’t in the ignition, and the tire’s flat, you stupid hussy. Probably because you shot it out. What’s the plan here? To just sit and wait for SWAT to blow your brains all over my upholstery?”
“Did you just call me a hussy?” Carly said. “Jesus Christ. How old are you?”
“Enough!” Richard said. “Look, we’re sorry about this, Mr. Xander. I’ve tried to get in touch with you in a more conventional way, but I can’t even get past your switchboard.”
“Run,” the old man said. “If you’re gone by the time the police get here, I’ll forget this ever happened.”
“I’m Richard Draman, sir. I did biomedical research in the area of progeria. In fact, I—”
“Is it too much trouble for you people to pick up a newspaper every once in a while? Richard Draman died in a plane crash weeks ago.”
“I wasn’t on that plane, Mr. Xander. And neither was August Mason.”
38
1,800 Miles East of Australia
May 10
Chris Graden had never been to this part of the island’s compound, and he didn’t know how to interpret the invitation. The garden was strikingly beautiful, with hanging palm trees and an indistinctly shaped pool with a greenish-gray bottom. As with all things Karl did, it was a triumphant combination of aesthetics and function—an outdoor sanctuary that would be completely invisible from above.
Graden followed the guard across the flagstones, aware of the cameras following their progress. The island’s security was becoming as oppressive as it was obsessive. Who were the cameras there to watch? The watchers?