Now that’s what fear looks like.
I point the gun at him. “She’s your patient now. You take care of her and you’ll be just fine. Understood?”
He nods furiously.
With one last look around to confirm we’ve gone unnoticed, I close the SUV’s hatch.
That’s when a gunshot rips through the air.
“Everybody down!” The amplified voice is followed by a loud three-round burst. “On the ground! Now!”
All around the parking lot, people drop in fear.
All but one.
Dammit.
I need to start watching people’s fear-based social cues and mimic them when appropriate. It’s too late now. Being the only person still standing in the parking lot, in front of a bright-orange SUV, has made me stick out like a—well, like a bright-orange SUV.
I duck down a fraction of a second before the first bullet comes my way. I dive to the unforgiving pavement along the driver’s-side door. The gunfire stops as I disappear from sight. They want to stop me something fierce, but they’ve got a lot of bystanders to worry about, too. I roll back to my feet, staying low, and open the driver’s door.
The tall seats hide me from view when I climb inside, but that won’t be much help when the security teams flank the vehicle. If they’re even remotely competent, they have two teams already moving up the sides of the lot. I’ve got just a few seconds.
“Who are you?” the medic asks.
I glance back, reassessing the man. Most people would have bolted when I came under fire, but he stayed by Shiloh’s side. He’s got a blanket over her and a blood pressure cuff on her arm.
“And what happened to this woman?” He lifts her arm, revealing the string of bruises.
“Wish I knew,” I tell him, answering both questions. “Better hold on tight.”
He nods and lies down, draping an arm, a leg, and a portion of his torso over Shiloh’s body. It’s as secure as they’re going to get.
The engine growls to life. I yank the gear shift into drive and crush the gas pedal. Tires screech as I punch forward, shoving aside the small hybrid car parked in front of us. People run for cover as the SUV roars through the parking lot, hitting thirty miles per hour. I hammer the brakes at the end of the row, twisting the wheel. All four tires squeal as we spin. A gray cloud of burning rubber billows around the vehicle. When our turn hits the ninety-degree mark, I hit the gas again and race toward the back of the lot.
Rows flash by. Five to go, then it’s an empty lot and a clear shot to the long winding drive through the woods.
“Look out!” the medic shouts. He’s still lying down, but he’s leaning up, looking out the passenger’s-side window. I follow his line of sight and see what has him concerned—a black Humvee complete with a mounted machine gun races up the parking lot’s center aisle.
The big gun turns toward us and opens fire.
A row of cars flash between us, absorbing the high-caliber ammunition that would have shredded the SUV.
I hit the brakes and turn hard to the right, into the next row. The Humvee races ahead into the empty lot, turning in a wide circle. The SUV’s throaty engine shakes my seat as the big vehicle accelerates to fifty miles per hour. We quickly reach the center aisle, and I turn hard to the left, just missing a car but careening over a concrete wheel stop at the end of an empty parking space. The right side of the SUV bounces into the air and slams back down with a jolt.
“I’ve got her!” the medic shouts, reassuring me that he’s doing his job.
While the Humvee rounds toward us, I aim for the drive at the back of the lot and keep the gas pedal pegged.
Asphalt explodes from the parking lot ahead of us as a line of heavy machine-gun fire, lit by bright-orange tracer rounds, cuts across. Chunks of tar bounce off the windshield, but the gunfire stops as the gunner adjusts his aim.
A second volley of bullets shatters the rear side window, but we’re quickly beyond the line of fire. Whoever is shooting at us hasn’t had a lot of practice with a moving target. Even if the security team is ex-military with real-world experience, a lack of practice can dull reaction times.
Not for me, though. All of this seems to just come naturally.
The empty lot around us morphs into a wall of trees. Tall pines line the road, their scent washing through the shattered window and overwhelming the stench of burnt rubber.
Gunfire erupts behind us, but the trees get the worst of it, and continue to as the Humvee gunner spews lead. The winding path through the woods slows our flight, but it also keeps the Humvee from getting more than a brief glimpse of the SUV.
We round the final bend and race toward the security gate. A public road is just twenty feet beyond the solid-looking guardhouse. Four men in security uniforms stand in front of the gate, handguns raised. One of them shakes an open palm at me. These men have clearly not been warned yet. If they had been, they wouldn’t have wasted time trying to request me to stop; they would have simply opened fire.
They get the idea when I accelerate toward them. The bravest of the four squeezes off two rounds. Both miss. Probably because the man was already running when he fired. They dive away, two to a side, narrowly missing being added to the long list of New Hampshire’s daily roadkill. The gate, however, doesn’t move for me. But it’s not nearly as robust as it looks. The metal pole bends with a shriek and allows us passage.
I glance in the rearview.
The Humvee skids to a stop. The guards pick themselves up.
No one pursues us.
The chase, it seems, ended at the gate.
I turn onto the road and tear away from Neuro Inc. I’d like to say it’s the last time I’ll see the place, but I know it’s not. Once Shiloh is safe, I’ll be back. What they’re doing is wrong, and that’s something I can’t let go. Not because I’m a bleeding-heart vigilante, but because they thought they could add me to their collection of tortured souls, and I take that personally.
I look back at my passenger. He looks shaken. Frightened. But he’s still tending to Shiloh. “How is she?”
“Hell if I know,” the medic says. “What happened to her? Is she in a coma?”
Hadn’t considered that. “I assumed she’d been sedated, but I honestly don’t know.”
“Was this done to her at Neuro?” he asks.
I nod. “I’m guessing your security clearance is pretty low.”
“I started a month ago.” He looks back at Shiloh, then to me. He extends his hand toward me. “I’m Jim. Jim Cobb.”
I twist my hand back and give his a firm shake. “I’m Crazy.”
He gives a lopsided nervous smile. “I noticed.”
13.
I turn into the driveway after my third pass. The home, a tan cape with an attached three-car garage, is definitely unoccupied. Though the mailbox is empty—likely being held at the owner’s request—three plastic-wrapped newspapers rest on the front porch steps. Even if the homeowner had lackluster feelings about reading a paper in the digital age, someone would have, at the very least, kicked the staircase obstacles aside.
I stop the SUV in front of the garage and turn it off, pocketing the keys. I glance back at Cobb, still monitoring Shiloh’s condition. “Any change?”
He shakes his head.
“You gonna run if I have a look around?”
He frowns. Pats his soft belly. “I’m not a very fast runner.”
“And you don’t want to leave her alone with me, right?”
His frown deepens. He avoids eye contact. “That a bad thing?”
“I’d call it admirable.” I open the door and slide out into the morning heat. Winters’s vehicle has all the bells and whistles, including a frigid air-conditioning system and cooled seats. My ass is downright chilly.
I take a quick look around. The house is in the woods, trees on three sides and across the street. The nearest neighbors are a hundred yards away. I jump up the front stairs and try the door. As expected, it’s locked. On my
way back down the steps, I notice a fist-sized rock sitting amidst the brown wood chips surrounding the neatly clipped bushes. I stop, eyes on the rock, and sigh.
What kind of moron puts a key in a fake rock and then leaves that rock in a place it doesn’t belong?
I pick up the rock and give it a shake. A metallic clanging from inside confirms my suspicions.
Looks like I’m about to find out what kind of moron.
Key in hand, I discard the rock and unlock the front door. Hot, humid air that smells faintly like dog washes out of the home. But there’s no barking. Definitely on vacation. With one last glance back at the SUV, I move into the house. It’s spotless, despite the scent of dog. Ignoring the staircase leading up, I step into the small dining room, through the kitchen, and down the hall to the garage. I open the door and whistle. A black 1969 Boss 429 Mustang is parked on the far side. I take back every bad thought I had about the home’s owner. While he had bad taste in security, his taste in cars is impeccable, though I’m now absolutely certain he’s a moron, leaving this vehicle so poorly protected.
The garage itself is the pinnacle of organization. Pegboards hold a variety of tools. A wall of shelving holds an array of plastic bins with labels like WINTER, YARD GAMES, and GARDEN. A generator, snow blower, and riding lawn mower are parked along the back wall. All red. And above everything, arranged along a pair of two-by-fours hung from the ceiling is an assortment of skis.
I slap the middle of three large white buttons and the center garage door grinds up. I run outside, pull the SUV into the garage, and close the garage door. We’re only a thirty-minute drive from Neuro Inc., but we’ll be a hell of a lot harder to find inside the house than driving around in Winters’s bright-orange beacon. It’s a small miracle they didn’t already locate us by helicopter, but they must have been relying on the vehicle’s GPS unit to track us. Unfortunately for them, I stopped and removed the device’s antenna the moment I realized we weren’t being pursued on the ground.
I open the vehicle’s rear door. Cobb is waiting for me, one hand supporting Shiloh’s head, the other holding her hands over her stomach. “Take her under the knees. We’ll carry her together.”
“You in charge now?” I ask him.
“Do you have a medical degree?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s just agree that you don’t,” he says.
Cobb is afraid. Probably terrified. But he’s controlling it better than most, focusing on his job. I don’t know anything else about him, but he’s still earning my respect. I hook my hands around the back of Shiloh’s knees and pull. Working together, we slide her out of the SUV and carry her into the house, depositing her on the first-floor bedroom’s king-sized Posturepedic. Her lithe body sinks into the plush down comforter. Still immobile, but still breathing.
Cobb stands back and clears his throat. His nervous eyes glance at the handgun tucked into the waist of my pants.
I decide he’s earned my honesty. “It’s not loaded.”
He clearly doesn’t believe me, so I point the weapon at the floor and pull the trigger several times. “But, just so we’re clear, I was just released from a mental institution. I don’t feel fear. And I don’t need a gun to kill you.”
“Thanks,” he says. “I feel much better.”
His sarcasm brings a smile to my face. I motion toward the living room with my head. “Let’s go have a chat.”
The living room is typical Americana retiree with plaid couches, a collection of Hummel figurines, an unused exercise bike, and a massive flat-screen TV. I pat the recliner with my hand and wait for Cobb to sit in it. While he’s sitting, I head for the kitchen and check the fridge. There’s nothing inside that could spoil in less than a month, but there are four bottles of beer and a stick of pepperoni. After removing two beers and the pepperoni, I search the cabinets until I find a jar of peanut butter. I return to the couch with my booty and hand Cobb a beer. He takes it with a nod, digs out a jackknife from his pocket, and pops the top. He hands the knife to me.
I pop my beer top and then extend the two-inch knife. I rub the blade sideways across my thumb. It’s razor sharp. “You could have slit my throat.”
Cobb takes a swig. “Taking lives isn’t my job.”
I fold the knife back down. His initials are engraved on the side, beneath the white cross. “Was it a gift?”
“From my aunt,” he says.
I hold the potential weapon out to Cobb. He stares at it. “Seriously?”
“If you were going to kill me, you would have done it before we reached the front gate.”
He takes the jackknife, pockets it, and takes a long drink. When he’s done, he breathes deep and lets out a long sigh. “Are there any more of these?”
“Two.”
“I’m going to need them, I think.”
“They’re all yours.”
Cobb stands, walks to the fridge. While he’s gone, I open the peanut butter and disrobe the pepperoni. On some level, I know this snack is disgusting, but I’m craving protein, salt, and fluids. I dip the pepperoni into the peanut butter, scoop up a thick glob, and take a bite. The supernova of powerful flavors is nearly overwhelming. The food at SafeHaven was mass-produced, preservative-filled, cheap slop. This is a feast in comparison. All that time I was missing the scents of the world, I never realized I also missed flavor.
Cobb returns with his beers while I chew. I can see the revulsion in his face when he looks at my snack, but he doesn’t say anything. Before sitting, he turns on a window-mounted air conditioner.
I tip my head in thanks, chase my food down with a swig of beer, and say, “So, you’ve worked for Neuro for one month?”
“Yeah,” he says, and there’s not a trace of hesitation.
“And before that?”
“I was a paramedic for Portsmouth Regional.”
“Why the switch?”
“There was a fire. I saved a few people. A wild day—less wild than today, though. But it was front-page news, and two days later I got a call. A recruiter for Neuro. He said they wanted people like me, who could handle a crisis if one ever developed. I thought it was strange that a private company would want a paramedic on staff, but he offered double what I was making, and I thought it would be a quieter job.” He forces a grin. “Until today, it was.”
I believe him. He’d be acting squirrelly if he was lying to me. That’s good for him, but bad for me. Some intel would go a long way right now.
“What about you?” he asks. “Were you really … you know?” He twirls his index finger around an ear.
“Yup. SafeHaven. North of Concord.”
“I’ve heard of it. For what?”
“I don’t feel fear,” I say.
“Like at all?”
“Not even a little.”
“So, if I pulled a gun on you?” he asks.
“That would be a bad idea,” I tell him. “But, no.”
Cobb pops open his second beer. “So, no dreams about being naked in public places or late for a college test?”
“I’m … not sure if I dream, but no. And I don’t remember college.”
“Must have had a lot of fun,” Cobb says.
I shake my head. “I don’t remember anything beyond a year.”
“Geez…” Cobb leans forward, elbows on his knees. “What happened a year ago?”
“Hell if I know.”
“So, amnesia then?”
“That’s the diagnosis.”
Cobb scratches his chin. “But you remember some things, right? Like, you can speak English. You can drive—very well, by the way. What else?”
“I know how to hurt people,” I say. “And I’ve played this game. I don’t think you’re going to like where it leads.”
That kills his curiosity. He leans back, wiping dew drops from the beer bottle. “Whoever you were before … that’s not who you are now?”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “This isn’t helpful.”
/>
He takes a drink while I turn my thoughts inward. I don’t need to know who I am. Not right now, anyway. But what do I need? To get Shiloh someplace she’ll be cared for. And then what? Go back to Neuro and shut them down. I know I should just run. It’s what most people would do. They have a security force, some kind of black ops team, heavy weapons, and who knows what else. Definitely government-funded. But fleeing requires fear and the ability to look past what is right and wrong. I’m incapable of both.
“You worked at a hospital?” I ask.
“Portsmouth Regional.”
“How far?”
“Forty-minute drive.”
“Still know people there?”
He nods.
“Then that’s where we’re headed.”
“Now?” he asks, surprised.
“We’ll wait until Shiloh wakes up. See what she has to say.” I tilt my beer back. Polish it off. “If Neuro is out looking for us, they’ll have widened the search far beyond this place in just a few hours, and they won’t be looking for that sweet number out in the garage. If we take back roads and avoid tolls, we shouldn’t have any trouble getting to the hospital.”
“So we go to the hospital, and then what?”
I smile the kind of smile that also serves as an apology. “You’re going to help me get back inside Neuro.”
He groans, no doubt hoping that wouldn’t be the answer I gave. “And then?”
I dip the pepperoni in the peanut butter, take a bite, and, with a full mouth, say, “You should probably … start looking … for a new job.”
“And what if they just kill you?” he asks.
“They won’t.”
“’Cause you’re sooo good at hurting people?”
I smile, genuinely, and dig the plastic case containing the syringe out of my pocket. “Because I have this.”
He leans forward, looking at the syringe behind the clear plastic cover. “And that is?”
“I have no idea.”
“What do you know?”
“That they’ve killed a lot people to create this.” I tap the plastic case. “And that they will kill me to retrieve it. I’m just never going to give them the chance.”
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