Borrowed Time

by Miller, Maureen A.

  He lifted his head, and arched an eyebrow as if to ask ready?

  Emily shook her head in refusal, but mouthed the word yes.

  Gun up, Brian used the mirror one last time and sprinted across the sidewalk. His back smacked against the metal frame of the Blazer as he hunched down beside it, cautiously peering through the window with his fingers tight around the handle of the 9MM.

  Finally Brian made eye contact with her and his slight dip of the chin was enough to propel her towards him.

  With a gasp she skidded to her knees beside the Blazer and felt the scrape of ice tug her jeans. Brian reached around her and softly clicked the handle of the door, drawing the panel open with a betraying shriek of metal. She waited for the artillery to arrive, but only the hollow roll of the plow could be heard. He tipped his head up for a last glimpse, and then mouthed one, two, three.

  Emily dove over the gearshift and felt it bruise her thigh. Keeping her head low, she lurched into the passenger seat. Brian followed, and the resultant slam of his door proved the catalyst to finally draw Barcuda’s troop. They erupted from the Coffee Shop, with hands delving into flowing raincoat pockets, the heaviest man in tow, a cup of coffee sloshing in his clenched fist. He hurled the cup onto the ground and joined the pursuit.

  Brian’s foot hit the gas and the Blazer’s rear tires squealed in protest before they bit into the icy blacktop and lurched into reverse.

  “Hold on.” His voice was exceptionally calm, but Emily saw the white-knuckles around the steering wheel.

  No one had to tell her to hold on. The jeep whirled about and faced the exit, nearly overshooting it on the slick surface. Craning to look at the rear window, she saw the three men pouring into their van and felt her throat constrict in fear.

  “Go Brian!”

  The Blazer launched onto the road. Salt trucks had passed through recently, and the traction was immediate as they surged towards a speed that was far beyond safe for the commercial neighborhood or the thirty-five hour speed zone. Already, the strip mall was behind a bend, but Emily knew that the van was in close pursuit.

  She stole a look at Brian. A muscle flexed where the jawbone met up with the temple. He had the focus of a bomb detonator. Was this the expression on his face the night he chased her?

  The road straightened, and Emily cried out as she saw the minivan a quarter mile back. A horn blared in protest from an oncoming vehicle, but Brian didn’t let up on the gas. Another curve eliminated the van from view, and Brian took advantage, swerving the Blazer onto a side road. The sheer turn tested the stability of the craft as two tires left the pavement. Momentum pitched Emily into Brian’s space, and when the vehicle righted itself she quickly scooted back in place.

  “No wonder you nearly killed yourself that night,” She managed through clenched teeth.

  Brian ignored her. He veered the jeep into another sharp turn, which flattened her against the passenger door. When they labored back into an even ride, Emily shot him a lethal glare.

  Then she saw it.

  Yes, his profile was taut, his arms were rigid, but there was a glint in his eye.

  “My God, you’re enjoying this.”

  He turned to look at her, and she caught a glimpse of a grin, but the corners of his lips tugged with signs of fatigue.

  “You were more fun. These guys,” He hitched a thumb behind him. “I’ll lose these guys in the next mile. You on the other hand—I was after you for a good hour or two.”

  And she never knew. What a fool.

  The next turn Emily was prepared for as she braced herself in her seat. When the road swerved into a straightaway, Emily waited for the black van to emerge in the rear view mirror. Two cars passed in the oncoming lane, but behind them the road remained clear.

  Finally, nearly a half mile back, the black vehicle surfaced from the last bend. It kept the pace. Emily clutched the doorframe with one hand, while her other latched onto the seatbelt.

  Four more sharp turns put enough distance between them. Brian swung off the road and maneuvered into a vacant residential garage, nearly clipping a grill that had been retired for the winter beneath its vinyl veil. He turned off the ignition and stillness ensued that was severed only by her labored breathing.

  It seemed the chase had ended.

  One heartbeat, two heartbeats, a third—still no van.

  They waited in anxious silence in the dark garage, next to two pink bicycles with training wheels, a rake with leaves stuck in its prongs, and a New York Giants fathead helmet on the wall. A dog barked in the yard, but no one emerged from the colonial two-story house to investigate. Riveted by the rear view mirror, Emily expected that black menace to rush up the snowy drive at any second and box them in.

  Nothing.

  She listened to the engine click until it finally went still.

  Drained. The Blazer was as drained as she was. How often had it suffered this undue treatment?

  Brian’s cell phone shrilled an invasion as Emily choked down her heart. With a vicious sense of satisfaction she noticed that he too was momentarily rattled.

  “Morrison.”

  “Where the hell are you?” Barcuda barked across the connection.

  Brian leaned back against the headrest, his eyes locked to the mirror on the driver’s side door. With the tips of his fingers he massaged the pain above his eye.

  “Taking a nap.”

  The wheeze of Barcuda’s sinuses sounded distinct. Fleetingly, Brian thought the man should move to Arizona or some other arid climate. Perhaps Kuwait.

  “Cut the crap, Morrison. They’re right behind you, you know. Why the hell are you running? If you think for one goddamn minute you’re going to keep those designs and sell them to another government, I’ll hunt you down myself.”

  “That’s not your style, Barcuda.” Brian said mildly.

  He opened the door and crouched down to run his fingers beneath the rim of the chassis. “So you didn’t trust me, is that the deal? You had to send your goons out?”

  “Wise, don’t you think? You weren’t getting the job done. And now,” Barcuda paused, “and now I realize you were planning on stabbing me in the back.”

  Scalded by the red-hot exhaust pipe, Brian shook his hand to discard the pain. With a muted curse, he stooped all the way down, and ducked his head under the fender. The transmitter was affixed to the inside of the aluminum shelf, and with a viscous wrench, he tore it off and climbed out from under the vehicle.

  Disgusted with the tiny scrap of metal, he dropped it down on the cement and used the heel of his boot to crush it.

  “Let me ask you something, George.”

  A huff of impatience sounded across the phone.

  “If I brought these two engineers in,” Brian glanced through the window and found Emily’s wide blue eyes following him. “What would you do with them? Turn them over to the police? Fire them?”

  “Dammit Morrison,” In the background another phone rang. Barcuda snarled an acknowledgment that Brian could barely distinguish. NMD’s controller returned with a tone of barely contained rage. “You killed the transmitter, didn’t you?”

  Brian looked down at the disbanded pieces of metal. “I hate bugs.”

  “Fine, Morrison, you run. You run. I wanted this, anyway. You were forced on me by the government. I accepted it because I knew you were good, but you’re too military for me. Too clean. Too bad your reputation is damaged now. It’s going to look bad in your eulogy.”

  “Jesus, George. Are you that far gone? I would have given you the benefit of the doubt and just considered you an asshole, but I guess I was wrong. Your ego will be your downfall.” Turning his back to the Blazer, Brian lowered his voice in warning. “I’m going to tell you something so that you can sit there and appreciate what an asshole you really are. I have the engineers. I have the pen drive. I was ready to bring them all back because I’m damn good at my job and it’s why you grudgingly hired me.” He paused, “but, then your headhunters showed up.” No
t to mention Phil’s warning. “I’m thinking, heck, there’s something going on here that I don’t know about, something that’s got you real nervous. And you know what, George? I love to see you squirm. It get a goddamn thrill out of it, because honestly, I couldn’t stand you from the moment I met you.”

  Silence at the other end. A sharp wheeze meant Barcuda had inhaled, building up for an outburst. “So help me God, when I see you again—”

  “What, are you going to kill me?” Brian’s voice turned to ice.

  Across the street, a snow-covered field climbed up from the embankment, its pristine surface blemished by the path of a distant herd of deer. The deer appeared unbothered, an indication that the road remained vacant. “I really don’t give a damn what you do, George, and that pisses you off.”

  “I’ll tell you what pisses me off, Morrison,” Barcuda’s voice grew distorted as if he had placed the receiver too close to his mouth. “What pisses me off is that my men have their orders. Their orders are to stop you and get those designs. There are no stipulations about what methods they should use—so what pisses me off, Morrison, is the fact that I might miss it if they have to kill you.”

  There is a thin line when it comes to control. You ride the line on the right side and you are considered the best at what you do and you command respect from your peers. If you ride on the left side, you use all those merits for immoral means and you are a danger to be reckoned with. Brian had always suspected that George Barcuda lost balance walking that tightrope, but no matter what he researched on the man, there was a veil of secrecy even he could not penetrate with all his connections. None of it mattered now. Barcuda’s corruption had been revealed, the power having been too much of a temptation that he must have yielded too.

  “Are you afraid I’m going to beat you to the highest bidder, George? That’s what’s got you all hot and bothered, isn’t it? You’ve got a deal cooking and you can’t meet up with your end of the bargain, can you? Hell, I bet you’re in real deep—afraid to walk out of the building at night, huh?”

  A snowplow ambled down the road, and Brian turned back into the garage. Emily was no longer watching him. Instead her head was tilted against the window. She looked tired, no, deflated.

  “Maybe,” He continued roughly, “maybe someone will tamper with the brakes on your Lincoln like you did with that Brennan engineer.”

  “If I had tampered with them that psycho wouldn’t be out traipsing the Adirondacks.” Barcuda’s voice lowered. “That’s what happens when I delegate. You’re right, maybe I’ll come after you myself.”

  A bitter smile tugged at Brian’s lips. “Come to Daddy, then.”

  “Go to hell, Morrison.” Barcuda hung up.

  Brian stepped up to the driver side door, hesitating before he bent and peered into the shadowed interior. It could have been so easy to hold the woman inside accountable for all his newfound troubles, but that wasn’t really the case. Trouble had been brewing already. Barcuda’s plot was bound to surface, and only by the grace of meeting Emily Brennan did it hasten the process.

  Yes, the story she told of her husband’s brakes being tampered with was true. Yes, it was blatantly obvious the zeal with which NMD chose to hunt down the two engineers. Still, trust was something he was not ready to extend. Emily was not wholly innocent. She broke the law. Worse, she had lied. His angel wasn’t real, and the disillusion tore at him.

  Brian hauled the door open. “Are you ready?”

  Luminous eyes studied him from the dark. “You never answered my question.”

  “Question?” He slipped into the bucket seat and cocked his head.

  “Why did you help me escape?”

  With a twist of the wrist the ignition revved to life. “Oh, that.” He started to wrench the shift into reverse, but Emily’s hand shot out and halted him.

  “Dammit Brian, answer me.”

  Brian looked down at the slim hand on top of his. It was white with cold, but soft to the touch. So many memories revolved around that hand—memories of the dark, of a heavenly light radiating behind her. Memories of her touch.

  He wrenched away and clutched the steering wheel. “You stole something that wasn’t yours to take,” A terse look halted her protest. “You lied,” That bothered him. “And, I have every intention of addressing both those facts”

  “But not with them.” He added, his expression easing ever so slightly. “I won’t turn you over to them.”

  “You learned something? The phone call, you learned something?”

  “Yeah,” This time she didn’t stop him when the Blazer slowly backed up. “I learned I need a new job.”

  “We’ve got two priorities as I see it,” Brian slanted a look at the rearview mirror, but the Interstate was quiet at this hour. Salt trucks and earlier traffic cleared the path, and he was pushing the Blazer along at a swift clip. “We have to find your engineer, and we have to ditch my car.”

  A world in shades of gray sped by her, but Emily was blind to it. Her vision was inward, to a time when Colin was hassled by a band of bullies at school. He submitted to their taunting, but in the end, got even by putting a frog in Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s desk drawer.

  Freddy Holcomb, the lead persecutor, had green cupcakes for lunch that day. His Mother made them for St. Patrick’s Day and he made no qualms about showing that fact off. Colin later dug through the garbage, found the wrappers, dragged his fingers through the remnants of icing, and then trailed it down the face of the teacher’s desk drawer.

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick opened her drawer after lunch, screamed to high heaven as the frog leaped out at her, and then witnessed the trail of icing. Freddy was sent immediately to the principal.

  Colin was five years old at the time. Her brother was born resourceful.

  “He’s my first priority.” Emily whispered to the window.

  “I know.”

  “The racetrack.”

  “What?” The blinker sounded as they changed lanes.

  “Saratoga,” Emily sat up straight, “Colin always was fascinated by that racetrack.”

  Every August her parents would pack up the car with picnic items and head off to Saratoga and plant themselves in the gardens outside the track. Dixieland bands played, and families were strewn across the forested property in various stages of revelry. Most people didn’t even watch the races on TV’s affixed to the trees. They were too consumed with the festive tasks of their picnics. But Colin loved it, and he did study the races, and he picked the winner every time. He was just a little kid, though. It was a cute trait, but not yet worthy of genius.

  Brian looked at her skeptically, but switched back to the right lane. A short distance ahead, a green sign indicated the turn off for Saratoga Springs.

  “You really think so?”

  Emily shrugged her shoulders, but then nodded.

  “Okay,” Brian complied. “The racetrack it is.”

  Emily shot him a glance. She expected derision, but instead his gaze was intent on the road ahead.

  Stealing this opportunity to take a good look at him, she admired the rich dark hair, short enough to reveal the base of his ear, but long enough to be disheveled. The haphazard style was endearing and tantalized her to delve her fingers into it. His eyelashes were black and beautiful and their contrast against golden eyes was something that riveted her. Brian’s jaw was square and shadowed by the neglect of a razor, and the overall effect only enhanced his brooding image.

  “Take a picture, it lasts longer.”

  Emily snapped her eyes away. “I’m still trying to figure you out.”

  “When you do, I’d be interested in hearing what you’ve concluded. Many people have tried.”

  She glanced down at her fingertips. The clear nail polish administered four days ago was now a shiny spot at the center of each nail. Self-conscious, Emily curled her fingers. “So you’ve got a line of women trying to figure out what goes on inside your head? Is there one in particular who’s maybe gotten close?”
<
br />   Brian startled her as he looked away from the road and said in a subdued tone. “One could have, but she failed.”

  “Oh,” Realizing by the weighted look that he was referring to her, Emily bristled. “I never tried to get inside your head. I was just getting to know you. The hospital was quiet at night. I was curious.”

  Lifting a hand off the steering wheel, Brian rubbed at the pain above his eye. “Okay, maybe you got into my head,” He looked at her again, this time with a stark glance. “Now I just want you out.”

  Emily’s lips thinned. “Fine. But that still doesn’t explain why you’re helping me right now.”

  “Helping you.” He took the turn off for Saratoga a little too quickly and the Blazer’s tires slipped down the ramp. “Is that what you think I’m doing—helping you? Look, I want to find your Colin. I want those designs, because it is my job to maintain the security at our facility and I don’t take my job lightly. When I’m sure the proper authorities are handling this, then I’m leaving the whole mess behind me and heading back to DC where I belong.”

  Fear licked at Emily’s stomach again. She kept her glance averted from his, and took refuge in the regal Victorian houses along Union Avenue. In the summer this thoroughfare would be alive with vivid splashes of color. Potted impatiens and geraniums lined the median of the road, an island which was now gray and mottled with frost. How grand the month of August was, when the racetrack was open, and women donning hats and dresses sat on the verandas of Bed and Breakfasts, sipping wine and waving at passersby.

  “We’re going to have to park somewhere remote and hunt on foot.” Brian sounded tired. “Is that okay?”

  Did he have to use the word, hunt? “Yeah, that’s fine. I think I could use some air.”

  The vehicle crawled down the checkerboard lanes as Brian pulled in behind a dumpster four blocks from the racetrack. He got out and stretched an arm over his head, wincing against the pain and when he caught Emily watching him, he frowned and dropped his hand.