Holly Lin Box Set | Books 1-3

by Swartwood, Robert

  Sixty-Five

  My first two bullets take out the driver. My second two bullets take out the man in the passenger seat, the guy reaching for his weapon as pieces of the driver’s head splatter all over him, then jerking as he’s shot too, one in the throat, the other in the head.

  The utility van is still in gear. The now dead driver releases his foot off the brake, and the van starts to drift forward.

  I hear the rear doors opening, the sound of footsteps on the pavement. Zane’s voice, speaking rapidly, then a figure appears around the corner, a man with a rifle. I fire two more rounds before jumping for cover in front of the van, the van still drifting forward, now out into the middle of the intersection.

  Zane’s voice again, much louder now, cursing at the children, and when I peek around the corner I can see him dragging both of them by the arms up the street.

  I start to turn that way but then pause when the man with the rifle takes a few shots at me, the utility van picking up speed now, heading toward the corner of the intersection. I keep pace with the van, walking sideways, using it as cover. The man on the other side does the same, waiting for me to make my move.

  I hear Zane cursing again, telling the kids to stop fucking around. They’re already one block up and that’s where I want to be headed. But I’m stuck here, the van twenty feet from the curb, moving even faster now, ten feet from the curb, the thing going to crash right into a telephone pole. I’m thinking the guy will expect me to come around behind the van so I take a breath and sprint toward the front, duck down, dive on the ground just as the van rolls into the pole, the guy not expecting me to be there, coming up in a shooting stance, both hands on the Beretta, firing one two three rounds into his chest.

  I take off running then, right up the street, Zane and the children already a block up from me. Zane is still dragging them, a hand on each arm, and in the dim light of the street lamps I can see duct tape over the children’s mouths, which makes sense, because so far I haven’t heard either one of them scream or cry out.

  Zane keeps looking back over his shoulder, trying to track my progress. When he sees that I’ve taken care of the last man and am headed his way, he has no choice but to let go of Casey so he can grab his gun, fire off a few wild, random shots.

  None come close to me but I take cover behind a car anyway, waiting for the lull, then jumping back up, the Beretta aimed. But I can’t shoot. Not with the children so close to Zane … only Casey is a few yards ahead of Zane, already running, Zane looking back and forth between us, deciding which is more important. He sees me again and fires off a couple more rounds but he can’t get a good shot, not while holding onto David, the boy struggling now to free himself from Zane’s grip. Zane looks disgusted as he pushes David away, raises his other hand, squares himself to knock off two more rounds at me, these much closer, the car I duck behind this time getting hit, the rear windshield shattering, the car alarm going off.

  When Zane threw David aside, David tripped over his feet and hit the ground. He recovers quickly, back on his feet, and sprints after his sister. Casey is still running, though she’s not getting very far. David has no trouble reaching her, scooping her up in a bear hug, running forward.

  Okay, good. Now the kids are out of the way, at least somewhat. I can’t fire directly ahead—too much chance of hitting the kids straight behind Zane—so I make a run across the street, ducking as Zane fires at me, more car windows shattering, more alarms going off.

  I hop up and slide across the hood of a car, landing on the other side, staying down as Zane fires a few more rounds. When there’s another lull I pop back up, the angle better now, only a building behind Zane, and I take careful aim and squeeze the trigger twice and one of my bullets grazes his arm.

  The kids are now a block ahead of us, David looking like he’ll never slow down. I start toward them but Zane shoots wildly again. I drop down behind the car, wait for the next lull. When it happens and I stand up, Zane has taken off up the block, sprinting after David and Casey, the children already halfway up the second block.

  David looks back quickly, sees Zane coming, pushes himself even harder. Between the buildings is an alleyway and he ducks into it, taking his sister with him, the two disappearing and leaving Zane a block behind them, running even faster.

  I start after them.

  Zane reaches the alleyway, disappears inside.

  One block away, pushing myself, a half block away, almost there, and I’m running so fast, the kids so close, I don’t pause to think about what I should do next, I just do it.

  Coming up to the edge of the alley, pressing myself against the building, raising the gun, listening a moment. Hearing nothing. Then turning, bringing the gun around, but Zane is already there, waiting for me, knocking it out of my hands, the Beretta clattering to the sidewalk, Zane grabbing the front of my shirt, throwing me to the ground.

  “Where’s the flash drive, Holly?”

  I have a split second to notice that this alleyway leads to a dead end. Maybe fifty feet from the street, it ends in a brick wall. The children are there, crouched around some trashcans.

  “Where’s the fucking flash drive?”

  When I don’t answer, Zane reaches down, picks me up by my hair, drags me forward. I kick my feet, reach up and press my nails into his skin. He yells out, lets go, turns and kicks me in my side. Falling to his knees, he wraps his hands around my throat, leans in close.

  “Where’s the motherfucking flash drive?”

  I bring my right foot up, connect my knee with his head, send him reeling. Sitting up, I lean forward, reaching for the Kimber strapped to my ankle, but Zane is already on his feet, grabbing me by my hair again, dragging me forward.

  “Don’t make me kill you in front of these kids, Holly.”

  Dragging me, strands of hair being ripped from my scalp, Zane notices me trying to reach again for my ankle and stops. Lets go of my hair. Kicks me again in the ribs. Reaches down, lifts up my pant leg, seizes the Kimber and holds it up in front of my face.

  “Always with the same tricks, huh?” He smacks me in the face with the gun. “Always with the same fucking tricks.”

  He tosses the gun away, behind a trio of trashcans. Cocks his head at me, shakes it and says, “You are one stupid bitch, you know that?”

  Stands up, lifts back his foot and kicks me again in the ribs.

  “Where.”

  Kick.

  “Is.”

  Kick.

  “The.”

  Kick.

  “Flash drive!”

  Despite the pain, despite at least one broken rib, I manage to turn my body on his last attempted kick. I grab his foot and twist.

  He loses his balance, falls to the ground. It doesn’t slow him, though; he’s back on his feet even before I can sit up and he reaches down again, grabs me not by the hair this time but by my shirt, pulls me to my feet.

  Leaning in close, his breath hot, he says, “I am not fucking around here.”

  He says, “I will kill these kids.”

  He says, “I will break every single bone in their bodies.”

  He starts to say something else and that’s when I spit, the saliva going right into his mouth. Zane scrunches up his face in disgust, pushes me back toward the trio of trashcans. I stumble, can’t catch my balance, fall right into them. The sound is immense, the pain even more so. The back of my head knocks against the cement and I see stars for a moment, just floating there in front of my face, and then I feel a pressure on my chest, Zane’s knee there, pushing down, his hands crawling around my body, searching my pockets.

  “Where is it? Where the fuck do you have it?”

  He finds it seconds later, feeling it there in my breast pocket, the flash drive, his eyes lighting up, a smile creeping onto his face, pulling it out and then holding it up, the faint light just enough to illuminate the gold.

  The flash drive disappears into his fist. His eyes shift down to meet mine. “You’ve just made me a
very happy man, Holly.” He smiles again. “Now to thank you, I’m going to give you the chance to choose which kid dies first.”

  He steps away and I try to sit back up, my body not cooperating, wanting to shut down. Zane turns back, says, “I don’t think so,” and kicks me again, the tip of his shoe connecting with my chin, sending me back to the ground.

  The world goes in and out of focus. I think I can hear Atticus speaking in my ear, his voice tinny and faint. I think I can hear the children, screaming through the duct tape covering their mouths. I try to sit back up but can’t, my body completely useless. I lie there in the trash, turning my head to the left and to the right, to the left and to the right, to the left … and stop.

  The discarded Kimber is only a few feet away.

  I open my mouth, attempt to speak. Nothing comes out. I swallow, clear my throat, try again.

  “Zane?”

  The sound of his footsteps stop. “What?”

  “Did you know it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Scooter told me that.” I let loose a wild, insane laugh. “A dog-eat-dog world.”

  I try to reach for the gun but my hand doesn’t want to move. I try again, and it starts moving.

  Zane says, “Which kid do you want me to kill first, Holly?”

  “Don’t you know … what goes around … comes around?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “If you send it”—grasping onto the Kimber, holding it tight—“you better duck.”

  And I sit up, raising my arm, aiming the gun at Zane—who’s now standing there with David in front of him, the barrel of his own gun pressed against David’s head.

  “You waited too long,” Zane says. “You forced me to pick for you.”

  David is struggling to get out of Zane’s grip, his eyes wide and full of tears.

  I stare back at him, just stare, hoping that my lesson from yesterday is still fresh in his mind. Hoping that he’ll stop struggling. Hoping that he’ll go completely still and then bring his elbow back and smash it into Zane’s crotch.

  “Say goodbye, Holly,” Zane says, cocking the hammer back, and I realize that I’m being unfair, expecting David to be a hero when he’s just a scared six-year-old boy. I’m his nanny, and like any nanny, it’s my job to take care of him.

  So I say, “Goodbye,” and place two bullets between Zane’s eyes.

  Part Four

  Tu Tienes Suerte Perra

  Sixty-Six

  By the time I make the turn down Arbor Drive, it’s almost seven o’clock and the light of the morning sun is crisscrossed by all the branches towering over the street. The circus of vehicles in front of the Hadden residence is gone, all except two unmarked cars taking up the driveway. I’m forced to park along the street, in another stolen hot-wired car, a Toyota Corolla that I had no choice but to grab because the police had converged on the other car and the van two blocks away by the time we came out of the alley.

  David and Casey are in the back, David with his arms wrapped tight around his sister, who has dozed off. Now, as I stop the car, turn off the engine, David nudges her awake.

  She opens her eyes, blinks, looks around. I watch her from the rearview mirror, rubbing her eyes, and then she looks out the window and her face lights up and she shouts, “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”

  Marilyn Hadden is coming out the front door, hurrying down the porch steps and sprinting across the lawn. She must have been waiting and watching all night, she looks so tired.

  But she isn’t alone.

  Four men follow her, soldiers, their weapons drawn.

  When Marilyn reaches the car, she doesn’t put on the brakes; she smacks into the side, definitely hurting something, but she doesn’t show it, opening the back door, saying, “Oh my babies, my babies, are you okay?” leaning in and kissing Casey on the forehead, then David, then Casey again.

  I have my door halfway open by the time the soldiers arrive. Their weapons are aimed now, right at me, and one of them tells me to freeze, show my hands, slowly get out of the vehicle.

  I do as he says, and once I’m out of the car, one of the soldiers pushes me down on the hood. Pain flares from my broken rib. My arms are yanked behind my back and handcuffs are snapped around my wrists and then one of them starts frisking me and I’m barely aware of Marilyn talking to the children and the children crying, and I’m barely aware that some people along the street have stepped out onto their porches to see what the fuss is about, and then I hear Walter’s voice:

  “Let her go.”

  The hands frisking me pause, wait a moment, then disappear.

  “Take those cuffs off her, too.”

  “But sir—”

  “Do it now.”

  The cuffs are taken off, my hands set free, but still I don’t move. I stay on the hood of the stolen car, watching as Sylvia rushes across the yard, meeting Marilyn and the children. Marilyn holding Casey with one arm while she grips David’s hand with the other, David looking over his shoulder at me every few seconds, Casey not taking her eyes off me at all.

  “Go back in the house.”

  “Sir—”

  “Don’t make me tell you again.”

  When the four soldiers have left us, Walter tells me to stand up. I don’t. Instead, I ask him a question.

  “How hard did you try to get them back?”

  “What?”

  I push off the hood, turn to face him. “Casey and David—how hard did you try to get them back?”

  He’s wearing his uniform, only it looks worn, just like his face and eyes, the man having aged more than ever since the last time I saw him.

  “They’re my children,” he says.

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  “You don’t understand. I was powerless. My hands weren’t tied on this. They were chopped off. I was up all night making calls, begging and pleading …”

  “They were just going to let them die, weren’t they.” I don’t bother making it a question.

  Walter can’t look at me, staring at something over my shoulder. “Our government doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.”

  “That’s a sorry excuse.”

  His old eyes shift to meet mine. In a voice barely a whisper, he says, “Thank you.”

  “Nova’s dead, you know.”

  “What?” A whiteness spreading across his face.

  “His pickup went over the Woodrow Wilson.”

  “That was him? If that was Nova, he’s not dead.”

  My legs start to shake. “What … what are you saying?”

  “I heard about the chase on 495 last night. I heard about the driver of the pickup that went over the bridge too, how they got him out of the water and took him into custody.” He shakes his head. “It never once crossed my mind that it was Nova.”

  “So he’s alive.”

  “Yes.”

  “And they arrested him.”

  Walter nods.

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “Walter, Nova didn’t have to do what he did. I never could have done it without him.”

  Looking at whatever’s over my shoulder again, Walter says, “I know.”

  “And?”

  “And I’ll take care of it.”

  I shake my head and glance at the house, then glance at all the houses down the street. Those few who had ventured out onto their porches have gone back inside.

  I reach into my pocket, withdraw the golden flash drive. Walter, looking relieved, reaches for it. I pull it back.

  “What’s on it?”

  “Holly …”

  “What’s so important on this thing they would let your children die?”

  Walter opens his mouth. Shuts it. Goes back to staring at whatever’s over my shoulder.

  “You don’t even know, do you?”

  He says nothing.

  “You’
re a puppet, Walter. You just follow orders, never ask any questions. You don’t know why one person needs to die, or why another person needs to live. Shit, I can’t blame you for that, because I’m the same way. Or, at least, I was.”

  His eyes shift again to meet mine.

  “I’m starting to see why Zane and my dad walked away from this shit. Not that that’s an excuse, but … fuck, Walter, your own children?”

  Now glaring at me, he extends his hand, the palm open. “Give it to me.”

  I shake my head.

  “Holly, I need it back.”

  “Why? What’s on it?”

  Again Walter doesn’t answer, just keeps glaring at me, and I can’t help but laugh.

  “Does anybody even know what’s on this thing?”

  Still no answer.

  I say, “Fine, you want it back, here you go,” and I drop the flash drive on the ground, step on it with the heel of my boot, and grind it back and forth until there’s nothing left.

  Sixty-Seven

  “You probably shouldn’t have done that.”

  “He was pissing me off.”

  “That still isn’t a good enough reason.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you actually defending him?”

  “No. But remember, not too long ago, I was once in his position.”

  I’m headed back home in the stolen car, talking to Atticus via the transmission piece still in my ear. Now that my body is no longer active it has become sore, and I think when I get home I’ll just drop in bed and not wake up for a couple days.