The Message would be delivered tomorrow.
16
Tuesday, August 6, 2:50 p.m.
Will leaned his head against the car door as Interstate 85 rolled by. The hour-long taxi ride to exit 129 had brought on a wave of exhaustion. With every passing mile, he’d slumped farther down in the seat. His knees pressed into the partition between the front and rear seats of the car. His skull vibrated against the glass in the door. Before Sara, Will had never been in the back of a taxi. She had wanted to leave a party early. Their ride wasn’t ready to go. She had called a cab. Will had climbed inside and nearly had a heart attack when he saw that the meter already had five dollars on it.
Which was why he had never been in a taxi before Sara.
Will made himself sit up straight. He scratched his jaw. The Brillo pad of his beard pricked at his fingertips. The unfamiliar roughness was a reminder that he had to slice himself off. The man who loved Sara could not save her. Jack Phineas Wolfe, disillusioned ex-soldier, pissed off at the world, was the man he would have to be for that job.
Will looked down at his hands. He pressed his thumb into his knuckle until a trickle of fresh blood came out.
Gerald would be Wolfe’s first obstacle. If he could not persuade Dash’s second-in-command that Wolfe was all in, then Gerald would probably point a gun at his face and pull the trigger.
Will didn’t think it would go down like that. He’d banked some credit with Gerald during the warehouse mission. The fact that Wolfe had been willing to stab a security guard to death for fifteen grand was enough proof of concept.
Dash was going to be the real challenge. This close to pulling off whatever he was planning, the leader of the IPA would be highly paranoid, especially about a new recruit. Dash was a racist pedophile and a mass murderer. He had also inspired men as different as Robert Hurley and Adam Humphrey Carter. Will assumed that Dash was a classic con man, always looking for a weakness to exploit.
Will puzzled out Wolfe’s vulnerabilities.
Pedophilia seemed like the most obvious way in, but the language of pedophiles was as intricate and arcane as Army lingo. The people who raped children were constantly evolving. They coordinated on the dark web. They were extremely careful in public. It wasn’t as easy as saying that a child looked mature for her age.
Will gladly discarded the approach.
He thought about Faith’s information on the IPA. They revered the military. Wolfe was a trained fighter with no more battles to wage. Maybe he felt beaten down by the system. He was desperate for money. Couldn’t find a job, couldn’t keep a woman. He was angry that his life had fallen into shit. Eager for a fight. Maybe he was a gambler who’d lost his life savings. He would be blaming everybody but himself.
Will silently shook his head.
A money-motivation was too easy. Dash would never trust a hired gun. He would want a warrior for the cause.
Beau Ragnersen was a man in search of a cause. That was why he had capitulated to Amanda, to Will, to Kevin, to anyone who shoved him in a direction. Beau hadn’t really relaxed until Gerald had locked them inside the van. His shoulder pressed against Will’s, four armed, anxious kids across from him. Everyone else had been wired, but Beau had fallen soundly asleep. His fidgeting and his sighing and his Charlie Brown shuffle were gone. Will had interpreted Beau’s erratic behavior as a sign that the man was going to betray him. The truth was that Beau Ragnersen only felt whole when he was part of a unit. Like a lot of ex-soldiers, he was desperately looking for something to fill the hole that war had punched into his chest.
That was the same kind of desperation that would be key to Jack Wolfe infiltrating the IPA. Dash would want to fill the hole in Wolfe’s chest. He would use racism or religion or whatever it took to bring Wolfe around to his side. With guys like that, it was never about what you believed. It was about who you believed.
Will looked down at his hands again. He rubbed his thumb along his bare ring finger. The pieces of Jack Wolfe that he had so carefully stitched together started to pull apart.
Will would do whatever it took to get Sara back. If that meant shooting more people, killing more people, then he was going to do it. He wasn’t just fighting for himself. Sara’s whole family was waiting for Will to bring her home. They were counting on him. Asking God to help him. Praying that Sara was unharmed.
Will had never prayed before. When he was a boy, the local church had sent a bus to the children’s home every Sunday morning. Most of the kids jumped at the chance to get out of the house. Will had always stayed behind. The opportunity to be alone, even for a few hours, was more important to him than getting to drink purple Kool-Aid from tiny glasses and eat thin wafers.
Now, he tried to remember Cathy’s prayer. She had spoken like she was writing a letter—
Dear Heavenly Father, we ask for your blessing in this time of need.
Will had known to bow his head, but he had looked to Tessa for further guidance. Her eyes had been closed, so Will had closed his eyes. She had kept silent, so Will had kept silent. The ritual of the prayer had been comforting. The soft cadence of Cathy’s voice. The closeness of other people who cared about what he cared about.
This was what Will worried about as he held on to Cathy’s small hand:
That he would not find Sara. That it would be his fault that her family would never see her again. That Gerald would kill him at the Citgo. That Dash would shoot him before he got to see Sara. That Michelle Spivey would recognize Will and wig out on him the same way she had with Carter. That Dash wouldn’t kill Will right away because he wanted to make Sara watch him die.
Then there was the worst-case scenario:
Will would beat all of the odds, making it past Gerald, talking Dash into welcoming him into the fold. He would finally find Sara, but he wouldn’t be able to help her because he was too afraid.
Will felt tortured by the fear that had gripped him at the scene of the car accident. He had been reaching into Sara’s BMW, inserting the key into the glove box, when he’d seen Hurley holding a gun to Sara’s head. Instead of reacting, instead of turning the key, grabbing his Glock and killing them all, Will had frozen.
Because he was afraid.
Will clenched his teeth. Major Jack Wolfe. Airborne. Two deployments to Iraq. Two DUIs. One restraining order from his last place of employment. Over $36,000 in credit card debt.
The taxi coasted onto the exit. Will recognized the logos for gas stations and fast-food restaurants. Exit 129 would take him into Braselton. 12.5 square miles spread across four counties, all of them within Atlanta’s Metropolitan Statistical Area. Less than 10,000 inhabitants, 83 percent of them white, 4 percent living below the poverty line. One police station. Four cops. One hospital. One upscale winery. The terrain was lush and hilly. Most of it was still thickly forested, like every other Georgia town this far into the Appalachian Mountain chain. The Chattahoochee National Forest hovered at the top of the state like an upside-down umbrella.
The Citgo sign was two red lights away. Will listened to the taxi’s engine idle at the stop. It was only now that it was too late that he let his mind wander into the worst worst-case scenario:
Dash could’ve been pretending to be knocked out at the car accident. He could’ve seen Will’s face. He could know exactly what was coming at him and already be planning a way to neutralize the threat.
Will’s thoughts spiraled down even lower:
Sara could already be dead.
The taxi driver pulled into the Citgo. There were four cars at the twelve pumps. Will recognized one of the men as a GBI agent from the southern region of the state. Faith’s red Mini was parked in front of the Dumpster. She had a blanket over her shoulder. She was pretending to nurse a baby. Amanda would be inside the store using a cane, bent like an old woman to render herself virtually invisible. There were unmarked cars at each end of the road that ran in front of the gas station. Two agents were hidden in the woods behind the building.
Aman
da hadn’t been content to leave it at that.
Will had a GPS tracker inside the leather holster at his back. The slim chip of plastic was sewn inside the liner. The power was off in case he was searched for a signal again. Will had spent half an hour blindly reaching behind him and pressing the power button so that the motion was locked into his muscle memory.
He wasn’t going to touch the damn thing unless he was looking directly at Sara. There was no guarantee that Dash was keeping her close by. For all Will knew, Sara could be stashed two hundred miles away. If he brought in backup too soon, she could be lost forever.
“This good?” the driver asked.
Will paid the man $120, which hurt like hell, even though it wasn’t his own money. His legs were stiff when he climbed out of the car. He stretched out his spine, arms in the air. He adjusted his holster. He looked around, trying to spot Gerald. He looked at his watch.
3:02 p.m.
Another car pulled in to the station to fill up. Someone else went into the store. Will walked over to the air pump. He stuck his hands in his pockets. He kicked at the curb. He was wearing the same outfit that the kids from the warehouse seemed to favor. Black pants and long-sleeved shirt. Black combat boots. The idea had seemed like a good one until he stood out in the open. Given his height, muscle mass and complexion, he looked less like a ninja and more like a guy who was probably going to start shooting people.
“Wolfe?”
Will recognized Three from the day before. The kid had changed into shorts and an Usher concert T-shirt. His ride was a bright red Kia Soul. Not the best car to blend in, but it worked with the Usher vibe. If a cop pulled him over, Three would look like any other spoiled punk from town.
The kid told him, “Go inside the store. Wait by the back door.”
Before Will could respond, Three peeled away.
The GBI agent at the gas pump got into his car and followed the red Kia toward the interstate.
Will walked toward the store. He could feel Faith’s eyes following his progress. The building was a typical interstate convenience store, wide but not deep, with a low ceiling and glass along the front. Will smelled hot dogs roasting on rollers as soon as he opened the door. Amanda was beside the self-serve coffee machines. Her usual helmet of hair was messed up. Her reading glasses were low on her nose. She leaned heavily into her cane, pretending like she didn’t know which button to press.
The kid behind the counter glanced up from his phone as Will walked by. Two was wearing a blue polo shirt with a red-and-orange Citgo triangle on the chest. He tilted his head, indicating the back of the store.
Will found the rear exit by the refrigerated drinks. He tried the handle. Locked. One of Will’s many college jobs had been at a convenience store. He assumed there would be a long hall, a small office, and a cramped storage area. The emergency exit door would be alarmed, but you could trick the system with a magnet and a piece of gum.
He leaned against the cooler. Cold air wafted from the glass doors. He looked at his watch.
3:05 p.m.
“Young man?” Amanda called Two over to the coffee machine. She started lecturing him on how computers were ruining the world. She would have no way of knowing that Two was IPA. She was trying to justify her lingering presence in the store. Will knew Amanda kept a loaded Smith and Wesson five-shot inside a Crown Royal bag in her purse. She could draw the weapon almost as quickly as most agents could pull their Glocks from their side holsters.
Will heard two knocks on the door.
He knocked twice in return. He waited. The lock clicked open.
Will opened the door. Long hall. Small office. Cramped storage. Magnet on the exit door alarm sensor, but held in place with Scotch tape instead of gum. Probably smarter. Gum was never as sticky as you thought it was.
One was waiting for him outside. He was the youngest and shortest of the four, probably more dangerous because he had something to prove. They did not exchange words. He was holding out the wand, the one that checked for transmissions from trackers. Will held up his arms. He let the kid have his fun.
And it was clear that One was having fun. All of this Mission: Impossible drama was probably busting these kids’ nuts. If adult Will didn’t know what racist, criminal pieces of shit they were, kid Will would’ve been jealous.
One finished with the wand. He left the machine by the back door. He nodded for Will to follow him into the woods. Will stuck his hands into his pockets, the signal to the two agents hiding behind the trees that everything was good so far. Faith had gamed out the possible escape zones to within two miles. With the Citgo behind him, Will knew that the woods would lead into an L-shaped residential area. Two more chase cars were parked on the streets. That seemed like the most obvious place for Gerald to pick them up.
Sweat was dripping down Will’s face by the time they reached Chardonnay Trace. He kept his hands in his pockets as he followed One across the road. The houses were big, with deep yards. The roar of traffic from the interstate had dampened. One picked up the pace, following the line of a fenced-in backyard, heading into another forest behind the neighborhood.
Still within the escape zone.
Will oriented himself by the beeping car horns on the main road. The aerial maps had shown a lot of clear-cutting for shopping centers and outlet malls. If they kept heading straight, they would find themselves in farmland.
Beyond that, Will was clueless.
One stopped beside a tree, took out his phone. He was looking at the longitude and latitude on a map. A pin showed that they were close to the right coordinates. He nodded for Will to follow him. Will looked up into the trees. The canopy was thick. A helicopter team wouldn’t be able to see down into the forest. If the pilot dropped low enough to use the thermal imaging camera, One would take off, Will would have to chase him and Sara would be lost forever.
One dropped his phone into his pocket. A dirt bike was flat to the ground. Tao Tao DB20 110. Air-cooled, single cylinder four-stroke, street-legal, but no license plate. The plastic seat raked back like a fin over the rear wheel.
One had done a piss-poor job of covering the bike with leaves and broken limbs. He started clearing them off. Will didn’t help him. He thought about taking his hands out of his pockets. The two agents behind the store would’ve followed them from a distance. They were on foot, but to Will’s thinking, that was not the biggest problem.
Two helmets. One bike.
Will knew how to handle a bike. What worried him was the thought of One’s arms gripping his waist while they rode through the forest. Whatever thing that was torn inside of Will’s ribcage was not getting any better. He had four emergency aspirin in his pocket that Amanda had sealed in a plastic pouch. Will knew from experience that it would take at least half an hour for the medication to kick in.
One was a foot shorter than Will and at least fifty pounds lighter, most of it baby fat. If Will rode on the back of the bike, either the plastic fin would break off or the front wheel wouldn’t touch the ground.
Pulling a Patrick Swayze helping Demi Moore at the pottery wheel would not be ideal for either of them. Will was mindful of the several inches that One through Four had kept between them in the van. They clearly had firm ideas about what gay looked like, and none of them were going to cross that line. At least not in front of their friends.
One’s problem was Will’s solution.
He scooped up a helmet. He asked One, “You gonna go butts to nuts with me on this thing, little Princess?”
One’s mouth went slack. “No, man. Shit no. I’ll hold on to the seat.” He added another, “shit” to prove he was serious.
Will buckled the helmet strap tight under his chin. There was no guarantee he wouldn’t hit a rut or spin out over a rise. If that happened, One would instinctively grab on to Will and Will would probably end up driving them into a tree.
One struggled to lift the one-hundred-pound bike. Will didn’t help him, and not just because Jack Wolfe was a dick.
If he was going to pop one of his ribs, it would not be to help this junior Nazi idiot save face.
The kid finally managed to lever the bike up onto two wheels. Will got on. He waited for One to get settled behind him. The muffler was directly under the seat, so it was going to be interesting to see what happened first: either One was going to fall off the bike or the flesh was going to melt off of his fingers.
Again, this was a One problem.
Will put the gear in neutral. He engaged the electric starter, glad he wasn’t going to have to deal with a kick start. He revved the engine, letting it screech like a cat. If the agents in the woods had lost him, they would know where he was now. He was glad he wasn’t the one who was going to have to tell Amanda that they had lost Will again.
One pointed into the woods. Will twisted the throttle about an eighth of an inch and slowly let out the clutch. The rear tire slid out. One’s hands went to Will’s shoulders, which was an option that had not occurred to either of them until now.
Will drove into the woods, leaning into the roller-coaster turns around the trees. He gave the throttle a little more throat. He used his fingers to coax out the clutch’s sweet spot. The bike picked up speed as he ran through the gears. He wondered if the bike belonged to One. They would get to the end of this ride eventually. Faith would locate the dirt bike if she had to walk every inch of the forest. Amanda would crack the kid open like a walnut.
And Will would find Sara.
The bike caught air as they crested a hill. The forest peeled away. They were traveling through farmland, which gave way to more forest, then One pointed again and they were following the clear-cut strip for high-voltage power lines. Will gave up on worrying about the pain in his body. He let out the clutch, figuring the best way to endure the ride was to get it over with as quickly as possible. One’s fingers dug into his shoulders. The kid’s ass kept popping off the fin. Will was so intent on moving forward that he didn’t register One furiously tapping his shoulder to slow down.
The Last Widow: The latest new 2019 crime thriller from the No. 1 Sunday Times bestselling author Page 36