Hell and Gone

Hardie slammed the trunk lid shut.

An hour later, as he passed Santa Barbara and the early rays of the sun seemed to warm up the entire universe, he got an idea.

Finally—

Hello, L.A. Can’t say I’ve missed you.

Feels like I just left you.

Only that was five-plus fucking years ago.

But you haven’t changed.

Not really.

Your streets still confuse me with all your sprawl. Your hills still scare the shit out of me—no offense, but I think it’ll be a long time before I go anywhere near the Hollywood sign, thank you very much. You’re still vain and wrapped up in yourself, which, frankly, is good, because I don’t want you even noticing I’m here. Just want to talk to one of your citizens for a while.

Hardie drove the car into the long-term parking lot at Los Angeles International Airport, took a ticket, instantly crumpled it his fist, and let it drop to the ground. The entire parking lot was a multilevel garage. He chose the top level. Right in the baking sun. Few cars were up here at this early hour of the morning.

Hardie opened the trunk. Doyle was already awake, as though he were waiting for him. Hardie put his hand on the breathing tube, but before he yanked it out of the man’s mouth, he told him the deal.

“This is the last time I’m going to ask you for that address. If you say nothing, I’m going to pull the battery and leave you to die in this car. It’ll probably take a while. I don’t imagine it will be a very pleasant death. Understand?”

Doyle nodded.

Hardie pulled the tube.

As soon as Doyle coughed up some phlegm and blood, he said in a raspy voice: “The Arcadia address.”

Hardie blinked.

“If you’re…”

“I’m not. Abrams is always there. Fuck—fucking let me out of this thing!”

“No. You should take another nap. If you’re telling the truth, I’ll come back and let you go.”

“You won’t. You’re going to leave me to die here, aren’t you, you prick?”

Hardie slammed the lid shut, walked around to the front of the car. Then he popped the hood, unplugged both of the batteries he found, closed the hood again, and walked away.

Yeah, he was.

32

Just walkin’ in the rain, gettin’ soakin’ wet…

—The Prisonaires, “Just Walkin’ in the Rain”

YEAH, THIS WAS IT.

Hardie had a suspicion this might be the place, but it wasn’t until he saw the loading area—through which he entered now—that he completely and for sure recognized the place.

This was where they’d stuffed him into that life-support trunk…what was it, more than five years ago?

And see, it felt like just yesterday they’d sentenced him to a life of unconsciousness and forced detention.

With each step Hardie steeled himself to be ready to open fire. Left hand on the cane, right hand on the gun. Left arm was still the weakest but he still felt the cane was the wisest choice for that hand. He could fall, he could be knocked down—but at least he’d still be able to shoot no matter what. And there would be nothing worse than to raise his left arm to blow somebody away only to discover that oops, sorry, body, the left hand is unable to take your call right now, please try again later.

Hardie fully expected to be blowing people away any second now.

If his memory served—and this place was the last thing Hardie remembered before waking up, handcuffed, in that room with that bitch Mann—then this secret little hospital facility should be absolutely crawling with armed guards. He needed to move as quickly as a man with a cane could move. The first gunshot would alert the rest; then it would be a simple matter of Hardie having enough bullets to take out every person between himself and Abrams.

Curiously, the loading area was deserted. No resistance as Hardie made his way up a cement ramp. No locked doors. No one guarding the hallway leading back to offices and operating rooms.

Abrams was sitting at a desk in a small office when Hardie walked in. Just sitting there, newspaper in front of her, remnants of a grapefruit and a glass of orange juice next to it. Hardie had caught her having a morning snack.

Hardie showed her the gun, cane-stepping toward the desk, saying, “Don’t move.”

“Okay, I won’t move,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

Hardie shoved the gun into her mouth. He even heard the metal chip her tooth enamel. Smudged her lipstick, too.

“Nugh,” Abrams said, wincing.

“You stole five years of my life. I’ve killed your partners. Gedney first, then Doyle. I’m going to kill you next unless we reach some kind of arrangement. I don’t want your word. I want an honest-to-fucking-god arrangement, or however you pieces of shit do things. Airtight, locked down, the whole thing. You’ve done it before, you’re going to do it now.”

Abrams, mouth wrapped around Hardie’s ballistic “cock,” waited to see if Hardie was finished speaking. Eyes wide open and patient.

“Do you understand me?” Hardie asked.

Abrams nodded gently, the gun moving up and down in Hardie’s hand slightly.

Hardie slid the gun out of her mouth. A trail of saliva followed with it. Abrams wiped her lips with the back of her hand, smearing more lipstick. She felt her front teeth, felt the chip. Shook her head, disappointed.

“Why don’t you have a seat?” she said. “I promise I won’t move, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No.”

“Your leg must be killing you by now. Seems you’ve got—”

“Shut the fuck up. There’s only one thing I want to hear from you. And that’s how you’re going to convince me that nothing else will happen to me or my family.”

“I suppose giving you my word wouldn’t do the trick, huh?”

Hardie flashed back to Eve, down in the prison, giving him a look:

Duh.

“Okay,” Abrams said. “Let’s get down to it, then. You claim we stole five years of your life, and for that, you killed Gedney.”

“And Doyle.”

“We’ll get to that in a minute. From where I sit, however, we did not steal five years of your life. You were in a coma for almost four of those years, and then in physical rehabilitation at a facility in Grand Island, Nebraska, for about a year. And sure, you could make the claim that we put you in that coma. But you were not responding to traditional amounts of anesthesia, as I recall, and you were in danger of hurting yourself. We had to take action to save your life.”

“I was in…a what?”

“A coma. And not our fault, Mr. Hardie. We were endeavoring to save your life. You were scouted. And we thought you’d be ideal for future projects. While you caused the Industry more than a little grief, we all saw it as a trade-off. Yes, Lee Harvey Oswald killed the president of the United States. But that kid sure can shoot, so let’s get him on board. Do you understand?”

“What are you talking about? I don’t remember…”

“Of course you don’t. Throughout the therapy sessions you were stubborn. Incorrigible, actually. A