He had to find the road. Without that, he knew he’d be lost forever. And once he found it, he could run after the truck and convince them not to leave him behind.
The road-the path, really-couldn’t be but a few yards away, but as he took his first step toward where he thought it was, a vine or some damn thing snagged his ankle and made him fall. Everything here was wet. The whole world smelled of mildew and rot.
Of dead things.
Of dead boys.
“Don’t leave me!” he shrieked.
A second attempt to run made him fall again, so he decided to crawl. Sticks scraped the bare flesh of his back and belly as God only knew what stabbed at his hands and knees. Effectively blind in the foliage, he pressed forward. They were driving away, for God’s sake. He had to press forward. If he stopped-if he even slowed-they’d be too far away, and he’d never be able to catch up.
His head broke into the clearing first. Actually, it wasn’t a clearing as much as it was the absence of jungle. Leafy shit stopped brushing his face and shoulders, and all at once it felt as if there was more air to breathe.
It was the roadway. It had to be. It had wheel ruts. What else could it be?
But there was no truck.
“Hey!” he yelled. In return, he got only the sounds of a million insects and other creatures that he wanted nothing to do with. He had no intention of being something’s dinner tonight.
He turned to his right, the direction where the truck had driven off and started walking-a slow, dejected gait at first, burdened with the knowledge that he’d been left to die. A horrible daytime nightmare image of his body being ripped apart by vultures invaded his mind. He saw the stringy cords of his flesh and his intestines being pulled free of his carcass-just the way he’d seen buzzards and crows consume roadkill at home-and he picked up his pace.
Maybe there was still a chance that he could catch the SUV. Maybe they hit a rut in the road or they had to cross a stream so they’d have to slow way down. That would give him time to catch up.
But he had to move faster. He started to jog, and then to run. Rocks and sticks dug at his bare feet, but he didn’t feel any pain. There wasn’t room for pain today.
He picked up his pace even more, pumping his arms the way that Mr. Jackson, the PE teacher at the RezHouse and taught him. Evan had always been a good runner-a good athlete in general-and Mr. Jackson had taken a special interest in him. He said that he might be good enough to get a scholarship one day, but that when you get to that level of competition, all the little things mattered. Like pumping your arms just-so to get a little more out of every stride.
God, it was hot! As Evan rounded the first turn in the road, he felt the soaked, greasy tendrils of his hair bouncing against the back of his neck, and he swiped them away from his eyes. A hill loomed ahead, not steep but long.
Don’t stop, he told himself. Stopping was too easy. That meant that dying was too easy. If he was going to die, it was going to be from exhaustion or dehydration. It wasn’t going to be for his nutritional value. He lowered his head and forced himself on. He watched his feet instead of the terrain because the terrain was too depressing.
How could people live in this heat?
After eighty-five steps, it became easier. He hadn’t even realized that he’d been counting. When he looked up, he saw that he’d crested the hill.
And there was the SUV, a hundred feet away. He could hear the engine idling above the noise of the insects.
Mitch stood at the back bumper. He wore all khaki, long pants with a short-sleeved shirt open at the neck. He’d assumed an expectant posture, leaning against the spare tire, his arms folded and his feet slightly extended and crossed.
Evan stopped at the sight of the man. He froze in his tracks, his chest heaving, his eyes stinging from sweat. He swiped at them with the palms of his hands, but that only made them sting more. Gasping for air, and his heart pounding, his body wanted to collapse onto the ground, but his brain wouldn’t let him-wouldn’t give Mitch the satisfaction.
Seeing the smirk on the man’s face, Evan understood right away that he’d been played. Just like with most grownups, this was all about power. You need me, kid was the message. Without me, you’ve got nothing.
“Yeah, well you need me, too,” Evan mumbled aloud. He was done running. He kept his stride as casual as his trembling legs would allow as he closed the distance to the truck.
“Took you long enough,” Mitch said with a mocking smile.
Evan said nothing as he headed for his door. As he passed within range, Mitch reached out for him, but Evan twisted out of the way. “Don’t touch me,” he said.
He was vaguely aware that both the driver and the shotgun guy were also out of the car, watching with amusement.
Mitch seemed startled by Evan’s speed. He folded his arms again. “You don’t learn so good, do you, kid?”
Evan said nothing.
“Now, you need to ask permission to get back into my truck.”
Evan didn’t fully understand the look in the guy’s eyes. The way he kept shooting quick glances to the other men, he almost looked embarrassed.
Evan started for the door again, and again Mitch tried to grab his arm.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” Evan shrieked. The fierceness of his tone startled the henchmen.
“Don’t fucking tell me what to do!” Mitch shouted back. “Now, either you ask permission to get back into that vehicle-either you show some respect-or I swear to God I’ll leave you out here to die.”
Evan had never felt his heart hammer so hard. In the past, on the few occasions when he’d found himself in this kind of blustering power play, the worst that would come from the ensuing fight might be a busted nose or a loosened tooth. Here, the penalty for being wrong was the biggest one there was.
But the rules don’t change with the size of the bully. You can’t ever afford to show weakness. What was it that Father Dom always said? Victory can be claimed, but surrender has to be offered. To Evan, it was a fancy way of saying, Die trying.
“ You kidnapped me, remember?” Evan shouted. “You can’t let me die.”
This time, as he walked toward the car door, he noticed that the henchmen seemed amused, even as Mitch clearly could think of nothing to say.
Evan planted himself back in his seat, closed the door, and fastened his seat belt.
Apparently, in the world of killers and spies, it was never allowable to meet in the same place twice, at least not within too short a time. Thus, the food court at Pentagon City was out, and Founders Park in Old Town Alexandria was in.
If Jerry Sjogren had had his way, they would have met in an underground parking garage a la All the President’s Men, but Brandy Giddings had aborted that idea before it could even take a breath. If she was going to be killed by some whack job, she wanted the murder to be witnessed by as many people as possible.
She’d followed Sjogren’s orders to the tee. Metro from the Pentagon to the Braddock Road Station, and then two taxis just in case: the first one to Reagan National Airport and then a second to the Torpedo Factory-a trendy artists’ colony located in a building on the Potomac River that had in fact manufactured torpedoes through the end of World War II. From there, it was an easy stroll to the park.
Brandy had promised herself that Sjogren would be the one made to wait this time; yet even though she arrived ten minutes late, the man was nowhere to be seen. She considered the possibility that her tardiness had pissed him off and he’d left, but then she remembered that this was his meeting, not hers.
She randomly chose an empty bench and waited to be found.
She never heard him approaching from behind.
“We playing power games now, Missy?” Sjogren boomed from a few feet away on her blind side.
“Jesus!”
Sjogren walked around to her side of the bench and sat next to her. “Being late never gives you the upper hand,” he scolded. “Just so you know. I’ve been here for forty-five minutes. I can tell you everything about everyone we can see, and I watched you arrive. You looked right at me, you know.”
