Flashback

screeched to a stop.

Val realized that he was on the wrong side of the road. To get a clean shot, he should have been on the east side, the driver’s side. The Old Man would know something was weird if Val walked around the front or back of the car to get closer to the driver’s-side window.

As if understanding Val’s problem, the Old Man touched a button and the passenger-side window clunked down.

Val walked right up to the car and—holding the suddenly heavy Beretta in both hands—aimed the muzzle at the Old Man’s blandly staring face. Stiff-armed, not shaking, Val extended the pistol inside the window until it was less than three feet from its target.

Doitnow doitnow doitnow don’twait doitnow…

Nick Bottom didn’t seem to be surprised. He said softly, “I’m wearing Kevlar-three under my shirt, Val. You’ll have to aim for my head… the face.”

Val blinked. The Old Man was trying to mess with his head.

Squeeze the trigger!! Doitnow… doitnow… don’twait… doitnow…

Val’s finger was off the trigger guard and on the trigger, exerting pressure.

“The safety’s still on, kid,” said the Old Man in the same tone he’d used to help Val learn how to balance his bicycle.

Val didn’t believe his father but looked anyway. It was true. The safety lever was down, the red dot covered. Fuck!! Fumbling with both hands, he got the safety lever up until the red dot was visible.

The Old Man could have floored the gelding and gotten away in those seconds, but he hadn’t done a thing. His left arm over the steering wheel, his right hand empty and visible on the beat-up old console between the seats, the Old Man just looked at Val.

He knows he deserves to die for killing Mom, thought Val. He came here knowing what I had to do. He’s guilty as hell.

Val’s finger was on the trigger again when he saw movement in the backseat. His arms still extended stiffly, the pistol aimed at the middle of the Old Man’s forehead, Val flicked a glance left.

Leonard was lying across the backseat nestled in a clumsy nest of pillows. The old man’s mouth was open and his eyes were closed. A bottle with some sort of clear liquid in it had been wired to the hook above the left-side car door where dry cleaning was usually hung and an IV line ran to Leonard’s bare and bruised left arm.

“What the fuck?” said Val.

The Old Man turned his head to look back at Leonard. “He’s all right. Or rather, he’s a mess from that attack I told you about. It’s called aortic stenosis and means that one of the valves of his heart is pretty messed up. Unless he gets a surgical valve replacement, your grandfather’s future looks pretty dim. But he’s okay right now. Dr. Tak gave him a sedative so he’d sleep awhile.”

Val didn’t ask who Dr. Tak was. He shook his head, although he wasn’t sure what he was denying. The Old Man’s attempt to distract him, maybe. Val peered down the iron sights at his father’s face.

Now!

Val knew he could do it. He remembered the muffled blast and kick of the Beretta as he’d fired it through the ski mask in his hand. He remembered Coyne saying “Ugh!” and dropping the flashlight. He remembered the round hole in the T-shirt just above Vladimir Putin’s pale face blobbing out into a red butterfly and continuing to grow and Coyne smirking at Val and saying “You shot me.”

Val remembered shooting the other boy in the throat and remembered the sound of Billy’s teeth snapping off as Coyne’s open mouth hit the cement floor of the tunnel. He remembered killing the animated T-shirt Putin AI by putting a third bullet between the Russian’s two beady little eyes.

That’s what he had to do now.

Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull!

Val realized that he was panting and weeping at the same time. His arms were shaking.

The Old Man leaned forward, but not to grab the gun. He opened the passenger-side door.

Val pulled the pistol back from the window as the door opened. The muzzle was aimed up under his own chin now and his finger was still on the trigger with the safety off.

“Get in,” said Nick. “Be careful with that thing.” He did reach for the pistol now, but only to push the safety lever back down. He didn’t take the gun away from Val as the boy collapsed into the passenger seat.

Nick pulled out of the park onto South Downing Street and drove north.

“I know what you read in my cubie,” he said, “but I didn’t kill your mother, Val. I could never have hurt your mother. I think that down deep, you know that.”

Val was shaking and concentrating on not throwing up in the car. The air from the open window helped a little bit.

“You’re the one I hurt,” continued Nick. “I’ve spent the last five and a half years with Dara under flashback and I completely fucked up every responsibility I had toward you. Sorry doesn’t come close to covering it, but I am sorry, Val.”

Val felt the hatred surge up into his chest again. He could have shot his father in the head at that moment—the rage would have allowed it—but his arms were totally without strength. He couldn’t lift the heavy Beretta if his life depended on it.

Approaching Speer Boulevard, there was a tremendous roar and both Val and the Old Man looked up as a massive Osprey III VTOL roared overhead, its wings and turboprops shifting into level flight. Canvas covering the high Denver Country Club fence that ran hundreds of meters along the street there vibrated and tried to tear free of the wire.

“What the fuck?” said Nick.

“Japs,” muttered Val. “Dottie and Harold Davison said that there are thousands of Jap soldiers in the old country club here.”

Nick didn’t ask who Dottie and Harold Davison were. Watching the Osprey fly off to the west, he said softly, “It’s illegal for the Japanese to bring troops into this country.”

Val shrugged. “Can we go to the old neighborhood?” he asked. Maybe, he thought, if he could just see the old house, the memory of his mother standing on the porch waiting for him the way she did every day he walked home from school would help him lift this pistol, aim it, and squeeze the trigger.

“We don’t have enough charge,” said Nick, turning west onto Speer Boulevard. “I have about nine miles left on this piece of crap and it’s four miles to Six Flags Over the Jews.”

“Six Flags…,” repeated Val, looking at the Old Man. Had his father gone completely nuts?

“K.T.’s left us a car there… a real car,” said Nick. “At least I hope to God she has. You remember K. T. Lincoln? My old partner?”

Val remembered her… a dangerous lady, from a young kid’s perspective. But his mother had liked K.T. for reasons young Val hadn’t understood.

“Anyway,” said Nick, “the same people who worked so hard to create that grand jury frame-up you read about are out to get me right now. They might hurt you and Leonard if you don’t get out of town. This gelding’ll be lucky to get up the street to Six Flags where the car’s waiting, but once we get there, you take the car K.T.’s parked there and get Leonard the hell out of town.”

“I don’t know how to drive,” said Val.

Nick barked a bitter laugh. “Leonard told me before he got his sedative that you wanted to get an NIC Teamsters Card so you could drive big rigs.”

“It was all bullshit,” muttered Val. “Everything is bullshit.”

“I won’t argue there,” said Nick. “Leonard said you had some NICC counterfeiter guy’s name and address. Show it to me.”

Feeling as drugged as his grandfather, Val poked through his jacket pockets—filled with extra magazines and loose rounds for the useless Beretta—and found the card. He handed it to Nick.

“Yeah, I know this guy,” said Nick. “K.T. and I sent him up for five years when you were a baby. He lives deep in reconquista turf now. You’d have a hard time getting there today.”