reminded of what happened to Kevin, how he hadn’t been here, how he was never here because of his stupid job…
Nothing compared with this nightmare.
He had a gun in his hand but he was frozen, unable to sit up and use it. Because he’d watched too many stupid cop shows in his time where somebody thinks it’s safe and looks around a corner and ends up with his brains splattered all over a brick wall.
Just like that poor bastard—Charlie? Is that what he said his name was?
The image of the man’s blood leaping out of his arm, his head jerking to the side, was horrible, almost pornographic.
But now there was no sound at all.
Except—
“Mr. H-Hunter?”
Jonathan hesitated. Could be a trap. One of the gunmen, trying to get a fix on his location. He’d seen that a billion times on TV, too. He’d produced countless shows featuring those kinds of tricks.
“Mr. Hunter, it’s me. Ch-Charlie Hardie. Out here on the steps. You might want to get over here quick. I have a way out for you g-guys, but it’s not going to last forever.”
Only then did Jonathan Hunter release his grip on his daughter’s tiny curled-up body and take a careful glance over the top of the couch. There were two more bleeding people in his living room, both in T-shirts and jogging shorts. This made a grand total of four shot and bleeding people, all struggling to stay alive. And there, on the steps leading to their backyard, was their savior, Charlie Hardie, blood pooled around his head.
Jonathan Hunter rushed to Hardie’s side and made all kinds of ridiculous promises about calling 911 and getting him help, he’d be okay, the worst was over, blah blah blah. But Hardie knew better. He also knew there wouldn’t be much time, so he had better spit it out now.
“Take your family out the back. There’s a key in one of my hands. It belongs to a black van one block away on Moorpark. Do you know where that is?”
“Of course, yes.”
“Get your family into the van and just drive. Go somewhere random, wherever there’s a large crowd of people. Your cell phones should work. I don’t think they can jam the whole city. Call FBI special agent Deacon Clark, and tell him that Charlie Hardie sent you.”
“Charlie Hardie,” he repeated.
“Yes, but the most important name here is Deacon Clark. Deke for short. Got it?”
“Deke for short, Deacon Clark.”
“I’ve told him some of this, but it’s important you tell him the rest. Use whatever power you’ve got and look into the hit-and-run. Lane Madden’s alibi will unravel if you push it hard enough. Tell him to check the car-dealer angle. There’s going to be paperwork somewhere. But trust no one except Deacon Clark.”
Hunter nodded, not really understanding the words, but trying to commit them to memory, anyway. Everything had happened so fast. Life was blurring by him again, just like it did three years ago. He needed to slow down. To think clearly. Except this man, their savior, was telling him to take the guns and run, run for their lives.
“Good, now go.”
“What are you going to do?”
Hardie smiled. “Hold them off.”
Hunter took his family through the backyard, past the pool, past the bamboo trees they’d planted in honor of Kevin—they’d been his favorite. Jonathan leaped the fence first, then had Evelyn pass Kate over, then Peter, but as she handed Peter over, her eyes went cold and she damn near dropped the boy, and Jonathan wanted to scream, What the hell are you doing? and then—
O’Neal could hear the shots, all the way over on Moorpark. He counted them.
Then O’Neal waited.
Soon this would be over.
He promised himself that he would sprawl out on his king-size bed and just sleep for days after this one. Days on end, with pauses only to eat, shower, and drink, and then crawl back into his big, soft bed.
And then out of nowhere Mann came screaming over the line—Get in there, A.D.2 and Grip are down! Kill them all!—and O’Neal realized that his night was far from over. He took his gun and jogged down a path between the two houses leading to a lush, overgrown backyard. Something in his pocket vibrated.
It was his other boss.
Gedney.
A text message:
WALK AWAY
Every director was required to work with someone who would report directly to the employer. A built-in fail- safe to prevent directors from going rogue or pursuing their own agendas. Every director knew about this fail-safe position; however, the identity was kept secret. When the director submitted the script along with the requested crew members, the employer would discreetly contact a particular crew member and say: “You’re up.” A secure connection was established, along with a panic button in case of emergencies.
O’Neal was the fail-safe for the Lane Madden jobs; he’d hit the panic button four times since this morning. Each time, the employer—in this case represented by Gedney—had responded: STEADY ON
Now it was finally over:
WALK AWAY
was meant to be taken literally. O’Neal was to simply leave the scene, taking along any compromising materials. He was to go to any one of a number of safe houses and dispose of the materials, then disappear for a while and await further instructions.
O’Neal slid the gun back into his pocket and stepped backward into the trees. He plucked the earpiece out and snapped it with his fingers, then slid that into his pocket, too. He waited.
“Thought I saw something.”
“Come on, hurry up,” Jonathan said, easing his son down onto the grass. After helping his wife over the fence—though she didn’t need much help—they walked through their neighbors’ yard and straight out onto Moorpark. The van was there, just like Charlie had promised. The key opened the door. Jonathan loaded his family inside, made sure everyone was buckled up. He turned on the ignition, shifted it to drive, pulled out of the space, and drove down the street, trying to tune out the cries and questions and the general bedlam in the car.
Jonathan didn’t know if he was escaping the nightmare or simply driving into another.
O’Neal stepped out of the shadows and followed the same path toward Moorpark. Once the van was away and clear, he stepped out onto the sidewalk, looked both ways, then hurriedly crossed the street. He headed north.
Mann knew why O’Neal refused to answer.
Why no one answered.
HARDIE
HARDIE
HARDIE
