“What are you…?”
“She’s been with us the whole time. Hell, that’s why we never had to keep tabs on you more seriously than the basics. At least not past the time you fed that egghead to Lolita.”
It was all Micah could do not to lose his cool. Hurst knew specifics that few had knowledge of. Hell, only Valerie had any idea about their plans for the moment he made it out of his current predicament. Was Hurst really telling the truth? Maybe it was just a lucky guess, or two. He could feel the walls collapsing.
“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that we never had you check in with us?”
“How many times do I have to tell you, old timer? I’m not Ross Sheridan. My name is Micah Brantley. I can write it down for you if it makes it easier to remember.”
“No, son, you’re not,” Hurst said. He stood up from his perch behind the retaining wall and held his gun at his side, finger on the trigger guard rather than with any overt intent to make use of the tool. “Micah Brantley is dead. Has been for a few months now.”
“Bullshit,” Micah said. He stood up and took aim at Hurst.
“I watched you pull the trigger.”
Micah lowered the pistol and clutched his forehead, the tinge of pain threatening to take over all nerve endings in his forehead. Memories rushed in and out of focus, clear for a moment. He was in a vehicle, calling someone. He heard a jumble of words, some sort of code meant to convey a message he no longer understood. Now he stood at a door, gun drawn, as it opened. He pulled the trigger back until the only sound left was a click.
“What the actual fuck?”
“That’s right. It was all you, Ross. Only a select few people in the world know any of the truths related to the murders of Micah Brantley and his family. To the rest of the country, it would be one of those sad, unsolved mysteries that rocked a community and encapsulated a nation for a short while,” Hurst said. He spoke to Micah as though he were consoling an injured child. “The limelight faded quickly, as it often does, when the next travesty took over the top spot in the minds of the masses. The beauty of our justice system is that it only takes one person willing to testify to bring you down. A jury of your peers hears about the case you’re linked to, and you’re headed upriver. Like it or not, you’re Ross Sheridan, and unless you come willingly, your life is over.”
Micah looked down, attempting to come to grips with this most startling revelation. His life, or what he considered it to be, was nothing more than a lie created by men with motives that ran in opposition to his desire to exist of his own accord. The sound of footsteps brought him back to reality. He raised his pistol and stopped Hurst dead in his tracks.
“Stand still.”
“Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” Hurst said, complying with Micah’s demand. “We’re not alone. Kill me and you’ll have a bullet in your brain before you even get that pistol back to its holster.”
“I’ve lived my life with one regret and that’s no longer an issue. You can say all you want about how much of a loss I stand to face, but I see it differently. This is a release.”
Micah fired two shots at Hurst, striking him in the middle of his chest and the abdomen. He turned to flee down a side street as Hurst’s body hit the ground. A bullet ricocheted off the retaining wall of a nearby home as Micah ran past. He flinched, expecting to be hit, but continued to run away from imminent death. A couple more shots rang out, but none connected with their target.
Moments later, he sat down in his car. The engine warm, Micah awkwardly maneuvered the vehicle out of its parking spot on onto the street, careful not to relinquish his grip on the pistol. He rolled forward slowly at first, maintaining a level of speed reasonably close to the posted limit. It wasn’t until he heard the dual whine of sport motorcycles that he tensed up once more.
The riders closed on him quickly. Neither one seemed remarkable, but it didn’t seem prudent to wait around for their arrival, so Micah punched the gas. The bikes followed suit, weaving through angry motorists Micah had nearly missed. Micah cut down a side street lined with extravagant homes, narrowly avoiding an ornate mailbox on the corner as he attempted to straighten out the car. Mere seconds later, the riders appeared behind him and opened fire, peppering the rear windshield with bullet holes. For a moment, the glass resembled a frozen lake on the verge of splitting, hazy with cracks spider webbing to every corner. Micah cut left suddenly, veering toward the main road, and listened as the glass exploded in protest.
Micah forced the riders to mimic his moves as they approached the main road, turning in unison with the larger vehicle in front of them. They followed suit as he turned right, shifted gears, and raised the throttle as Micah’s car abruptly lurched forward in front of them, attempting to pick up speed in short order.
A loud horn bellowed out in the distance; one long honk followed shortly afterward by a second blast of similar tone. Micah glanced ahead at the drawbridge and saw a uniformed man lean out to search for the source of the noise. A party barge. Suddenly, the barricades lowered on either side as the bridge separated, making way for the safe passage of the vessel full of drunk people enjoying their weekend.
“Son of a bitch,” Micah muttered. He was running out of options. Making the play for the drawbridge only worked if it remained stationary. The hope, albeit naïve, was that the riders would be less inclined to pursue, or
