CIA. The CIA simply might want the information, the same as Jargo does.’ Gabriel looked as if admitting this possibility was causing him a heart attack. His face reddened with anger.
‘The CIA.’ It was insane. ‘How would my mother be involved with this Jargo?’
‘I believe she worked for Jargo.’
‘My mother worked for a freelance spy,’ Evan repeated. ‘It can’t be. You’re mistaken.’
‘A travel photographer. She can go anywhere, with her camera, and not raise suspicion. You live in a nice house, Evan. Your parents had money. You think freelance shutterbugs make that much money?’
‘This can’t be true.’
‘She’s dead and you’re shackled to a bed. How wrong am l?’
Evan decided to play along with the man’s fantasy. ‘So did my mother steal these files from Jargo, or from someone else?’
‘Listen. You wanted to know about Jargo, I told you. He’s a freelancer. People need information stolen or a pain in their ass dead, and the job needs to be off-the-books, he’s the man. The files are about Jargo’s business. So he wants them back. So does the CIA, I imagine, because they’d like to know what he knows. There. You know more about Jargo than any person currently alive. Open the system.’
‘Can’t unless you unlock me.’ He rattled the handcuff.
‘No. Type.’
‘Where am I gonna go, Gabriel? You’ve got a gun on me. You have to unlock me sooner or later, if you’re taking me out of the country. Handcuffs set off metal detectors.’
‘Not yet. Type it one-handed.’ He jabbed the gun into Evan’s cheek. ‘I’ve waited years for this, Evan, I’m not waiting one more goddamned second.’
Evan typed the password.
9
‘I t’s empty,’ Evan said.
After digesting the password, the hard drive’s icon appeared on the screen. He searched through the system. Other than basic files, the drive was cleaned out. His video footage, his installed software programs, all were gone. The system appeared to have reverted to a factory default level. He opened the electronic trash can – empty. ‘Everything’s gone.’
All gone, the voice in the kitchen had said while the gun had dug into the back of his head.
‘No.’ Gabriel put the gun down, grabbed Evan’s throat, pushed him up against the headboard of the bed. ‘No, no, no. He wouldn’t have had time.’
‘I don’t know how long I was unconscious.’
‘This can’t be. I have to have those files.’ Gabriel’s voice rose. ‘Those bastards erased them.’ He bent back over the computer.
Evan squirmed away from him. Toward the lamp. He may not get this close to you again. Make him think you want to help him. ‘A recovery program might restore the data.’
Gabriel didn’t answer, tapped at the keyboard, searching for files. He looked at the empty screen as if it were the rest of his life. He kept the gun at his side, loosely aimed toward the bed. Evan crouched against the headboard, his left hand still handcuffed. The lamp was close to his right, the unplugged cord still in a neat loop on the floor.
Evan snatched the wrought-iron lamp with his free hand. It was a heavy monster, but he lifted and swung it in one awkward sweep.
The lamp’s base smashed into Gabriel’s arm. He fell forward and Evan pinned Gabriel with a leg over his waist. Evan brought the lamp down into Gabriel’s face. Blood welled, the base’s edge cutting Gabriel in the mouth, in the chin. He howled in fury.
Evan aimed the lamp downward again, but Gabriel deflected it with his arm, threw a fist, connected with Evan’s jaw. Evan dropped the lamp, snaked his arm around Gabriel’s neck, wrapped both legs around Gabriel’s waist. His left arm, shackled to the bed, twisted as if it would break as Gabriel struggled.
The gun. Gabriel had the gun. Where was it?
‘Let go, dumbass!’ Gabriel said.
‘I’ll bite it off if you’re not still.’ Evan closed his mouth around Gabriel’s left ear. Bit down. Gabriel screamed.
‘Don’t,’ Gabriel gasped. Evan bit down again, let his teeth grind. Blood seeped into his mouth.
‘Stop!’ Gabriel yelled, and went still.
Evan saw the gun. Just beyond the reach of both of them, twisted in the white sheets where they rucked the bedcovers in their fight. He couldn’t reach it, but if he eased up on Gabriel, the older man could. Gabriel saw it, too; his muscles strained with sudden resolve, trying to break free.
Evan bit down on the ear again and jabbed his fingers into Gabriel’s eyes. Gabriel shrieked in pain. He twisted to fend Evan off, but Evan’s legs kept him locked in place. Gabriel squirmed toward the gun, pulling Evan’s body with him. Evan’s wrist wrenched in the cuff.
He’ll sacrifice the ear to get that gun, Evan thought. Bite it off. He couldn’t.
But instead Gabriel grabbed the lamp’s cord, dragged the lamp to him. He seized the lamp’s body, swung it backward at Evan, the base striking Evan on top of the head, and Evan, dizzy with pain, let go of the ear. A sliver of skin stayed behind in his mouth.
Gabriel released the lamp and lurched forward. Caught the gun’s barrel with his fingertips. Evan kept Gabriel’s other arm pinned with his leg, pivoted – his arm twisting as if it were a centimeter away from breaking – and clutched the gun’s handle as Gabriel pulled it forward. Evan wrenched the gun free and jabbed the barrel against Gabriel’s temple.
Gabriel froze.
‘Where’s the key?’
‘Downstairs. In the kitchen. You bastard, you tore my ear off.’
‘No, you still got an ear.’
‘Listen, new deal,’ Gabriel said. ‘We’ll work together to get Jargo. We’ll-’
‘No,’ Evan clubbed the gun into Gabriel’s temple. Once. Twice. Three times, four. The fifth time Gabriel went limp, his temple cut and bruised. Evan jabbed the gun against Gabriel’s head and waited. Counted to one hundred. Gabriel was out.
Holding his breath, Evan put down the gun. Gabriel didn’t move. He jabbed his hand into Gabriel’s left pants pocket, fumbled across coins, fingered the shape of keys.
‘Liar,’ he said to the unconscious Gabriel. He pulled out a ring that held a small key and a larger key for the bedroom door. Evan kicked the man away from him, worked the small key into the handcuff lock.
The cuff sprang open. Evan rolled off the bed, his arm afire with pain. He held it close to him, unsure if it was broken or dislocated. No. Broken would be serious agony. He was sore but unhurt. He dragged Gabriel to the headboard, snicked the cuff over his wrist. Checked Gabriel’s pulse in the throat. A steady beat ticked beneath his fingertips.
Evan trained the gun, with shaking hands, on the door. Waited. Steadied himself to shoot if anyone charged to Gabriel’s rescue. Told himself he could do it, he had to do it. He knew how to shoot, his father had taught him when he was a teenager, but he had not fired a gun in five years. And never at a living human being.
A minute passed. Another. No sound in the house.
He noticed a small card on the bed, next to the South African passport. Forced out from Gabriel’s shirt or pants in the fight. It was an ID card, government issue, worn with age and fingering. Gabriel looked fifteen years younger.
Joaquin Montoya Gabriel. Central Intelligence Agency.
Jesus, the crazy asshole was telling the truth. Or a partial truth. But if he was CIA, why was he operating alone?
Deep breath. He slipped the South African passport and Gabriel’s ID into his back pocket. Evan went out the
