‘Yes, Luke, I do.’
‘Out.’
Henry got out of the car. Luke walked close behind him and kept the knife at his ribs.
Henry unlocked the door. Luke pushed him, used him as a shield, and Henry didn’t complain. They moved from the front door, across a living room, into a back kitchen. The house was silent as a grave. Or maybe, Luke thought crazily, a grave was louder. For a hub of terrorist activity, it was far too silent. Luke’s skin tingled as though warmed by fire.
‘They’re gone,’ Henry said.
Luke listened to the pressing silence of the house. He heard a creak on the stairs.
Henry was a liar.
Luke kept his grip on Henry but he moved the gun away from his neck, kept it aimed over his shoulder. He listened for the next creak. Heard nothing. He kicked open a back door, yanked Henry away from the wash of cool air, pulled him back into a corner.
Five seconds later he saw the gun come into sight from around the open door. The edge of the barrel, then hand gripping the guard, then arm.
Luke aimed and fired twice in rapid succession. The gun kicked more than he thought it would. The first bullet scored; the second missed. The sleeve, halfway up, pulled and smoked and produced a bright flush of blood. The thug fell against the door and raised the gun but Luke threw Henry into the thug. Henry tackled him. Closing arms around him, they staggered into the wall, sliding to the floor.
The thug screamed a babble of rage in his own language. He punched Henry hard; Henry went down, but clawed at the thug’s hair. They grappled, and Luke looked for the shot.
Just shoot them both, he thought, but he couldn’t.
The thug shoved Henry clear, sending him crashing into and over a kitchen table. The thug slid to the floor, his arm bright with blood. His hands empty.
Where the hell was the guy’s gun? Gone.
Henry. That conniving bastard had grabbed it. He glanced over at the corner of the kitchen where Henry had landed. Gone.
Luke pulled the trigger. The gun jammed. Or the clip was now empty. Or he didn’t know how to use it. The gun was useless.
The thug launched himself at Luke; his fingers dug into Luke’s throat, squeezed into the flesh. Luke gripped his hands, tried to pry them free, kicked his feet along the floor. He was bigger and taller than his attacker but the guy had the advantage of strength and experience.
The guy slammed Luke’s head against the tile. Luke released his futile grip on the guy’s hands. He pushed off the floor, came close to the guy’s chest. He threw one arm around in an embrace and as he did so, searched along his own waist for the knife he’d taken from the restaurant after the bombing.
Luke slid the blade hard into the guy’s side. Felt it touch bone and the guy howled. No second chance. Luke stabbed and pulled out again and the wash of blood was warm, awful; and he drove the blade upwards, into the guy’s throat.
The guy toppled. Dying. Luke kicked out from under him, hand slick with blood, the breath frozen in his half- strangled throat.
He looked up from the dying man and Henry stood above him, gun in hand.
‘No one else is here. The house is empty. I had to be sure,’ Henry said calmly.
Luke stared at him, kicked away from the dying terrorist. The thug lay on the floor, gasping out air and blood, a froth on his lips. His eyes stretched wide in fear, in horror, in pain. Luke couldn’t look away. It was all the ugliness of slow death, laid bare. He had killed Snow but she had died within seconds. It did not matter that the man deserved it. Luke felt something shift in his chest, in his brain, watching death unfold.
The dying man coughed and writhed and his eyes pleaded for a question he couldn’t ask. Unlike the near- instant deaths he had seen – Snow, Chris, the poor officer in the Chicago alleyway – this dying took time. They watched his pain.
‘For God’s sakes, put him out of his misery,’ Luke said.
Henry glanced at the gun he held and remained motionless.
The thug coughed and gurgled blood, clutching his wound, and then he lay still.
‘My God, that was messy. You for sure killed him,’ Henry said. ‘Let’s get you washed.’
Luke tore his gaze away from the dead man and looked up at Henry. Get me washed, like I was a child caught playing in the mud. Henry held the gun but it wasn’t aimed at him.
‘You could have shot him,’ Luke said. ‘You could have ended the fight so I didn’t have to…’
‘So you didn’t have to do what was necessary? You handled it.’ Henry’s voice was flat. ‘I had to make sure no one else was here, attacking our flank. Everyone else is gone.’
Our flank. Like they were a team. The shock of killing had eroded the anger he felt toward Henry. But Henry had the gun.
Luke wondered if Henry would shoot him. He didn’t really know Henry. He only knew the lie Henry was.
‘You hung back to see if I’d win. What are you trying to make me into? You?’ Luke stood and the rage he’d felt while stabbing the thug tingled hard in his hands. ‘You used me to build your terrorist network. You made it so I can’t go to the police. That I can only turn to you.’
‘We’re family,’ he said quietly.
‘You involved me only to bind me to you. You destroyed my options in life and left me with yours. So I would join you?’ It was the horrifying truth that lay between them. ‘You think that because you had me build the Night Road, and hide from the police, and now made me kill, I’m somehow more like you?’ He spat at Henry’s shoe. ‘We could not be more different.’
‘You’re all the family I have, Luke. The only family I’ve ever had.’ He mouthed the words with difficulty. He tried an expression that was distantly related to a smile. ‘I wanted us together.’
‘What, in jail cells? If you wanted to be my family, you could have had your normal life and let me have mine. You don’t know what family is.’
‘I know we don’t turn on each other in a time of need.’ Henry wet a hand towel, tossed it to Luke, as though cleaning the blood off his hands was as everyday for him as a gardener wiping dirt. ‘Clearly, since Mouser and everyone else is gone, and this man was waiting here to kill me, I’m on the outs with Mouser and the Night Road,’ Henry said. ‘You and I have to come to an agreement, Luke. An opportunity confronts us.’
‘This isn’t like we’ve had a fight about a family issue,’ Luke said. ‘There is no agreement. No opportunity. You tell me where Mouser took them.’
‘I assume Chicago, on a Travport plane. He thinks he can find the fifty million by tracing Eric’s activities at the private bank that Eric worked for. The money, Luke. Where is that money?’
‘Your so-clever bomb destroyed the encrypted file that contained the account info. Jane decrypted it. But I didn’t see it and all the evidence was destroyed.’
‘She said nothing about where it was?’
‘No.’ Only her final words of anger. Hidden in plain sight, that little b ‘If you and I take the fifty million before they do, well, the Night Road is done. It will fall apart without the promised money and the billionaire won’t try and invest in terror again. You and I can hide. All is well.’
‘Not for my father and Aubrey.’
Henry’s lips thinned. Laughing, but not wanting to show he was laughing. Because Henry had the gun. ‘Trying to save them is suicide. They’ll kill you.’
He punched his stepfather, hard, fist to jaw. Henry sagged to the floor, agony on his face. He swung the gun back toward Luke. But he didn’t fire.
Henry said thickly, ‘I’m trying to save you…’
‘Quit lying. Just quit.’ Luke kicked his stepfather. Hard. In the stomach. He did it before he even realized it. All the air went out of Henry’s lungs. Luke hit him again in the face and a great sorrow rose in him, for this man who’d cared for him, been his friend, tried to be his father. It was all a most vicious, damnable lie. He could kill him. But there were things worse than death.
‘Tell me where these bombs will be placed. Or I’ll kill you.’
‘They’ll change their targets, because Mouser’s shut me out. They’ll be afraid I’ll cut a deal with the
