“You’re not going anywhere,” the man said. “Trust me, it’s better this way.”
Jake let his breathing grow even. At best he had one chance, so he couldn’t afford to blow it.
“What do you want?” he asked, casually positioning himself in the middle of the space between the two cars that fenced him in.
“At the moment that doesn’t matter.”
“I kind of think it does,” Jake said.
“Yeah, well…sorry.”
The man pulled the trigger.
Jake had anticipated the move, and brought his bag up a half-second before four tiny darts, each attached to a wire, shot out of the end of the weapon.
As soon as they pierced the side of the bag, Jake threw it at the man, then whirled around and rushed toward the fence. Slowing prior to reaching it, he turned again and hopped onto the hood of his Civic, then started to run from car to car, jumping the gaps.
His gaze searched the parking lot, looking for anyone within earshot. He knew if he could get someone’s attention, it might be enough to deter the man from pursuing him. But the lot was huge, and the closest person was standing next to the building where the shuttle bus stopped, looking in the other direction.
Jake chanced a brief look back. While the man’s car was still parked behind his, there was no sign of the man himself.
As Jake jumped from the hood of a Volvo onto that of an SUV, he could see trouble three cars ahead — a minivan with basically no hood at all. He altered his path as he neared, then jumped higher than usual when he came to the gap, his hands reaching for the van’s roof. But his foot slipped as he took off, and his stomach hit the edge where the roof and side met, bending him at the waist like an L.
Momentarily stunned, he hung there for a second.
His legs heard the message first. They began scrambling around the side of the van and over to the windshield. One foot reached the glass, but something grabbed his other.
He looked back and saw the man holding fast to his ankle with one hand. In his other hand—
Jake tried to kick back with his foot, but the man was strong and had been ready for this. To counter, Jake pushed up from the roof, and started to turn onto his back, intending to lash out at the man with his other leg. But just as he pivoted onto his hip, he felt a prick in his calf. The man immediately let go of his ankle and stepped back.
Jake lost his grip and slipped to the ground. He staggered a moment, but was able to remain on his feet. “What did you do to me?” he yelled.
“You’ve seen me before, haven’t you?” the man asked.
“Hell, yes, I’ve seen you before,” Jake said. “You were at the Lawrence Hotel. You had something to do with the murder out on Goodman Ranch Road. Don’t think I’m not going to turn you in.”
The man eyed him curiously for a moment. “How did you know?”
Jake felt a sudden disconnect from his skin, as if a thick layer of foam had been injected between it and the tissue beneath. “What did you do…to me?”
“Looks like we both have questions.” The man paused. “I’d sit down if I were you. Less chance of bruising when you fall.”
Jake was having a hard time understanding what he meant. Less chance of…
Suddenly he bumped into the van.
“Sit down,” the man told him.
Jake did.
“What…what…” Jake desperately searched for other words, but none came.
The man was at his side now. “Don’t fight it.”
Jake felt his body turn and realized the man was moving him. Soon his back was leaning against the van.
“Don’t fight it,” the man repeated, his voice becoming a distant whisper. “Don’t…”
Jake heard no more.
24
The call came exactly five minutes after the plane Jake was supposed to be on had taken off. Durrie didn’t need to check the caller ID to know that it was Peter. He left the phone sitting on the table by the door, unanswered. He wasn’t ready to talk.
The truth was, he was still stunned by what had happened at the airport parking lot. Not so much by Oliver’s ability to improvise and almost get away — that was admirable to be sure but not entirely unexpected. No, it had happened moments before that, when Durrie had confronted him. The ex-cop’s eyes had flared in sudden recognition.
He had
Then, after he had drugged the kid, Oliver had said, “You were at the Lawrence Hotel.” Timmons and Larson had not been the only ones Oliver had picked out.
The mobile home they were in was located forty-five minutes south of Phoenix, off Interstate 10. It was in the middle of a large piece of nothing, its nearest neighbors miles away on their own little plots of barren land. It had been the safe house for the mission the previous month. If things had gone wrong and any member of the team had needed to hole up somewhere, this was where they would have gone.
Durrie knew he and Oliver couldn’t stay there for long. It may have been a safe house, but it was also a location known to Peter and the Office. They needed to drop completely off the map, someplace no one would ever be able to find them.
The problem was, there were a few things Durrie still had to take care of in Phoenix. He’d been paid for a job, and he had no intentions of not fulfilling his duties. He figured he could use the mobile home for at least six hours, maybe even up to half a day before someone showed up to check it.
From the outside, the trailer looked like just another sad, old home, closer to the end of its usefulness than the beginning. But this was no off-the-assembly-line clone. This was a specially built, composite-fiber-reinforced- frame structure, with an interior layout that was functional and could serve a variety of needs. One of those potential needs was met by the inclusion of a detention cell.
The room was just wide enough for a narrow bed and a toilet. In deference to the heat of the desert, it was air conditioned, but otherwise soundproofed.
Durrie lugged Oliver inside, and laid him on the bed. He then retrieved the large bottle of water he’d purchased during his morning prep, and put it in the room on the floor. Chances were, Oliver would remain unconscious until he came back, but if he didn’t, the bottle would be there if he was thirsty.
Durrie closed the door, then engaged the double bar system that secured it to the walls, ceiling and floor. In the living room, his phone was ringing again. He picked it up, and slipped it into his pocket, once more ignoring Peter.
Outside, he reprogrammed the lock with a new combination, then looked at his watch. He’d give himself four hours just to be safe. That should be enough.
It felt as if someone had taken a hatchet to Jake’s skull. The pain radiated in a line just off center, from an inch above his left eye all the way back to the nape of his neck. Slowly, he moved a hand to his head and carefully touched his hair, sure he would find a gaping wound. But there was no blood or exposed bone. Whatever was causing his distress was on the inside.
The day came back to him in bits and pieces, like images caught in a strobe light. The man with the weapon,
