by Abbott, Jeff
‘Did you really think I was going to negotiate with you?’ Mouser said, nearly laughing.
Luke saw sharp glances pass between the Night Roaders. Mouser had ignored the call for a vote, and he knew that these men - leaders of their own movements or cells - did not relish taking orders. They were used to giving them as captains of their own causes.
‘There is no vote. I have the access to the funds. You do as I say. Get going. You have your instructions, yes?’ Henry said.
The men nodded. Luke noticed they each had sheets of paper outlining the bomb’s operations, schematics of what looked like train tracks, photos and bios of train personnel at their target stations. Get in, stash their bombs, and get out.
‘Go. You know the plan. 6.30 a.m. Central, 7.30 a.m. Eastern, day after tomorrow.’ Henry jerked his head. ‘Go.’
They had a day to return to the targets, to set the bombs.
‘No,’ Mouser said. ‘I’m running the show.’
‘Do you have fifty million to reward and fund our friends here? Have you succeeded in anything I’ve asked you to do? Shut the hell up, Mouser.’ Henry cleared his throat. ‘Get going now. One of you will find the downstairs guard in your van sleeping off a punch.’
The men filed past Luke; he could hear the shuffle of their footsteps on the stairs. Then, from downstairs, the sounds of them loading the boxes, rushing them through the store, out of the front door.
‘So,’ Mouser said. ‘It comes to this.’
‘You left a man to kill me back in Paris,’ Henry said.
‘I didn’t. He was supposed to keep you under wraps until Hellfire was done.’
‘You’re a sorry liar, Mouser.’
‘Funny, isn’t it?’ Warren Dantry said. No one was expecting him to speak and they all glanced at him. Underneath his bruises a smile flickered, the grin that Luke remembered from fishing trips, from sitting with his father on the back porch of their house. His voice sounded the same as it had before, a gentle baritone, older, wiser.
‘Dad,’ Luke started. A thousand things to say, to know, rushed through his mind, then went blank.
‘Funny,’ Warren Dantry repeated. ‘You really can’t work with anyone, can you, Henry? First the good guys, now the bad. You always screw it up.’ He glanced up at Mouser. ‘You know, he thinks, he honestly believes, he predicted 9/11.’
Mouser glanced at Henry. ‘But you did.’
‘Hardly. He didn’t.’ Warren snorted. ‘He would have risen to the highest posts in State or CIA if he had. Instead he’s hanging out with these nothings.’
Look at me, Dad, Luke thought, but Warren didn’t.
‘Shut up,’ Henry said. He swiveled the gun back toward Warren. ‘Shut up. Luke is my son now. Not yours. You gave him up. Shut the hell up.’
‘Luke. You know he’s a nothing. A nothing.’ Warren now met his son’s eyes. ‘He tried to kill me. Then your mother dies, under questionable circumstances.’
‘That was an accident!’ Henry screamed, spittle flying from his mouth.
‘Was it? Was it? Was it?’ Warren said in a low, hypnotic mumble.
‘It was an accident,’ and Henry brayed the last word as though a critical string had broken in his voice.
‘Let’s make peace, Henry,’ Mouser said. ‘Jesus, we’ve come this far. Let me talk to this bastard. Pry every secret from Quicksilver out of him.’
‘He won’t talk. He just needs to die,’ Henry said. ‘Luke, look away.’
‘No!’ Luke screamed. He lunged toward Henry.
And the world exploded.
57
Five of the trucks never made it out of the empty lot. Luke had been busy. He’d opened each box of bombs, picked one of the cell-phone timers connected to the Semtex explosive, and reset it to detonate in fifteen minutes. It had taken just enough time to load the trucks, light cigarettes, and gossip for a minute (the suggestion of going back in and killing Mouser and Henry had been floated and shot down).
The trucks - save one - all went up at once in blossoms of fire, within three seconds of each other, scattering debris and flaming tires and peppering shrapnel. The packed screws and twists of metal shredded the terrorists into raggedy men, tatters of flesh and bone.
The truck closest to the store was spared. Rushed to reset the timers, Luke had unknowingly pulled the wires loose on the last two cell phones, panicked to finish before he was caught, and did not realize his mistake. The cell phone’s alarm did not detonate the blasting cap. The driver - the hardest and oldest of the men, the tattooed man responsible for the Kansas City high school bombing - stared at the wheeling masses of what had been his colleagues’ trucks. He raised himself up from the truck seat. His windows were blown out, as were the storefronts of the mall. One of the trucks crashed in the deserted street, burning. He could see what was left of one of his fellows, halved and crisped, twenty feet in front of him.
The bombs, he thought, somebody screwed with the bombs. For the next ten seconds he waited, knowing if his timers had been tampered with he’d be dead and there was no point in running.
But the tampered bombs had all gone off at once. None of his boxes had. He realized, with a certainty, that he was safe. He wheeled hard out of the lot, pressing his foot against the accelerator, thinking he would still get the job done.
The edge of the blasts blew in the curtained windows of the second floor showroom, lifted Luke off his feet, and tossed him into Henry. Luke tumbled over his stepfather and he didn’t hear the gun’s discharge. Bright balls of aftershock fire blinded his eyes; he blinked past the pain.
Resetting the phones’ timers had worked. Luke scrambled to his feet. He saw Aubrey lying on her back, still tied in her chair, blood on her face. His father lay next to her, also knocked down by the explosions. Henry lay dazed. The gun that had been in his hands was gone.
Where was it? And Mouser?
Luke felt heat in a wave. Flame flickered along the curtains, blown in by fiery debris. The displays of imports: the African masks, the wooden tables, the bolts of Asian cloth - burst into flames, throughout the room. The building was ablaze.
He didn’t see Mouser.
Suddenly hands, from behind, closed around Luke’s throat. He felt a gun barrel jam up against his forehead. Luke hammered his head back and caught Mouser in the face. Luke twisted and seized the gun in his hands and the fired bullet smashed into the concrete flooring. Luke nailed Mouser’s jaw with a punch, the hardest he’d ever thrown. He felt the bone crack under his fist, felt his own fingers ache from the force of the blow.
Mouser staggered back, nearly tripping over Henry, who was struggling to his feet. The flames showed wild hate in Mouser’s eyes and with a howl of pure hatred and rage he launched himself again at Luke. Mouser tackled Luke and they skidded and rolled across the concrete, toward the now-flaming wall of windows.
They fought, arms grappling. Mouser’s face twisted in a naked and bitter hatred. He seized Luke’s throat. They bounced off the windows, the burning curtains, and then fell back onto the floor. Luke felt his hair, his shirt ignite. He dropped and rolled to douse the fire, clutching Mouser close to him.
Mouser screamed as the flames jumped to his own shirt. He yanked away; both men rolled to the floor, Luke smothering the blazing patch on his shirt. Mouser did the same and as he looked up, Luke kicked him savagely in the face, felt the man’s nose and teeth break. He seized Mouser by the throat and belt and threw him toward the wall, the pain scouring up his back. Mouser fell through the burning curtains and the shattered window, arms wheeling, flames catching him from head to toe, slamming headfirst into the asphalt.
He lay still, and through the flames Luke could see his neck, bent at an utterly impossible angle.
Through the lick of fire and the smear of smoke Luke could see five wrecked trucks, burning, ruptured.
Five. Not six.
‘One got away!’ he screamed. And he turned and saw Henry fleeing down the stairs.
No time to chase hi
m. Luke pulled Aubrey to her feet, tore the ropes loose from her. She helped him free his father.
‘Dad! Dad!’ Luke screamed. His father opened his eyes, stared at Luke in shock.
‘Come on!’ Aubrey screamed.
They ran toward the back as the remaining windows exploded from the heat, the flames jumping and dancing into the showroom.
‘One of them got away,’ Luke said. No sign of Henry in the parking lot. They ran, Warren clutching him close, Aubrey holding his other hand. ‘We have to catch him.’
‘We don’t know which way he would go,’ Aubrey started.
‘He’s going to head for a highway,’ Warren said.
‘Then head west,’ Aubrey said. ‘Closest one.’
They could hear the police and fire sirens wailing. Cars in the street - a few - had stopped, people staring at the devastation. At the car Warren embraced Luke. ‘Luke, Luke.’ He cupped Luke’s face in his hands, tears on his face, shivering, shaking.
‘Dad. Okay, we’re okay, but we got to find this guy.’ A thousand words he wanted to hear and say burst in his head - his father’s explanations, his father’s love, his own anger to lash out at his dad for abandoning him - but it had to wait. The last bomber was running.
Luke remembered his father’s false goodbye, his words: I’ll miss you every moment. There had been years of missed moments as he stared at Warren Dantry. His father stepped back. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what happened to you. Let that be a start.’
Luke got behind the wheel, his father next to him, Aubrey in the back seat.
‘My God,’ his dad said. ‘My God. Luke. Oh, Christ.’
‘Dad. Are you all right? Aubrey, you okay?’
‘Yes. Fine. We’re fine.’ His voice was hoarse, blood caked on his lips. ‘My God. I can’t believe you did that. The timers, yes?’ Surprise and pride colored his voice and he let out nearly a choking laugh.
‘Luke?’ Aubrey, touching his shoulder, squeezing it in reassurance. He looked back at her and she was wide-eyed, shaking, rubbing her hands together as if for warmth. ‘I’m glad you came for us,’ she said softly.
Luke roared hard onto the street. Emergency vehicles were making their way down the road, a fire truck, police cars. He shot past them. The Navigator was faster than the van. The driver would have to be rattled. Maybe he’d dumped the bombs in the lot, afraid they’d been set for early explosion as well.
Or maybe the guy had figured he’d caught a lucky break, and if he didn’t blow up when everyone else did, he wasn’t going to. Or he didn’t care; terrorists loved their blazes of supposed glory.
He shot past the first group of responders and ran four red lights, heading up to a hundred miles an hour. It was one in the morning and the streets were empty. He saw tail lights ahead, the only set.
A small moving van.
He’d caught up with the last bomber. He steered with one hand, the one with the broken fingers, fished out the gun with his hand.
‘Dad - here, you’re the better shot.’
‘My hands.’ Warren raised them and for the first time Luke saw them, misshapen. Several fingers had been broken.
What those bastards had done to his father. He shoved down the accelerator, caught up with the moving van. ‘Dad, get in the back.’
His father obeyed, sliding over the seat, Aubrey helping him.
Luke raised his gun, came even with the van.
The bomber leveled a gun, fired. Luke felt the heat of the bullet pass in front of his face, like a bolt, and he steadied his arm and fired. Missed. He fired again at the same time as the bomber; the bomber’s bullet hammered into the Navigator’s roof, two inches from Luke’s head. A black dot of blood appeared above the bomber’s ear, his head jerked, the van careened onto the sidewalk. It crashed into the front of a closed laundromat, sheets of windows shattering. Luke stopped, ran to the van. The bomber lolled, eyes open, dead.
‘Luke. Get back here! We’ll call the bomb squad. They’ll know what to do,’ Warren called.
Luke ran back to the Navigator. His father moved into the front seat, staring at Luke as though he’d never seen him before, as though looking for traces of the lost boy in the man.
‘Dad. Oh, God. You’re okay. You’re alive.’ All the things Luke wanted to say began to bubble up in his chest. ‘Really alive.’
‘I know you have a million questions.’
‘No. Just one. Why?’
‘Okay, I know. But let’s go, before the police arrive. Now.’
Luke obeyed, pulling out onto the road. He set the gun down between him and his father. He didn’t want to touch one, ever again. He turned onto the highway that led back toward downtown Chicago.
Silence filled the space between the three of them. A horrible, uncomfortable quiet. The adrenaline made Luke eager to talk but he didn’t know what to say. Aubrey started to speak - Luke could hear the catch of her breath - and then she stopped.
Luke kept his gaze on the black ribbon of the street. He found his voice and it was calm. ‘So. Dad. Why? Why?’
Warren started to answer ‘I know that there is no …’ then he stopped.
‘I want to forgive you,’ Luke started. ‘I just need to understand why—’ he couldn’t go on, his chest heavy with grief and shock.
His dad said nothing.
Luke glanced at his father and saw the cool barrel of the gun against the back of his father’s head.
58
‘Where’s the money, Luke?’ Aubrey’s mouth was close to his ear; the tickle of her breath froze him.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
Warren Dantry didn’t move. He glanced over at Luke, eyes wide in surprise.
‘The money. I’d like to know where it is, please.’ Aubrey sounded steady, calm, as she had been during the crisis in Lincoln Park, on the jet to New York, in urging them toward the car back at the store. ‘You and Henry said you had it.’
‘Why do you—’ and then he saw it. The missing piece.
If Jane had arranged for Eric to grab him to ransom Aubrey, then she would have used a kidnapper to grab Aubrey. Just a man, Aubrey had said.
But what if there was no kidnapper? The realization fell into his mind all at once. The burlap hood she said she’d been covered with, even after the kidnapper left. It hadn’t been on the floor or under the bed. His wrists, after being tied to the bed for several hours, were raw. He remembered the smoothness of Aubrey’s skin when he unlocked her shackles.
No one could prove Aubrey had ever actually been kidnapped. Except Aubrey.
She’d faked the kidnapping. Which meant … she was in with Jane.
It was you. You alone, he’d said to Jane. But she hadn’t been alone. She’d had a partner, to keep an eye on the progress of the Night Road. Not a member, but sleeping with a member.
How had Jane ever found out about Eric’s role in the Night Road in the first place?
‘Dad. Did Quicksilver suspect Eric Lindoe of criminal ties?’ He remembered seeing reports about Eric’s bank in his file in the Paris office.
‘There have been a number of questionable accounts at that bank,’ he said quietly. ‘Yes, we’ve been watching the bank for a while. We sent the same agent to watch this Arab prince who seemed interested in financing terrorists.’ He swallowed. ‘I think you know her as—’
‘Jane.’ Luke glanced back. He had to get her to see reason. If he told her where he thought the money was, she’d just kill them both. His tongue felt like concrete.
She said, her voice torn with panic: ‘I want to know where the money is.’
Hidden in plain sight. That little b— Jane had said. ‘Henry lied. He was bluffing.’
‘You know where it is,’ Aubrey insisted. ‘You have to. Tell me.’ Her voice cracked. ‘What I’ve been through, goddamn it, I get the money.’
‘I won’t tell you unless you put the gun down.’
‘Tell me, Luke. Now. Don’t pull over. Keep driving.’
They
raced down the highway, Luke dodging in and out among the scattering of cars.
‘You won’t believe me,’ Luke said. His father raised his mauled hands, his eyes wide in pain as Aubrey dug the barrel into the back of his head.
‘You just got your dad back,’ Aubrey said. ‘I’ll take him away. Tell me.’
‘I thought Eric was using you, but you were using him,’ Luke said. ‘An export/import business, lots of overseas money coming in, payments going out. A perfect way for Eric to stream in money, using your accounts. He thought he was using you, to a degree, at first. But you wanted him to use you. You thought he might be involved in money for the Night Road. Did he pillow talk you, tell you what he was up to?’
‘No. Jane and I figured it out on our own. From her spying on the prince for Quicksilver.’
‘Jane worked for us, but Aubrey doesn’t,’ Warren said. The Navigator hit a bump and the gun jiggled against his father’s head.
‘We aimed me straight at Eric,’ she said, her voice calmer. ‘I got into his bed. I got into his head. After I was kidnapped I told him that these Quicksilver people might be willing to help us hide. He bought it.’
Luke watched her in the rearview. ‘You were never kidnapped. It was just a lure to make him act and to keep you clean. And blameless and above suspicion.’
She made a noise in her throat.
‘Aubrey, you don’t have to hurt anyone.’
‘Yes, I do. The money. Jane and I worked on it for months. Where is it?’
Luke saw a sedan speeding up behind them. Fast.
‘I don’t have it. I don’t know where he moved it.’
‘You’re lying! Tell me or your father dies.’
Luke looked up at his father. His father shook his head. ‘Don’t tell her. Don’t let these people win.’
That little b—. Jane hadn’t meant Eric. She’d meant Aubrey. Jane thought Aubrey had betrayed her.
The speeding car passed, on the driver’s side, edging Luke’s Navigator.
Henry. Driving fast, a gun in his hand.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ Luke said, slamming the Navigator against Henry’s sedan. The Navigator rocked hard and Warren spun in his seat, grabbing at Aubrey’s gun.
