by Barry Eisler
For a moment, his vision blurred and his eyes stung. Blood, he realized. He swiped an arm across his face and accomplished nothing—the sleeve was soaked. He used the other arm, and that worked better. He wiped the Espada on the dry sleeve, folded it, and clipped it back in place. Then he stripped off his shirt and used it to clean his face and arms. He could feel his tee shirt had gotten blood on it, too, but it was dark blue, and in the low light he didn’t think the blood would show up right away. If it did, he’d think of something.
He looked through a break in the foliage and saw Evie and the boy. They were thirty yards away and hadn’t seen anything—the bushes were too thick.
He balled up his shirt and crept along until he could see the Suburban. He didn’t think there was anyone else inside, but it wasn’t impossible, either, and he didn’t want to take the chance. He considered slashing a tire, but if there were someone in there, they might feel that and emerge while he was out of position. So instead, he moved forward in a crouch until he was directly behind the vehicle.
He eased out the Force Pro, took a deep breath, stood, and hammer-fisted the butt into the rear window. Glass exploded inward and he saw two men in the middle seats flinch and start to turn. Muscle, waiting in the car to help secure whoever the other two brought back from the apartment. Manus shot the one on the left in the face. The other was quick, ducking down as Manus tracked back to him. Manus adjusted and fired four times through the seatback. He saw blood and brain matter explode onto the back of the front seats, and knew the man was done.
Had anyone heard? The gun had been inside the vehicle, which might have muffled the sound at least somewhat. But he had no way of knowing.
He holstered the Force Pro and jogged back to the pickup. Evie and Dash were just walking up the passenger side. Dash waved hello and gave Manus a big smile. He looked around, wrinkled his nose, and signed, What’s that smell?
The answer, of course, was blood, which Manus knew had a different scent by the liter than it did in whatever sorts of cuts and scrapes Dash might have experienced during a blessedly innocent childhood. Other than the question, the boy seemed untroubled, and Manus assumed Evie had dreamed up a comforting story about why they had to run out.
Someone hit a deer, he signed. I tried to help, but there was nothing I could do.
Can I see? Dash signed.
Manus shook his head. You don’t want to see that. Come on, we should go. He opened the passenger door and Dash got in.
Evie looked in the direction of the Suburban and said, “Was that . . . shooting?” It wasn’t easy to make out the words in the dim light, and Manus wondered why she hadn’t signed. Then he realized: she didn’t want Dash to know.
He opened the pickup’s toolbox and tossed in the bloody shirt. Later, he signed. Did you leave the phones?
She nodded.
All right. Let’s go.
Evie got in and he closed the door behind her. Manus moved toward the back of the truck, yanked off his tee shirt, tossed it on top of the other shirt, then grabbed a fistful of hospital bleach wipes from a canister and cleaned his hands and arms and face. The dirty wipes went on top of the dirty shirt. He’d get rid of it all somewhere safe, and bleach down the toolbox, too. But distance first. He pulled on a clean shirt and got in.
They sat three across, with Dash in the middle. As he drove, Manus caught snatches of the two of them signing. The boy wanted to know where they were going. Evie was telling him Mr. Manus was helping her fix a big problem at work and that she’d explain more just as soon as she could.
Manus drove northwest, keeping to secondary roads. He couldn’t go north to his apartment, and while the urban density of Baltimore to the east and the District to the south were tempting, there were also too many license plate readers in the cities, too many cameras, too many cops. All of which rendered west or northwest a possibly predictable choice, but on the other hand, there were innumerable state and regional parks, forests, and campgrounds in the area. Not to mention cheap motels—the nearby Civil War battlefields were popular attractions. He’d always kept the toolbox well stocked as a bugout kit. He hadn’t planned on using it for three people, but they’d manage. He’d get them somewhere safe, and then they’d figure out what to do.
He just hoped they could agree on what that might consist of.
CHAPTER . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . 39
They drove along dark roads in silence, their surroundings becoming more rural and remote as the night deepened, the headlights of the truck picking up nothing but trees and the odd grain silo and occasional modest houses. Dash was slumped against Evie, asleep. Evie wished she could nod off, too. But she was too terrified by everything that was happening, and everything that had happened before.
When she had awakened in the van, she’d first thought she’d been in some kind of accident and was now in an ambulance. Someone was asking her if her head hurt. But she couldn’t move . . . had they strapped her to a gurney?
Then she had seen that man—Delgado—and the way he was looking at her, like she was something he was planning to cook and eat. And she remembered Marvin, outside the supermarket, and it all came back to her in a sickening rush.
The man had looked familiar, which somehow had made the whole thing even more disturbing and surreal. And then she’d realized why: the camera footage. The man who had planted the bomb and then disappeared in the cemetery. He’d been wearing a cap and glasses, but that sneer was unforgettable.
She had been sure she was going to die. And then Marvin had shown up, claiming to have the thumb drive, and she hadn’t known what the hell to think. And then . . . had he shot someone in the parking lot of her building? She thought that was what she’d heard, and there was that story about a deer, but when she’d asked he hadn’t answered. But had someone been waiting for her outside her building? Had Marvin killed someone there?
There was too much happening. She couldn’t keep up. And now that the immediate danger had passed, she felt herself wanting to fall apart. But she couldn’t. She had to stay strong for Dash. She just needed a little time to catch her breath. And more than anything, to think. Think.
Marvin had stopped to switch the truck’s license plates just outside of Clarksville, explaining that he kept a spare pair in the truck toolbox just in case. She was glad he was well outfitted, but it made her uncomfortable, too. She had thought she knew who he was. She had taken him into her home, into her body. And now . . . she felt confused, and frightened, and violated. And also grateful, because he certainly seemed to know what he was doing in the current situation while she didn’t have a clue. But how much could she really trust him?
Somewhere north of Gettysburg, she was finally beginning to nod off from nervousness and exhaustion—or was it the aftereffects of whatever drug they’d given her?—when she felt the pickup stop. She shook herself awake and looked around, seeing nothing but rolling fields and farmland. Marvin was gesturing to a poorly illuminated sign next to a driveway to their right: Big Sky Motel. Beneath the faded blue and red letters, flickering in pink neon, the word Vacancy.
Independent, he signed. We can use cash.
She stared down the driveway but couldn’t see where it led. How do you know?
The corporate chains have policies. The independents are usually family run. They’re getting harder to find, but they’ll always take a cash deposit.
She decided to file his apparent experience with that sort of thing in the same place she had filed his spare license plates: as something better examined later.
Wait, she signed. Cash is bad. They might be looking for that pattern. Someone registering at a hotel within a certain radius of my apartment tonight. For cash.
They can do that?
I’m getting the feeling I don’t know a fraction of what they can do.
I have some prepaid credit cards. Unused. Untraceable to me. In case of emergency.
She smiled faintly. Well, I guess this is an emergency
.
I’ll tell them to not even register us. It’s just going to be a night clerk. For an extra fifty bucks, they’ll give us a room key and forget to enter us into the system. Look at this place. I doubt it’s part of Travelocity or whatever.
You sure?
He nodded and turned right into the driveway. A swimming pool was illuminated by the passing headlights, then disappeared again in the darkness. Then an old swing set, a lopsided picnic table, some chairs. He parked a little way past the office—just beyond where someone inside could see the pickup without getting up, she noted. He wasn’t hiding them, but he wasn’t making it easy for anyone, either.
She rolled down the window and heard only the sound of crickets. No distant traffic, no neighbors, nothing. She leaned her head out and looked up. The sky was studded with stars.
Marvin returned a few minutes later. He pulled the truck door closed behind him and showed her a key on a plastic fob. Thirty-four dollars, he signed. Plus a fifty-dollar security deposit. And another fifty for not entering us into their computer system because I’m paranoid about my office finding out I’m playing hooky. Old guy, well into a bottle of Four Roses. He’s not going to remember us.
She nodded and gave him a small smile. He must have known how upset she was, and was trying to make her feel better. It wasn’t much, but maybe it was something.
Their room was at the far end of the structure, which was shaped like a U around a central parking area. Marvin backed in directly in front of the door. She figured parking nose-out was for a quick getaway, but again decided not to ask.
He cut the engine and looked around. Stay here for a minute.
She glanced at Dash. He was still out cold. Why?
He removed the ashtray, and from behind it withdrew a small leather pouch, which he placed on his lap. I’m going to let us into the room next to ours. I asked the owner to give us a room with unoccupied ones alongside it because my wife is a light sleeper. He said no problem, we’re mostly empty tonight, I’ll give you a room at the end of the complex.
She glanced at the leather pouch. Those are lock picks?
He nodded.
She had to ask. Marvin . . . who are you?
He stared through the windshield, into the darkness.
Right now, I’m not really sure.
CHAPTER . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . 40
The room was clean and functional: two queen beds separated by a nightstand; a table and two chairs; pine-paneled walls and low-pile carpeting. It was deluxe compared to some of the places Manus had stayed, but he wasn’t sure how the woman and the boy would like it. He knew Evie was scared and uncertain, though she was doing a good job of hiding it. Dash seemed all right, and Manus sensed he was picking up his emotional cues from his mother.
They all took turns in the small bathroom. Manus went last, and when he came out, Dash was in pajamas. Smart of Evie, to bring something of their home routine on the road with them, a small comfort for her son. Far back in his mind, Manus was aware of that feeling—a ghost, a vanished memory, a shadow from another life. He noticed Evie looking at him closely and pushed it away.
Dash went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Manus pointed to the bed farthest from the exterior door, then signed, You take that one. Better for me to be closer to the door.
She looked frightened at that, and he realized the possibility of having to engage someone breaching the door was new and unnerving to her. Along with, presumably, everything else that was happening. He signed, Just being careful.
I’ve noticed that about you.
I’m sorry.
It’s okay. I think we need it right now.
I mean . . . I’m sorry for everything.
Dash came out of the bathroom. He handed Evie his toothbrush and yawned.
She smiled at him. Time for bed.
He smiled back. No school tomorrow?
No school.
He walked over to Manus and looked up at him. Thanks for helping my mom.
Manus nodded, not knowing how to explain that he deserved no thanks for anything he had done.
When you’re finished, will you help me build a desk under my loft? My mom said you might.
Manus glanced over at Evie. She looked discomfited, and he gathered she hadn’t expected the boy to repeat that. And of course whenever she’d said it, things had been completely different.
Only if you help me carry the lumber.
The boy’s face lit up in a big smile and he held out his hand. Manus shook it, and then the boy hugged him. As always, it made Manus feel strange—guilty, happy, sad.
And now, he realized, something else, as well. What? Maybe . . . protective. Not the way he always had with the director. That was different. This was . . . he didn’t know. He’d think about it later.
Evie tucked the boy in and kissed his forehead. She held out the tee shirt the boy had been wearing and signed, Mister Manus and I are going to talk for a few minutes. Put this over your eyes so the light won’t disturb you, okay?
The boy signed, It’s okay, it won’t bother me, and Manus knew he wanted to see what they were saying.
Evie smiled. You go to sleep.
Manus signed, It’s late. Probably better to turn the lights off anyway. We can just talk in the bathroom.
Evie looked at him for a moment, then nodded in apparent understanding. No advantage to having light creeping under the door or through the edges of the drapes and drawing attention to the room, even though they were registered in the one adjacent to it.
They left the door open a crack. Evie sat on the edge of the tub; Manus took the closed toilet.
She glanced through the crack in the door as though at the world outside, then signed, What are we supposed to do?
He knew how it would sound, but he said it anyway. You have to give the director the thumb drive.
She looked at him for a long moment. How do you know I have it?
They told me you do.
How did they know? How did they know about the Rockville mail drop?
I don’t know. The director told me you had stolen media, probably a thumb drive, and that we had to get it back.
Do you even know what this is about?
Manus was perplexed. He didn’t know. Not really. He didn’t need to. He really just wants the thumb drive. That’s why—
She shook her head forcefully. No. That’s not just what he wants. Maybe it was at one point. But not anymore.
Manus knew she might be right, probably was right. But his way at least offered a chance. He had to persuade her. Then what?
She hesitated. Manus knew she was gauging how much she should trust him. If he were in her shoes, he knew he wouldn’t say anything. But maybe she decided she had no choice, because she signed, I told you, I saw some things I wasn’t supposed to. I guess that’s what you were fishing for, weren’t you?
He nodded, ashamed.
I was talking about the bombing in DC, she continued. The director was behind it.
Manus didn’t understand. What do you mean, behind it?
He did it. He ordered it.
Manus shook his head, certain she was mistaken. He had killed many people on the director’s orders, of course. But those actions had always been discriminate, even surgical. They’d never involved innocents. Never a massacre.
No, he signed, not sure of who he was trying to convince. He would never do that.
Your friend Delgado planted the bomb.
What?
I saw him plant the bomb. On a food truck. I monitored him via video footage, and he knew exactly where to exploit the gaps in my coverage so I couldn’t track where he came from before or where he went after. Who else could have told him about those gaps? I don’t think anyone besides the director even knows about the camera networks.
No, the director would never—
What do you think, the director is some kind of nice guy? Delgado was going to kill me tonight. I think he was supposed to
make it look like some random abduction and rape. You think the director didn’t know about all that?
Manus didn’t answer. Knowing the director would allow something like that was already almost unbearable. As for the bomb . . . for the first time, he allowed himself to wonder why the director had sent him back to Turkey to kill those men. And take their cell phones.
Did you know?
Manus shook his head violently.
Did you?
Not . . . at first. At first I thought it was just about the thumb drive. But then . . .
He couldn’t finish.
Then what?
It was like his world had been shattered, and now someone was shattering even the pieces. Why? Why would the director set off a bomb?
He wanted an excuse to launch a drone strike on where they were holding that kidnapped journalist Ryan Hamilton. Hamilton was working with an NSA whistleblower, Daniel Perkins, the one who died in a car accident in Ankara the same day Hamilton was kidnapped. You think that’s a coincidence?
How do you know Hamilton was working with Perkins?
There was a pause, then she signed, Camera networks. That’s my job. I hack the networks and I wrote the software that monitors them all with a biometric matching program.
Manus struggled to keep up. So . . . you saw Hamilton and Perkins together?
She nodded. In Istanbul. I’m the one who told the director about it. Which I think is part of the reason he went to such lengths to make what happened to Hamilton and Perkins look so . . . I don’t know. Disconnected. Random. He knew I was going to suspect.
But why kidnap Hamilton if he wanted him dead?
I think he was supposed to die. The kidnapping was intended to be a kind of circuit breaker. I mean, a journalist getting kidnapped by some ISIS-affiliated jihadist group . . . how would anyone connect something like that to the director? But something went wrong. Whoever kidnapped Hamilton didn’t kill him the way they were supposed to. So the director had Delgado plant a bomb, and claimed it was the same terrorist group that was holding Hamilton, and convinced the president to launch a drone strike. All to kill Hamilton. All to cover up whatever Hamilton had gotten from Perkins.
