He knew too that he had to provide evidence that would take Rocha down—but that would take him down in an acceptable manner. The DEA was already aware of him, already working to nail him, so Gael’s job was to make sure he didn’t get nailed down too.
He watched Sarah and Grayson splashing in the water and he smiled.
He wondered, not for the first time, what Sarah would think if she found out what he was really capable of, what she would do if she found out who he really was.
But there was no place in his mind for such thoughts.
He was Gael Castillo Jimenez. He was a husband and a father.
Mulligan Shoibli was some other person, someone from his past.
He glanced left and saw a man in pink swim trunks and flip-flops watching him. The man wore Ray-Bans, so Gael couldn’t see his eyes, but he seemed to be watching him. He touched his right ear and moved his mouth as if speaking—but there was no one around to listen.
For a moment, he thought nothing about it. A strange man was standing on the beach, touching his ear, and talking to himself.
But two seconds later, he understood.
He hadn’t gotten away with anything. Not yet.
He turned away from the agent and looked back toward Sarah and Grayson playing in the water. He smiled at them and waved with his right hand while with his left he reached into his beach bag. It held towels and sunblock and powdered formula in a plastic container and a few bottles, a small jug of water and swimming diapers. It also held a .25 caliber pistol, which was hidden within a cut-out section of a James Patterson novel. He’d bought it illegally because he knew he’d be transporting great sums of money and wanted protection, and since then, had been carrying it with him. He’d spent years with a gun on his person and felt naked without one anymore. He’d thought it pointless to carry the weapon here—it was just something he did because it made him feel better—but now he was glad he had it.
He glanced right, casually, to see if he was being watched by anyone else. There was another man about forty yards away, and though he didn’t do anything as obvious as touch his ear while looking at him, Gael knew a DEA agent when he saw one—now that he was looking for one. He slipped the novel out of his beach bag, opened it, pretending to read, and slid the .25 into his pocket. He pretended to read for five minutes, smoking a cigarette while he did so, watching the agents from the corners of his eyes. He slipped into the Original Penguin polo shirt that had been resting on the towel beside him. He got to his feet and waved at Sarah.
He walked down to the water and when he got to Sarah he said, “I’m a little tired from all this sun. I think I’m gonna go in and take a nap.”
“Grayson and I are gonna stay out a little while longer. He just loves this water.”
“Okay.”
Gael looked down at his son. His son giggled at him and slapped his tiny palm against the water’s surface.
“I’ll see you in a little bit, Gray,” Gael said. He leaned down and kissed his son’s forehead. He kissed Sarah’s mouth. “All right. Have fun, kids.”
“You okay, Gael?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I dunno, you seem a little … off.”
“Just the sun, I guess.”
“Okay. Go take that nap.”
“I will.”
He took a drag from his cigarette, turned around, and headed back toward the hotel. He flicked the cigarette away and slipped his hand into his pocket. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but he knew this: he’d never see his wife or son again. If he got away, he’d have to disappear. If he didn’t, he’d be in prison for the rest of his life.
He didn’t like it, but he’d already come to accept it.
What he hadn’t accepted was that he was going to be taken down. The DEA was going to make its move soon, he knew that much, but he still had hope. He still believed he had a chance.
A white van parked on the street about half a block south of the hotel.
He saw it and stopped.
If he went to the hotel, they’d rush out of the van and arrest him.
He couldn’t let that happen.
They were watching him. They were waiting for their moment. Well—he’d choose their moment for them. He’d make it happen so that he could control the circumstances. He glanced over his shoulder toward the beach. Sarah and Grayson playing in the water. About ten yards from them, a Jet Ski was parked on the sand. He could ride it out into the water, circle the island. He could get to his bank, collect money and identification from a safe deposit box, and disappear. Really, it was his only option. That or allow himself to be taken down, which he wasn’t about to do.
The agents on the beach weren’t armed. They were there only to watch him, which meant he could use one of them as a shield—better than using a civilian.
Well—fuck it. Let’s do this.
He pulled the .25, aimed at the van, and shot out the right rear tire. The gun emitted only a small pop, like a firecracker, and then the tire was flat.
Gael turned and ran.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw DEA agents rushing out of the van’s back door. Five of them, including George Rankin, and he had five rounds left in his weapon. He could make this work. He ran toward the agent nearest the Jet Ski. Sarah was standing in the water, holding Grayson in her arms, watching him. But he pushed her out of his mind.
The agent looked up at him, positioned himself to tackle Gael, but even as Gael ran, he aimed at the guy’s leg and pulled his trigger.
A mist of blood hung in the air.
People all around turned their heads to look.
The agent started to drop to his knees, but before he could, Gael wrapped his free arm around the man’s neck, and holding the agent against his chest, spun around to see where George and the others were.
About thirty yards behind them. Wearing suits and ties on the beach.
Gael put his pistol against his hostage’s temple.
Now he had four bullets in his gun and five armed agents coming after him.
George Rankin walked toward him. “It’s over, Gael.”
“It’s not over until I say it’s over, George.”
“There’s no way out of this.”
“Stop walking toward me,” Gael said, even as he backed toward the Jet Ski.
George took another step.
Gael aimed at one of the agents standing behind George, all of them now with their weapons drawn, and fired off a round.
Hit the motherfucker in the stomach. He grunted and bent over at the waist but didn’t fall. Did not even drop his weapon.
“I said to stop walking toward me.”
“Okay, okay,” George said. “Don’t shoot anyone else.”
“All you guys need to drop your fucking guns.”
“If you don’t come in today, we’ll get you six months from now.”
“I’ll take those six months, George. Throw your fucking weapon into the water—all of you, throw your fucking weapons into the water or I’ll shoot someone else, and this time I’ll aim between the eyes.”
“Okay, Gael,” George said. “Okay.”
George threw his pistol into the water.
Three of the other agents followed his lead. The fourth had finally dropped to his knees, and was watching blood bloom on his shirt, still holding his gun in hand.
“Somebody throw his piece into the water.”
One of the other agents threw it.
Gael, who’d continued to back away, was now beside the Jet Ski. People all over the beach were standing and watching. He glanced toward Sarah. Grayson was crying in her arms while she looked at him with sad eyes. But he was surprised to see there was no confusion on her face. He’d tried to hide what he was from her, but he saw now that she’d known. At least on some level she had. He turned away from her, unable to bear the sadness in her eyes.
“I’m going to have to shoot you guys now.”
“Gael, you don’t need to shoot anybody.
We’re unarmed. We did what you asked.”
“Right now you are. I’m sorry, George, but I need to get off this island.”
Police sirens wailed in the distance. The local police on their way.
Gael aimed his pistol at one of the agents. He squeezed his trigger. The bullet hit the agent in the throat.
* * *
James had been watching the hotel, but movement on the beach drew his attention. He panned his rifle toward it. He saw Gael run toward the water. He saw him shoot a man in swim trunks. He saw him grab the man by the throat and use him as a shield while five DEA men—all of them in suits—ran after him.
James estimated that they were fifteen hundred yards away—two hundred yards short of a mile. He’d made such shots on the range, but never in the real world. He’d never been expected to. But he’d have to do it now.
Gael shot one of the DEA agents in the stomach.
James adjusted his sight.
The DEA agents threw their guns into the water.
James licked his finger and held it up into the air, trying to judge the wind. At this distance, it would be enough to make him miss.
Gael shot one of the agents in the throat.
James lined him up in his crosshairs, then shifted slightly up and to the right to account for distance and wind.
Gael aimed at another agent.
James exhaled, and just as the last of the breath was leaving his lungs, he squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened for a moment, then Gael’s head kicked back, a mist of blood hung in the air, and he dropped to the beach.
Water ran up over his body and then retreated again.
James shoved his rifle into the guitar case, clipped it shut, and walked away.
EPILOGUE
Later that night, James disassembled his rifle, shoved the parts into the guitar case, and walked down to the water. He set the guitar case on the sand, opened it, and went about throwing the pieces into the ocean. When it was finished, he stood on the beach and looked out at the black water. For six months, he’d wanted nothing so much as he’d wanted the man who killed his sister to die. Now he had died, and James didn’t know what to feel. The anger, the need for vengeance, was gone, but it had been replaced by nothing. He only felt hollow and didn’t know what he was supposed to fill that emptiness with.
He closed his eyes, and projected on the wall of his skull, saw Pilar smiling at him, her brown eyes full of love.
He opened his eyes and looked out at the black water a moment longer. Turned around and headed back to the hotel, leaving the guitar case where it lay.
* * *
The next day, with a duffel bag hanging off his shoulder, he boarded a flight that would take him back to Atlanta, where he’d catch a second flight, that one taking him to El Paso. To Pilar.
He walked down the aisle to his seat. When he reached his row, he looked down.
George Rankin looked up at him from the window seat. His face was haggard, tired, but there was a slight smile touching his lips all the same.
“James Murphy.”
“Special Agent George Rankin. Quite a coincidence.”
“Not a coincidence at all. I figured only you would’ve made that shot so I checked passenger lists.”
James stowed his duffel bag and sat down.
“What shot are you talking about?”
“So it’s like that, is it?”
“Like what? I’m honestly confused by this conversation.”
“Okay,” George said. “Forget it.”
“How are your agents?”
George smiled. “Looks like everybody’s gonna live. They’re staying here to recover.”
“There are worse places to get well.”
“I’d say.”
Fifteen minutes later, their plane took to the sky. When the flight attendant arrived with the drink cart, George Rankin bought James a scotch.
* * *
James stepped out of the terminal and saw Pilar waiting for him by a taxicab. She smiled and opened her arms. He hugged her. He inhaled the scent of her neck, the scent of her perfume. Petite Cherie. Every time he smelled it, he thought of her. He kissed her neck.
He thought of Layla. He thought of the man who’d killed her. Some lives were stolen and when a life was stolen, you made the person who stole it pay, and the cost of a life was another life. That’s what he’d believed. He wasn’t sure he believed it anymore. That hollow feeling inside made him question the rightness of that belief.
But what was done was done. It was time to move forward. It was time to fill his life with something else. He’d lived with violence for years; it was time to live a different kind of life.
A better kind of life.
“Let’s go home,” he said.
ALSO BY RYAN DAVID JAHN
Good Neighbors
Low Life
The Dispatcher
The Last Tomorrow
The Gentle Assasin
Dark Hours
The Algebra of Blood
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RYAN DAVID JAHN’s debut, Acts of Violence, went on to win the Crime Writers’ Association’s John Creasey Dagger. He has since published several other novels: Low Life; The Dispatcher, which was long-listed for the CWA Ian Fleming Steel Dagger; The Last Tomorrow; The Gengle Assassin; and Dark Hours. Jahn lives in Louisville, Kentucky, with his wife and two daughers. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraphs
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
Also by Ryan David Jahn
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
THE BREAKOUT. Copyright © 2017 by St. Martin’s Press, LLC. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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Cover design by David Curtis
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-07450-8 (ha
rdcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-8620-9 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466886209
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First Edition: January 2017
The Breakout Page 27
