“A lack of self-control.”
“Yes. Controlling your language, what words come out of your mouth, is one of the most difficult things a person can do. They almost always speak before they think. Your father was the same way.”
I drive up the ramp for the 11th Street Bridge, taking me over the Anacostia River into Washington. Once again I’m expecting there to be a squad of police cars waiting for me. Once again I’m wrong.
“How well did you know my father?”
“Quite well. As I told you, I trained him to kill.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
“That’s an inappropriate question, Holly.”
“What? How is it inappropriate?”
Atticus is silent. Again I think something has gone wrong with the transmitter and touch my ear, just to make sure it’s still there. I glance at the dashboard clock and see it’s already 5:15.
“He talked about you a lot, you know. It was clear he loved your mother and sister very much. But you ... you seemed to be the apple of his eye.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Not at all. But the reason I bring it up is that one time your father mentioned how he saw something strong in you. He said it was something he didn’t see in your sister. You had this strength, this ... this fortitude that he said he didn’t even think he had himself.”
I decide to get off 295, take the exit to D Street SW.
“To be quite honest, I don’t give a shit what my father once said about me. I’m sorry I have to curse like that—I know it shows lack of self-control—but fuck him. He turned out to be an enemy.”
“He’s a conflicted man, I won’t argue that. He is a man who has made his own bed and now he has to sleep in it. I feel responsible, in a way. Perhaps if I had trained him better, or if I had really looked into his heart and soul when I was around him, maybe I could have foreseen him going the other way.”
“Do you know why he did it?”
“I can only speculate.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Speculation is merely what it is. It won’t benefit either of us to continue in that train of thought.”
I continue down D Street, turn up North Carolina Avenue toward Seward Square.
“But he turned, didn’t he? He became ... evil. He became a monster.”
Atticus clears his throat. “Do you see that as his fault?”
“What?”
“Your father did everything he could to keep this country safe. He was asked to do a great deal and he came through, every time. That’s why he was held in such high regard.”
I stop at the traffic light, watch cars pass back and forth on Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Are you defending him?”
“No. But to paraphrase Nietzsche, whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.”
“Yeah, and if you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”
“Why, Holly”—Atticus sounding very pleased—“you are full of surprises, aren’t you?”
I don’t get a chance to answer him, because right then the cell phone rings.
64
“Hello, Holly.”
“Zane.”
“How are you doing this fine evening?”
In my ear, Atticus says, “I need thirty more seconds for a trace.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to call.” I’ve finished the first cigarette and light up a second, taking a long drag. “I have what you want.”
“Are you smoking?”
“What does it matter to you?”
“I always told you those things were bad for you.”
Atticus: “Fifteen more seconds.”
“Look, I have it. I have the flash drive.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“And how do I know you really have what you say you do? How do I know you’re not bluffing?”
The light turns green. I pull forward, driving slowly.
“I guess you’re just going to have to trust me.”
“Trust,” Zane says, a chuckle in his voice. “I guess that was never our strong suit, huh?”
Atticus: “I got him. He’s north of you, right near Union Station.”
I press my foot down on the gas. Speaking calmly, I ask, “How are the kids?”
“Very good, actually.”
“I want to talk to them.”
“I’m sure you do. First, how do I know you really have the flash drive?”
I take a left onto 8th Street.
“I have it, Zane. You know I do.”
A pause. Then, “Yes, I suppose I do. Like I said before, you’re the wildcard. You always come through in a pinch.”
I take a left onto East Capitol Street.
“Besides,” Zane says, “I’ve been keeping up with the news. I know some bad shit went down on 495 about an hour ago. I’m assuming that was you?”
Speeding past trees, buildings, parked cars. Pausing at red lights long enough to ensure I don’t hit anyone and then driving through.
“Let me talk to the children.”
“You know, I had a bet placed with your old man. I really didn’t think you’d come through. I mean, I knew you’d try and everything, but ... shit, they must have had that thing locked up tight, right?”
In my ear, Atticus says, “He’s moving west on E Street. I’m accessing a satellite feed right now. Should have a visual momentarily.”
Pushing the Taurus harder, swerving around slower-moving vehicles, wishing to God I don’t encounter any cops, I say, “Let me talk to the children.”
“Hold on, Holly. Listen, I’m trying to tell you something here. Because like I said, I didn’t think you’d come through. But your old man? He said it wouldn’t be a problem for you. Said it’d be no problem at all. Isn’t that something?”
Turning right onto 2nd Street, heading north, I take the corner a little too hard and feel the back fishtailing. “Zane, please. Let me. Talk to. The children.”
“Okay, okay. Hold on.”
A pause that lasts a couple seconds, feels like it lasts a couple hours.
“Hullo?” says a timid, tired, terrified voice.
Flying up 2nd Street, my fingers tight around the steering wheel, I say, “David, are you all right?”
“Holly?” The voice waking up, gaining strength. “Holly, is that you?”
Before I can answer him the phone is taken away and it’s Zane’s voice I now hear, Zane asking, “Good enough?”
“We now have visual,” Atticus says. “A black utility van, still on E Street and currently passing over 6th Street.”
“Casey,” I nearly shout. “I want to hear Casey’s voice too.”
“She’s sleeping.”
“Wake her up.”
I have to stop for the light on Constitution Avenue; I don’t have a choice. Too much traffic is passing back and forth, counting a police cruiser, and I’m stuck there waiting for the red to change, the cell phone to my ear, my heart racing, my body shaking, doing everything in my power right now not to scream so loud it will shatter every window in a hundred-yard radius.
Another sound of shuffling, then another tired voice, barely even audible, Casey sounding like she’s talking in her sleep.
“Casey!” I shout. “Casey, wake up!”
“Wh-Wh-What?”
“Casey, can you hear me? Are you okay?”
“H-H-Holly?”
The light changes and I gun the engine, shooting me out into the intersection, taking a left down Constitution Avenue, Atticus saying in my ear, “They’re now heading south on 9th Street,” and me saying, “Casey, it’s all right, baby, everything will be okay,” and then Zane taking the phone away, clearing his throat.
“Okay, now that that’s settled, down to business. The Lincoln Memorial, six hundred hours. Do not be early, do not be late. That gives you a little under thirty minutes. Do you think you ca
n be there in time?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because it needs to be done.”
“You used to be good guy. You used to believe in doing the right thing.”
“And what is the right thing, Holly? Working as a puppet like you?”
“I’m not a puppet.”
“No? Then what are you? You take orders from a government that doesn’t even know why they’re giving those orders in the first place. I mean, this is the same government that doesn’t give a shit for the lives of two kids. Goddamn it, Holly, isn’t that fucked up? Two children are being held hostage and Walter ... his hands are tied. He can’t do shit. Now you tell me, what’s the right thing there?”
“That’s not a good enough reason for becoming what you’ve become.”
“I haven’t become anything. I’ve always been this way.”
My foot on the floor, pushing the Taurus forward, Atticus in my ear saying, “Four blocks away ... three blocks away ... two blocks,” Zane clearing his throat again and saying, “You should know how it is. Work is work, right? Remember, six hundred hours sharp,” and then disconnecting the call, the world going silent for a moment, no noise at all, everything around me a blur, tears in my eyes, and then Atticus saying, “One block away ... Holly, why aren’t you slowing down?” and I come to the intersection, slamming on the brakes, flinging off my seatbelt, opening my door and jumping out, Nova’s Beretta already in hand, walking toward the street Zane is coming down, the black utility van slowing at the stop sign, the driver one of the Mexicans, somehow not seeing me, not as I’m twenty feet away, not as I’m ten feet away, not even when I walk right up to his window and raise the gun and pull the trigger.
65
My first two bullets take out the driver. My second two bullets take out the man in the passenger seat, another one of Javier Diaz’s men that are on loan, the guy reaching for his weapon as pieces of the driver’s head splatter all over him, then jerking as he’s shot too, one in the throat, the other in the head.
The utility van is still in drive. The driver now dead, releasing his foot off the brake, the van starts to drift forward.
I hear the rear doors opening, the sound of footsteps on the pavement. Zane’s voice, speaking rapidly, then a figure appears around the corner, a man with a rifle. I fire two more rounds before jumping for cover in front of the van, the van still drifting forward, now out into the middle of the intersection.
Zane’s voice again, much louder now, cursing at the children, and when I peek around the corner I can see my ex-lover dragging both of them by the arms up the street.
I start to turn that way but then pause when the man with the rifle takes a few shots at me, the utility van really moving now, heading toward the corner of the intersection. I keep pace with the van, walking sideways, using it as cover. The man on the other side does the same, waiting for me to make my move.
I hear Zane’s voice cursing again, telling the kids to stop fucking around. They’re already one block up and that’s where I want to be headed right now. But I’m stuck here, the van twenty feet from the curb, moving even faster now, ten feet from the curb, the thing going to crash right into the pole. I’m thinking the guy will expect me to come around the left, behind the van, so I take a breath and sprint toward the front of the van, duck down, dive on the ground just as the van rolls into the pole, the guy not expecting me to be there, coming up in a shooting stance, both hands on the Beretta, firing one two three rounds right into his chest.
I take off running then, right up the street, Zane and the children already a block up from me. Zane is still dragging them, a hand on each arm, and in the dim light of the street lamps I can see that there is duct tape over the children’s mouths, which makes sense, because so far I haven’t heard either one of them scream or cry out.
Zane keeps looking back over his shoulder, trying to make out my progress. When he sees that I’ve taken care of the last man, is headed his way, he has no choice but to let go of one of the children so he can grab for his gun. The child he lets go of is Casey, who he’s holding with his right hand, the right hand reaching down for the gun he has nestled into the small of his back, bringing the gun out and firing off a few wild, random shots.
None come close to me but I take cover behind a car anyway, waiting for the lull, then jumping back up, the Beretta aimed. But I can’t shoot. Not with the children so close to Zane ... only Casey is a few yards ahead of Zane, already running, Zane looking back and forth between me and her, deciding which is more important. He sees me again and fires again but he can’t get a good shot, not while holding onto David, the boy struggling now to release Zane’s grasp on his arm. Zane looks disgusted as he pushes David away, raises his other hand, squares himself to knock off two more shots at me, these much closer, the car I duck behind this time getting hit, the rear windshield shattering, the car alarm going off.
When Zane threw David aside, David tripped over his feet and hit the ground. He recovers quickly, stands back up, sprints up the sidewalk toward his sister. Casey is still running, though she’s not getting very far. David has no trouble coming up behind her, scooping her up in a bear hug, running forward.
Okay, good. Now the kids are out of the way, at least somewhat. I can’t fire directly ahead—too much chance of catching the kids straight behind Zane—so I make a run across the street, ducking as Zane fires at me, more car windows shattering, more alarms going off.
I hop up and slide across one car’s hood, landing on the other side, staying down as he fires a few more rounds. When there’s another lull I pop back up, the angle better now, only a building behind Zane, and I take careful aim and squeeze the trigger twice and one of my bullets grazes his arm, sends him reeling.
The kids are now a block ahead of us, headed straight, David looking like he’ll never slow down. I start toward them but Zane comes back up, shooting wildly again. I drop down behind the car, wait for the next lull. When it happens and I stand up Zane has taken off up the block, sprinting after David and Casey, the children already halfway up the second block.
David looks back quickly, sees Zane coming, pushes himself even harder. Between the buildings is an alleyway and he ducks into it, taking his sister with him, the two disappearing and leaving Zane a block behind them, running even faster.
I start after them.
The Beretta in my right hand, my other hand squeezed into a fist, swinging them as I run up the street.
Zane reaches the alleyway, ducks inside.
One block away, pushing myself, a half block away, almost there, and I’m running so fast, the kids so close, I don’t pause to think about what I should do next; I just do it.
Coming up to the edge of the alley, pressing myself against the brick-siding of the building, raising the gun, listening a moment. Hearing nothing. Then turning, bringing the gun around, but Zane is already there, waiting for me, knocking it out of my hands, the Beretta clattering to the sidewalk, Zane grabbing the front of my shirt, throwing me down to the ground.
“Where’s the flash drive, Holly?”
I have a split second to notice that this alleyway leads into a dead end. Maybe fifty yards from the street, it ends in a brick wall. The children are there, crouched around a dumpster, some trashcans.
“Where’s the fucking flash drive?”
When I don’t answer Zane reaches down, picks me up by my hair, drags me forward. I kick my feet, reach up and press my nails into his skin. He yells out, lets go, turns and kicks me in my side. Falling to his knees, he wraps his hands around my throat, leans in close.
“Where’s the motherfucking flash drive?”
I bring my right foot up, connect my knee with his head, send him sprawling. Sitting up, I lean forward, reaching for the two-shot strapped to my ankle, but Zane is already on his feet, grabbing me by my hair again, dragging me forward.
“Don’t make me kill you in front of these kids, Holly.”
Dragging me, stran
ds of hair being ripped from my scalp, Zane notices me trying to reach again for my ankle and stops. Lets go of my hair. Kicks me again in the ribs. Reaches down, lifts up my pant leg, seizes the two-shot and holds it up in front of my face.
“Always with the same tricks, huh?” He smacks me in the face with the gun. “Always with the same fucking tricks.”
He tosses the two-shot away, behind a trio of trashcans. Cocks his head at me, shakes it and says, “You are one stupid bitch, you know that?”
Stands back up, lifts back his foot and kicks me again in the ribs.
“Where.”
Kick.
“Is.”
Kick.
“The.”
Kick.
“Flash drive!”
Despite the pain, despite at least one broken rib, I manage to turn my body on his last attempted kick. I reach out, grab his foot, and twist.
He loses his balance, falls back on the ground. It doesn’t slow him though. He’s back on his feet even before I can sit up and he reaches down again, grabs me not by the hair this time but by my shirt, pulls me to my feet.
Leaning in close, his breath hot, he says, “I am not fucking around here.”
He says, “I will kill these kids.”
He says, “I will break every single bone in their bodies.”
He opens his mouth to say something else and that’s when I spit, the saliva going right into his mouth. Zane scrunches up his face in disgust, pushes me back toward the trio of trashcans. I stumble back, can’t catch my balance, fall right into them. The sound is immense, the pain even more so. I knock the back of my head on the cement and see stars for a moment, just floating there in front of my face, and then I feel a pressure on my chest, Zane’s knee there, pushing down, his hands crawling around my body, reaching into all the pockets.
“Where is it? Where the fuck do you have it hidden?”
But he finds it only a few seconds later, feeling it there in my breast pocket, the flash drive, his eyes lighting up, a smile creeping on his face, pulling it out and then holding it up, the faint light just enough to illuminate the gold.
No Shelter (Holly Lin, No. 1) Page 24
