10 Fatal Strike

by Shannon McKenna

  He still didn’t look happy. “Hold your head up straighter,” he said, frowning. “Try not to look so scared.”

  “Try not to be a jerk,” she suggested.

  His grin flashed. He snapped the picture, gave it a long, critical once-over, then tapped the phone again.

  “Let me see it,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about it. You look beautiful.” He thumbed open his call again, held it to his ear. “Yeah. Me again. Sent. Yeah, okay. I’ll pass you to her.” He held out his phone. “Here. Talk to my friend, Seth.”

  She looked at the proffered phone as if it were a snake that might bite her. “What . . . who?”

  “He’s helping us,” he explained, impatiently. “He has information for you. Info I do not want to store in my own head, so I can’t pass it on to you. He has to give it to you directly. Got it?”

  She still hesitated, so he just grabbed her hand and slapped the phone into it. She held it up to her ear. It was so warm from his hand.

  “Um, hello?” she said. “This is Lara.”

  “Hey. I’m Seth.” The guy’s deep voice sounded angry. “Miles wants me to give you some coordinates, so pay attention. Buy a bus ticket for Pendleton, via Eugene, then Portland. There’s one that leaves in an hour and ten, and if you miss it, you’ll wait four more hours, so don’t. Once you’re in Pendleton, get a cab to the Hampton Inn. The front desk will be holding a package for Melissa Whelan. Got that? Melissa Whelan, that’s you, now. Your wallet got left behind, so you had it couriered to your hotel. Your room for the night is paid. In the morning, you rent a car, and blow on out of there, fast. Once you’re off, none of us will know where you are. Still with me?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “The debit card has twenty-five grand on it. When it runs out, use the credit card. I would quiz you on all this, make sure you’ve got it, but Miles doesn’t want to contaminate his pristine brain with your data,” the guy grumbled. “Fucking nuts, if you ask me.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” she said.

  “Another thing. We need a way to communicate, which is tricky, since we could be monitored by the big psycho badass. So, as per his Royal Highness’s strict instructions, I opened up a new Yahoo account. Username, UHaveGot2BKidding, all words capitalized, U and B single letters, “to” the number 2, no spaces. Password, PsiFreakBGone, no spaces, all words capped, B a single letter, and follow it with two exclamation points. You need to communicate with us, log onto that account and leave me a message in the drafts folder. Got that?”

  Lara squeezed her eyes shut, pummeling her tired brain into a mode that could take in and efficiently store that kind of information. She had to visualize it written. “Um . . . I think so,” she faltered.

  “Not good enough,” Seth barked. “Go find a goddamn pen and paper, if you’re not sure!”

  “I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” she assured him.

  “So this is the deal. I’ll check that account a few times a day. You ever need anything, money, documents, help, whatever, you let us know. Got it?”

  The subtext was clear. That if she ever needed his help, it was because the worst had happened and Miles was gone. And they were helping her for his sake. In his memory.

  “Yeah,” she said, her voice thick. “Thanks. I really apprec—”

  “Thank Miles, not me. He made it happen.”

  “Oh, I do. I have. Several times,” she told him.

  “Good,” the man said. “He needs to hear it. Good luck, and be careful. Pass that crazy bastard back to me.”

  She did so, her throat too tight to speak, and gathered up her armful of clothes. Miles hunched over the phone again, pulling her behind him as he muttered and argued into it. He stopped a few times on the way to grab a big, multicolored knit cap, which he tossed onto her pile. Then it was a pair of somewhat wacky, battered, mirror sunglasses, big, perfectly round discs, like John Lennon specs. With the pea coat and the hat, it was going to be quite the bold and edgy look. Certainly not her usual style, but she supposed that was the point.

  The last thing he grabbed was a bright-blue canvas gym bag. He tossed it on the counter, turning away to finish his conversation. Lara lay her pile on top of it, and the old guy began ringing them up. Miles didn’t turn to look, even when her frothy ivory dress was sprawled all over the counter and spilling halfway to the floor.

  Miles pried out his wallet and handed it to her, just as the guy announced the grand total of fifty-two dollars. He had no small bills, just a thick, intimidating wad of hundreds. She handed one over.

  The guy peered over his glasses. “Got anything smaller?”

  “Sure don’t,” Lara said. “Sorry.”

  He grumbled, but made the change. Lara packed the stuff into the duffel. She donned the coat, which lapped down over her shoulders and almost reached her ankles. Miles shoved the hat down over her eyes, and perched the sunglasses on her nose. She swatted his ass smartly when he dared to laugh at the resulting outfit.

  Then it was down the block and across the street, to the funky little diner for a meal. They were very quiet after the waitress took their order. Miles put his hands out on the table, like he was going to reach for her hand, but his phone rang.

  He pulled it out. Stared at the buzzing thing. Not answering.

  “What? Who is it?” she asked, unnerved.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Only Aaro, Sean, Connor and Kev should have this number. This was the burner. I didn’t give it to anyone else.”

  “Don’t answer it,” she said swiftly.

  He shrugged. “If they know that I answer this phone, then they probably know where I am already. I might as well learn what there is to learn, rather than stay ignorant.” He tapped the screen. “Yeah?”

  He listened quietly, for several minutes, not looking Lara in the eye. “No shit,” he muttered. “Wow. Yeah, of course. I’ll come in and defend myself as soon as possible, but I can’t now, because I . . . yeah, I know, but . . . I will, as soon as I can, but . . .”

  He covered his face with his hand. Lara could hear the guy on the other end literally bellowing at him.

  “Look, man.” Miles’ voice was hushed. “I appreciate the heads-up. I am so sorry about Barlow. Jesus, Sam. I’ll do everything I can to make this right for you, but right now, I have to go.”

  He hung up the phone and immediately turned it off.

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  He took so long to answer, she started getting scared. She drummed her finger on the table. “Miles,” she said, imitating his alpha master and commander voice. “Spit it out. Right now.”

  Miles dragged another item out of his bag, a nylon pouch with long straps and clasps, still refusing to meet her eyes. “That was Sam Petrie. A cop friend of mine.”

  “And?” she prompted. “What’s the heads-up for? Sorry about what? Defend yourself against what? What’s happening?”

  He rubbed his face, glancing around at all the other customers in the diner, and leaned closer. “Greaves has been busy,” he said quietly. “He’s set me up. I have this shack, on some land I own up in the Cascades. They staged the place to look like I’m the one who’s been holding you captive. And they buried those guys I killed out back.”

  She blinked rapidly, trying to process it. “But that’s ridiculous,” she said sharply. “All I have to do is tell them the truth.”

  He shrugged. “Your trustworthiness as a witness will be in question if they think you were sequestered and brainwashed.”

  Something rose up inside her, close to hysteria. “So they’ll call me crazy? They’ll lock you up? They won’t believe what I say about you?”

  “We can’t afford to worry about this right now,” he said. “Let’s just pretend that it never—”

  “No! I’m not going to pretend! I’m on to you, Miles. You don’t expect to live through this, so it’s not really your problem, right? You’re just blowing it off!”

  He grabbed her hand, squeezed it.
“Lara,” he said. “Please.”

  His eyes were anguished. She cut off her rant, and pressed the paper napkin against her eyes.

  When she was back under control, she blew her nose into the napkin and stared down at Miles’ battered, scabbed brown hand, enveloping hers. His other hand held the canvas bag, and when she met his eyes, he shoved it across the table at her. “Put this in your bag. There’s about thirteen grand. The debit card has twenty-five more.”

  She stared at it, recoiling. “I can’t take that.”

  He gave her an incredulous look. “Fucked if you won’t! Don’t tell me you’re going to get uptight about the stupid stuff? Now?”

  “Thirty-eight thousand bucks? You call that stupid? You’ll need that money yourself. That’s a huge amount of money!”

  He squeezed her hand again. “Lara,” he said. “I have lots of money. I’ve socked it away all over the place, more than I know how to spend. If I can’t spend it on the people I love, what the fuck good is it?”

  She shook her head. So damned uncomfortable with it.

  “If we get through whatever’s going to happen, and it runs out, I’ll just make more,” he said. “Read my lips. Not. An. Issue. Got it?”

  She stared down, miserably, at the canvas bag he’d shoved beneath her hand. All that it represented, and all that it threatened.

  She didn’t want his money. She wanted him. Always and forever, and this was a poor, poor trade. “I already owe you so much,” she said.

  He reached up, touched her face. “I just wish it were more. And I owe you just as much, you know. You saved my ass, too.”

  She snorted. “That is bullshit.”

  “It’s true,” he said, stubbornly. He lifted his hand to touch her face, stroking her cheek slowly and hypnotically with the side of his index finger. “But we are light years past this conversation, you and I.”

  She was lulled by his silken voice, the faint, rhythmic caress on her face. The unique mix of caustic irony and gentleness that was Miles. She turned her face, pressing it against his hand, like a cat.

  He cupped her cheek in his palm, leaning closer. “You do know that everything I have is yours, right?” he asked, and this time, there was no irony in his voice at all. “Till the end of time. Did you get that memo, in all the excitement? Or do we need to play catch-up?”

  She squeezed her wet eyes shut and shook her head.

  “I’m not just talking about money. I’m talking all of it. Heart, soul, body. All my hopes for the future. The places I want to see with you, the stories we’ll tell, our adventures together. The meals we’ll cook, the walks, the drives. All the nights together, all the mornings. Coffee and toast, conversations and jokes. All the winters and the springs and the summers and the falls. For as long as we get. All yours, Lara.”

  She pressed her hand to her mouth. It burned, inside her. A sweet and awful twisting pain, that vision which could never exist.

  He reached up with ritual slowness, and brushed her tears away.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, stop it,” she forced out through trembling lips. “Don’t make me cry. You’re killing me.”

  He pulled her hand up. Pressed her knuckles to his lips, and then to his forehead. Bowing his head and hiding his own face.

  She lost it for a while, but fought until she could drag in a breath without hitching and gurgling. She blew her nose into her napkin. Miles wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and gave the bag another push. “Put it in your bag,” he said. “Don’t leave it lying around.”

  She took it, still hesitating. “Did you take enough to rent a car?”

  “I have plenty,” he assured her gently.

  The waitress arrived with their food, so they pulled themselves together. She got down more than half of the chili and cornbread, but even Miles seemed to have trouble getting around his sandwich today.

  “Will you give me your phone number?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “You don’t need the phone to contact me,” he said. “And if you can’t reach me that way, then the phone will be useless in any case. Come on, your bus is leaving soon.”

  The station was a small one, just a few blocks away, next to a railroad track. Miles stayed way back, careful not to watch or listen as she bought her ticket and tucked it inside her jacket.

  He walked her over, and held her, breathlessly tight, arms shaking, outside the gaping door of the bus. The driver finally leaned out, frowning. “All aboard,” he bawled.

  She climbed on, clutching her bag. She couldn’t look away from his eyes. Breaking that eye contact would rip something vital out of her.

  She shouldn’t have agreed to this. She saw his logic, she followed his reasoning, but only with her head. Not with her heart.

  The bus lumbered away. She craned her neck back, staring at his tall, broad, graceful body, the coat blowing back like an old-fashioned greatcoat. His hair lifted in the wind. His love for her shone from his eyes. She clung to the sight of him. Every second she could look at him was a desperate gulp of air.

  And she was about to dive underwater.

  Tearful farewells played hell with the grinding war machine.

  Miles was a mess when her bus turned the corner. Luckily for him, icy algorithms and laser sharp hyper-functioning wits were not required to buzz around on a motorcycle and look for a car rental. He was so grateful for the alternative identity the McCloud Crowd had given him on his thirtieth birthday. A costly, blatantly illegal gift. To think he’d laughed in their faces at the time. Hah. Payback.

  Petrie said that they had recovered a Glock 23 revolver from a dumpster right near the car that held Barlow’s body. His gun. As if he’d be stupid enough to murder a cop and then dispose of the gun in a dumpster at the scene. Then again, normal people did dumb things in the aftermath of committing violent crimes. He was a long way from normal now. Farther than he’d ever dreamed he’d get.

  In any case, the impending manhunt just accelerated his agenda. He wished he could go to the McCloud Crowd, with their experience, their confidence, their ferocious expertise, like he’d been doing ever since they’d discovered each other years ago. But the time for that was past. He’d gotten them all into this fucking tarpit. He’d put their young, vulnerable families at risk. Now he had to put it right.

  One fatal strike, fast and hard. As far from everyone that could be used against him as possible. Lara, the McCloud Crowd and their progeny, his parents, hell, even Cindy was probably in danger, if they’d fingered Jeannie. He’d lived with her for years, and followed her around for years before that. He hoped Erin had warned her.

  He rented a car with the alternate driver’s license, the matching credit card. Rain poured down. It would take hours to get to Blaine. He found some mindless rock on the radio to zone out to, and hit the road.

  His thoughts kept on drifting rebelliously over to that fantasy he’d spun for Lara of their life together. The days and the nights, the winters and the summers. Jesus, he had to stop that self-indulgent shit. He wasn’t coming out of this clusterfuck with his life intact. He’d be lucky to survive at all. Or not. Maximum security prison, or death row. Neither of them could be characterized as lucky. Oregon had the death penalty on the books, though they’d never used it.

  Maybe they’d make a special exception for dickheads like him, who murdered cops and billionaire philanthropists.

  It occurred to him that with his developing abilities, it was quite possible that no prison could hold him unless he chose to be held.

  That idea did not make him any happier. Life as a fugitive. Great.

  He blew out a hard, sharp breath. Time to rev up the war machine and do the hard thing. As far as it took. Even if he had to forget who he was. Become something else entirely.

  He would finish that bastard before they ran him down.

  It was pissing rain and dark when Lara got to the Portland bus depot. She roused herself from her contemplation of the raindrops coursing sideways on the bus window, the streaks a
nd blurs of colored light, to scoop up her bag. She had to change buses again. The money bag was belted around her waist, since it made her flipping nervous, carrying thirteen thousand bucks around in a tatty old gym bag, and the canvas was thick and uncomfortably scratchy against her skin.

  The bus station blew her mind. It was the first time she’d had to deal with a big, crowded public place since Miles had pulled her out of the rat hole, and it was overwhelming. Intense echoing noise, the swirling crush of fast-moving people, the garish colors of the candy stands and the magazine racks, the juice and soda machines. So much blazing fluorescent light. She was grateful for the sunglasses.

  Keep it together. Just act normal, just keep moving. This is what normal looks like. One little story swirling with a whole bunch of other stories. A strand in a cobweb. Normal. Normal.

  She peered at her ticket, eyes watering. Her eyes were a problem. She was nearsighted, and had worn contacts way back when. A million years ago, the pre-rat hole, pre–psi-max Lara Kirk. A woman she barely remembered. They’d abducted her in the night, and she’d been without vision correction ever since. Not that it had mattered in her cell. It sure mattered now, though. Her blurry vision made her feel vulnerable and naked. Like she needed any more of that.

  She had to walk all the way over to right under the monitor, take the sunglasses off and peer up, squinting for a long time to figure out the numbers, the destinations, the gates.

  hey u howzitgoing popped up on her internal screen.

  It literally weakened her knees. She was flooded with warmth and unreasonable joy. Edged with terror, of course.

  im good everything proceeding as planned and u?

  still driving. ways 2 go still. miss u

  ME 2

  did u eat? he demanded, predictably enough.

  She laughed out loud, and the woman standing next to her to check the monitors gave her a nervous glance and edged away.

  not yet still digesting the diner lunch

  bullshit its been hours go eat smthng NOW

  fine fine dont worry will do