Roaring with a heady cocktail of anger, fear, pain and adrenaline, he spat out the broken teeth and scooped mud from his eyes just as—
Red taillights flashed a brief warning before the massive tailgate of a large SUV hurtled straight towards him.
Wallace didn’t have time to blink.
He threw himself back to the ground, desperately trying to bury himself deep in the mud as the SUV drove over him. He could feel the hair-singeing heat of the muffler and exhaust as it passed over his head, but the raised undercarriage and four huge tires missed him completely.
Wallace scrambled to his feet as the large black Lincoln pulled a smooth one-eighty and roared out of the clearing towards the road and escape.
He glanced to his left and spotted the second vehicle, nearly identical to the one the soldier was fleeing in. Praying the keys were in it, he ran to the red SUV and hopped inside. He was covered in so much mud, he had to quickly grab the door handle to stop from sliding off the seat.
The key was in the ignition.
Without waiting for Crow to catch up, Wallace threw the vehicle into gear and tore across the yard in hot pursuit.
The vehicle bounced and slid as he pressed the accelerator to the floor in a desperate attempt to close the gap. The soldier’s SUV had already left the clearing and vanished over the hill.
Wallace slammed his fist into the steering wheel, trying to coax more speed from the powerful vehicle. He hadn’t come this far only to lose one of his sons now.
Where the clearing met the road, the vehicle hit a deep trough and his head smashed against the ceiling so hard it made him see stars.
Grimacing in pain, Wallace glimpsed Alicia and Alex within the circle of floodlights. They were frozen in place, staring at his retreating vehicle. They still looked terrified, but at least they were safe. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Crow’s silhouette running from the burning house.
For them, the danger had fled. But, he swore to himself, it wouldn’t get far.
Wallace fishtailed around the first corner and felt his wheels leave the ground at every bump. The ground was wet and slippery, but he had driven buses through slick B.C. winters when every other vehicle was trapped in its own driveway. White-knuckle driving was his specialty. And he was damn good at it.
When the road made the first horseshoe turn of an S-shaped bend, Wallace caught a glimpse of the black SUV. It was only a short distance ahead.
He had closed the gap.
Slightly, but it was something.
He pressed his vehicle to its limit, praying that Fred had thought to fasten his seatbelt just as Alicia and he had always told him.
Please, he projected, have that belt on.
Wallace snapped on his own belt and took the last turn at breakneck speed. His vehicle practically slid around the curve on only two wheels—
And then his heart stopped beating.
Time froze solid.
There was no air. No light.
No reason. No God.
Standing in the middle of the muddy road, directly in the path of his out-of-control vehicle, stood his son.
Fred was screaming. Frozen to the spot. His mouth opened wider than even seemed possible as his eyes bore witness to the onrushing glimpse of his own mortality.
Once again, Wallace was Death in the eyes of a terrified child.
He didn’t have time to curse or even think. Everything was reflex. All four limbs worked in tandem for one impossible move.
Wheel.
Brake.
Accelerator.
Handbrake.
And prayer.
More prayer than he had ever said in his lifetime, all compressed into three small words: Let him live.
The vehicle snapped to the side, its rear fishtailing wildly one way and then the other. Tires slipped and gripped and slipped again.
The huge SUV skimmed past the boy, barely ruffling his hair, before its momentum became too much to hold the road.
The vehicle flipped and rolled.
Inside, Wallace held on for dear life, knowing he had no reason to expect survival and perfectly willing to accept the consequence.
Both his sons were alive.
Alicia was safe.
Their lives in exchange for his was an easy deal to make.
The vehicle slammed onto its roof and was sucked deep into the mud, its velocity decreasing at an alarming rate. But then, as if found distasteful, the earth disgorged it again. This time the vehicle left the road and flew into the trees.
The forest was thick and deep. The vehicle smashed a brutal path before finally coming to a wheezing halt and collapsing in a nest of scraggly pine.
Metal hissed and cooled. Airbags wilted and flaky white dust settled over everything until all that was left was silence.
CHAPTER 70
Wallace sneezed and clutched at his neck. There wasn’t a single muscle that didn’t ache. The massive vehicle had taken one hell of a beating and yet its core integrity remained intact.
He wiped mud, cloying white dust and fresh blood away from his blurry eyes. A sudden movement outside the broken side window made his stomach lurch.
A large dark shadow was running towards him.
The shadow held a knife, long and sharp.
Wallace grabbed his seatbelt, desperately trying to break free. The mechanism was jammed.
He was unarmed, injured and trapped.
Something slammed into the driver’s door, but it refused to budge.
Wallace tensed, grimacing at the pain in his neck, and made a futile fist. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had left.
“Christ,” said Crow, panting heavily. “You gonna fight me, too?”
Wallace blinked his eyes into focus. Saw his best friend with a knife in his hand.
“I was going to cut you free,” said Crow. “Unless you’re fine where you are?”
Wallace grinned. Even the muscles in his face hurt.
“No,” he said. “Get me the hell out of here.”
After Crow cut the belt, he helped Wallace slide through the broken window and out into the cool, wet air. Both men sat on the ground, catching their breath, allowing time to restart.
“Alicia and the boys?” Wallace asked.
“Everyone’s okay,” said Crow. “I asked Alicia to keep the boys behind in case . . .” He paused and looked away.
“In case I was jello?” finished Wallace.
Crow turned back and grinned. “Something like that. Yeah.”
“Gallagher may have been a crazy fuck,” said Wallace. “But he had good taste in vehicles.”
“You okay to walk?” asked Crow. “You’ve got some anxious people waiting to see you.”
Wallace struggled to his feet, stumbled and reached out to grab onto Crow’s shoulder.
“I may still need some help,” he said weakly.
Crow wrapped an arm around Wallace’s waist and held him upright. “I’m here.”
Using his friend for support, Wallace limped out of the woods and into the waiting arms of his family.
CHAPTER 71
(FIVE DAYS LATER)
Mr. Black hadn’t been able to enter Desmond’s condo until the local police finally grew bored of 24-hour surveillance and moved on to more pressing matters.
Their interest had been his own fault, he knew. If he had disposed of the body rather than leaving it on display upon the dining room table, he would likely have only had to wait a day or two at most.
But still, Desmond had always enjoyed attention. Who was he to deny him one last show?
Mr. Black waited until it was dark, then slit the crime scene tape and broke the lock. The narrow house was eerily quiet as he crept up the first flight of stairs.
The living room, once so perfectly neat and sterile, looked as if it had hosted a teenage rave. The carpet was trampled, holes had been cut into the walls to remove interesting blood spatter, and messy fingerprint powder covered nearly every surface. All that was mi
ssing was discarded condom packets, broken plastic cups of juice and a stoned DJ with his finger glued to the repeat button.
Mr. Black returned to the stairs and climbed up to the master bedroom. It was in a similar state of dishevel, but it actually looked slightly tidier than after Wallace had ransacked it looking for . . .
Mr. Black paused.
He had never actually known what Wallace was after, but now he could guess. Desmond had left information around that led the drivers to Ronson, and Ronson led them to Gallagher.
He paused again.
Did either of those men have information that led to him? If so, he would need to visit the bus drivers again. Pity. He didn’t care for Canada and the crossing had become so tedious. Still, Gallagher had been good to him once. Perhaps he owed him this one last favor.
Two birds. One stone.
Mr. Black moved to the full-length mirror and pressed it with the tips of his gloved fingers. He had discovered in just the last few days that, like silk underwear, he enjoyed wearing gloves. They softened every sensation, made him feel less a part of the everyday world and more in touch with the only person who never let him down. Himself.
The mirror clicked and swung open.
The money was untouched.
A nice little bonus for a job well done.
He froze. A ripple in the air. Silent and yet—
He turned around.
A large Indian stood in the doorway. Naked to the waist, his face and chest were decorated in some kind of war paint. Blood red ochre and charcoal black. Primitive designs, but also deeply disturbing.
Mr. Black stepped away from the mirror.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“I am Cheveyo,” said the Indian. “You knew my brother. JoeJoe.”
Mr. Black frowned. “The name doesn’t—”
“You cut his throat. Left him to die on the road.”
Mr. Black smiled thinly. “Ah, yes. I remember now. It was over quickly. He didn’t suffer.”
“You will.”
“Ah.”
Mr. Black reached down to his belt and removed his small, curved knife that reminded him of a bear claw.
“I find it’s not size that matters.”
Cheveyo curled his lip and puffed out his chest. Muscles rippled as he reached behind his back to withdraw a large, glistening knife with a carved bone handle.
“Sometimes, it is.”
EPILOGUE
The woman and child laughed together as they walked out of the ocean and made their way across a large pile of cedar logs that cushioned the fragile shoreline from the persistent and ever present surf.
Most of the beach was rocky, but here, in the heart of the tiny hamlet of Robert’s Creek, a wide patch of silky sand hid beneath the waves. The sandbar only revealed itself at low tide and the knowledgeable locals knew to check their tables before heading down for a day of fun and relaxation.
Beyond the logs, a path led them to a small parking lot decorated with a colorful mandala. Every year, the locals painted a new geometric scene in celebration of the universe. Everyone was invited to participate, regardless of age or skill. It was just one of the many wonderful delights that the newly-blonde woman and her daughter had discovered in this little slice of paradise no more than a forty-minute ferry ride from where they almost lost their lives.
Hand in hand, they walked across the parking lot, over the bridge that allowed the fresh-water creek to meet its salty mother, and up the hill towards the General Store. The little, family-run store sold everything one could want for a perfect day: ice-cream, magazines, water toys, sandwiches, even cold beer and wine.
At the moment, it was ice-cream. A mother’s promise to a loving child who had, at long last, rediscovered her laugh and her beautiful smile.
They reached the top of the short but steep hill, wiping sweat from their brows, child laughing at mother who wanted a second to catch her breath.
A man stood in front of the store.
A man the woman recognized.
Her breath caught and her heart fluttered nervously.
The man looked up, but before his gaze could pass over them, two boys rushed out of the store with frozen drinks in their hand and two new water pistols still attached to their cardboard backings.
The boys ran around the man, giggling and using him as a shield as they pointed the packaged toys at each other and made Pow Ping Pow noises.
A woman joined them. Laughing. She was beautiful with long, curly red hair and a sunburned nose. She shooed the boys away and kissed the man on his stubbled cheek. The man hugged her and returned the kiss with passion.
They looked relaxed and happy.
The blonde woman turned away, not wanting to disturb, not wanting to interfere.
If anyone deserved a little peace and happiness, it was them.
Her guardian angels.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Scotland, living in Canada and writing American fiction, Grant wears a toque and kilt with his six-guns. His debut novel, Switch, earned fantastic reviews internationally when it was published by Bantam UK, in Germany by Heyne, and in Canada by Penguin. It has also been translated into Complex Chinese for Spring International Publishers of Taiwan, and into Russian for AST. Famous Books has now finally made available in the U.S.
Grant’s second novel, No Cry For Help, also garnered stellar reviews when it was published in the UK by Bantam TransWorld and translated in Germany by Heyne. It is now available in the U.S. and Canada.
His third dark thriller, K.A.R.M.A., is out now from Famous Books.
Writing under the pen name M.C. Grant, a new mystery series set in San Francisco is being launched by Midnight Ink. Angel With A Bullet, the first in the Dixie Flynn series, will be out in Sept. 2012.
Grant’s short stories have been featured in the First Thrills anthology edited by Lee Child from Tor/Forge, plus Out of the Gutter and Spinetingler magazines, and his first screenplay won a fellowship at the Praxis Center for Screenwriting in Vancouver, B.C.
As a journalist, Grant has worked in virtually every area of the newspaper business from the late-night dead body beat at a feisty daily tabloid to editor at two of Canada’s largest broadsheets. He has also contributed numerous technology/humor columns to magazines around the world. He resides in Victoria, B.C., where he is Editor-in-Chief of Monday Magazine.
Grant can be contacted via his website at grantmckenzie.net
And on Facebook at: facebook.com/grant.mckenzie
SWITCH
How far will one man go to save the ones he loves most?
Two strangers trapped in the same kidnapping nightmare face their worst fears when they are challenged to destroy everything they hold dear in order to save the ones they love.
Set in Portland, Oregon, featuring the spooky and labyrinthine tunnels underneath the city, this is a fantastically commercial, brilliantly paced read from a debut author.
“Think Harlan Coben on speed with a heart breaking compassion that will literally have you biting your nails.”
— Ken Bruen, best-selling author of the Jack Taylor series
‘Switch crackles with suspense and is as tense as a switchblade opening in a dark alley.’
— Rick Mofina, international best-selling author
“A terrific little-guy-in-big-trouble thriller moving at warp speed - with the emphasis on warp.”
— Lee Child, #1 NY Times best-selling author
‘Switch is not merely good, it’s damned good.’
— David Hagberg, best-selling author of Joshua’s Hammer
‘Grant McKenzie really knows how to make a story move.’
— Linwood Barclay, best-selling author of No Time For Goodbye
K.A.R.M.A.
The children want revenge.
Led by a brilliant but troubled teenager, tech-savvy victims of abuse unite to turn their collective pain into bloody retribution. The group calls itself K.A.R.M.A.: Kids Against Rape, Murder and Ab
use.
To ensure the group’s message of revenge is heard, K.A.R.M.A.’s leader enlists the aid of Tom Hackett, a rebellious freelance photojournalist who flaunts his willingness to break the rules for that perfect money-making shot. By tipping Hackett to the location of fresh kill, the group ensures sensational front-page media play.
But when the identity of one victim hits too close to home, Tom begins to have doubts and questions his own motives. By pushing him to the frontlines, K.A.R.M.A. awakens a haunted past that could destroy everything Tom holds dear.
In struggling with his conscience, Tom becomes an obstacle that K.A.R.M.A. can’t allow to live.
And if K.A.R.M.A. has its way, he won’t be the only one.
“Lots of violence, snappy prose and dialogue that jumps off the page. What more could you want from a thriller? I was gripped from page one.”
— Stephen Leather, NY Times bestselling author
Reader reviews:
“Heart-pounding, mind-blowing story from page one right through to the end.” — Ellen J. Grogan
“Fresh, riveting and unique. Grant McKenzie should be up there with Harlan Coben and Linwood Barclay . . . the story instantly grips you . . . the storyline is gritty, it has a mystery quality and something rare in murder/mystery, a sense of compassion.” — Jan Erlam
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