“Well?” Atticus says.
We swerve around another tractor-trailer and there is yet another open space ahead of us. The door gunner opens fire again, some of the bullets this time striking the top of the cab, whizzing down between us into the bench seat.
Cursing, Nova says, “Just get on with it. What’s your plan?”
“The objective here is saving Walter’s children, correct? And the only way to do that is ensuring Holly can get away safely with the flash drive intact.”
Nova glances at me. I glance at him. We stare at each other for a moment. Then Nova nods and says, “Screw it, what’s your plan?” and when Atticus tells him, he says okay and presses the gas down even more, speeding us across the bridge, the speedometer going up to one hundred five, one hundred ten, one hundred fifteen. Seconds later the Maryland side of the bridge appears and for some reason I’m expecting there to be an army of police cars. There isn’t. Nova veers us off the exit, the Black Hawk having to pause in midair to follow our progress. Nova leans to his left as he veers us around the off-ramp, passing a few cars in front of us, the pickup feeling like it might tip over. Then we’re around the entire way and entering the Anacostia Freeway, the Black Hawk dipping low again, and Nova punches the gas.
The highway is two lanes now, making it more restrictive than before. Trees stand tall on both sides of the freeway. We pass over another bridge and the door gunner fires at us again and some of the bullets strike the hood, Nova cursing and clenching his fingers around the steering wheel.
Driving faster, swerving from lane to lane, he says, “Holly, can I tell you something?”
He says, “If we both make it out of this alive, you’re buying me a new pickup.”
He says, “A real fancy one, too, all the bells and whistles.”
He says, “Got it?”
“Yeah,” I say, as the freeway splits with a large divider, trees everywhere, “I’ll buy you the most expensive one. Satellite radio and GPS and everything.”
“Good,” Nova says, moving over to the right lane, “just so we’re in agreement,” and then he cuts the wheel hard to the left, steering us across the two lanes, taking us over the grass median and into the stand of trees, Nova’s headlights picking out an open space, and as he goes between them he has to slow, the terrain rocky, and that’s when I start to open my door but pause when Nova says my name, Nova pulling out his Beretta, handing it to me, and I take it and push open the door and jump out right before a tree slams the door shut, all the trees now tearing the pickup apart, the Black Hawk trying to follow his progress, until he reaches the freeway and the gunfire starts again and he punches the gas and heads back in the direction he came, the growl of the pickup’s engine massive until it fades away into a whisper and then is gone.
Sixty-Two
For the longest time I don’t move. I just stand there in the shadows of the trees, traffic speeding back and forth, the chuck-chuck-chuck-chuck of the Black Hawk fading away just like Nova’s pickup. I still have the transmitter in my ear and can hear Nova, cursing, talking to himself, cursing some more. Then, suddenly, his voice cuts off.
“Atticus, what just happened?” Thinking that the door gunner finally got him.
“I severed the connection between your transmitters.”
“Why?”
“The last thing you need right now is more distractions.”
Right, so now instead of knowing what’s happening to Nova, my imagination is making it up, creating different scenarios that all end with Nova taking a bullet in the head.
“I will keep you informed,” Atticus says.
I still have Nova’s Beretta in my hand. I drop the magazine, make sure it’s fully loaded, slap it back in. I holster it and ask Atticus what time it is.
“Four eighteen.”
Which means I have almost an hour and a half before Zane’s deadline. Which shouldn’t be a problem, now that I have the flash drive. But which still is a problem, because I have no way of contacting Zane and can only wait for him to contact me.
“I need transportation.”
“Yes, I know.” Atticus pauses. “Do you know how to hot-wire a car?”
At this I can’t help but smile. “After everything that’s happened so far, you still underestimate me, don’t you.”
“I was simply asking for clarification, Holly. I would never underestimate the daughter of Jian Lin.”
The mention of my father wipes the smile off my face. I start toward the highway going southbound, stepping over roots and rocks.
“Where’s Nova now?”
“He will soon be headed back over the Woodrow Wilson.”
I wait for a lull in the traffic before running out across the asphalt to the trees on the other side. My body is sore, my muscles tight. Maybe I’m not in as good of shape as I think I am.
I enter the trees and work through them. Atticus doesn’t speak. Neither do I. I try to keep my mind clear. I try not to think about Nova and the Black Hawk. I try not to think about Casey and David and how they might already be dead. I try not to think about what my father and Zane have become, how it must have been so easy, so simple, that it could happen to anyone.
I come out of the trees into a residential area. Houses are spaced apart along the tree line, almost all of them with their lights off. A few cars sit in driveways but I don’t want to chance it. What I’m looking for now is a parking lot, something with a dozen cars, something that won’t quickly go noticed.
As I walk I pull out the cell phone. I hit a button to illuminate the screen: 4:30. Now exactly an hour and a half. And still no call from Zane.
“Talk to me, Atticus. What’s happening with Nova?”
No answer.
I stop, place my finger to my ear, make sure the transmitter is still there. “Atticus?”
He clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is barely a whisper.
“A few minutes ago his pickup went over the Woodrow Wilson. I’m afraid I’ve lost contact.”
Sixty-Three
By the time I find a car and hot-wire it—a ’99 Ford Taurus parked along the street, its doors unlocked—it’s almost five o’clock and Zane has yet to call.
I drive north on 295, passing Bolling Air Force Base, the Anacostia Naval Station. I think about Nova taking on heavy gunfire. About losing control of the pickup. About driving over the bridge into the Potomac.
I want to believe that he’s safe. That he somehow got out of the pickup in time. That he somehow didn’t drown.
And if he didn’t drown (God, please be the case), then what happened? They probably took him into custody. I know he won’t say anything. Not a word. They can torture him all day and night, he won’t break. It won’t matter, though; they know at least one other person is involved. And if the tranquilized agents come to, or the tractor-trailer driver is still conscious after his collision, one of them will be able to give a description of me. Which means right this second, half of Washington will be looking for an Asian American woman in her late-twenties.
And silly me, I’m heading right back into the lion’s den.
The owner of the Taurus seems to be a big Rolling Stones fan. Every single album of theirs is scattered across the backseat. I punch the power button on the CD player, and, I guess appropriately enough, “Sympathy For the Devil” starts up.
I punch the power button again, cutting the music off. I lean over, pop open the glove box, and am rewarded by a pack of Parliaments that I immediately light up with the help of the car’s cigarette lighter. I take a couple long drags, relishing the taste, then clear my throat.
“Atticus.”
“Yes?”
“What do you think?”
“What do I think about what?”
I consider taking the South Capitol Street Bridge into the city but decide to keep driving up 295.
“About this whole thing. I mean … it’s fucked up, isn’t it?”
“Why do you use that word?”
�
�What—fucked? Because it is.”
“I agree with you that this situation is not ideal. In fact, regardless how this turns out, James and I will have to relocate as it seems we’re not as well hidden as we had thought. But what I mean is why do you use those vulgar words?”
The Taurus’s owner also seems to have a thing for Hawaii. Three of those hula-hoop girls are stuck on the dash, shaking their things in rhythm with the road.
“I’m sorry, Atticus. I didn’t know you’re religious.”
“I’m not religious, Holly. And based on your judgment there, it’s clear what one of your biggest problems is.”
The last thing I want to do right now is discuss what my biggest problem is. Still, I ask, “What’s my biggest problem?”
“You assume too much. You don’t take time to assess people properly. You might think you’re not making snap judgments, but you do, and because of that you are disadvantaged when it comes to truly reading someone.”
Irritated now, I say, “You mean someone like you?”
“And the vulgarities?” Atticus says, ignoring me. “That is simply a lack of self-control on your part.”
“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?”
Atticus doesn’t answer. 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: 5:15.
“Atticus?”
“He talked about you a lot. 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 lie in it. I feel responsible, in a way. Perhaps if I had trained him better, or if I had looked deep into his heart and soul, 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 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.
Sixty-Four
“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 it? 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.”
“I want to talk to them.”
“I’m sure you do. First, how do I know you 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 wild card. 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, huh?”
In my ear, Atticus says, “He’s moving west on E Street. I’m accessing satellite imaging 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, including a police cruiser, and
I’m stuck there waiting for the light to change, the cell phone to my ear, my heart racing, my body shaking, doing everything in my power not to scream so loud it will shatter every window in a hundred-yard radius.
The 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, 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.
“Now that that’s settled, let’s get 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 can be there in time?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because it needs to be done.”
“You used to be a 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 jamming the pedal to 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, 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 reach the intersection, slamming on the brakes, flinging off my seat belt, jumping out of the car, 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 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.
Holly Lin Box Set | Books 1-3 Page 23
