The pickup swerves into the next lane, inches closer, and immediately swerves back into our lane, striking the back of the Caprice.
The passenger tries to hold onto the wheel, but he can’t do it with only the one hand. He drops the gun, grabs the wheel with both hands, starts to slide himself over to the driver’s side so he can press his foot down on the gas.
The billboard is less than fifty yards away, coming up fast.
The sniper steps out, rifle in hand, and sights on the remaining Marshal.
The Marshal, maybe realizing that there’s no escape, makes a split-second decision.
He whips the wheel toward the right, and the Caprice veers off the highway and barrels straight into the sniper.
I’m briefly aware of the sniper going under the car and the SUV parked behind the billboard as we zoom past, but the ground here is rutted, unsteady, and as the Marshal tries to veer us back onto the highway, he loses control of the wheel and the Caprice starts to spin, whipping up a dust cloud in its wake.
Even before the car has come to a complete stop, I dive for the closest door, but it’s locked from the outside. I try the other door, and it’s the same.
Up front, the Marshal ducks down for his gun. He punches the gas, too, and the engine roars but we don’t move, and it takes the Marshal an extra second to realize the Caprice has shifted out of gear.
Before he can shove the Caprice back into drive, the pickup skids to a halt in front of us. The pickup’s passenger jumps out, an M4 in his hands. He moves at an angle, so that he’s not facing the car straight on but rather from the side, and fires twice through the driver’s window, the Marshal raising his gun to fire back but not getting a chance to let off any rounds.
By now I’ve leaned back, with my feet pointed at the rear passenger window, and I kick the window as hard as I can—once, twice, three times—and it’s on the fourth kick that the window finally gives way, and I jerk forward, as quickly as the shackles will let me, and despite the shards of glass sticking up from the windowsill I fling myself through the opening and hit the ground on my side, hard, a flash of pain shooting everywhere, but I ignore it as I struggle to my feet and start hopping away.
Behind me, a voice shouts, “Do you want your family to die?”
I stop at once. Stare at the foothills off in the distance.
Turning around, I watch two men in balaclavas hurrying toward me. Both carry M4s. One of them straps the rifle over his shoulder as they near.
“Don’t struggle.”
The man picks me up and carries me fireman-style back toward the billboard and the SUV idling beside it. The world is upside down, but I see the Caprice from the corner of my eye, and I hear the passenger inside, the Marshal still alive. One of the men in balaclavas runs up to the Caprice with a gas can and starts to douse the car. The Marshal inside shouts no no no no as he tries to crawl from the car, but the man with the gas can uses his boot to shove him back inside as he lights a road flare and tosses it into the car. The Marshal starts to scream as the Caprice goes up in flames. I want to do something, somehow help him, but before I know it we’ve reached the SUV and I’m upright again, the man having deposited me so my feet are back on the ground. The back door is opened and I’m pushed inside. I hear one of the other men asking what they should do with Daniel, and another man saying they can’t leave him here so load him up, too. Another man leans forward, right at me, and I can’t tell what’s in his hand at first—the entire world feels like it’s spinning, on fire, a man screaming as he burns to death—but I realize it’s a needle, that they’re going knock me out. I start to struggle, and another man holds me in place, and a second later there’s the sting of the needle as they inject me and then a black bag is promptly pulled down over my head and all I can see is darkness.
Part Two
Neverland
Twenty-Three
The sun had set hours ago—the vast sky going from a dark blue to a lush indigo to a heavy black—and it was almost ten o’clock when Sheriff Tom Gilbert arrived home. He wasn’t driving his Ford pickup but one of the cruisers. Erik figured he had come straight from the scene out on the highway and hadn’t bothered to stop by the station to swap vehicles.
Erik was parked down the street, angled so he had a good view of the house, and as soon as the sheriff had pulled into the driveway, Erik exited his own vehicle and hurried up the block. When he reached the house, the old man was already on the walkway headed to the front door, his pace sluggish, his shoulders slouched.
“Sheriff Gilbert.”
The sheriff paused for a beat, issued a heavy sigh, and turned to find Erik striding up his driveway. His gaze was cautious at first, but once he realized it was one of his deputies, his eyes hardened.
“Christ, Johnson, I thought you were a reporter. What the hell are you doing here?”
Erik stopped short, raised his hands to his sides to show he meant no harm.
“I wanted to talk.”
Sheriff Gilbert shook his head, issued another heavy sigh.
“Nothing to discuss, son. Not until the investigation is over.”
“How long will that take?”
“Off the top of my head, I’m not sure, and right now it’s the least of my worries. Do yourself a favor and head home.”
As the man started to turn away, Erik said, “You know I had nothing to do with any of this.”
Sheriff Gilbert took another breath, nodded slowly as he regarded his deputy.
“I know, son. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Honestly—”
He glanced at the house to make sure his wife wasn’t watching or eavesdropping, and then dropped his voice.
“Can’t say I blame you for knocking boots with the girl. She sure is a looker. But after what she did”—the sheriff shook his head—“we need to follow protocol. I mean, it don’t look good we found you half-naked in her place. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I do, sir.”
“And then what happened later today”—another shake of the head, this time with more anger—“shit, son, you shoulda seen what was done to that car. Both men burned alive inside. Your girl nowhere in sight.”
“She couldn’t have done that on her own.”
“Oh, I know it. Those federal investigators who came over from Dallas know it, too. They got a BOLO out for your girl. For her and whoever she’s working with.”
Erik chewed the inside of his mouth. It was a nervous tic he’d developed from his years in the foster care system when he became anxious. He’d come here to confess, to tell Sheriff Gilbert how he’d snuck into the station to confront Jen—or Holly, if that was her real name—and how she told him the lawyer who had come to see her wasn’t a real lawyer and how her family was in danger. He hadn’t called the number she gave him—he hadn’t really been listening at the time, anyway, too furious after what he’d learned, and only remembered half the number—but he had sensed something in her eyes when she spoke to him, a vulnerability he had never seen from her before, not even when they were having sex.
“Sir, the lawyer—”
Sheriff Gilbert cut him off with a heavy sigh.
“Yes, I know. She’s dead. They’re trying to determine when she was murdered.”
The sheriff noted the frown on Erik’s face, and sighed again.
“Goddamn it. You didn’t know? Of course you didn’t know.”
“The lawyer was murdered?”
“That’s right. They wanted to contact her about her client going missing the way she did. She gave her ID when she arrived at the station, and all her information was logged, and when she didn’t answer her phone, we sent somebody out there and—”
Sheriff Gilbert shook his head.
“Look, I can’t be talking about this with you. Not while you’re under investigation.”
Erik took a step forward, his entire body on edge, Jen or Holly’s voice still echoing in his ears.
That woman—she’s not a r
eal lawyer.
“Sir, are we sure she’s even a lawyer?”
The sheriff frowned.
“What kind of question is that? Of course we’re sure she’s a lawyer. But the woman who came to see your girlfriend”—he shrugged—“we don’t know who the fuck she is.”
This stopped Erik cold. He’d thought Sheriff Gilbert meant the woman who came to see Jen or Holly had been found murdered.
“Wait. Are you saying—”
Sheriff Gilbert cut him off again.
“That the woman who came to the station was impersonating the woman we found murdered? That’s right. Now look, Johnson, you really need to leave. I know you want to help, but you just can’t do that right now. Not until the investigation is over. And before you ask, no, I don’t know how long that’ll be.”
Erik nodded. This was more than he’d expected to get. He respected Sheriff Gilbert, almost saw the man as a father figure, and he hated to disappoint him.
The front door opened a crack, and Mrs. Gilbert peeked out.
“Tom?”
The sheriff said, “Be right there, dear.”
He waited for his wife to shut the door before clearing his throat, which Erik knew was his prompt to leave.
But Erik couldn’t leave. Not yet.
“Sir, what are the chances I’ll be reinstated?”
There was no immediate answer from the sheriff. The man watched him for a beat too long, and even in the dark Erik saw the sadness in the man’s eyes.
“I don’t know, son. It don’t look too good, especially after what happened to those Marshals today. That’s four men dead now because of your girl.”
Erik had to steel himself, keep his voice calm and steady.
“She’s not my girl, and I had nothing to do with any of that.”
“I know, son. But something like this, heads always got to roll. Especially when the papers find out you were with her this morning. It ain’t gonna come from me, but it’s gonna get out at some point …”
Sheriff Gilbert trailed off, shaking his head.
“Keep your chin up. Head on home and get some rest. I need to get some rest, too. Today was a long day, and something tells me tomorrow is gonna be even longer.”
Twenty-Four
Erik trudged up the steps to the second floor, his hands balling in and out of fists. It was a risk confronting Sheriff Gilbert like that, but he’d had no choice. He wanted to help any way he could, but he also wanted to see where things stood in terms of his job. And Erik had come away from it with the realization there was a good chance he wouldn’t have his job much longer.
The sheriff hadn’t said as much, but Erik was able to read between the lines. He wondered if it would be better for him to resign before he was fired. In that case, he wouldn’t be able to stay in Alden.
Being a deputy was what and who he was. He couldn’t see himself doing anything else. Which meant he would need to move away and try to find work in law enforcement elsewhere. Only he was pretty sure that even if he resigned, word would make it to whoever considered him elsewhere for a job of what had happened in Alden: Erik on his knees half-naked with a woman who killed two ICE agents when the police raided the apartment.
His eyes focused on the door across from his as he walked down the hallway. A notice from the police had been taped on the jamb between the door and the doorframe. The apartment wasn’t a crime scene, but the police wanted to make sure nothing was disturbed in case they needed to return at a later date. As far as Erik knew, the whole place had been searched—as well as his apartment, upon his approval—but there was always the chance they would need to check back again.
Erik shut his eyes, shook his head. He needed to forget about it. Needed to think of anything else except what happened today.
But of course he couldn’t do that. The more he tried to think about something else, he immediately thought about Jen or whoever the fuck she was aiming the shotgun at him and ordering him out of the bedroom.
He opened his eyes again, took a breath, and glanced once more at the door before turning to his own door, the apartment key in his hand.
He inserted the key into the lock but paused, stood staring at his door for a beat before slowly turning and taking in the door across the hallway again.
The notice from the police—it was sliced vertically, right along the doorframe. With the door closed the way it was, it looked almost perfect, like it hadn’t been touched. But from this angle, it didn’t look right.
Erik quietly pulled the key back out from the lock. He took a step toward the door. Got close enough to verify that, yes, the notice had been sliced.
He took another step forward.
Leaned in so that his ear was barely touching the door.
He couldn’t hear anything inside, but that didn’t mean much. Maybe whoever sliced the notice had entered the apartment and had already left. Or maybe they were still inside and had heard him and gone silent. Maybe somebody was standing on the other side of the door right now, looking at him through the peephole, a gun leveled at his chest.
Erik moved without thinking.
Knowing that he didn’t have time to retrieve his gun from inside his apartment—not his department-issued pistol, which he’d turned in earlier today, but his personal Glock—he stepped to the side as he turned the doorknob and shoved the door open.
He stood with his shoulder against the wall, holding his breath, waiting for a gunshot or for somebody to come running through the doorway.
Nothing.
He waited another beat, listening to the silence, when he realized that the door should have been locked.
Call Sheriff Gilbert. That’s what he should do. Call it in and have the proper authorities come take care of it, but he thought maybe this was a way he could redeem himself. If there was somebody in the apartment and he managed to detain them, wouldn’t that mean something? At the very least, he wouldn’t lose his job.
Five seconds had passed since he opened the door, and so far nothing had happened. Down the hallway, the volume on Mr. Hobbs’s television was turned up louder than it should be this time of night. Erik thought about calling out—“It’s the police!”—but decided to play this a different way.
Taking another breath, he stepped forward and entered the apartment, reaching out in one fluid motion to flick on the light switch—
Which did nothing.
The apartment remained dark.
Erik paused again, suddenly nervous, the confidence he’d felt only seconds ago having vanished, and he decided to retreat, hurry into his apartment to retrieve the Glock and call Sheriff Gilbert, when he sensed motion behind him.
He spun to his left and instinctively ducked, swinging his fist in an uppercut, skin brushing against heavy fabric for just an instant before the person behind him sidestepped the follow through and then Erik felt a heavy elbow snap down on the back of his neck. He stumbled away but immediately lurched back at his attacker, pushing the person into the wall, and he had the sense the person was big, tall and strong, and while Erik himself was tall and strong, this man had a good sixty pounds on him, much of it muscle, and before Erik knew it, his legs were swept out from under him and he fell hard, landing on his back, his head knocking on the floor. He tried to roll away, to scramble to his feet, but the man was on top of him, and suddenly Erik felt cold metal pressed to the side of his head as a deep voice whispered.
“Don’t fucking move.”
Twenty-Five
Lying on his back in the dark apartment, the man’s weight holding him in place and the barrel of a gun pressing against the side of his head, Erik took a moment to consider his options.
He quickly realized he had none.
Erik whispered, “Okay.”
The man didn’t move at first, keeping the barrel pressed against the side of Erik’s head. Erik was faintly aware of soft footsteps somewhere else in the apartment, which meant the man wasn’t alone. At least one other intruder. Maybe more.
The deep voice whispered again.
“Stay flat on the floor. Move a muscle, and I’ll shoot you in the face.”
Erik said nothing.
The man waited a beat, and then the heavy weight pressing Erik to the floor eased away as the man stood up.
Erik stayed where he was, staring at the dark ceiling. Wondering if the other intruder had a weapon. Wondering what the chances were he could manage to commandeer one of those weapons without getting shot.
The deep voice said, “Go ahead.”
At first, Erik wasn’t sure what to do—was the man speaking to him?—but then he heard the soft footsteps behind him again and a light came on.
It was a sort of a lamp with a blue glow, enough to illuminate the entire apartment with subtle light. Erik took in the man who had pressed the gun to his head—he was big, just as Erik had suspected, and he had a full beard, the kind that made Erik peg the man for a SEAL.
Shifting his eyes up, he saw the other man was tall but thinner. This man regarded him curiously. He looked to have a phone in his hand, but no weapon.
The SEAL leaned over Erik, keeping his gun trained on him. Now with the soft light, Erik noted the gun was an FNX-45 with a threaded barrel.
The man said, “Who the hell are you?”
Erik wet his lips but said nothing.
“We don’t have time for this shit. You have a wallet?”
Erik nodded, just once.
“Give me your wallet.”
For a crazy moment, Erik wondered if he was being mugged. If these two men were here to rob the place. Alden was a small town that got a few B&Es during the year, but those were mostly from stupid kids who didn’t know any better.
The man said, “I’m not going to ask you again.”
Erik whispered, “My left rear pants pocket.”
“Go ahead and pull it out. Slowly.”
Erik did, slipping his leather wallet from his pocket. Besides his driver’s license and a debit card and a couple bucks of cash, there wasn’t anything else in there.
Holly Lin Box Set | Books 1-3 Page 57
