Her eyes narrowed. Her lips tightened. She shook her head in slow, chiding correction. “Don’t confuse self-righteousness with love. This shit we do to each other, the gamesmanship and one-upping, tracking, tagging, sabotaging, that’s one thing.” Finger to his chest again, she jabbed harder. “No matter how much you think you know what’s best, you do not get to play God with my life. You do not get to make choices for me.”
He caught her hand and stared her down, but god damn, he hated when she was right. He pulled her into a hug and held tight until the tension ebbed and her arms wrapped around his waist, and they stayed that way until she whispered, “Truce.”
He let her go. She shrugged away.
She slugged him hard in the stomach.
His eyes smarted. Voice cracking, he said, “What the hell?”
She pinched his cheek and smiled into his face, goo-gooing like he was a tot in diapers. “So you don’t get any ideas about me being less than a cold, crazy bitch.”
He clenched his jaw and fought the urge to punch her back.
She turned for the supply stash he’d already assembled, dug for Excedrin and, with far more swagger than having woken from artificial sleep should have allowed, said, “Let’s get going, buddy boy. Christopher’s not going to kidnap himself.”
He made her eat and waited until dark to leave and led her off a different street into the same suburban wild. They worked in silence, familiar in their roles, turning camouflaged hammocks into shooter’s nests on opposite sides of the lake, setting cellular motion-activated game cameras above critical trail junctions, and they waited out the night, watching the entrance and verdure for a man who’d just as surely be searching for them.
Midnight brought the damp and drizzle of low-lying fog, which coated equipment and supplies and turned sunrise into a drawn-out affair that only partially helped improve visibility. Cars and minivans entered the parking area. A trickle of joggers and bicyclists braved the weather, each as suspect as the last, until a familiar body in a zipped-up jacket, overdressed in more ways than one, turned strategy upside down.
The last time Jack had seen that face, it’d been in his headlights as he careened backward down the street with Jill in the trunk. His head hurt to see it again now. And he crawled a mental reverse to the Blackphone and the Broker and Jill’s denials, and in the frustration he let it go because searching for the unfindable led to madness, and in the moment it didn’t matter because they were here and Jill’s boyfriend was here.
Christopher wouldn’t be far.
The boyfriend walked from the small parking area to the trailhead, each step stiff and awkward, beads of sweat pooling along his hairline, but what caught Jack’s attention was the white-knuckled death grip on a phone.
He swung the spotting scope toward Jill.
She sat in her hammock, back straight, watching the entrance, seeing what he’d seen, and then, as if reading his mind, she swung the glass in his direction.
Clare had never allowed them to wear a wire while training.
“Relying on technology makes you lazy,” she’d said.
According to Clare’s philosophy, electronics were worthless during weeks on the run. And, since they didn’t have the luxury of choosing when and where they might engage, unless they were planning to wear an earpiece daily, she didn’t want them wearing one at all. So she’d taught them to sign, and they’d taught themselves Morse code, and there’d been nights, as they’d crawled through the dark, when her argument fell apart completely, but it was on those nights that they’d learned to compensate.
Jack spoke with his hands.
Jill needed to call the boyfriend. This was all on her.
She dug for the new burner he’d given her, and he scanned the area, watching for movement as she dialed.
She swung out of the nest and rappelled to the ground.
He pulled his gear together.
Clare had been right about a lot of things he’d never wanted to admit, not then, not now, not ever. He hoped to God her training proved to be right on this, as well.
CHAPTER 30
ROB
AGE: 23
LOCATION: SPRING, TEXAS
PASSPORT COUNTRY: USA
NAMES: ROBERT PRESTON DAVIS
HIS HANDS WERE WET AGAINST THE STEERING WHEEL, CLAMMY, sweaty wet, gripping tight, guiding the car along the narrow road where trees and underbrush hedged both sides. Everyday city life had turned into rugged wild.
The isolation added to the weight crushing his lungs.
Each tire rotation brought him closer to the possibility of dying, but if he stopped, the whole possibility part would vanish and he’d absolutely be killed.
Sweat dripped into his eyes. He blinked against the sting, lifted his shoulder to wipe his face against his shirt, and stared straight ahead, trying not to think.
Drive. That’s all he had to do. Drive and park.
Drive, park, and walk.
He was lying to himself, but the lie kept him moving.
Truth was, he was screwed no matter what he did.
He was a wanted man, thanks to Jen, a fugitive driving a stolen car, about to enter a nature preserve with ten pounds of explosives strapped around his chest, thank you, fucking Jen. He’d have been better off if she really had been kidnapped, and he would have wished her dead if he didn’t so desperately need her to stay alive. Whoever she was, really was . . . No, he didn’t want to know, didn’t even care.
He was so over her and done with this already.
The parking area came into view, and then a little white building at the end of the lot that would have seemed welcoming on any other day but right now felt like the gateway to hell.
He eased the car into an empty spot, turned off the ignition, and sat in silence, staring at the phone, staring through the windshield, staring at nothing, while his brain fritzed and fried. They were out there, the assassins, the kidnappers, watching his every step, listening to every sound he whispered. One wrong move and the same guys who’d never put a violent hand on him or sworn or raised their voices, the same guys who’d fed him well and made sure he was comfortable and, aside from keeping him doped up and holding him against his will had been more decent than a lot of people he called friends, would turn him into hamburger.
Their flat indifference terrified him more than the vest itself.
At least psychopaths who fed off their victims’ fear, or animals that toyed with their prey before they ate it, or irrational and jumpy criminals on the run would have made some twisted sort of sense.
For these guys, he was just part of a job that needed doing.
“Do it right,” they’d said, “and we’ll let you live. Ignore the instructions and . . .” The smaller one, Christopher, the talker, had opened his hand in a simulated bang.
So he’d driven. He’d parked.
He had no choice now but to walk.
He left the keys in the ignition and stepped out of the car with the careful trepidation of a man strapped into a band of explosives against his will. He made his way toward the information booth one foot at a time, then past the booth to the trailhead, focus on the ground, cautious to avoid eye contact out of fear the desperation would give itself away. “Turn left at the first trail,” they’d said, so he turned left.
“Keep the phone out, clearly visible,” they’d said, so he did that, too.
Jen would find him, and she’d call him.
They hadn’t offered any explanation as to how they knew Jen would be here or why or how they knew she’d call, only that she would, and that when she did, his job was to draw her to him and keep her out in the open as long as possible.
A jogger headed for him, earbuds in her ears, shirt drenched from the sprinkling rain, or maybe it was sweat. He watched, nervous and heart pounding, as the woman drew close and passed him, and he kept watching until she was out of sight.
Dangerous, dangerous thoughts churned through his head.
They’d said h
e could go when this was over. He’d argued with them. The only way he’d really be free was if Jen proved to the detectives that she was alive.
“You’ll be fine without her,” they’d said. “Without a body, there wouldn’t be evidence, and without evidence, no conviction.”
They’d laughed when he choked.
“We don’t want to kill her,” they’d said. “Just want to talk with her.”
Like he hadn’t heard those exact same words through his own front door, and yet here he was, bait strapped to a bomb and cut loose to swim between feuding assassins.
What could possibly go wrong?
Oh, just everything.
If he followed the instructions, if they were right about Jen being here and calling him and coming to him, then they’d get to her, and there’d quite possibly be a body and evidence, and he’d have been right there, fully present and accounted for, and guilty as sin. Even if he did live, he might as well be dead.
The vest grew heavier, grew into eighty pounds of threat dragging him down, turning his feet to lead and his body into deadweight. Desperation and fear swirled and congealed into one simple goal: stay alive.
And, if he lived, prove his innocence.
He reached a junction, a lonely junction.
His spine tingled with the creepy sensation of being watched, and he turned a slow circle, looking for whoever was out there. If his kidnappers were hunting Jen, that meant she was hunting them, and possibly hunting him as a by-product.
He walked on, phone held out where it’d be impossible to miss.
If he followed the instructions through to the end, he was already dead.
The dangerous thoughts surfaced again.
CHAPTER 31
JACK
AGE: 26
LOCATION: SPRING, TEXAS
PASSPORT COUNTRY: USA
NAMES: JASON FRANCIS WHITE
HE SHADOWED JILL THROUGH THE SPOTTING SCOPE, SCANNING ahead, around, tracking until fog and foliage swallowed her, and then, in a race against time, he strapped on his gear and rappelled to the ground. They’d set up for a protracted hide-seek-hunt, had planned, if necessary, to use Jill as bait to draw Christopher to them, had planned for a hostage scenario, and a dozen variants of psychological warfare.
You need to know your opponent to outthink him.
Understand your enemy and you’ll know his plans before he does.
Christopher had gone a level up.
He’d gone after Robert and brought him as a bazooka to a gunfight.
Anything intimate, personal that Robert knew about Jill, Christopher now knew.
Christopher knew his enemy.
Jack slunk through the silent damp, stepping over fallen trees and skirting low-hanging branches, scanning, scanning for an enemy he could feel but not see.
His jacket vibrated with a photo alert.
He crouched for cover and pulled a mini tablet from its case.
From camera two, he had a blurred image of Jill with Robert in tow.
Jack checked GPS location on the pet tracker she wore.
She was on the move, heading toward the creek that marked the preserve’s border.
He changed his trajectory and pushed faster through the quiet undergrowth to keep behind her, hunting the fine line between guarding her way out and veering off course so those in pursuit couldn’t set ambush.
Another vibration followed.
He stole a glance at the tablet and, in that glance, froze and knelt and pinched and zoomed. Fair skin, angled cheekbones, and cropped blond hair filled the screen.
Crazy eyes and a hungry mouth smiled for the picture.
Heartbeat rising, the prospect of failure climbing, Jack ran a signal check on the other cameras.
Of the six he’d placed, only one still had power.
Strategy shifted.
He shoved the worthless tablet aside and cut for the open trail that led toward the lake, ran for the remaining signal and its promise of collision with the enemy.
The whine of death stopped him cold.
Bark chunked off the tree ahead.
He rolled hard, shrugged out of his pack to free up mobility, and crawled deeper into the brush. The high-pitched mosquito song of live fire moved past him at thousands of feet per second. Clare’s voice looped in his brain in an endless replay of course correction.
He’d been moving forward to confront the enemy.
The rounds had come from behind.
He’d missed something.
This wasn’t an ambush. Was something else.
He checked Jill’s GPS. She was moving faster.
He ripped the pet tag off his belt, bit down on it, cracked the plastic, and yanked the electronic guts free. Jill would destroy hers when she realized he’d gone dark.
They were running off script now.
The shooting stopped.
He held himself motionless, eyes closed, listening.
A whispered rustle betrayed movement. He rolled hard to the left.
Dirt spit from the ground beside him. He swung in the direction from which the shot had come, took aim on instinct, and pulled.
The CO2 cartridge hissed.
Silence ruptured with a bull moose bellow.
A fast-moving shadow charged out of the underbrush, two hundred and sixty pounds of angry muscle rushing toward him with a barrage of suppressed fire.
Jack tossed the X-Caliber aside.
He’d broken a cardinal rule, had headed into the fight without knowing his weapon, trusting that stealing from Clare’s stash meant she’d already done what needed doing. He scrambled for his kit, cursing Clare with every ragged, dogged breath.
His hand found the stock of Raymond’s .308.
He ripped the rifle free, swung the barrel.
The charging giant paused mid-step, dropped to his knees and, a full eight dangerous, breath-holding yards from where he’d started, toppled over.
Jack crawled forward, checked the guy’s breathing, and listened to his heart. He’d hit the ground hard, but he’d live, which might be a mistake.
This wasn’t Christopher, wasn’t the guy he’d wanted to take alive. This was six feet, four inches of fat-free, bulked-up muscle wrapped in a package of discipline cut with the hard-core dedication required to eat thousands of protein calories a day and not much else—the kind of mind one didn’t fuck with lightly, the kind of man, if he had to bet, that Christopher would have as a partner.
Jack patted down his legs, torso, arms.
He checked ears and wrists and neck.
No identification. No electronic tethers.
He filched a Desert Eagle from the guy’s hip holster and stashed the .50 caliber beast in his bag. Serial numbers would probably lead just as far into nowhere as the pockets had, but they were worth a try. He untied the big boy’s laces and, time ticking away far faster than he’d accounted for, pulled boots off feet to check for hidden items.
A flash, a sparkle, in his peripheral vision caught his attention.
Years of training shoved him like physical hands.
He rolled aside. Logic followed after movement, processing the glint as sunlight reflecting off glass across the lake. A round hit just beyond where his head had been.
He squirreled backward away from bullets that kept coming—not at him, but at the body on the ground. The big guy shook with each impact.
Blood spread from three torso wounds.
Jack watched, paralyzed, confused.
The face on the game camera flashed in his head: brash, brazen, foolish.
Delayed realization kicked hard against the shock and sent him scrambling on hands and feet through the brush. Adrenaline surged, powering mind and body in a race to clarity. Fear twisted up his legs, into his gut, and along his spine—real fear, felt for the first time in a long time.
He’d known a schemer like the Broker would never pit equal strengths against each other and leave the result to fate.
He’d expected a
thumb on the scale to guarantee a winner.
Had seen a third party sent into the fight as the Broker’s most plausible strategy.
He’d planned on outcomes that favored either side but hadn’t expected the Broker would send crazies—thrill seekers—to annihilate them all.
He caught his footing and slashed in the direction Jill had gone, noisy and careless, throwing away caution and stealth to draw attention to himself. She’d put herself in a position of weakness, had trusted him to guard her back, and he’d just inadvertently given psychopathic bounty-hunting gunslingers a long head start on the one person he loved enough to protect with his life.
CHAPTER 32
JILL
AGE: 26
LOCATION: SPRING, TEXAS
PASSPORT COUNTRY: USA
NAMES: JENNIFER WHITE
SHE SLUNK BETWEEN THE TREES, TRACKING MOVEMENT AND SHADOWS and nature’s whispers, winding her way toward the target in the same way she’d stalked prey during so many hunts of the past.
She’d taken the bait, she’d made the call.
She was full in now.
She crouched low, paused, and listened.
The shooter was out there, somewhere in the foggy quiet, Christopher, the man who’d taken Clare, who’d killed Ray, the man she’d been contracted to kill, out there watching for her and watching Robert as surely as she watched Robert and watched for him.
In her head, Clare said, Yes, you found the trap. Yes, you avoided the trap. Congratulations, Julia. You’re dead, anyway.
Robert turned onto the trail she’d told him to find and came into view, body stiff, expression grim, trying and failing to appear relaxed and normal.
Her conscience, what little conscience she had, twanged with guilt.
She’d been careful, had kept her separate lives separate, hadn’t been the one to point killers and kidnappers to him, but it was still because of her life of lies that Rob was here, and she didn’t want his blood on her hands.
He moved off the trail to a narrower path, each slow step placed carefully, as if he was afraid of falling. She slipped behind him, shielded by foliage, following the earth’s natural bend. Clare’s voice, sarcastic and strident, kept pace.
Liars' Paradox Page 19
