John Hart - Iron House

Michael stood. “Help me get her up.”

Elena endured it, half-conscious. It took five minutes, and by the time they had her in the other room, Michael’s bandage was soaked through.

“Cloverdale won’t tell anybody,” Abigail said. Michael gave her a look. “Even if he did, it would just be the senator. My husband may be amoral and self-serving, but he’s neither stupid nor shortsighted. I’m implicated in this. I’m involved.” Michael stretched out beside Elena; Abigail lifted his leg. “Jesus. Look what you’ve done to yourself.”

“I’ve been shot before.”

“Let me at least change the bandage.” Michael nodded, and she changed the pads, the gauze. She threw the bloody mess in the trash. “Can I put a pillow under it?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Why are you smiling?”

“I’ve never been fussed over before.”

“Not even once?”

“Not ever.”

That touched something in Abigail. “Let me get you some water.”

She came back with a glass, and Michael said, “What I need is a car.”

“I have the Land Rover…” She hooked a thumb at the lot.

“I can’t drive a stick shift with this leg.”

“I’ll bring another. How do you want to handle it?”

“Just leave the keys at the desk.” He was exhausted, voice fading as his body finally crashed. He reached for the pill bottle, but Abigail beat him to it.

“Let me.”

She shook out two pills and watched him swallow them down. The bed creaked as she sat beside him.

“How’s Julian?” he asked.

“Still hiding.”

“Cops?”

“Looking for him with a frenzy. His face is all over the news. They’re talking about roadblocks and dogs. They’ve got search warrants, helicopters. Sheriff’s deputies are coming in from other counties to help search the grounds. The senator has lawyers, but they’re helpless. It can’t last much longer.”

Michael needed to worry about Julian, to think of names and connections.

Iron House…

Slaughter Mountain…

He closed his eyes, drifted, and then snapped awake. “The guns-”

“Beside you.” He saw them on the table. “It’s okay,” she said. “Everything’s done that can be done.”

“We need to find him. We need to understand-”

“I know we do. I know. But, tomorrow.”

Michael felt warmth and weight. Pills or blood loss or both. “I’ve only trusted one person who knew the truth about me.”

“Otto Kaitlin?”

“Yes.”

“Well…” She folded her hands, stood.

“Thank you, Abigail.”

He closed his eyes and was gone.

“You’re welcome, Michael.”

The clock read 4:00 when he woke: red numbers that glowed in the dark. Demon eyes. A double barrel, fired and hot. Michael blinked, and the clock rolled to 4:01. His throat was dry, but pain stood at a respectful distance. He checked Elena, who made a hump in the dark; then, he checked the guns. The forty-five was down to two rounds; the nine millimeter had a full clip. The thirty-eight was gone.

Michael went to the window, where he studied the lot and the cars in it. A late-model Range Rover angled in near their door, and he guessed that Abigail had been true to her word. Everything else matched the motel-old and tired and dirty-but the Rover’s paint was clean enough to catch starlight. He looked at the sky, at the white moon and high, clear flecks of gold, and was confused about what to feel. Men were dead: Stevan, who’d once been like a brother, and Jimmy who, for good or ill, had helped make Michael the man he was. He didn’t regret that they were gone, but it was strange to be so alone in that world.

Otto was dead.

Stevan. Jimmy.

Then the enormity of that settled on Michael. No one was looking for him or had reason to want him dead. In one fell swoop, his life had been made free of violence and baseness and fear. Elena slept eight feet away, and they had eighty million dollars to start a new life. They could disappear in safety. Have the baby. Be together. Michael took a deep breath, and felt his chest loosen.

No one was looking for him…

As illusions went, it was a good one.

The van rolled up two minutes later. It entered the lot slowly, lights off, windows black; Michael knew at a glance it meant trouble. It was the darkness of it, the slow, predatory roll. It eased onto the asphalt and stopped on a silver spray of broken glass. For long seconds nothing happened, then it rolled deeper into the lot, pulled toward the center, then backed to a stop near the first room Michael had occupied. The door slid wide and men spilled out as smooth and quiet as blown smoke. They moved professionally: hand signals and short-barreled, automatic weapons, black clothes and body armor. But they weren’t cops.

No badges or insignia.

License plate covered.

They took position on either side of the door, the center man with a two-handled battering ram. In two seconds they were in: a violent entry and a spill of silent black. In another twenty seconds they were out. They displayed no disappointment or anything else unprofessional. Three of them got back in the van, while the fourth dragged the damaged door closed. He walked to the passenger side, looked once around the dim lot then climbed inside and said something to the driver. As the van began to move, he looked in Michael’s direction.

Then the van moved past.

They left as slowly as they’d come, and did not turn on headlights until all four tires were on the road. Taillights faded, died; Michael watched the empty road. After five minutes, he lowered the hammer on the nine millimeter and climbed back into bed. They would need to leave soon, but Elena still slept, and her body was warm on his. He pushed closer and thought of the man he’d seen, a flicker of face in the high, thin light. Michael had met him once, outside Julian’s room.

Richard Gale.

The senator’s man.

Michael gave it forty minutes, then woke Elena in the dark. She was groggy, confused. “Where am I?”

“You’re with me, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

“I don’t remember-”

“Shh. Take it easy. Take it slow.”

She tried to move, and the pain hit her. “Oh, God. Oh, my God…” She curled up in the bed, and Michael knew it was more than pain that found her. “I thought maybe it was a dream.”

“Just take a minute. Here.” He shook painkillers out of the bottle and helped her get them down. She choked a little, and he dabbed water off her chin.

“What day is it?” she asked.

“Friday.”

“Everything feels off. It feels wrong.”

“Hang on a second.”

Michael stood and cracked the curtains so that dim light filtered in. He limped back to the bed, and Elena said, “You’re hurt. God, I forgot that, too.”

“You were in shock. It’s normal.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Really?”

“It hurts. I’ve had worse.”

“And you really have, haven’t you? That’s not just an expression.” She stared at him for a long time, but when he sat on the bed, her eyes dipped so he saw lashes against her skin. “I’ve never seen anybody move like that. When you went for the gun, when you shot… when you shot…”

“Let’s not talk about it right now. It’s a new day. It’s behind us.”

“Okay.”

“Are you hungry?”

She looked embarrassed when she said, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Let me help you.”

“Michael, I’m not comfortable…” Her head moved.

“It’s still me, baby.”

He flashed a grin, and for that moment he looked the same, felt the same. He had the same dimple in his right cheek, the same twinkle. “I don’t think I can walk.”