Дэвид Балдаччи: King and Maxwell

Simons called out, “What’s the range on the detonator?”

“I’ll keep that to myself.”

He threw his knapsack on the front seat, climbed into the truck, and started the engine. He eyed the gas gauge. Full. He kept his free hand ready with the detonator.

Simons said, “How can we trust you not to detonate when you’re well away?”

“It’s a question of range,” he replied.

“Which you haven’t told us.”

“So you just have to trust me, Nebraska. Just like I have to trust you that this truck isn’t wired to blow up as soon as I’m out of here. Or maybe it was the other one that was.”

He pushed the gas pedal to the floor and the truck roared out of the stone building. He expected shots to be fired at him. None came.

He imagined they believed that would lead to their deaths when he released the button in retaliation.

When he was far enough away, he looked at the black box. If the guys back there were CIA, there was a lot more going on here than he cared to think about right now. But he wanted to see it through. And the only way to do that was to let this play out. And stay alive.

He disengaged the detonator and tossed it on the front seat.

Now he just had to get the hell out of here.

He hoped that was possible. Most people came to this part of the world simply to kill or be killed.

SEAN KING DROVE WHILE MICHELLE MAXWELL rode shotgun.

This was the reverse of what the pair normally did. She usually drove the car, like she was piloting a ride at Daytona. And Sean hung on for dear life and mumbled his prayers, but without much confidence that they would be answered.

There was a good reason for his driving tonight, and for the last twenty-one nights. Michelle was simply not herself, at least not yet. She was getting there, only more slowly than she wanted.

He looked at her. “How you doing?”

She stared straight ahead. “I am armed. So you ask me that one more time and I will shoot you, Sean.”

“I’m just concerned, okay?”

“I know that, Sean. And I appreciate it. But I’ve been out of rehab for three weeks. I think I’m good to go. And that’s what your concern can do: Go .”

“Your injuries were life threatening, Michelle. You almost didn’t make it. You nearly bled out. Trust me, I was there for every second of it. So three weeks out of rehab after something like that is actually not very long.”

Michelle touched her lower back and then her upper thigh. There were scars there. There would always be scars there. The memory of how she had come by these injuries was as vivid as the initial knife thrust into her back. It had been done by someone she thought was an ally.

Yet she was alive. And Sean had been with her every step of the way. Only now his hovering was starting to annoy her.

“I know. But it was two full months of rehab. And I’m a fast healer. You of all people should understand that by now.”

“It was just close, Michelle. Way too close.”

“How many times have I almost lost you?” she said, shooting him a glance. “It’s part of what we do. It comes with the territory. If we want safe, we have to get into another line of work.”

Sean looked out through the windshield as the rain continued bucketing down. The night was cold, gloomy, the clouds shifty as a coyote. They were driving through a particularly lonely area of northern Virginia on their way back from meeting with a former client, Edgar Roy. They had saved him from a death sentence. He had been as suitably appreciative as any high-functioning autistic savant with severely limited social skills could be.

“Edgar looked good,” said Michelle.

“He looked really good considering the alternative of lethal injection,” replied Sean, who seemed relieved by the change in topic.

Sean took a turn too fast on the rain-slicked, curvy road and Michelle grabbed her armrest for support.

“Slow it down,” she warned.

He feigned astonishment. “Words I never thought I would hear leave your mouth.”

“I drive fast because I know how to.”

“I’ve got the injuries and therapy bills to prove otherwise,” he shot back.

She gave him a scowl. “So, what now, since we’ve finished all the work on Edgar Roy’s matter?”

“We continue our careers as private investigators. Both Peter Bunting and the U.S. government were very generous with their payments to us, but we’re socking that away to either retire on or spend on a rainy day.”

Michelle looked to the stormy sky. “Rainy day? Then let’s go buy a boat. We might need it to get home.”

Sean would have said something back, but he was suddenly preoccupied.

“Damn!”

He cut the wheel hard to the left and the Land Cruiser spun sideways across the slick roadway.

“Turn into it,” advised Michelle calmly.

Sean turned into the spin and quickly regained control of the vehicle. He applied the brakes and brought them to a stop on the shoulder.

“What the hell was that?” he snapped.

“You mean who was that,” answered Michelle.

She opened the door and leaned out into the rain.

“Michelle, wait,” said Sean.

“Point the lights to the right. Quick!”

She slammed the door shut, and Sean drove the vehicle back onto the road.

“Hit your brights,” she told him.

He did so. The lights swelled in intensity, letting them see farther in front of them with as much clarity as the darkness and rain would allow.

“There,” said Michelle, pointing to the right. “Go, go.”

Sean hit the gas and the Land Cruiser sped forward.

The person running down the right shoulder of the road looked back only once. But it was enough.

“It’s a kid,” said Sean in amazement.

“It’s a teenager,” corrected Michelle.

“Well, he was almost a dead teenager,” added Sean sternly.

“Sean, he’s got a gun.”

Sean leaned closer to the windshield and saw the weapon in the boy’s right hand. “This does not look good,” he said.

“He looks terrified.”

“He’s running in the middle of a thunderstorm with a metal object in his hand. He should be scared. And on top of that I almost hit him and then he wouldn’t be scared, just dead.”

“Get closer.”

“What?”

“Get closer.”

“Why would I do that? He’s got a gun, Michelle.”

“We have guns too. Just get closer.”

He sped up while Michelle rolled down the window.

A spear of lightning lit the sky with a billion-candlepower burst of energy followed by a crack of thunder so loud it sounded like a skyscraper imploding.

“Hey,” Michelle yelled at the boy. “Hey!”

The teen looked back again, his face whitewashed in the glare of the headlights.

“What happened?” yelled Michelle. “Are you okay?”

The boy’s answer was to point the gun at them. But he didn’t fire. He left the road and cut across a field, his feet slipping and sliding over the wet grass.

“I’m calling the cops,” said Sean.

“Just wait,” she replied. “Stop the truck.”

Sean slowed the Land Cruiser and pulled to a stop a few feet later.

Michelle hopped out of the vehicle.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sean cried out.

“He’s obviously in trouble. I’m going to find out why.”

“Did it occur to you that he might be in trouble because he just shot somebody and is running from the scene of the crime?”

“Don’t think so.”

He looked at her incredulously. “You don’t think so? Based on what?”

“I’ll be back.”

“What? Michelle, wait.”

He made a grab for her arm, but missed.

The next instant she was sprinting across the field. In a few seconds she was soaked to the skin in the driving rain.