Дэвид Балдаччи - No Man's Land

“Omigod, really?”

“Really. The address?”

They left the Grunt a minute later with a piece of paper with the beach house address. They got into the car and Puller drove off.

Knox was looking at her phone. She hit some keys, plugging in the address.

“The guy was right, it’s only about two hours from here. And there’s something else.”

“What?”

“This address is only about thirty minutes from Ballard’s estate.”

“Interesting and probably not a coincidence.”

“You think Myers is working with Ballard?” said Knox.

“Why would Ballard steal his own secrets and hand them off to this Charpentier guy?”

“Crap. This case is a real mess.”

“And getting messier all the time.”

ONE BREATH, TWO breaths, three breaths.

Myers was asleep, still tied up in the chair. Her head drooped on to her chest, her hair hanging limp. She mumbled sometimes but he couldn’t make out any words.

Josh Quentin was asleep too, and, like Myers, bound to another chair.

They had gotten a text back last night from Jericho that she was busy but would be able to meet with them in the morning. The important thing was she was coming here. And he knew exactly how he was going to kill her.

He felt it coming on, so he got up and rushed from the room. He reached the bathroom just in time and threw up in the toilet. He got out of his clothes because his body felt literally on fire. He climbed into the shower and turned the water on as cold as it would go. It still felt like he was in a steam bath. Or a furnace. It was as though the water was hitting his skin and evaporating from the heat.

He grabbed the pipe stem of the shower head and squeezed. He felt the metal give under his grip and let go before he crushed it.

He slumped against the tile, counting his breaths but still losing control, feeling the enormous weight of hopelessness settle down on him.

He was Atlas without the requisite strength.

For the first time in his tortured life, Paul Rogers wasn’t sure he could actually do this. He didn’t know if he would survive long enough. It would be a cruel irony if he were to drop dead at the woman’s feet, inches from his decades-long goal of snuffing out her life.

He climbed out of the shower, toweled off, and sat on the toilet. The pain finally subsided, the internal fires lessened in their intensity. He put his clothes back on and returned to the room where Myers and Quentin were still sleeping.

He sat down and was surprised when Myers lifted her head, opened her eyes, and looked at him.

“I know you have good reason to hate her,” she said.

Rogers glanced at her, held her gaze steady for a few protracted moments, and then looked away, staring at the gap between his feet.

She glanced over at Quentin. “I wouldn’t trust him.”

“I don’t trust anyone, ” said Rogers, looking at her so fiercely that she changed color and looked down.

“What are you going to do with me?”

“I told you. Jericho gets here, you’re free.”

“I saw what you did to those men at the bar. I don’t think that’s the first time you’ve killed someone.”

He looked up at her. “I was created to kill. It’s really the only reason for my existence.”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anything more awful than that.”

He said nothing to this because he had nothing to add.

“Those scars? What did they do to you?”

“The scars made me strong.” He tapped his head. “But this is what made me a killer.”

Myers started to say something, but Rogers held up a hand. “No more talk.”

Time ticked away.

Night passed to morning.

Myers fell asleep again.

Quentin had never awoken, perhaps safe in the belief that his treacherous actions would allow for his survival.

Rogers just stared at the floor.

Until eight o’clock in the morning came.

When the sound of the approaching car made him go to the window.

It was a black SUV. It pulled into the driveway and she got out.

Claire Jericho, in the flesh. She was dressed in a dark pantsuit.

He gasped and then drew a long breath. He could barely believe she was here, that he was, after all this time, only a few feet away from the woman who had destroyed him. He felt his body heat up like someone had lighted a fire under him. It was all he could do not to jump through the window, grab her, and finish it.

Rogers raced over to Quentin, roused him, untied him, and told him what to do. Then he ran into the bathroom, got a washcloth, and stuffed it inside Myers’s mouth so she couldn’t call out.

Her panicked eyes looked back at him.

“It’ll all be over soon enough,” Rogers said.

He turned and grabbed Quentin by the arm. “You step one inch out of line I will crush your skull.”

Quentin nodded, smoothed out his shirt, ran a hand through his hair, and headed downstairs, with Rogers right behind him.

They reached the front door right as the knock came. Rogers peeked out the sidelight. It was just Jericho. Whoever else was in the SUV had remained there.

Quentin opened the door and motioned Jericho inside. She stepped through the threshold.

Rogers closed his eyes and in his mind everything the woman had done to him came roaring back like a tsunami inside his skull. He opened his eyes. He was done counting breaths.

He pulled the vintage M11-B from his waistband.

He would point it against her head.

He would see how she liked it. Then he would put the gun down and cram the ring down her throat.

And finally he would strangle her with the hands she had made stronger than a gorilla’s.

For the greater good. You can carry it to eternity.

Rogers was about to strike when the gas hit him in the face.

He remembered those eyes staring at him, just as they had three decades ago.

They were probing, piercing, and missed nothing. They were X-ray eyes if there ever was such a thing.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t laugh. She didn’t look gloating or triumphant.

She simply looked mildly curious.

Rogers’s body tensed and then relaxed as the vapor settled in his lungs for an instant before his bloodstream sent it barreling to his brain.

And a moment later everything shut down. Unconscious, he dropped to the floor at her feet.

Jericho looked down at him and then nudged his rock-hard shoulder with her foot.

“It’s good to finally see you again, Dimitri.”

“IT SHOULD BE this one,” said Knox.

They had crossed over into North Carolina about ninety minutes ago. It was now after nine in the morning as Puller turned into the driveway of the large beach house.

“The Grunt must be a cash machine,” said Knox as they got out of the car.

“I think selling stolen government secrets is probably more lucrative,” replied Puller dryly.

They walked up to the front of the house.

“Puller, the door is open,” said Knox.

Puller already had his gun out; Knox followed suit.

He looked down at the asphalt drive. “That looks like a fresh oil spot,” he said, pointing to a dollop of liquid.

They stepped to the side of the front door and Puller gave it a nudge with his foot. It swung open and he did a quick look inside.

He eyed Knox and motioned with his head.

She ducked into the house, her gun pointing center left. Puller followed her performing his arc center right. They cleared the first floor and then checked the garage.

“That’s Myers’s BMW,” said Puller. “I don’t know whose Maserati that is.”

Knox opened the door to the Maserati, popped the glove box, and took out the registration.