J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

I pat my pockets for my flashlight, but I know it’s not there. Like the rest of my things-my briefcase, my ballistic vest, the zeroed-in AR-15 locked in the trunk, everything that might have helped me in this situation-it’s back there in the car. All I have is the Browning with one magazine. That and my phone. And I’m afraid to use it. The screen is so bright I’m afraid to switch it on for fear of attracting their notice. I can hear their voices declaring the car empty.

Glancing behind me, I try to make out a path. Maybe there’s a line of retreat that will get me out of here. There should be parkland deeper in, and then I should hit Buffalo Bayou. Only they’re so close that if I make a break, I know they’ll see me, and at this range it would be hard to miss. I like my chances better hunkered down. If I fire first, I know at least that I can drop one of them. That’s better than nothing.

“Tracks,” a voice hisses.

The sound makes me freeze. One of the shadows points a hand in my general direction.

I have to force myself to move. I raise the Browning, lining up the Tritium night-sights over his silhouette. I take a deep breath, then let it out.

The first shot has to count.

I’m sorry, Charlotte. I should have been a better -

Up on the embankment, the Hummer’s engine rumbles to life. The shadows all stop in their tracks, then turn to watch. Now they’re the ones frozen in place. The back wheels spin out and the Hummer tears onto the road with a throaty roar.

Then it’s gone, leaving silence in its wake.

“Are you kidding me?” a loud voice says.

The reply is softer: “He must have doubled around.”

“And you left the keys in? Is that what you’re tellin’ me?”

The voice is familiar. The last time I heard it, the speaker was holding me at the point of his shotgun. Brandon Ford. I strain to listen, trying to make out which one of the men is him. If I can figure that out, then I’ll know where to aim my first round.

A third speaker, loudest of all: “ Shhhhh .”

They aren’t crouched anymore. They stand flat-footed. They think they’re unobserved. This would be a good time to hit them, if only I trusted my ability to pull it off. I don’t. While I lick my lips in pained anticipation, one of them races up the embankment. He reaches the crest, looking hard down the length of the road, then signals to the others. The Hummer is long gone. They huddle up near the trunk of my car, conversing in subdued tones, words I can’t make out. Clearly an argument, and by the sound of it, desperate. This is a development they didn’t anticipate.

And they think I did it. I wish I’d had the forethought and the nerve.

I let out my breath. Whoever took that Hummer-a car thief seizing his chance? — is now tops in my book. By now I would probably be dead if not for his intervention. A freak occurrence, the kind of pure chance Carter Robb would attribute to providence.

Thank you, thank you, thank you .

All I have to do is stay hidden. Even better, now that they’re on foot, maybe I should risk making a phone call. If the bright screen doesn’t attract their attention, or if I can shield the light from view, we’re in the heart of the city, meaning patrol units could swarm this place in a matter of minutes. That’s what I’ve got to do. Otherwise, I run the risk of letting Ford slip through my fingers. I don’t have a choice.

I grip the phone in my left hand, my finger hovering over the sleep button. When I press it, the screen will flash to life. If I keep it close to my chest, screened by the trunk of the tree, then it should be invisible. I can only afford to speak in whispers, they’re so close.

“Hey,” a voice calls, not Ford’s. “He left his keys behind.”

A man slides behind the wheel of my car. He turns the key. The engine fires up, touching off the headlights. I flatten myself against the ground, eyes tightly shut, expecting the gunfire any second. I grit my teeth as if the bullets are already ripping through me.

Nothing. I glance up, but the lights dazzle my eyes. The motor revs and the wheel spins in a long, whirring circuit, kicking up earth. The revving dies down.

“The wheels are stuck. Give me a hand.”

I can’t let them take the car. The file on Ford is in my briefcase. All my notes. The rifle in the trunk. There’s no way. I tap the sleep button on the top of my phone, bringing the screen to life. Now that I’m bathed in the headlights, what’s the risk? Emergency dispatch is on my speed dial. I punch the number.

Then I cancel the call. This is exactly the kind of situation I can’t afford to be in. Exactly the kind of explaining I don’t want to do. Not to Wanda, not to Internal Affairs. But if I don’t call, I’m letting Ford walk away. The odds of finding him again are almost nil.

Am I making a mistake? Probably so.

I set the phone between two roots, facing toward me, ready to press redial as a last resort. As long as they don’t detect me, though, I’m not going to call for help. If I lose the car and everything in it, I’ll make up an excuse.

“The front left is blown,” one of them announces. “Pop the trunk and see if there’s a spare. We’ve gotta get out of here.”

“ Look .”

The Hummer has reappeared on the embankment, coming from the opposite direction as it disappeared. I feel goose bumps rise on my forearm.

“Leave that and come on!”

Without another word, they head toward the newly arrived vehicle. It’s not the same one, I realize. They have a backup driver. One of them must have called for help during the whispered huddle.

I keep my position until they’re all in the Hummer. The doors slam shut and they turn around on the embankment, heading off in the direction of Kirby, the way we came. Part of me wants to go after them. Ford is getting away.

I wait a few seconds, conflicted about my lack of action.

Cars pass back and forth on the parkway. Cicadas chirp in the distance. My breathing returns to normal. It’s done. The decision is made. It’s like they were never here, except that my car is trashed and stuck in the soft dirt. Unsteadily, bracing my hand against the tree trunk, I get up on my feet. I slip my gun away. I limp toward the car. The pain in my leg is back with a vengeance, hard to ignore.

On inspection, they’ve at least done me one favor by rolling the car out of the ruts the front tires had embedded themselves in. The left front tire looks shredded. Even the rim is chewed up. I pull out the jack and the spare, retrieving my flashlight to make the work a little easier. The physical task calms me down. As I tighten the lugs, I begin to wonder who those guys were and why they were trying to kill me. Before now, the question hadn’t occurred to me.

The Hummer must have picked up my trail at Downing Street. That much seems certain. How would they know to find me there? Tom Englewood told me where to meet him. It follows that he made this arrangement. At the last minute, revealing his connection to Reg Keller, he must have figured he was telling a dead man.

What have I gotten myself into?

Once the tire is changed, I back the car around carefully, not wanting to get stuck again. I edge my way up the embankment, then accelerate onto the road. At the first break in the median, I swing around to head east, picking up speed as I pass the site of my near-death experience. The engine whines.

The apartment tower looms on my right again. In the next parking lot I see a black Hummer sitting with its lights switched off.

Against my better judgment I hit the brake and pull in. I roll up behind the Hummer with my high beams on. With my gun drawn I get out to investigate. Before I can advance more than a few steps, the driver’s door pops open. Two empty hands poke into the light.