Jeremy Robinson - MirrorWorld

They get the idea when I accelerate toward them. The bravest of the four squeezes off two rounds. Both miss. Probably because the man was already running when he fired. They dive away, two to a side, narrowly missing being added to the long list of New Hampshire’s daily roadkill. The gate, however, doesn’t move for me. But it’s not nearly as robust as it looks. The metal pole bends with a shriek and allows us passage.

I glance in the rearview.

The Humvee skids to a stop. The guards pick themselves up.

No one pursues us.

The chase, it seems, ended at the gate.

I turn onto the road and tear away from Neuro Inc. I’d like to say it’s the last time I’ll see the place, but I know it’s not. Once Shiloh is safe, I’ll be back. What they’re doing is wrong, and that’s something I can’t let go. Not because I’m a bleeding-heart vigilante, but because they thought they could add me to their collection of tortured souls, and I take that personally.

I look back at my passenger. He looks shaken. Frightened. But he’s still tending to Shiloh. “How is she?”

“Hell if I know,” the medic says. “What happened to her? Is she in a coma?”

Hadn’t considered that. “I assumed she’d been sedated, but I honestly don’t know.”

“Was this done to her at Neuro?” he asks.

I nod. “I’m guessing your security clearance is pretty low.”

“I started a month ago.” He looks back at Shiloh, then to me. He extends his hand toward me. “I’m Jim. Jim Cobb.”

I twist my hand back and give his a firm shake. “I’m Crazy.”

He gives a lopsided nervous smile. “I noticed.”

I turn into the driveway after my third pass. The home, a tan cape with an attached three-car garage, is definitely unoccupied. Though the mailbox is empty—likely being held at the owner’s request—three plastic-wrapped newspapers rest on the front porch steps. Even if the homeowner had lackluster feelings about reading a paper in the digital age, someone would have, at the very least, kicked the staircase obstacles aside.

I stop the SUV in front of the garage and turn it off, pocketing the keys. I glance back at Cobb, still monitoring Shiloh’s condition. “Any change?”

He shakes his head.

“You gonna run if I have a look around?”

He frowns. Pats his soft belly. “I’m not a very fast runner.”

“And you don’t want to leave her alone with me, right?”

His frown deepens. He avoids eye contact. “That a bad thing?”

“I’d call it admirable.” I open the door and slide out into the morning heat. Winters’s vehicle has all the bells and whistles, including a frigid air-conditioning system and cooled seats. My ass is downright chilly.

I take a quick look around. The house is in the woods, trees on three sides and across the street. The nearest neighbors are a hundred yards away. I jump up the front stairs and try the door. As expected, it’s locked. On my way back down the steps, I notice a fist-sized rock sitting amidst the brown wood chips surrounding the neatly clipped bushes. I stop, eyes on the rock, and sigh.

What kind of moron puts a key in a fake rock and then leaves that rock in a place it doesn’t belong?

I pick up the rock and give it a shake. A metallic clanging from inside confirms my suspicions.

Looks like I’m about to find out what kind of moron.

Key in hand, I discard the rock and unlock the front door. Hot, humid air that smells faintly like dog washes out of the home. But there’s no barking. Definitely on vacation. With one last glance back at the SUV, I move into the house. It’s spotless, despite the scent of dog. Ignoring the staircase leading up, I step into the small dining room, through the kitchen, and down the hall to the garage. I open the door and whistle. A black 1969 Boss 429 Mustang is parked on the far side. I take back every bad thought I had about the home’s owner. While he had bad taste in security, his taste in cars is impeccable, though I’m now absolutely certain he’s a moron, leaving this vehicle so poorly protected.

The garage itself is the pinnacle of organization. Pegboards hold a variety of tools. A wall of shelving holds an array of plastic bins with labels like WINTER, YARD GAMES, and GARDEN. A generator, snow blower, and riding lawn mower are parked along the back wall. All red. And above everything, arranged along a pair of two-by-fours hung from the ceiling is an assortment of skis.

I slap the middle of three large white buttons and the center garage door grinds up. I run outside, pull the SUV into the garage, and close the garage door. We’re only a thirty-minute drive from Neuro Inc., but we’ll be a hell of a lot harder to find inside the house than driving around in Winters’s bright-orange beacon. It’s a small miracle they didn’t already locate us by helicopter, but they must have been relying on the vehicle’s GPS unit to track us. Unfortunately for them, I stopped and removed the device’s antenna the moment I realized we weren’t being pursued on the ground.

I open the vehicle’s rear door. Cobb is waiting for me, one hand supporting Shiloh’s head, the other holding her hands over her stomach. “Take her under the knees. We’ll carry her together.”

“You in charge now?” I ask him.

“Do you have a medical degree?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s just agree that you don’t,” he says.

Cobb is afraid. Probably terrified. But he’s controlling it better than most, focusing on his job. I don’t know anything else about him, but he’s still earning my respect. I hook my hands around the back of Shiloh’s knees and pull. Working together, we slide her out of the SUV and carry her into the house, depositing her on the first-floor bedroom’s king-sized Posturepedic. Her lithe body sinks into the plush down comforter. Still immobile, but still breathing.

Cobb stands back and clears his throat. His nervous eyes glance at the handgun tucked into the waist of my pants.

I decide he’s earned my honesty. “It’s not loaded.”

He clearly doesn’t believe me, so I point the weapon at the floor and pull the trigger several times. “But, just so we’re clear, I was just released from a mental institution. I don’t feel fear. And I don’t need a gun to kill you.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I feel much better.”

His sarcasm brings a smile to my face. I motion toward the living room with my head. “Let’s go have a chat.”

The living room is typical Americana retiree with plaid couches, a collection of Hummel figurines, an unused exercise bike, and a massive flat-screen TV. I pat the recliner with my hand and wait for Cobb to sit in it. While he’s sitting, I head for the kitchen and check the fridge. There’s nothing inside that could spoil in less than a month, but there are four bottles of beer and a stick of pepperoni. After removing two beers and the pepperoni, I search the cabinets until I find a jar of peanut butter. I return to the couch with my booty and hand Cobb a beer. He takes it with a nod, digs out a jackknife from his pocket, and pops the top. He hands the knife to me.

I pop my beer top and then extend the two-inch knife. I rub the blade sideways across my thumb. It’s razor sharp. “You could have slit my throat.”

Cobb takes a swig. “Taking lives isn’t my job.”

I fold the knife back down. His initials are engraved on the side, beneath the white cross. “Was it a gift?”

“From my aunt,” he says.

I hold the potential weapon out to Cobb. He stares at it. “Seriously?”

“If you were going to kill me, you would have done it before we reached the front gate.”

He takes the jackknife, pockets it, and takes a long drink. When he’s done, he breathes deep and lets out a long sigh. “Are there any more of these?”