Gregg Hurwitz - The Survivor

He spun, scanning the wall, the flashlight beam picking across a stack of army-surplus woodland-camo fatigue shirts, a dented DVD player, and a single dirty sock. Something shiny winked at him, half hidden by the leg of the letter desk.

A roll of duct tape.

A crackle of electricity moved through him, pricking his skin, trepidation and excitement rolled into one. He crossed the room and picked up the roll. One edge speckled with blood. A few indentations, millimeters apart. Teeth marks. Nate called to mind the crime-scene photo, Urban’s square teeth spaced inside the terrible oval his mouth had formed in death. The man had needed to bite to tear the tape since by the time he’d gotten upstairs, he’d had only one functional hand.

With murderers on your heels, why go after duct tape?

Nate dropped the roll. Walked back to the blood splotch. Nothing. The flashlight beam moved toward the doorway as if of its own volition, illuminating the fallen chair. Then, slowly, Nate pulled it north to the ceiling above it.

A fan.

The electricity along his skin surged into a current. Urban had run up here not only to get away but to hide something. The thing Shevchenko’s men were after. He’d stood on the chair and taped it to the fan. He’d fallen off the chair. Twisted that ankle. Tried to crawl to a position of cover. And then.

His heart thundering, Nate walked across the room. Righted the chair and stood on it. Reaching up, he felt along the tops of the fan blades. Sure enough, on the second blade his fingers touched a lifted edge of duct tape. He tore it free and held it under the flashlight.

Adhered to one side like a glittering jewel-a safe-deposit-box key. Stamped on the head, 227.

He blew out the breath burning his chest, his vision spotting. Clenched the key in his fist. Relief. Now all he had to do was impersonate a dead hit man, provide false documentation at the bank, get into the vault, trick a manager into using the guard key, and remove the box’s contents while leaving no trace. Piece of cake. But still. He had the key. Which was further than Shevchenko and his team of expert thugs had gotten. Maybe Nate could find a way out of this yet.

The sudden ring of his cell phone cut through the silence, scaring him upright. He wobbled on the chair and had to take a quick step down, nearly turning his ankle in solidarity with Urban. His hands fumbled over the phone, finally opening it.

“Nate. Nate?” Janie’s voice, thin, wrenched high with fear. “You have to get here now. ”

Nate screeched up into the driveway, back tire swiping across the lawn. Flew from the Jeep, leaving the door ajar. He banged on the house door, shouting, and then hands fussed at the dead bolt and chain and Janie was there, her nostrils and the rims of her eyes red. He grabbed her shoulders. “Where’s Cielle?”

“Cielle’s okay. She was up in her room. With Casper.”

Hearing voices, Nate charged back toward the kitchen. Janie had described the intruder in their brief conversation. Yuri, the giant from outside the bank. Yuri of the mashed nose and the rescue saw. “He came to the house,” Nate said, still grappling with the fact of it.

“Yes, the driveway.”

Nate rounded the corner and saw Pete sitting on the counter, cradling his hand, which he’d wrapped in a dish towel filled with ice. His mouth was clenched, lips bloodless and trembling, his broad shoulders drooping. Cielle stood before him, Casper leaned into the backs of her legs as he did when agitated or craving attention.

“I was in the car.” Pete choked back pain. “Right in the driveway. Janie was inside.”

Nate wheeled to Janie. “If he laid a finger on you-”

“No,” she said. “I never saw him. I heard the noise outside.” She carefully unwrapped the dish towel, and Pete’s breathing quickened. “And then he was gone.”

“What did he do to you?” Nate asked Pete.

“He grabbed my hand. Slammed it in the car door.”

Cielle gave out a little cry. “Why? Who was he?”

Janie finished unfolding the blood-spotted towel, laying Pete’s hand bare. It looked wrong, bent at the middle, his thumb lolling at an unnatural angle. His skin was pink, angry from the ice. “It’s broken, honey,” Janie said. “There’s no question. We need a doc to reduce and cast it.”

Pete said, “How will we explain it?”

“Fell off a ladder,” Janie said.

“What are you talking about?” Cielle asked.

“Why’d he come here?” Nate asked. “Just out of the blue?”

Janie shifted with discomfort, and Pete’s grimace tightened. “Pete called his friend,” she said. “The cop. Earlier. From work.”

From the set of her mouth, Nate knew that this had already caused a disagreement between them. He felt his pulse beating at his temples. “Despite what we agreed?”

Pete said, “I’m not really in the mood for a lecture right now.”

“So they caught wind of it,” Nate said. “You broke the one rule.”

“Someone please tell me what’s happening!” Cielle yelled.

“Don’t lay this on me,” Pete said. “This began with you, Nate. It’s on your shoulders-”

Nate’s voice rose to match Pete’s. “You put my daughter at risk-”

Pete lifted his good hand, the fingers trembling. “I didn’t. The guy, he said, ‘Next time, we take her.’ So she’s safe now. At least as safe as she was. ”

Cielle screamed, a rush of fear and anger. “What the hell is going on?”

An abrupt silence, broken only by the chop-chop-chop of a sprinkler in the backyard.

“What?” With dread, Cielle glanced from face to face. “What are you keeping from me now?”

Janie looked over at Nate. Save the freckles across the bridge of her nose, her skin was washed of color. She gave a little nod.

“The guy behind the bank robbery found me,” Nate said. “And he thinks I owe him for breaking up the heist. He wants me to steal something for him.”

Cielle’s eyes widened. “Or what?”

“He threatened to hurt you.”

“Me? What did I do?”

Nate reached for her, but she jerked back as if he’d struck her.

“I will not let him touch you. I will do any thing-”

“So that guy, that huge guy you’re talking about…?” Cielle was shaking her head, still backing up, twisting away from him. “And you-you weren’t gonna tell me? I’m the one at risk, and you kept it from me?”

“That was my fault,” Pete said. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Well, guess what?” Cielle kept her glare on Nate. “I’m fucking scared.”

With the longest of the kitchen knives held across his knees, Nate sat downstairs in his former living room on his former couch staring at his former TV, though it was turned off. In the dark rectangle of the flat-screen, he could see his pale reflection and the portrait of Pete, Janie, and Cielle on the wall behind him. Their frozen faces hovered ghostlike over his shoulder.

Since Janie had to take Pete to the emergency room, Nate had agreed to stay and keep watch over Cielle, who had retreated angrily to her bedroom. Twice he’d gone up to knock and talk through the locked door, but his attempts at comforting her were met with no response. The sounds of her frightened crying eroded something inside him until he’d put his back to the wall and slid to the floor. He’d sat in the hall outside her bedroom for a time torturing himself before taking up the more strategic position on the couch. His anger had spent the last few hours simmering as he contemplated what to do.

The rusty complaint of the garage door announced Janie and Pete’s return. Nate rose to meet them, knife in hand. Janie helped Pete along, a white cast encasing his hand, his protruding index finger clamped by an additional splint.