Gregg Hurwitz - The Survivor

“Yet,” Nate said.

The two men stared at each other, the cold of the room chilling Nate’s lungs. His arms were crossed, his left wrist giving off an ache that would have been agonizing if he were of a mind to focus on it.

Abara spidered his fingers on the table. “I have a buddy at the Marshals Service. I’ll call him to look into WitSec for your family. But it’s a long shot. And there’s a process-”

“What the hell are we supposed to do in the meantime?” Nate didn’t like the panic he heard creeping into his voice beneath the anger.

“As I said, we can roll a couple sedans right now.”

“It’s not right now I’m worried about. Right now they’re home safe, at least for five more hours. I’m worried about what happens in a day, a week, a month, while you guys build your case.”

“Look, we can send a patrol car around at intervals, keep an eye on them-”

“Like you did me after the bank robbery? Because within eight hours Pavlo had me ensconced in a fucking ice block!” The throbbing intensified in the bones of Nate’s left hand. He clasped it under the table, but it refused to form more than a loose claw. “Given that man’s reach, are you really telling me that half-assed police protection is a good idea?”

Abara pursed his lips. Said nothing.

“The FBI can’t move into our house and play nanny indefinitely,” Nate said. “I get it. Then let me out of here. Now. I’ve got just enough time before that deadline to get my family safely off the grid.”

“You’re wanted on charges. Remember? Terrorist threat to an airliner.”

Nate stood quickly, his chair toppling, and Abara matched him, one hand raised calmingly.

“You’re not keeping me in here,” Nate said. “If you can’t protect my family, I will.”

“You gonna shoot your way out, Nate?”

“You saw what I did at the bank.”

Abara’s pulse beat at his temple. A tense smile. Then he said, “Why don’t we sit a second.”

“I don’t have a fucking second. You put me in jail, Janie and Cielle are dead. Plus, tell me a guy like Pavlo can’t get to me in jail. Easier than on the street. He’ll have me gutted in there.”

Abara eased back into his chair, strummed his fingers. “Despite all logic and reason, I like you, Nate. So I’m not gonna lie to you. Having a patrol car check on your family at intervals does carry some risk-”

“ Some risk? It’s like filing a restraining order when there’s a raving psychopath kicking down the door.” Nate grabbed the edge of his rising temper, reined it in. He pulled out his chair, sat, folded his hands. “If it was your wife, your daughters, what would you do?”

Abara chewed the inside of his lip for a time. Then moved his finger a few centimeters and clicked off the digital recorder. “You’re a dog guy, right?”

Nate tried for patience but failed. “Is this another heartfelt family anecdote with a not-so-hidden moral? Because if so, let’s skip to the end.”

“I have a dog, too,” Abara continued, as if Nate had not spoken. “And he’s a man-about-town. Likes to roam. Before I leave for work, I open our side gate and let him out for the day. But we have years of trust built up, the way trust is built up between a man and his dog. You feel me?”

Nate risked a hopeful glance at the turned-off recorder. “Yes.”

“You’re tangled up in some serious shit right now, with a lot of outstanding legal issues. And you’re a resource, still, in the Shevchenko case. If I let you roam while I look into the Witness Security Program for your family, I have to trust that you won’t go far in case I need you. You’ll want to stay close anyway in case I can push WitSec through.”

“How will we be in touch?” Nate asked.

“Your cell.”

Paranoia swelled. “Can Pavlo track it?”

“I don’t care who his contacts are, he’s not gonna be able to triangulate a cell signal. That takes major resources. I can’t get that done officially sometimes.” Abara moved to the door, then stopped. “I have determined that you are not an active terrorist threat. Which doesn’t mean that the charges against you are dropped. While you’re out in the cold, find a good lawyer.” He produced Nate’s cell phone from a pocket, held it out on his palm, an offering. “You’d better get a long-term plan in place.”

“By the time this gets resolved, I’ll be dead.” Nate grabbed the phone from Abara’s palm. “I don’t need a long-term plan.”

Abara nodded solemnly and stepped aside, shoving the door ajar.

The rough October winds were acting up, fallen palm fronds littering the streets like knocked-off fenders. Dialing his cell phone, Nate urged the cabdriver to step on it. The house was mercifully close, mere miles from the Federal Building.

As they screeched onto Montana Boulevard, Janie finally picked up. “Nate? What happened? How’d it go?”

“Good and bad I’ll explain later any sign of Pavlo’s men?” The words came out in a rush, together, one long sentence.

“No. Cielle’s been keeping watch at the windows. They don’t seem to be-”

“I’m almost home. Finish packing up the Jeep. We’re leaving now. ”

An abbreviated pause, but Janie read his voice and simply said, “Okay. Got it.”

Rocketing past the multimillion-dollar houses with their lit front gardens and spit-polished sedans, he saw his situation in stark contrast with his former life. When had everything careened so drastically and suddenly off track? It was as if he’d taken a left turn and dropped into the Grand Canyon.

He asked the driver to let him off around the block. Then he cut through the Rajus’ side yard, his left foot dragging through the fallen leaves. He’d been told that ALS symptoms could intensify at night, and so far he’d found that to be true, his body weakening as darkness encroached. His fingers fussed at the gate latch, numb and ineffective, until he knocked it open with an elbow and spilled into his backyard. Empty. No sign of anyone watching. The lights were on upstairs but not down, probably so no one could see Janie and Cielle loading the Jeep. He banged on the rear sliding glass door, and Janie rushed down the stairs, dropping a duffel bag, and let him in.

He slammed the slider behind him and locked it. Casper scrambled in from the other room, excited, slipping on the tile and ramming his muzzle into Nate’s crotch. Nate scratched his ears, guiding him aside. “Where’s Cielle?”

“Grabbing a last few things in her room. Go get her. I packed you already.” Janie was flushed, breathing hard, tamping down her fear. The Beretta swung heavily in her jacket pocket, its etched grip protruding. The sight of it there, so out of place, did something painful to his heart.

Janie hoisted the duffel and started for the garage.

The phone rang.

Even across the kitchen counter, the illuminated LED screen was visible in the dark room: NEW ODESSA.

Janie stopped. The phone rang again.

Nate lifted it from its base. It shrilled in his hand. He clicked TALK. Moved the trembling receiver to his ear.

Pavlo’s voice, rich with age: “Where is my item?”

“I have until midnight.”

“No. It is done. Your time is up.”

Nate’s throat went dry. “We agreed that-”

“Your VIP trip to the bank to get inside box would have happened by now. Do you have what I want?”

Nate breathed through clenched teeth. “Yes. I have it.”

“What is it?”

Janie’s eyes were on him, wide and wild.

Nate tried to weigh his options, but time was moving too fast for him to keep up.