Gregg Hurwitz - The Survivor

She took his arm firmly in her warm grasp. He pulled away from her, his hand quaking, but she held on tight.

“Look at me,” she said.

Her gaze was steady, those blue eyes shining right through him, forcing his gaze to meet hers. He and his arm were going nowhere.

“Stop fighting,” she said.

His words from the riptide in which they’d met.

With effort he relaxed, releasing his arm to her, and she compressed his wrist gently. Stilling it. He drew in a quick, surprised breath. The motion of her hands resumed, working the muscles of his forearm, squeezing the feeling back into them.

A melancholy smile touched her mouth, faint enough to miss.

“I got you,” she said.

By the time he left, Nate felt better, the muscular fit having subsided under Janie’s touch. His grasp of the steering wheel remained firm if stiff all the way up and through the dark bends and grassy slopes of Griffith Park. The municipal parcel of land, hemmed in by three freeways at the eastern edge of the Santa Monica Mountains, was L.A.’s answer to Central Park, only larger and more untamed. Nate passed turnoffs for the zoo and the merry-go-round, then the observatory where causeless James Dean had faced down a pack of baddies with a switchblade and his trademark smolder.

During the day the park was a democratic gathering place for the city, an explosion of movement and color. But at night shadowy foliage predominated. Every idling car and solitary wanderer took on an ominous cast before the headlights, a reminder that the city with its temptations and vices was as close as the obscured freeway pushing white noise through the California oaks.

A nine-acre sprawl at the northern bulge of the park, Travel Town was part gymnasium, part museum, a place for kids to climb on retired cabooses, throw levers, or woo-woo around the wooded perimeter aboard a miniature Pullman.

Nate left the Jeep at the edge of the lot. Given his grip, he had difficulty scaling the wrought-iron fence and had to walk the perimeter until he found a shed roof he could use as a launch pad. He tumbled over and rose from the dirt, brushing himself off. The grand trains, perceptible only as impressions on the darkness, recalled nothing so much as an elephant graveyard. Moving among the freight cars and trolleys, he felt the place tug at his heart, all these battered servants saved from the scrap heap, put out to pasture here where they could soak in the laughter of children. It was a hopeful, sentimental interpretation, and Nate realized upon second reflection that it had less to do with repurposed machinery than with his own impending demise. Unsettled, he kept on, searching out Abara’s meeting place.

The giant locomotive loomed ahead, number 3025, a hundred-plus-ton oil burner that had pulled a few presidential specials in its day, conveying Theodore Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson up the rocky Coast Route to San Francisco. Years ago Nate had taken Cielle aboard this very engine for a third-grade classmate’s birthday party. Pausing, he recalled the cone hats and plastic tablecloths, how her tiny fist had yanked the cord and made the big brass bell clang.

He thought about the two curved and worn photographs from his apartment, now tucked safely in the back pocket of his jeans. Janie and him laughing through their first dance at their wedding. And Cielle’s childhood soccer picture, her eyeteeth missing, her face still slender. A year or so after that photo was snapped, he’d brought her here to that birthday party. And a few months after that, he’d shipped out to the desert. The distance between now and then seemed endless and minute at the same time, a long sleep or the blink of an eye.

He climbed aboard the venerable train, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. Abara’s form resolved up front, reclining in the engineer’s chair. Nate ambled up and sat beside him. The air was rich with oil and tasted of metal.

Abara glanced over, his stare snagging on Nate’s forehead. “Nice butterfly stitches.”

“Like I said, we got out just in time.” Nate took a breath. “Where are we with everything?”

“I dug around, but…” Abara’s tone torpedoed Nate’s hopes instantly. “Witness Security is an even bigger deal than I thought. It requires a sign-off by the attorney general. As in the attorney general.”

“So we’re not gonna get it.”

“You’re not gonna get it.” Abara rubbed his eyes. A thin gold chain fell from his collar, attached to a holy medal that glinted in the darkness. “I know it’s faint consolation, but the witnesses to that car crash? They’re out of danger for now. Thanks to you.”

Nate managed a nod. “I’m glad.”

“We got them into protection until they’re needed to testify next month against his daughter. Luis Millan even sent along an apology to you. Let’s just pray Shevchenko doesn’t find out their names. It’s much safer without him knowing who he’s looking for.”

“He knows us. ” Nate made a faint noise of amusement. He wiped his mouth. “I don’t suppose you could get my family the same protection. Even for a month.” He already knew the answer, but he had to throw some words out to keep despair at bay.

“In short order you’re gonna be charged with committing a terrorist act,” Abara said. “You’re not exactly beloved in the law-enforcement community right now.”

“No,” Nate said. “I suppose not.”

“You wouldn’t believe how much shit I’m catching for letting you go before arraignment. If the DA had it her way, you’d be in a cell waiting for-”

“Abara,” Nate said. “I know this isn’t your fault.”

The agent paused, catching up to himself, his face boyish in the darkness. “There’s something else.”

“What?”

“There have been some unauthorized searches of your name in the databases. And your wife’s name. And your daughter’s. From different departments in different states. I backtracked a few, and the logins don’t match up. Which means-”

“People are logging in under their colleagues’ names. To cover their tracks.”

“Right. Information like where you’ve checked in to hotels or used a credit card, it’s not hugely classified. Unfortunately, people do favors like that all the time, whether running a background on a prospective nanny for a friend or trying to track down a cousin’s deadbeat husband.” He blew out an annoyed breath. “It’s not hard to run a basic search.”

Nate knew. Hadn’t he done it himself on the databases at work?

His mouth had gone dry. “That’s how they knew about the plane ticket.”

Abara nodded. “I looked into the requests and got a bunch of fuzz and static.” A labored breath. “So progress with the assumption that Shevchenko has a few purchased friends keeping an eye on various monitors.”

“Where’s that leave us?”

“Don’t trust anyone.”

“I was looking for something a bit more specific.”

“I’m afraid you’re gonna have to hang on till we can remove Shevchenko from the equation. Your family’s not gonna be safe unless we can get this case tied up.”

“How’s it looking? The case?”

Abara’s thumb worked the medallion’s edge.

“Abara?”

“Not great. We pulled Danny Urban’s financials, looking for payments from Shevchenko, but your boy, he knows how to cover his tracks. All we found were several wires originating in Moldova and you can imagine what the trail looks like from there. If we can’t establish a connection between Urban and Shevchenko-”

“Then you can’t get Shevchenko for the murder or solicitation.”

“Right. It all stops with a dead hit man. For Pavlo we got motive. That’s it.”

“And given his lawyers, motive alone won’t get you far.”