Gregg Hurwitz - The Survivor

He stared at the note, debating, then left the driveway, circled the ranch house as quietly as possible, and peered through the rear windows. The house, smaller than it appeared, was clearly a bachelor’s place. No girls’ rooms or purses or feminine jackets slung over chairs. In the main room, a TV and wet bar predominated. A single bedroom decorated with Lakers memorabilia. For a moment Nate questioned whether he’d approached the wrong house. But then he spotted the framed certificate from Quantico on the wall of the converted office and the badge resting next to a set of car keys on the desk. This was Abara’s house, all right. But there was no Puerto Rican wife who misplaced her birth-control pills, no deceptive teenage daughters, no loyal dog who came home after Abara let him out through a gate that didn’t exist.

Though Nate knew that Abara told his family stories as a manipulation tactic, the scope of the deception was pretty staggering. At the end of the day, he was a law-enforcement agent who lived alone and had invented an entire family life in hopes of eliciting rapport with suspects. Nate wanted to feel betrayal, even anger, but peering in at the single unwashed plate on the kitchen counter and the line of remote controls on the couch’s armrest, he could summon nothing but empathy.

Still, it was odd that Abara had asked him here to the house where all the lies could be discovered. Had the direness of the situation made him abandon pretense? What else had he lied about? Was it possible that he might even be one of Pavlo’s well-paid contacts inside the system? It seemed unlikely. In his gut Nate sensed that Abara was a good agent.

But he would find no firm answers here. He had to get to the note nailed to the front door.

Taking his time, minding each movement, he returned to the driveway. A twinge pulsed to life in his left ankle, the disease reminding him it still lurked in his nervous system, biding its time. Pushing down harder on the foot, he thought, Not now. After picking his way through the trees around the front of the house, he risked an approach to the porch. The words on the paper were visible even from a distance: “Nate-I’m back in the barn.”

The unlit barn toward the rear of the property.

Backing away, Nate pulled the Beretta from the waistband of his jeans and began a cautious approach. With his other hand, he extracted his cell phone and thumbed in 911, but waited to push CALL.

He advanced on the old-fashioned barn warily. No windows. The considerable door in the front was slid closed, and there would be no opening it quietly. Moving to the rear, Nate spotted a second sliding door, this one already open a few feet, showing a sliver of dark interior. From what he could see, the barn had been repurposed, with half-built cars, tools, and dissected engines strewn about the concrete floor. In the far corner, a bare bulb hung from the loft, what little it illuminated blocked by a decrepit stall partition. Was Abara back there, working on something?

That stab of paranoia came again. Nate hesitated, not wanting to announce himself. Letting the gun lead, he eased inside. The foundation, tacky with oil, emanated a chill so intense it might as well have been air-conditioning. He planned each step, not wanting to kick a stray wrench. The stagnant air smelled earthy, a hint of rot.

Moving farther in, he tried to get an angle around that stall partition, but various machinery and the rusting husk of a vintage Mustang blocked him from spotting what was beneath the bulb. The smell grew stronger, became a stench. The toe of his shoe struck something light and delicate on the floor, and it skidded a few inches, giving off a faint metallic rattle. He went rigid, thumb tight on the call button, gripping the pistol with his other hand. He stopped breathing, tried not to make a sound.

Slowly, he crouched, keeping his gaze and the barrel on the darkness. His fingers patted the cold ground, searching out the object. His hand came up with it, lifting it before his eyes so he could make it out in the blackness.

A holy medal on a gold chain. Abara’s necklace. The clasp torn.

Like the floor, the necklace seemed unnaturally cold.

Not just cold. Wet.

His senses revved to high alert, fight or flight kicking in, the grainy gloom suddenly swirling with unseen menace.

He pressed his trembling fingertips to the concrete foundation. A puddle. Frigid.

Melted ice.

With an industrial clang, the overheads went on, flooding the massive barn with daylight. His feet lost purchase on the slick floor. Down on his ass, blinking against the sudden glare, he took in the four men encircling him, the four hands gripping four pistols, each aimed at his skull. They’d been waiting, close enough to touch him in the darkness. But the Ukrainians weren’t what was most fearful.

It was the sight beyond, finally visible behind that stall partition.

The men were on him immediately, boots pinning his wrists to the floor, hands wrenching free first the Beretta, then his cell phone, which snapped closed. He was kicked once in the temple, his head snapping back, the sight beneath the bare bulb flashing again into sickening view.

Ice block. Abara, unattached from himself, displayed in parts. Rescue saw on the ground, utterly slathered, the circular blade gummed up and bent from overuse. Matte black handcuffs, now empty, dangled from a chain.

Woozy from the kick, Nate was hoisted to his feet. Two more ice blocks waiting at the back of the barn came visible, along with several rolls of plastic drop cloth. Reserved for him and his daughter.

Blind terror. Bile creeping up his throat. He had to remind himself to breathe so he wouldn’t black out.

Pavlo stepped around the partition, sliding a hand along the edge of the ice block. Tattoos crawled up his neck, down his wrists, escaping his shirt.

“Mr. Abara was a sad man. No wife. No children. Alone.” Pavlo approached, and there was no mistaking the animal rage simmering just beneath the sinew of his face. “It is hard to be alone. To have nothing worth living for.” He wiped his hand on his pants, leaving a dark smear.

Valerik gripped one of Nate’s arms, Dima the other, while Misha pressed a pistol to Nate’s temple. His face a swollen mess, Yuri looked on, wearing gloves and another black guayabera. Blood flecked the front of his shirt, thighs, forearms, face, even the key fob hanging from his breast pocket. Struggling to find air, Nate turned away, wanting to see anything but the ice block and its gruesome display.

Pavlo grabbed Nate’s face, grinding his cheeks painfully against his molars and forcing his head toward what remained of Abara. “This man was your last hope. He told everything. As will you.” He leaned in, and Nate could smell the breath leaking through his teeth. “Where your daughter is. We will get her here.”

“No.” The word barely left Nate’s lips.

Pavlo laughed. “You do not realize that before we even played this chess match, you had lost. Because we are in America, you think your laws cannot be bought? Your computer systems and watch lists? Every one of your movements. Each ATM withdrawal your wife makes.” His hawkish eyes searched Nate for a reaction.

“I know. You buy people-”

“No. We buy people’s time. In five-minute chunks. Little favors. One database search here. A bank report there. There is nowhere you and your family could have gone that my money would not reach. It was over before it began. And now we will have you and your daughter side by side. When we are done with you, you will beg us to hurt her instead of you.”

“Either way,” Nate said, “you’re gonna kill me.”

“Yes. You will die. But that is not the part that interests me.” Pavlo’s eyes reshaped, a squint of amusement and menace. “It is the hour before that.” Keeping his stare on Nate, he gestured with a hand. “Bring saw here.”