Steven Gore - Final Target

Gage waited until he felt Matson was done processing the logic of his fiction.

“Maybe somebody sabotaged it.” Gage shrugged. “You know, monkeyed with the code.”

Matson’s eyes widened as a picture seemed to capture his mind. Gage guessed it was of Alla working away on his laptop in Dnepropetrovsk.

“I…” Matson swallowed hard. “I need to use your phone.”

Gage walked to the counter, retrieved the handset, and passed it to Matson. Gage watched him punch in the international access code, then the UK country code, London city code, and number. Gage knew what Matson would hear: a script Gage had given Alla to read.

You have reached Alla and Stuart. Sorry we’re unable to take your call. If you’re trying to reach Stuart, try him on his cell phone in the States. I can be reached at my father’s in Budapest. Otherwise, leave a message after the tone.

Matson lowered the phone from his ear, fumbled until he located the end button, and disconnected. He stared at the receiver. Gage reached out to retrieve it. Matson at first didn’t notice, then handed it back.

Gage sensed Matson recalculating. Alla: If her job was to sabotage the software, then her gangster father wouldn’t be coming after him-but Gravilov would.

“If I was to add two more,” Gage said, “I’d say you sold bad devices to Ukraine and somebody is pissed. Maybe even already gunning for you.”

“What the fuck do you know?” Matson slapped the armrest. An adrenaline rush pumped him to his feet.

“Take it easy, man,” Gage said, looking up. “I’m just doing a little addition. If it doesn’t add up, it doesn’t add up. Makes no difference to me. I’m only in this for the money and I got enough to keep me happy. But there’s something you need to think about.”

Matson glared down at Gage. “What the fuck is that?”

“Screwing with national security is a whole lot worse than some diddly-squat stock fraud.” Gage stood up, then handed Matson his parka. “Let’s take a walk. You got to cool down so you can think things through.”

After Matson turned toward the door, Gage signaled Viz to follow with the shotgun.

Matson was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when Gage returned from collecting his jacket from the car. The sun had already fallen behind the six-thousand-foot mountain range to the west of the cabin and the temperature was plummeting toward freezing.

The parka was puffed up around Matson’s head. He blinked against the crisp breeze, then wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

Gage heard Matson’s feet shuffle and wobble on the gravel as he followed behind through the woods and toward the river. Matson stumbled over a root. Gage looked back in time to see him steady himself against a pine tree, then pull his hand away and try to wipe off grimy sap on his pants.

Gage stopped just before the meadow. The only sounds were the rushing river in the distance and Viz’s footfalls coming to a stop five yards behind them.

“You don’t need to say anything,” Gage said, staring toward the shadowed forest, hands in his coat pockets. “Just let me talk.”

Gage’s breath condensed into a cloud, then dissipated.

“It seems to me you’ve got a big problem.”

Matson didn’t respond.

“Now, you told me you’ve got a Panamanian passport.”

Gage looked over, and Matson nodded.

“I may be wrong here, but I’ll bet you used it where you shouldn’t have, and if you travel on it people are gonna find you.”

Matson nodded again.

“My guess is that you also got lots of different people looking for you. Ukrainians, gangsters, FBI, and pretty soon the CIA. And the world is getting real small.”

Gage rolled over a fist-sized piece of granite with his shoe, then reached down and picked it up. Matson’s eyes followed the rock as Gage flipped it back and forth in his hands. Gage tossed it into the dark meadow, where it thudded like a head hitting cement.

“My situation is different than yours,” Gage continued. “I can disappear anytime. I mean you see me and everything, but I don’t really exist.”

Matson looked up at Gage, his expression a combination of envy and apprehension.

Gage turned fully toward Matson. “You’ve got yourself in a pickle and I can see you don’t know what to do.” Gage shrugged and spread his hands. “I mean, look. We hardly know each other but here I am, taking care of your money, protecting you. I was even gonna get you out of the country until the passport problem came up-and you don’t know me from Adam.”

Matson’s eyes darted toward Viz, then back to Gage. Uncertainty consumed his face. Gage knew what Matson was thinking: He was in the middle of nowhere with two guys he didn’t know, one with a shotgun, the other with an enormous handgun dangling a foot away, and all his money stashed somewhere in the ether.

“You shouldn’t have ended up in a spot like this,” Gage said. “I think you wanted to go big time, but you didn’t have the skills-or the heart.”

Gage curled his hand and looked down at his fingernails. “You really fucked up.”

He watched panic rising in Matson’s face. He knew Matson had seen it on television a hundred times: The gangster gazes dismissively at his fingernails, then draws his gun and the victim’s guts are spattered against a wall. Matson glanced around the darkening forest, the world closing in.

“Yep. You really fucked up.”

Gage waited, letting the panic rage.

Matson flinched when Gage reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder.

“You know what I think?” Gage said.

Matson flinched again as Gage slowly reached under his jacket and toward his gun.

Gage scratched his ribs. “I think you better get some legal advice.”

Matson exhaled. “I thought…I thought…Man, you scared the shit out of me.”

“I’m sorry.” Gage smiled, pretending to be embarrassed at the misunderstanding. “I figured you knew what I was getting at all along.”

“Yeah, I guess…I mean…I thought I knew what you had in mind.”

Gage dropped his hand from Matson’s shoulder.

“I’m thinking you need to consider a different strategy.”

Matson nodded.

“I know a lawyer who could help you.”

“Is he good?”

“Yeah. The best.”

“Could he cut me a deal?”

“Easy.”

“You trust him?”

“With my life.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jack Burch.”

Viz racked the shotgun, metal on metal ripping at the still air.

Matson’s hands began to shake as if his body understood before his mind. Gage watched him disassociate, lose his bearings.

Gage leaned in toward Matson and grabbed the front of his jacket, just below his chin, and yanked up. “You little runt. Burch took two bullets in the chest because of you.”

“You…you are…” Matson’s voice failed him.

Unmoved by either anger or sympathy, Gage watched the spectacle. He knew that the actual, the imaginary, and Matson’s bewildered attempt to distinguish them had been sucked into a ferocious vortex. He saw Matson’s eyes recoil from the images flying at him, the names and faces emerging out of the whirlwind, gouging at his sense of reality.

Matson dropped to his hands and knees, splattering vomit on his parka and pants, and ending with dry heaves that arched his back into spasms. He tried to wipe his mouth with his sleeve as he struggled to his feet, but missed and fell forward, then curled into a fetal ball and began whimpering.

Viz stepped forward and looked down at Matson. “Jeez, boss. I think you broke that son of a bitch.”

I’ve got him stashed,” Gage told Peterson across the conference table on the eleventh floor of the Federal Building the following morning. Zink sat at the end of the table near the door, childishly sneering.