Jeff Abbott - Trust Me

‘I hope you die, Henry, and I hope I’m there to see it.’

‘For God’s sakes, Luke.’ Henry’s voice rose. ‘I have been your father for ten years.’

‘You’re not fit to say the word “father”,’ Luke said.

Henry forged ahead as though Luke’s contempt was mist. ‘I am not trying to get you killed, I’m trying to save you. I’m trying to find out who’s attacking us, who’s using us. Quicksilver is behind your kidnapping. Stay away from them.’ Then a pause, while Luke’s head spun. ‘The man in Houston who was killed. His name was Allen Clifford. I knew him. So did your dad. We once worked together. On a special project for the government. Everyone who died on your father’s plane, they were part of the project. It was called the Book Club.’

‘What do you mean, worked for the government?’ The air left Luke’s lungs. ‘He was a history professor, for God’s sakes.’

Henry’s words burned as unrelenting as a fuse. ‘After the accident, there were only three members of the Book Club left. Me. Allen Clifford. And Drummond.’

‘He was a teacher. A scholar. Just more lies from you-’

‘Every word is truth,’ Henry thundered. ‘Drummond thinks you’re part of the Night Road. He blames you for his friend’s death. He came to me, threatened me if I didn’t turn you over to him. He has significant resources to find you. And I know this man – when he finds you, you will vanish forever.’

‘You can’t tell me all this and expect me to believe it.’ He stood, went to the back of the plane, fought down the scream that wanted to roar up from his lungs.

‘I’m trying to show you I’m on your side. Son, please.’

‘Don’t you call me “son”. I’m not your son. I never was. If you were on my side, you never would have gotten me involved. I was your needle and thread. Stitching together a whole bunch of killers and freaks and fringers for you. I met your buddy Chris. You actually went and shook hands with these guys who think an American al-Qaeda’s a great idea, met them with open arms, planned to give them money.’ He leaned his head against the plane’s wall. ‘You are funding terrorists to the tune of fifty million dollars. You are such a piece of shit.’

‘I didn’t lie to you. My clients lied to me. They are using the research in ways I didn’t consider. I need you to meet me.’

‘No, Henry.’

He heard a long intake of breath. ‘I love you like you were my own child. I didn’t at first, because you were such a pain. Spoiled, contrary, too smart for your own good. But I grew to love you as much as your own father did, Luke. I have only tried to protect you. To do right by you. Meet me at a place of your choosing and we’ll work out a plan to get your name clear and you safe. Together.’

‘You weren’t brave enough to help me. You could have gone to the police, to the FBI, and you didn’t. You left me to die.’

‘I am trying to save us…’

‘Prove it. Hellfire, Henry. What is it?’

Silence.

‘Tell me what it is, give me your greatest secret, and I’ll believe you want to help me. I know it’s separate from the attacks that are happening now. It’s bigger, isn’t it? What is it? Bombs? Airplanes? Bioweapons? God help me, is it a nuke?’

A silence again, a stillness heavy enough to crush a heart, to flatten a family. Then: ‘I don’t know that term Hellfire. I swear to God I don’t know.’

‘Goodbye, Henry.’

He took the phone and he broke it apart, scattering its components on the floor. He saw no point in talking to Henry again, no value in talking to Jane. What was he going to do: beg them for his life back? Screw pleading and begging.

A rage and a despair he had never felt filled him. He imagined what it would be like to kill his stepfather. But the image of Henry’s face, distorted in fear and remorse, the thunder of Luke’s own heartbeat in his head – vanished in a snap.

You can’t kill him because then you’re him.

He stood over the broken phone and the rage changed to a hardness in his heart, a welcome toughness.

He sat on the floor in the back of the plane while Aubrey slept, knees drawn up to his chin, wondering what darkness he was flying into, salvation or death. For a moment his hand closed on the Saint Michael’s medal. Strength, the ability to face and overcome evil of the basest sort. He had to find his courage, fan its flame, keep going. He slipped the medal back under his shirt. The hum of the plane worked through his exhaustion and he closed his eyes to ponder his next move.

The Night Road was cutting its path through the heart of America, as Luke headed toward New York.

The high school football game in suburban Kansas City had been targeted because the attacker was a neo-Nazi and the high school had been named for a soldier who died early in the war in Iraq. The soldier was Jewish. The neo-Nazi hated seeing the Jew’s name on the sign when he drove past every morning on his way to work.

The football game was a close one, and the neo-Nazi sighed in relief: a rout might have led to more people leaving earlier. Instead the game – he could hear the distant rumble of the announcer, voice tense with excitement – had been decided in the final three seconds by a field goal. The target school’s team had won. The neo-Nazi rubbed at the dark tattoo across his neck – a highly stylized swastika – gritted his teeth and thought: And no one will remember that. As the crowd spilled out into the lot, waving flags, banners, girls laughing and clutching at boys’ arms, he pressed the first button.

The trunk of the car he’d parked in the middle of the lot popped open.

He saw a white girl, holding onto the arm of a boy who looked Mexican, glance over at the popping hood. The neo-Nazi gritted his teeth again. The world would go mongrel in two generations, if people didn’t realize they just couldn’t do what they wanted, he thought.

He waited until a bigger mass of people had spilled out into the lot, but before many of them had gotten into the protective cocoons of their cars.

He pressed the second button.

The bomb was not big; it had been built the month before by Snow. The neo-Nazi, who had picked it up from her the previous week, packed her creation with nails, bolts and screws.

Chaos. A flash that burned his eyeballs. Screams and a distant heat and, he imagined, the whistle of thousands of flying blades whittling through flesh and bone. And then he heard the screams, much worse than even he had dreamed they would be. A glimpse of hell.

He got into his car and drove away, careful to stick to back roads. The emergency responders would be creating a traffic headache. He drove south and dialed a phone number. ‘Mine is done with success,’ he said by answer. ‘I get to be in Hellfire.’

Henry Shawcross – but the neo-Nazi did not know him by this name – said, ‘There has been a change in plans.’

‘Is Hellfire canceled?’

‘No. Check the following email account.’ Henry gave him a Gmail account name and password. ‘It will contain the name of a city. Drive there, call on a fresh prepaid phone when you arrive, and await further instructions.’

‘When do I get my money?’

‘Follow instructions.’ He hung up.

The neo-Nazi bit his lip. Not even a word of congratulations? His contact sounded like he’d lost the stomach for this battle. The neo-Nazi did not like that answer but what could he do? Complain? The mission first, that had been driven into his brain ever since he met the man with glasses and the rumpled gray suit at a coffee shop. He’d spent so much time complaining about the damned Jews (and various other groups) and their plots to eviscerate America on websites, it felt good to meet with someone who recognized his unique potential. And with the first wave of attacks nearly done, now they could truly hurt this hated world. He drove for a while – he felt the need to put distance between him and the school – and stopped ten miles later at a suburban coffee shop that offered free internet access. He opened his laptop, checked the account.