Jeff Abbott - Trust Me

He wished they’d had this discussion back in her car but they hadn’t known they’d be able to con their way onto Eric’s flight. They’d have to improvise. He whispered into her ear: ‘A company called Quicksilver paid for the cabin we were held in and for this flight.’

Her eyes widened in fright.

Who are they? She mouthed.

He shook his head. Follow my lead, he mouthed, and she nodded.

He took her hand, and they waited to land.

The plane taxied toward the small terminal at the private airfield. Wu asked, through the intercom, for them to remain in their seats.

Luke disobeyed. He got up, went to the door, popped the lever. The door swung open and an alarm brayed into the cold night air. Aubrey was at his back and they jumped to the tarmac. Aubrey landed next to him and they ran.

Cutting through the roar of the engines, he heard Frankie Wu’s once-friendly voice yelling in rage. The airport’s runway was between them and a fence and another commuter jet was preparing to take off, now that Wu’s plane was clear.

Luke and Aubrey ran to the edge of the runway – then he heard voices bellowing his name. ‘Luke! Luke Dantry! Stop!’

He glanced back, causing Aubrey to collide into him, and saw two men, running past where Frankie Wu had screeched his jet to a stop. Wu was in the doorway, pointing at them. Closing fast. Quicksilver’s welcoming party, he thought. If he and Aubrey stayed put they’d be dead. The other commuter jet approached.

We can make it, he thought. Aubrey’s hand clenched in his.

They ran across the runway, the departing jet catching them in its lights, rising, knocking them in a battering wash of engine, both stumbling to their knees from the wake.

He looked back – one of the Quicksilver men held a collapsible rifle and was unslinging it from a knapsack on his back. ‘Aubrey, run!’ he yelled.

They bolted back to their feet, running, nearly in a headlong dive, both intent on reaching the fence. Forty feet; beyond the mesh lay a parking lot, a scattering of cars. A stream of light beckoned beyond, the hazy glow of a highway.

The grass erupted in front of his feet, shots spewing green bits of lawn. They kept running.

They hit the fence. He slowed to help her but Aubrey was quicker and more nimble, clambering up the chain link with an assured grace. She reached the concertina wire and paused, pulling her coat free. She balled it over her head in a tight dome and wiggled through the slicing spiral.

‘I don’t want to get caught again,’ she screamed. And he knew to his bones her fear, that helpless, this-is-not-happening-to-me, terror. He’d felt it when Eric Lindoe had stuck the gun into his ribcage, steered him out of normalcy into the rapids of nightmare. He knew she’d felt it when that burlap bag went over her head as she left her office.

She was through, on the ground, pants torn along the leg where the razor wire scored.

He ripped off his own coat, following her lead, yelling at her to keep running, don’t look back.

He covered his head with the cheap windbreaker just as he heard the voices closing in, one saying, ‘No way.’ Then thumps against the fence, the boom of the rifle.

The lined windbreaker made a fragile cocoon. The curling wire cut past his defenses – he felt a slash along his scalp, his back, his butt. Then gravity superseded fear, yanking him through the last curve, the concertina cutting at his suddenly bare stomach.

He hit the ground, panicked, rolling free of the tattered wind-breaker, running for the lot.

Aubrey was gone. It wasn’t that big a parking lot and she wasn’t moving through the moonlight. Where was she?

She’s hiding, he thought, and then he saw a car racing away from the lot, far faster than normal traffic. And in a blur, her face, struggling at the window.

‘Aubrey!’ he yelled. He glanced back. The Quicksilver men who’d dogged him to the fence ran, yelling into cell phones. Not in such a hurry. Of course not. They had friends waiting to catch Aubrey and him, maybe a team for each. A car powered up, raced straight toward him as he ran off the curb.

Luke ran. Not deeper into the parking lot, where he knew the Mercedes sedan could corner him as their partners had caught Aubrey; nor back toward the razor-tipped fence where the two men had corralled him.

He ran toward the highway.

The grass funneled out into a short expanse – maybe sixty feet across – and then a service road and then the torrent of cars, traffic still brisk at a late hour, people returning from Manhattan.

Behind him, the Quicksilver Mercedes vroomed off the asphalt lot, onto the dry grass.

Blood coursed down his calves where the wire had bit. He did not dare glance behind him; he did not want to see. It was worse than being pursued by Mouser and Snow because this was teams, coordinated, an inexorable fist closing around him.

Luke hit the service road and a minivan laid on its horn, nearly veering off the road trying to avoid him. The van revved past him, leaving a wake of burnt stench and a scream of you crazy asshole as he ran. The pursuing Mercedes lurched across the grass, closing the distance fast, and now he glanced back, saw a rear window powering down.

He measured his options in one glance. He could go to the right, where the service road curved toward a distant intersection and the Mercedes could run him down or scoop him up. Or he could go left, where he’d be running headlong into one-way traffic. But to the left was an entrance ramp onto the highway, bordered by a crash barrier, so the Mercedes would have both to go against the one-way traffic and make a 180-degree, sharp-as-nails turn to follow him onto the highway.

He headed for the ramp.

Two cars hurtled at him, both screaming with their horns and he ran between them, feet snapping on the white line. He ran like a machine, the wind carrying him, trying to urge every bit of speed from his tired muscles.

A screech yowled behind him, metal sliding, skimming hard against other metal. He turned as he sprinted along the highway entrance ramp, another car zooming past him in a blur.

Luke stormed up the ramp, and he glanced back. The Mercedes began a sharp turn to navigate the entrance, smoke misting the wheels.

Five lanes of traffic, a median wall, and then five more lanes. They would catch him if he hugged the shoulder and ran in the direction of the traffic. Or smear him like jam along the concrete.

But a stream of traffic coursed by, and he couldn’t get across the lanes in time; it would be a violent waltz where one wrong step or one veering driver would kill him.

No time to hesitate. He saw the approaching cars and their headlights, and he had to dodge them.

A belching semi rocketed past him and he ran the first lane in its wake, seeing a station wagon in the second. The wagon slammed brakes and he jumped and ran around it, clearing it and the third lane as the station wagon resumed speed.

The Mercedes powered fast onto the highway. He froze, no choice, five zooming sedans powering past him. He was trapped, the Mercedes approaching, trying to navigate to his lane.

The Mercedes aimed dead on for him as the fifth car blasted by and he ran, brakes screeching, a crunch as a car swerved over into another lane, its side crumpling against another sedan. The Mercedes cut around the cars, heading straight for Luke. He could see the triumph on the driver’s face.

Then the Mercedes was rear-ended by a brake-slamming truck.

Luke turned and ran through the final lane and vaulted the concrete wall. The slowing of traffic had already started due to the inexorable human urge to rubberneck and while the New York-bound traffic didn’t slam to standstill, he managed a short, brutal dash to the opposite side.