Jeff Abbott - Panic

The gun. Gabriel had the gun. Where was it?

‘Let go, dumbass!’ Gabriel said.

‘I’ll bite it off if you’re not still.’ Evan closed his mouth around Gabriel’s left ear. Bit down. Gabriel screamed.

‘Don’t,’ Gabriel gasped. Evan bit down again, let his teeth grind. Blood seeped into his mouth.

‘Stop!’ Gabriel yelled, and went still.

Evan saw the gun. Just beyond the reach of both of them, twisted in the white sheets where they rucked the bedcovers in their fight. He couldn’t reach it, but if he eased up on Gabriel, the older man could. Gabriel saw it, too; his muscles strained with sudden resolve, trying to break free.

Evan bit down on the ear again and jabbed his fingers into Gabriel’s eyes. Gabriel shrieked in pain. He twisted to fend Evan off, but Evan’s legs kept him locked in place. Gabriel squirmed toward the gun, pulling Evan’s body with him. Evan’s wrist wrenched in the cuff.

He’ll sacrifice the ear to get that gun, Evan thought. Bite it off. He couldn’t.

But instead Gabriel grabbed the lamp’s cord, dragged the lamp to him. He seized the lamp’s body, swung it backward at Evan, the base striking Evan on top of the head, and Evan, dizzy with pain, let go of the ear. A sliver of skin stayed behind in his mouth.

Gabriel released the lamp and lurched forward. Caught the gun’s barrel with his fingertips. Evan kept Gabriel’s other arm pinned with his leg, pivoted – his arm twisting as if it were a centimeter away from breaking – and clutched the gun’s handle as Gabriel pulled it forward. Evan wrenched the gun free and jabbed the barrel against Gabriel’s temple.

Gabriel froze.

‘Where’s the key?’

‘Downstairs. In the kitchen. You bastard, you tore my ear off.’

‘No, you still got an ear.’

‘Listen, new deal,’ Gabriel said. ‘We’ll work together to get Jargo. We’ll-’

‘No,’ Evan clubbed the gun into Gabriel’s temple. Once. Twice. Three times, four. The fifth time Gabriel went limp, his temple cut and bruised. Evan jabbed the gun against Gabriel’s head and waited. Counted to one hundred. Gabriel was out.

Holding his breath, Evan put down the gun. Gabriel didn’t move. He jabbed his hand into Gabriel’s left pants pocket, fumbled across coins, fingered the shape of keys.

‘Liar,’ he said to the unconscious Gabriel. He pulled out a ring that held a small key and a larger key for the bedroom door. Evan kicked the man away from him, worked the small key into the handcuff lock.

The cuff sprang open. Evan rolled off the bed, his arm afire with pain. He held it close to him, unsure if it was broken or dislocated. No. Broken would be serious agony. He was sore but unhurt. He dragged Gabriel to the headboard, snicked the cuff over his wrist. Checked Gabriel’s pulse in the throat. A steady beat ticked beneath his fingertips.

Evan trained the gun, with shaking hands, on the door. Waited. Steadied himself to shoot if anyone charged to Gabriel’s rescue. Told himself he could do it, he had to do it. He knew how to shoot, his father had taught him when he was a teenager, but he had not fired a gun in five years. And never at a living human being.

A minute passed. Another. No sound in the house.

He noticed a small card on the bed, next to the South African passport. Forced out from Gabriel’s shirt or pants in the fight. It was an ID card, government issue, worn with age and fingering. Gabriel looked fifteen years younger.

Joaquin Montoya Gabriel. Central Intelligence Agency.

Jesus, the crazy asshole was telling the truth. Or a partial truth. But if he was CIA, why was he operating alone?

Deep breath. He slipped the South African passport and Gabriel’s ID into his back pocket. Evan went out the bedroom door, then stopped in the darkened hallway. Be cool, be cool for your mom. His arm and hand ached, his head hurt like hell, and now, the fighting done for a moment, in the darkened house, the fear rushed back into his chest.

A dim light shone from the open area downstairs; Evan was on a second floor of what appeared to be a spacious house. Thick pile carpet covered the hallway; more high-end art on the walls. The air conditioner purred a blanket of noise. From below, he heard the thin whisper of the television, its volume inched low.

He crouched, the gun out in front of him, listening.

He fortified himself with two deep breaths and crept down the stairs. What do you do next? Keep fighting. That’s the choice you made.

But now he had nothing to bargain with, to save his life. Jargo – if he was one of the men at the house – had stolen or destroyed the data. The files – if they had ever existed – were gone.

Evan reached the last stair when he thought, You dumbass, you should have gagged Gabriel. He’ll wake up and shout for help while you’re sneaking up on any buddies downstairs.

But he had gone too far to turn back, knowing in his heart that he wouldn’t hesitate now, he could shoot anyone who tried to stop him, and hoping he could remember to aim at legs. Unless the other guy had a gun, and then he would aim for chest. Chests were big, he could hit a chest. Remember to take a second to aim, squeeze, prepare for the kick. If he had a second. No practice target had ever shot back at him.

Evan entered the den, gun leveled to fire. A widescreen TV stood in the corner next to an ornate stone fireplace. A commercial announced the latest pharmaceutical that you couldn’t live without, as long as you risked at least ten side effects. Then the CNN theme played and the anchor started a story about a bombing in Israel.

He moved along the wall, peered into an elaborate kitchen. Empty. A lunch sat on the counter: a ham sandwich, a glass of ice water, a pile of potato chips, a Snickers bar. Lunch for himself, probably, if he’d cooperated with Gabriel.

He checked the back of the house, stopping at a marble-topped bureau with a smattering of family photos. Gabriel posed with two girls young enough to be his grandkids.

No one around. The only sounds were the air conditioner and CNN beginning a story about a bizarre homicide and kidnapping in Texas.

Evan ran back to the den and saw his face was on the TV. His Texas driver’s license photo, not a bad one and true to how he looked: shaggy blond hair, high cheekbones, hazel eyes, thin mouth, the single small hoop of earring. The crawl under his face read MISSING FILM-MAKER. The news announcer said, ‘Police investigators are still searching for Evan Casher, the Oscar-nominated documentary filmmaker, after his mother was strangled to death in her Austin, Texas, home, and an armed gunman kidnapped Casher from a police cruiser, assaulting two officers.

‘Casher, the director of two acclaimed documentaries, first gained attention with Ounce of Trouble, a biting expose of a corrupt police officer who framed a former drug dealer. Joining me is FBI special agent Roberto Sanchez.’

Roberto Sanchez looked like a politician: perfect haircut, immaculate suit, an expression that said, I am the most competent person on earth. The newscaster went for the bone: ‘Agent Sanchez, is it possible that whoever kidnapped Evan Casher was responsible for Donna Casher’s death? I mean, Mr. Casher was the only witness and then he’s grabbed, right from the police.’

‘We’re not prepared to speculate as to motives, but we are concerned about Mr. Casher’s safety.’

‘Is there any possibility that this wasn’t an abduction, per se, but that Evan Casher was taken from the police because he was a suspect in his mother’s murder?’ the anchor pressed.

‘No, he’s not a suspect. Obviously, he’s a person of interest to us because he found his mother’s body, and we have not had a chance to fully talk with him, but we have no reason to believe that he was involved. We would like to talk to Mr. Casher’s father, Mitchell Casher, but we have not been able to locate him. We believe he was in Australia this week, but I can’t share further details.’