Jeff Abbott - Panic

‘My girlfriend said the FBI was looking for me yesterday morning.’

‘Quite possibly,’ Gabriel said. ‘What do you want me to do about it?’

‘She didn’t believe they were real FBI. Could they have been CIA? You pull in my mom in Austin, they pull me in Houston.’

‘If they wanted you, they would have grabbed you earlier and taken you. I don’t know who it was. Sorry.’ Gabriel rattled the chain. ‘Are you leaving me here?’

‘I don’t know yet.’ Evan locked Gabriel in the bedroom. He hurried down the hall. Gabriel could be lying about not having help, the CIA or any friends of Gabriel’s could arrive at any moment. He ran into Gabriel’s bedroom. Opened the first suitcase. A few clothes. A lot of cash. Enough to make Evan stare. Neatly bound bricks of twenties and hundreds. No ID in the bag, but the luggage tag read J. GABRIEL. and an address in McKinney, a suburb of Dallas.

He searched Gabriel’s other bag. A few clothes, two guns, neatly oiled and disassembled. He dumped the gun pieces in with the cash. In the corner he spotted a small metal box.

He tried opening it. Locked. Locked meant important. He needed tools to crack it open. He dumped his damaged laptop into the suitcase with the cash. Ran downstairs to the garage. He loaded the bag into the rear of the Suburban, clearing out space. He hurried back inside and retrieved the small locked box, put it inside his duffel bag, went back down to the garage, and stuck the duffel in the passenger seat.

He went back upstairs. Getting Gabriel downstairs in the handcuffs would not be easy. He would stick Gabriel in the back of the SUV, hit the road, and call Durless. He thought Durless would listen. He was probably mortified and furious at losing Evan, and then losing the case to the FBI. Evan would give him a chance to save face.

He unlocked the door and walked into the bedroom.

The bed was empty. The handcuff dangled from the bed frame. The drapes danced in the breeze allowed by the open window.

Evan ran downstairs. His own breathing, panicked, filled his ears. CNN warbled in the den. He opened the door leading to the garage. Ducked inside. No sign of Gabriel. He edged in the dimly lit garage over to the Suburban.

Where the hell was Gabriel?

The garage door powered upward in sudden motion.

Evan knew he would be seen in a matter of seconds.

The Suburban was parked farthest from the house. As the garage door motored up, Evan slid over the hood of the SUV, putting the Suburban between him and the rest of the garage. He huddled down close to the front right wheel. He pulled the gun he’d taken from Gabriel from the back of his jeans.

Gabriel ran into the garage.

I have his keys, he went out the window, this must be his only way back in the house, Evan thought.

Either Gabriel had seen him or hadn’t and Evan would know in a moment.

Footsteps. Heading toward the door that led to the kitchen. Evan heard that door open. Then the garage door powering downward along its tracks. Gabriel cutting off his escape that way. He believed Evan was still inside the house.

Evan risked a peek above the Suburban’s hood. He’s probably got more guns in the house, and he’s heading for one, because he knows I’ve got one and now I’ll have heard the garage door, wherever I am in the house. Evan eased inside the Suburban from the passenger side, slid into the driver’s seat, inserted the key into the ignition. He found the garage door opener clipped to the sun visor and hit the button. The garage door stopped.

He hit the button instantly again and the door crept up as he started the Suburban. Evan thought, Please, let him have run upstairs already…

The door to the house flew open; Gabriel stood in the doorway, gun in hand. The garage door still motored upward.

Gabriel slammed his fist onto the door control; it stopped. He ran past the motorcycle. Heading right for the driver’s door.

Evan shifted into reverse and hit the accelerator. The Suburban roared backward, metal screeching as it scraped the lowered garage door.

Gabriel fired. The bullet pinged off the roof, his aim too high. Evan spun the wheel, slamming backward into metal in the wide stretch of driveway. In the rearview mirror he saw the stolen Malibu.

Gabriel sprinted toward the car’s front, aiming at the tires, bellowing, ‘Stop! Evan! Give it up!’

Evan wrenched the car into drive. The Suburban rocketed forward; Gabriel screamed as he went over the hood and off the side of the car.

Jesus, I hit him, Evan thought. He aimed the Suburban down the driveway, which cut down a sizable hill studded with cedars and live oaks. It looked like the Hill Country. Gabriel had mentioned Bandera. For once he’d told the truth.

The driveway snaked down to a closed metal gate that fenced the property off from a small country road. Evan pressed the other button on the garage door opener, hoping that the gate was electronic. The gate didn’t budge. Then he spotted a loop of chain locking the gate shut.

He searched in the dividing console of the Suburban, then hunted on the car key ring. No extra key.

Evan grabbed the gun from the passenger seat, got out of the Suburban, left the engine running. He aimed at the hefty lock on the chain, took two steps back, and fired.

The gunshot thundered across the silence of the hills. The lock rocked, a hole blasted in its edge. He tested the lock. It held.

He heard the whine of a motorcycle. The Ducati, revving down through the driveway.

Evan steadied his aim and fired again. The bullet chocked through the lock dead center. The lock fell open under his hands, and he unwound the chain, dropping the links onto the gravel at the road’s edge. His breath grew heavy and loud in his ears. He shoved the gate open.

The whine crescendoed. He saw the Ducati arrowing down the driveway through a break in the trees, then roaring toward him. Gabriel raised his pistol. The warning shot kicked up dust near Evan’s feet.

No place to hide. Evan, the chain in one hand, the gun in the other, slid under the Suburban at the passenger side, into the grit and gravel.

He had taken cover in panic. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The Ducati stopped ten feet away. Limestone dust from the gravel coated the bottom of its wheels.

‘Evan.’ Gabriel sounded as if he were talking around broken teeth. ‘Toss the gun out. Now.’

‘No,’ Evan said.

‘Listen to me. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t run. They’ll kill you.’

‘Back off or I’ll shoot you.’

Gabriel’s voice lowered. ‘You shoot me, you’re completely alone in this world. No money. No place to go. The cops hand you right over to the FBI, and then you know what happens.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘FBI comes and collects you on behalf of the CIA. Takes you into federal custody. And then they lose you, Evan, because the government wants you and your family dead. You’ve become a hot potato ain’t nobody touching. I’m your only hope. Now come on out.’

‘I’m not talking to you. I’m counting. When I hit the magic number, I’m shooting you in the foot.’ He wanted out from under the hot, dusty car, the heat of the engine pressing against his back.

Gabriel kept his voice calm, as though trolling his options and seeing which one would lure Evan into sunlight. ‘Evan, I know what it’s like to have no place to go.’

Evan waited.

‘I know how these people work, Evan. How they’ll hunt you. I can hide you from them. Or get you to a place where you could negotiate a peace settlement with them.’ Slowly moving, slowly circling the Suburban. ‘Best of all, I have a plan to get your dad back.’ Gabriel’s voice was low, buddy-intimate.

Evan aimed at Gabriel’s feet. His heart hammered against the gravel.