Jeff Abbott - Panic

Evan waited. He thought Dezz would run for cover. It was sensible. Dezz didn’t. But he didn’t come any closer.

‘Your father,’ Dezz said, ‘his name is Mitchell Eugene Casher. Born in Denver. He’s been a computer consultant for nearly twenty years.’

‘So?’

‘So, if I’m just FBI, I know that. But I’m his friend, Evan. His favorite ice cream flavor is butter pecan. He likes his steak medium. His favorite television show of all time is Hawaii Five-O and he often bores people with plot summaries. Sound familiar?’

It did. ‘How do you know him?’

‘Evan, I have to trust you now. Your father does special work for the government. I handle his cases. I’m here to protect you. Your family has been targeted by very bad people. Including Mr. Gabriel here, who was kicked to the curb by the CIA.’

The voice. He compared Dezz’s voice to the voice that had spoken behind him, when he’d knelt in the kitchen, a gun at his head, his mother’s dead face six inches from his. Now he wasn’t sure. Those whole horrible moments fogged in a haze. He tried to remember the voice that had spoken while his mother was dead, the voice in his ears while he was dying at the end of a rope. ‘Be a good boy and come out. I’ll share my candy with you.’

‘Don’t talk to me like I’m four years old,’ Evan said.

‘I wouldn’t dream of talking down to the famous director.’

Evan waited. A caramel wrapper dropped by Dezz’s feet.

Evan thought, If I shoot him, there is still one more. If the two of them are still together.

‘Got a friend at the house who’s worried about you,’ Dezz said. ‘Carrie’s here with me.’

Evan thought he had heard wrong. ‘What?’ His chest tightened. A lie. It had to be a lie.

Ten seconds of silence and Dezz said, ‘Sorry, Evan, stay still, I just need to take a simple precaution,’ and he shot out the right front tire of the Suburban. The heavy SUV sank and settled down where the tire blew.

‘I can’t risk you shooting me and driving off,’ Dezz said. ‘We’re not doing a Mexican standoff. I want to take you to Carrie. And to your father. Come out, hands up, we call him. Get everyone back together. Nice family reunion.’

Evan gritted his teeth. No. Dezz was a liar, a killer. He wouldn’t believe anything he said about Carrie. These men had found invisible files on his computer, erased his computer back to a default state in seconds, found Gabriel’s hideout in the middle of nowhere. Learning his girlfriend’s name was nothing. It was a trick, it had to be a trick, to lure him out.

He had to get out of here. But he couldn’t drive the Suburban, not with a shredded tire.

The Ducati. It stood near the front of the Suburban, where Gabriel had parked it. The Suburban faced the gate. The bike was to his right, and Dezz stood over to the left and halfway up the hill. No way Gabriel pocketed the keys when he got off the bike, ready to shoot Evan. Right?

Gabriel gave out what sounded to Evan like a long, dying sigh.

Evan would have to leave the suitcase behind, with the cash and his damaged laptop inside. He had the South African passport that Gabriel had shown him in his pocket and Gabriel’s CIA ID. The duffel bag was in the car, too. But, he remembered, on the passenger side. He played the sequence of escape in his mind. Roll out on the passenger side of the Suburban. Ease the door open, grab the duffel – it held the small locked box he’d taken from Gabriel, and his film gear. Shoot at Dezz to chase him back up the hill. Jump on the bike, go through the gate. It was probably suicide. But at least he was going down trying.

‘Bring Carrie down here, let me see her, and I’ll come out,’ he called.

Silence for a second, and Dezz said, ‘You come out and I’ll bring her to you.’

Dezz paced about twenty feet away. Close into the trees.

He’s waiting for you to go for the motorcycle. No, Evan decided. He was just waiting. He could see Dezz’s face now: blondish hair, thin features, he looked sick-boy sallow, junkyard mean, flat-out crazy.

Did you kill my mother? He’d heard two voices, that he was sure of, but this was only one guy.

Stay focused. Keep your hand steady when you fire. His father’s voice in his ear, although he’d never been very good at target practice when his father had dragged him to the range, and he hadn’t been in years. Evan wriggled out from under the car on the passenger side, the Suburban’s chassis between him and Dezz. He opened the door. He grabbed the duffel, put the strap over his shoulder.

Dezz ran straight for him, aiming, yelling, ‘Evan, great, arms up please where I can see them, okay?’

Evan fired over the hood and Dezz’s jacket sleeve jerked as if tugged from behind. Dezz dropped to the ground and Evan kept firing over Dezz’s head until the gun emptied. He reached the motorcycle.

The keys gleamed in the bright sunlight. He cranked the engine, squeezed into gear, spinning gravel, and shot through the narrow opening of the gate. He did not look back because he did not want to see the bullet coming for him. So he did not see Jargo step from the oaks, shoot at his shoulder, and miss, did not see Dezz stand, take careful aim, and a running Carrie shove Dezz as he fired. Evan heard the crack of the two pistols, their echoes bouncing around the mesquite-studded hills, but nothing hit him. He bent over the cycle, low, the duffel killing his balance, still holding the emptied gun in one hand, his chin close to the handlebars, and all he saw was the road leading away from death.

Evan needed a car. Fast. Dezz could come after him at any moment, thundering down and running him off the road, smearing him into jelly. A sign down the road indicated he was two miles from Bandera.

He drove into town, stopping only to tuck the emptied gun into the duffel so he wasn’t flashing around weaponry. Lots of shops, a barbecue restaurant, signs for festivals happening every month. He peeled off the main road and wondered how he would go about stealing a car.

It was a strange decision. He wasn’t part of the normal world anymore; he had stepped over into a shadow land where he had no map, no compass, no North Star to guide him. He had seen his face on the national news, seen himself discussed as a victim of crime. He had run over Gabriel and kept driving. He had seen Gabriel shot twice but was not heading to the police. He had escaped from the man who might have killed his mother.

The rule book of his life was in the gutter.

He drove until the houses were smaller, the edges of the lawns less precise.

Small towns. Unlocked doors, keys in cars. Right? He hoped. He parked the Ducati, pocketed the keys, slung his dusty duffel over his shoulder. A slow rain began, the sky rumbled. Most of the homes had driveways with carports instead of garages. Good. That made spotting a target car easier, and he wondered if this was how thieves approached their work. The rain chased everyone inside. He prayed no one watched him as he ambled from driveway to driveway, peering into cars, testing the doors. Everything was locked. So much for small-town trust.

He was on his eighth driveway, soaked now, approaching a pickup when the front door opened and a tough, thick-necked guy stepped out onto the home’s small porch.

‘Help you, mister?’ he called. In a tone not exactly a threat, but not saying, Hi, come and drink a beer with me. ‘What you doing?’

The lie came to Evan’s mouth so easily it astonished him. ‘Flyers.’ He pointed at the duffel bag. ‘Supposed to leave flyers on windshields, but it’s too wet. So I was gonna stick ’em in the driver’s seats.’

‘Flyers for what?’ The giant stepped forward, giving Evan a doubting eye: his shaggy hair, the earring, the now filthy bowling shirt, begrimed with wet dirt and Gabriel’s blood.