Jeff Abbott - Panic

‘New church in town,’ Evan said. ‘The Holy Blood of Our Lord Fellowship. Have you been saved? We give more redemption for the dollar. We use rattlesnakes in our services and-’

The giant said, ‘Thanks, I’m good,’ stepped back inside, and closed the door.

Evan headed down the street. Fast now, running in the rain. The giant either bought it or he didn’t and was calling the cops.

Two more doors down, a Holy Grail gleamed in the rain: an unlocked truck. It was a Ford F-150, red, an interior clean except for a Styrofoam coffee cup in the holder, a cell phone wedged in the seat divider, and a Teletubby doll, worn-out with affection. The lights were off in the house: the mailbox read EVANS. An omen, a kiss of good luck. He tore out a piece of paper from his notebook and wrote, Really sorry about taking the truck, the Ducati parked down the street is yours to keep, I’ll call and tell you where I’ve left your truck. He put the note and the Teletubby doll and the Ducati keys on the porch in plain sight, got in, started the truck, backed up. He thought the phone might be useful before the angry owner deactivated its service.

No one came out of the house.

He drove out of Bandera at modest speed, checking the gas gauge. Almost full. God had finally given him a break he hadn’t had to fight for.

Now you’re a real criminal. What would his mom say?

She’d say, Go get the bastards who killed me.

No. Revenge didn’t matter – saving his father did. Florida, Gabriel had claimed, was the rendezvous point for Evan’s dad. His father might already be there, if he wasn’t being held by Dezz Jargo’s group. Evan would drive to San Antonio – it was almost noon now – and head east. He cranked on the radio as he hit the highway. Willie Nelson implored Whiskey River to take his mind. The storm blossomed into full fury, and he pointed the truck southeast. He knew the signs would guide him into the sprawl of San Antonio. Then he could take Interstate 10 in a straight shot to Houston and beyond, across the Louisiana flatlands and bayous. Across the toes of Mississippi and Alabama and into the westward finger of Florida.

Then he could find his father. In a big, crowded state, where he had no idea where to start looking. But he couldn’t stay still.

He thought about the files. The files were the crux, the negotiating point, the key to rescuing his father. If Dezz Jargo and company believed he possessed another copy of the files and would eventually exchange them for his dad, then the files shielded his father. Kill his father, and Evan had no reason to keep the files secret.

People had lied to him before, with the cameras rolling, trying to make themselves look good. Or look smart. The best liars skirted the truth, stayed close enough to it. Maybe there were pebbles of truth in Dezz’s and Gabriel’s claims. The truth might lie between their tongues.

His whole body hurt, his whole body said enough. Concentrate on the road. Don’t think about Mom, about Carrie. Just drive. Every mile gets you closer. That’s what his dad had said on the long family drives. They never had other family to visit; these were always trips to the Grand Canyon, to New Orleans where his parents had lived when he was born, to Santa Fe, to Disney World once when he was fifteen, too cool for Disney but actually dying from excitement. Whenever he’d ask the inevitable childish question of how much farther, Dad would say, ‘Every mile gets you closer.’

That’s no answer, Evan would complain, and his father would just repeat the answer: ‘Every mile gets you closer.’ Smiling at Evan in the rearview mirror.

Finally Mom would say, just enjoy the journey. She’d lean back from the passenger seat, squeeze his hand, which embarrassed him as a teenager but now seemed like heaven’s touch made real. Typical motherly, zippy optimism. He missed her as he would an arm suddenly gone.

Your father does special work for the government, Dezz had said. Even if Dezz was a liar, this had a ring of truth, given the events of the past two days. The concept was hazy, foggy. He did not know what a spy looked like, but he didn’t picture James Bond. He pictured a man with the sallow, sad face of a Lee Harvey Oswald, a custom-made silencer in his pocket from a Swiss craftsman, a trench coat easily rinsed of blood and gore, an emptiness in the eyes to show the soul had withered from living under constant stress and fear of discovery. His father read Graham Greene and John Grisham, loved baseball, hated fishing, wrote computer code, and worshiped his family. Evan had never known a lack of love.

So did your dad tell you he loved you, go get on a plane, and then go steal secrets or kill people? Did blood money pay your way through college, put food in your belly, fund chewing gum and comic books and every other treasure of childhood?

The miles of Texas unfurled, long and rainy. ‘Every mile gets you closer,’ he said under his shallow breath. Again and again, a mantra to keep away the pain and to harden his heart.

He would find out the truth. He would find his father. And he would make the people who had killed his mother pay with everything they held dear.

‘I could kill you!’ Dezz screamed at Carrie. ‘I had him!’ She crossed her arms. ‘Jargo wanted him alive. You were aiming for his head.’

‘I was aiming for the bike. The bike!’

‘If you were aiming for the bike,’ Jargo said, stepping between them, ‘you could have shot it out when you shot the Suburban’s tire, son.’

Dezz’s red face frowned. ‘What?’

‘You hoped Evan would run,’ Jargo said. ‘Give you a reason to shoot him dead. Get over this jealousy regarding Carrie. Now.’

‘That’s not true.’ Dezz shook his head, fished in his pocket for candy. He jabbed a caramel in his mouth. ‘I don’t give a shit who she does.’

‘Why didn’t you take out the bike, then? After lecturing me about tactics earlier this morning?’ Jargo said. He went over, prodded Gabriel with his shoe.

‘I didn’t think he’d try for the bike. Who the hell knew he would fight back, he’s a goddamn film-maker!’ Dezz spat out the title. He whirled on Carrie. ‘He knew how to shoot, why didn’t you warn me?’

‘I didn’t know he could shoot. He never mentioned it.’

‘Dezz,’ Jargo said in a cold voice. ‘His father is a crack shot. It’s not unreasonable that he might have taught Evan about guns.’

Dezz jerked off his jacket, pointed at the scorch in his skin. ‘Where’s your fucking concern for me?’

‘I’ll get you a bandage. Satisfied?’ Jargo said.

Carrie kept her voice cool. ‘If you want to know with certainty what Evan knows, and how big a threat he is, you need him alive. I can find him. He has few friends, few places to hide.’

‘Where will he go, Carrie?’ Jargo asked. He was calm, unruffled, kneeling to check Gabriel’s pulse.

‘Think about it from Gabriel’s perspective. He is ex-CIA. He not only has a bone with you, but with the Agency. If we assume he’s operating alone, he’ll have wanted to maintain total control over Evan. He stole him from the cops, for God’s sake. That means he would have warned Evan off the cops, off the authorities.’ She hoped she’d made a good case and went for the close. ‘He’ll go to Houston. He’ll look for me. He has friends there.’

Dezz jabbed his gun against her chest. It was still warm, the heat spreading through the material of her blouse. ‘If you hadn’t let him head to Austin yesterday morning, we’d be in a lot better shape.’

She gently moved the gun away from her. ‘If you thought before you acted…’

‘Be quiet. Both of you,’ Jargo said. ‘All of Carrie’s theorizing aside, he may be heading straight to the Bandera police. Gabriel’s alive. Let’s take him and get the hell out of here.’