Jeff Abbott - Fear

Fingers probed for his wallet. ‘Michael Raymond,’ the voice said.

‘Yeah.’

‘You’ll give complete answers to every question.’ Trying to sound commanding but the tone betrayed inexperience. He’s just as scared as I am. But scared was not good. Scared meant nerves pulled tauter than wire, with a finger tightening on a trigger of a gun aimed at Miles’s head.

He forced calm into his voice. ‘I’m looking for Allison Vance. Put the gun down.’

‘You with the other guy?’

‘Other guy.’

‘The first guy who came.’

‘I don’t know what you mean…’

Hands hauled Miles to his feet, steered him into the bathroom. Sorenson lay in the tub, a wicked, bloody bruise on the side of his head, his feet and arms bound with a sheet. Miles could see Sorenson breathing shallowly; he was unconscious.

‘This man blew up Allison’s office,’ Miles said.

‘What?’

‘Her office is burning down…’

‘You’re lying.’

‘No, it’s the truth. I’m a patient of hers. I had an appointment with her tonight. I can prove it. Put the gun down, please.’

‘You’re not even a good liar. Her patients are all at Sangriaville.’

‘What’s Sangriaville?’

The voice ignored him. ‘You said her office was burning.’

‘Look at my face. My hands. I was in her office parking lot. There was an explosion-’

‘No.’ Sharp, short, shot with shock. ‘No, no, no…’

‘She was in trouble. She asked me for help. This guy was in her office earlier today, I think he planted a bomb. Why is he here?’

The voice trembled. ‘He came in the back door… I hit him.’

‘He was empty-handed?’ If he’s blown up her office, why not her house too? Miles thought.

‘Yes.’

‘Let me wake him up.’

‘Get away from him.’ The guy pulled Miles away from the bathroom, shoved him hard onto the tile of the den floor. ‘Leave him alone; I don’t need to be outnumbered. What have you done to Allison?’

‘Nothing.’ Miles kept his voice steady and calm. ‘Her office burning isn’t the kind of lie that works for long. I’m not sure you can see from here, but if you walk down Cerro Gordo you can see the glow from the fire.’

The man’s hand shook, making the gun against Miles’s head tremble. Keep him calm, Miles thought.

‘Stand up,’ the voice ordered, and Miles got to his feet. The man pushed him along, keeping the barrel of the gun nestled in Miles’s hair.

Miles pushed open the drapes. Opened the balcony window, which faced onto the sideways spill of the hillside down to Cerro Gordo.

In the quiet, the sound of sirens carried on the wind.

The man behind him made a choked noise in his throat. ‘They got to her. They killed her.’

‘Who’s they? Sorenson?’

Silence from the man. The barrel of the gun pressed hard against his scalp, as though a decision had been reached.

Miles’s guts turned to water. ‘I promised to help her,’ he said. ‘I have a note from her. Asking for my help.’

‘Sure.’

‘Right pocket. Pill bottle. Read it for yourself.’

‘I can read it once you’re dead.’

‘Then you’ll have made a terrible mistake.’

The guy jammed the barrel hard against Miles’s ear, found the vial, popped it open, read the note in the dim light that bled in from the bedroom.

‘It’s her handwriting,’ Miles said.

Seconds stretched into eternity. Miles waited for the shot. Finally the guy said, ‘Allison – was at her office tonight. She told me to wait for her. She would be here soon.’

‘Okay, then, we’re on the same side.’ Miles found his voice. ‘Take the gun off me, please.’

‘No one can know I was here. They’ll stick me back on the top floor.’

‘I won’t tell,’ Miles said, unsure of what the man meant. ‘I promise. Put the gun down. I can help you hide.’

‘You. You’re nothing. I’m a certified hero, you understand me?’

‘Absolutely. You sound like a tough and smart guy. I need your help if we’re going to catch whoever hurt Allison,’ Miles said. ‘You already took out Sorenson, and I think he’s the bad guy. Let’s make him talk.’

‘Unless you killed her, and the guy in the tub’s the good guy, and you’re not. How do I know?’

‘But I have the note, and he doesn’t,’ Miles said.

The guy considered. ‘You said you’re a patient. What’s the matter with you?’

‘Nothing much.’ His standard answer, given before he could think. The gun stayed close to his skull.

‘Define much. Tell me how crazy you are.’ He prodded Miles’s temple with the gun.

‘A dead guy follows me around,’ Miles said. ‘I killed him. By accident. I didn’t mean to. But I can’t shake him.’

‘I’m not crazy,’ the voice said with pride. ‘Not at all, not anymore. They fixed me.’ The gun’s barrel came off Miles’s head. ‘I’m better than you, I’m made of iron now-’

Miles lashed out hard with his hand, caught the guy solid in the chest. He stumbled back and Miles tackled him low, hit him hard in the guts twice. The guy bent in half, collapsed. Miles pried the gun from the guy’s hands, stepped back, keeping the Beretta trained on him. Miles fumbled for a lamp, flicked it on.

The gunman was just a kid, in his early twenties. His hair was military short, a dark burr, a face crafted of angles – sharp nose, razors for cheekbones, a pointed jaw. Two light patches of scarring scored his cheeks, the bridge of his nose bent slightly from an old break. He gasped for breath, glared at Miles with dark, scared eyes.

Miles aimed the gun at the kid’s legs. He hadn’t held a gun since he shot Andy. His hand started to quiver and he steadied the gun with a double grip. He concentrated on the weight of the steel in his palm, heard Andy’s snicker behind him.

‘Goddamn,’ the kid said. ‘Are you going to cry?’

Deep breath. ‘Stand up. Hands on top of head,’ Miles said. His voice cracked like a teenager’s. He couldn’t freak now, he couldn’t lose it now.

The kid obeyed, swallowing in air.

A step at a time. Miles patted down his pockets and jacket. The kid wore jeans and a denim jacket that still had the store tags on them. He wore slip-on sneakers, navy-colored. No wallet, no money in his pockets. No other weapon. A bracelet ID, the kind used at a hospital. Miles stepped back, kept the gun level. ‘Take off the bracelet. Toss it to me.’

The kid, with humiliation hot in his eyes, wrenched the bracelet free and threw it at Miles’s face. Miles caught the bracelet. It read RUIZ NATHAN, carried a nine-digit number on it, the term FROST-C.

‘Shoot him if you want,’ Andy said from the corner of the room. ‘Build yourself an entourage.’

‘Shut up,’ Miles said.

‘I didn’t say nothing,’ Nathan Ruiz said, his breath back in his lungs. ‘Man, you better shoot me now because I’ll kill you when I get the chance.’

‘You’re a very angry person.’ Miles lowered the gun, aimed it away from the kid, ejected the clip, cycled the round out of the chamber. He put the clip and the bullet into his pocket. Now his voice sounded calm.

‘That was stupid,’ the kid said. ‘You should have killed me. You don’t want to piss me off.’ Hot, hard fury was in his eyes, but a waver in his voice hid behind the bravado, and he didn’t charge at Miles.

‘I’m not going to shoot you and you’re not going to shoot me. You’re her patient, too, I think.’

He stepped back, bumped a coffee table, moved around it. He noticed a lipstick-red cell phone sitting on the table.

‘I went through his pockets.’ Nathan jerked his head at the bathroom. ‘He had Allison’s phone.’