Jeff Abbott - Fear

The police would arrive within minutes. He tucked his gun into his holster under his jacket, went out the back, saw a woman standing with hands on hips, frowning at the noise.

‘I’m a friend of Joy and Cinco’s,’ he said to her before she could speak. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘My bike’s gone.’ She gestured toward the gallery door, the shrieking whine. ‘Is it a break-in or a false alarm?’

The guy on the bike. Outmaneuvered by an art hippie lady and a guy on a fricking bike. He ran past the woman and hurried to his car.

Groote bolted onto Canyon, then Paseo de Peralta. Had to choose and took a hard right. He drove two minutes, running red lights, looking for the guy on the bike. Wheeled hard around and went the other way, cursing. He backtracked, tore up side roads at eighty miles an hour. His heart caught in his throat, he pounded the steering wheel in fury.

I was this close to him. To finding Frost.

No bike on the street. No bike anywhere. Michael Raymond was gone.

Miles carried the stolen bike up to the hotel room with him, washed his face. The cache of money and equipment he kept at the bus station in case he ever needed to flee town on his own – now was the time to go fetch it. But if the shooter was prowling the roads of central Santa Fe, riding the bike was a risk; he couldn’t outrun a car.

A fist pounded his door. DeShawn, ordering him to open up.

He answered and DeShawn pushed in, frantic-faced, slamming the door behind him. ‘We’re moving you to a new city, getting you a new identity. Right now. Grab your bag.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ve been disclosed, Miles. Your cover’s blown. The police found a laptop in Allison’s car trunk. It contained a scanned copy of your entire psychiatric file from Allison. Including the fact that you’re a federal witness and your real name.’ He shook his head. ‘It omitted the fact that you lied to me, of course.’

DeShawn’s urgency had nothing to do with the shooter’s appearing at the gallery.

‘I-’

‘You’re done in Santa Fe. Let’s go.’

Miles rocked on his feet, the news a punch in his gut. ‘How would Allison know my real name?’

‘You sure you didn’t tell her?’

‘No. I never did.’

‘I don’t believe you. You told me you didn’t even tell her you were a witness!’ DeShawn’s voice was cold. ‘You lied to me, Miles. She knew your name, she knew where you were from, she knew what you were, and now she’s dead.’

‘I never told her.’ The confession – signed with his real name – was still in his pants pocket. ‘You said a scanned file? Like a paper file scanned for a computer?’

‘Yes.’

Sorenson, opening and closing the file cabinet yesterday afternoon. He’d taken something. Miles’s file. But it had apparently been full of information he’d never given Allison. ‘Jesus and Mary,’ Miles said.

‘You done lying, Miles? Your face. You weren’t in a fight. You were close to her office when it exploded.’

‘No.’

‘You tried to call her pager right after the explosion – I got the records. Explain that timing.’

‘She wanted to talk to me…’

‘You were supposed to be there when the office blew, Miles, weren’t you. You were supposed to die with her, don’t you see it?’

‘No.’

‘You told her who you were. And then she started digging into your past, to understand you, to help you, and she tipped off the Barradas. Maybe by accident. But if you’d kept your mouth shut that you were Miles Kendrick, she’d be alive right now.’

Miles shook his head. ‘I never told her my real name! And even if I did, why kill her? Why hurt her?’

‘You dumb shit!’ DeShawn yelled. ‘Do you know how many people want you dead? The Barradas, sure. Then all the crime rings you screwed over spying for the Barradas, they want your ass: the Razor Boys, the Duartes, the GHJ ring… Miles, she knew and she died and she left behind a record of your old name. That’s all that matters. You’re compromised. Welcome to your next exciting new life.’

Miles went and picked up his bag. His mind raced. No, he couldn’t leave now, he couldn’t get on that plane. ‘What if I say no to relocating?’

DeShawn’s voice went cold. ‘Now I speak as your inspector. WITSEC’s voluntary, Miles. You can walk away from our protection anytime you want. But as your friend, you’re dead meat if you stay. The press will get hold of this, eventually, her death is too big a story here. As your friend, I’m worried you’re not thinking straight, that you remain mentally unbalanced and unable to make a cogent decision, and I will knock your ass out and put you on a plane to save your life. That’s all off the record, of course.’

‘Of course. I-’

‘Nothing to keep you here,’ Andy said from the corner. ‘She’s dead and gone. Quit being helpful, Miles. People get killed.’

‘What’s the matter?’ DeShawn said.

‘Nauseous.’ Miles went to the sink, jetted water into a glass.

‘First you fail her, now you run,’ Andy said. ‘You’re an A-one piece of work, Miles.’

Miles drank his water, ignored DeShawn and Andy both. No. He wasn’t going anywhere, not until he knew the truth about Allison’s death. She needed him. He had failed to help her in time, he had failed to be the man she needed him to be. What had living a lie gotten him? Nothing. He’d lost this new life as easily as he’d lost his last one. The decision was clear and strong in his head, crowding out his fear, silencing Andy’s murmurs.

Escape was the only answer. He had to avoid DeShawn, at least for a few days. Hide out in Santa Fe, find the shooter, uncover the truth. The WITSEC higher-ups might very well boot him out of the protection program for running; but he thought they might not. He was a mental patient and critical to their remaining cases against the Barrada ring. He had saved two FBI agents from certain death. But he was breaking a cardinal rule of WITSEC. Disobeying an inspector, running on his own.

‘I’ll go with you. But first I need to talk to Joy. Please,’ Miles said.

‘You can call Joy from your new location.’

‘I want Joy and Cinco protected.’

‘Did you tell them your real name too?’

‘No.’

‘I guarantee you they’ll be safe.’

‘Make the call now. I want deputy marshals staked at Joy’s house, at Cinco’s, at the gallery.’

DeShawn saw it was Miles’s price of compliance. ‘Okay, man, I’ll make the call.’ He dialed, spoke softly into the cell phone while Miles shoved his few belongings back into his bag.

DeShawn clicked off the phone. ‘The Garrisons will be protected. My guarantee.’

‘Thank you.’ Miles hoisted the bag onto his shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’

DeShawn walked ahead of him, opening the door, and Miles drove hard into him.

‘Miles, don’t try it!’ DeShawn yelled as he slammed into the door. He howled in pain, his hand caught between the frame and the latch. Miles hammered a fist into the back of DeShawn’s neck. Once, twice, and then DeShawn got his feet anchored, freed his hand from the door’s trap, and cannonballed into Miles.

‘Major mistake,’ DeShawn said, drawing back his fist. A hard punch to the chest, to the jaw, two hard blows to the stomach, left Miles heaped on the bed.

‘Goddamn, you hurt my hand.’ DeShawn stood over him, shaking the sting out of his fingers. ‘What the hell got into you?’

Miles didn’t answer, closed his eyes, told himself to ignore the pain. He made his breathing labored.

‘Assaulting a federal officer,’ DeShawn said. ‘Never mind you were supposed to be my friend.’

Miles kept his eyes closed. He heard the soft clink of handcuffs.