Jeff Abbott - Fear

‘You don’t think a pill is going to make me go away, do you?’ Andy said. ‘Might as well trade a cow for magic beans, Miles. You know you and I are a team forever. Permanent odd couple. I’m the original fracture in your head, these newbies are just hangers-on.’

‘I’m going to kill you again,’ Miles whispered, ‘and this time it’s self-defense.’

‘It wasn’t the first time,’ Andy said. ‘Not really. Deep in your brain is the truth.’

‘Dying to come out,’ Allison said.

‘Shut up, shut up,’ Miles said in a soft mutter. He straightened his shirt. You could appear scraggly yet hip in the Four Seasons and not attract undue attention: Austin was a film and music town and dress did not often equal actual wealth. He was dressed, unthreateningly, in clean jeans and a T-shirt that promoted a music group so obscure he might pass for Austin-cool.

Eleven minutes later, he watched a man cross the lobby, carrying a briefcase, heading up to the elevators. David Singhal, returning from a cab ride he’d taken shortly after arriving at the hotel. Groote had followed him, also in a cab, then called Miles to say the guy had simply gone to a restaurant for lunch.

Groote hadn’t gotten back yet and so Miles followed Singhal through the lobby. Miles got in the elevator next to the man, folded his hands behind his back; Singhal had already pressed the button.

‘If you go to the Frost auction today,’ Miles said conversationally, ‘you’re going to be killed.’

‘Today,’ Singhal repeated in wide-eyed shock. The doors slid open at his floor. ‘I’ve no idea what you mean…’

‘I’m not wearing a wire. And don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re in deep trouble, Mr. Singhal, and only I can get you out of it.’

‘You’ve made – a mistake.’ Singhal walked past him. ‘Leave me alone or I’ll call hotel security.’

‘You go ahead. Then I’ll call the FDA.’ Miles followed him to a suite at the end of the hall. ‘You were going to buy Frost from Oliver Quantrill. Now you’re buying it from someone else who’s willing to take a smaller profit. It’s a mistake.’

Singhal kept a poker face. ‘Again, you’re confused.’

Miles pulled the gun from the back of his pants, hidden by his loose shirt, aimed it at Singhal’s stomach. ‘Then let’s talk privately and you can clear the air. Inside.’

Hands trembling, Singhal opened the suite door and Miles followed him inside. He ordered Singhal to sit on the bed, called Groote, told him to come to suite 409.

‘We have two minutes. You’re going to tell me where the Frost auction is. If you do, then I’ll make sure your pharma client gets an opportunity to develop it for free. I’ll give you the research – all I care about is that sick people get the medicine. But I have to know where Sorenson is.’

Singhal bit his lip.

‘Please take my offer. If you think I’m scary, wait till you meet my… friend. His daughter’s been kidnapped by the people running the auction.’ Not exactly accurate, but it had the effect he wanted: Singhal swallowed. ‘I need to know where the auction is.’

‘It’s an old private asylum, east side of town. Abandoned but bought by Sorenson’s people a month or so ago.’

‘When?’

‘Six P.M.’ Six hours away.

‘Do you have a pass, any special way to gain entrance to this auction?’

‘No.’

‘I’m the nice guy. The completely ruthless man on his way up is the bad guy. Please reconsider your answer.’

A knock on the door. Miles let Groote inside.

‘Who are you people?’ Singhal said. ‘If I know who I’m dealing with – we can agree to an arrangement.’

‘Here’s your arrangement.’ Groote grabbed the man by the throat, pushed him smoothly up the wall. Then he started punching Singhal, precise stiff-fingered chops. Steady as a metronome, in the kidneys, in the space between ribs, above the heart, and Miles thought, That shouldn’t hurt, but suddenly Singhal’s face purpled and he said, ‘My wallet. God, stop. Please.’

Miles pulled Singhal’s wallet free from his jacket and found a slip of paper in the wallet: an address in east Austin and an access code: 12XCD.

‘There’s a fence around the property. That’s the electronic code to get past the locks.’

‘What kind of security did Sorenson promise?’ Miles asked.

‘He… said we’d be safe.’

‘How many buyers coming?’

‘I have no idea… please. I have a family.’

‘So do I, asshole,’ Groote said.

‘Groote. Don’t kill him.’

‘Tell me about security.’ Groote raised his fist.

‘I was just assured… it would be safe… I don’t know, honestly.’

Groote shook his head at Miles. ‘He can’t be calling and warning Sorenson.’

‘Don’t kill him,’ Miles said again.

‘Yes.’

‘No.’

‘Goddamn it, you want to walk into a freaking ambush? Better him than us.’ Spittle flew from Groote’s mouth.

Miles punched Singhal. Hard. Singhal’s eyes rolled, the guy collapsed.

‘Good idea,’ Groote said. ‘He might start to scream, us discussing his lack of a future.’

The blow had hurt his hand and Miles worked out the pain with a shake. ‘You kill him, and we get caught, then you’ll never see Amanda again. The guy in Yosemite, shooting him you saved lives, and we’d all swear to that in court. But this would be cold-blooded murder, and I’m sure you’re not into that gig. It never pays.’

Groote shook his head. ‘He can’t warn Sorenson.’

‘Then help me.’ Miles tied up Singhal with the curtain cord, gagged him with a shredded pillowcase, stuffed him in the closet. He called the front desk, told them he was Singhal, he was sick with a vicious stomach flu, could they please be sure he wasn’t disturbed today. No housekeeping, yes, and please put no phone calls through.

‘I don’t like this,’ Groote said.

‘We have six hours before the buyers are due,’ Miles said. ‘Come on.’

They got their rental car and headed for I-35.

They didn’t see the car pull out after them, staying back a half mile but never losing sight of them.

Groote took the exit, three left turns, and drove along a street that held modest homes, most immaculate, a few slouching in disrepair. At the far end of the street, looming tall over the neighborhood, was a Gothic building of gray granite, forbidding. A stone sign that read YARBROUGH HOSPITAL EST. 1893 was worn with time, bedecked with graffiti. Above it, on wooden posts, a weathered, worn

sign advertising a fund-raiser Halloween haunted house called ‘Nightmare Hospital’ was covered by another, smaller board that said HORIZON PROPERTIES NO TRESPASSING.

‘Horizon,’ Groote said. ‘Same as the fake company that owned Dodd’s car.’

‘Sorenson killed Dodd and then uses his resources,’ Miles said.

‘Nice and efficient,’ Groote said. ‘You clearheaded, Miles?’

‘Yes.’

‘Take this.’ Groote handed him a small gun and an ankle holster. He’d acquired a modest armory with a phone call after their arrival in Austin. ‘Good to have if it gets ugly and you’re down or your clip’s empty.’

‘Thank you.’ Miles attached the holster, let the cuff of his pants drop over the weapon, surprised at the gift. ‘Groote?’

‘Yeah?’ Groote switched off the car’s ignition.

‘When this is done… we walk our separate ways. No need to hurt each other, is there?’

‘I can’t think of one, Miles.’

‘What will you do?’

‘Get my daughter where she can’t be hurt again.’

‘Then you should probably give up your war on the Duartes.’