Jeff Abbott - Fear

Groote looked at him.

‘The people that hurt her and killed your wife. It was the Duartes, wasn’t it? You know they did it even if the FBI’s not sure.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘We don’t have time for subtlety, Dennis. I don’t want you putting a bullet in my back as soon as we get Frost.’

‘Why would I be so rude, Miles?’

‘Back in L.A. I asked you about the ring you blamed for hurting your family. You dodged giving me an answer, and it bothers me. Because there’s no reason for you not to tell me. Unless it was the Duartes. Because I’ve got a connection to them. You know about my work for the Barradas, spying on rival crime rings, including the Duartes. You were FBI. Of course you’d know.’

Groote gave him a sidelong glance.

Miles kept his gaze steady on Groote’s. ‘I am very sorry for your loss, but I have never hurt your family. I stole some financial information from the Duartes, and the FBI gave me fake files about the Duartes to use in a sting against the Barradas. I didn’t ever hurt the Duartes enough to bring them to a boiling point. I don’t know what aimed them at your family, but it wasn’t me. They were clearly already in the Bureau’s headlights. You don’t have a reason to blame me. So if you’ve got revenge on your mind, forget it.’

Groote’s mouth twitched into a smile that died after a moment.

‘I’m going to go back into Witness Protection, if they’ll have me. I still have to testify against the Barradas, what’s left of them. And then they want me to testify against other crime rings. It puts a lot of trash out of business. And it’s faster and easier than killing them off, one by one.’

Groote looked straight ahead.

‘I have a friend in WITSEC to call. You said you met him – DeShawn Pitts.’

‘Yeah,’ Groote said, his voice neutral.

Miles watched him for a sign of reaction. ‘I’ll tell DeShawn – since he’s a good guy – where Amanda is, if Sorenson knows. So we can get her protection immediately, get her to safety right away.’

Groote said, ‘That’s a kindness, Miles.’

‘You hurt my friends. You hurt Nathan, you attacked Celeste. I won’t forget it. But I know you were trying to save your daughter.’

Groote coughed into his fist.

‘I’m helping your kid, Dennis, and that evens any grudge you’re thinking of carrying against me. Clear?’

‘Crystal,’ Groote said.

‘Is there anything you want to tell me? Any reason I should have to be angry with you?’ Thinking, Did you kill DeShawn?

‘I can’t think of a single one,’ Groote said.

The silence hung between them like a curtain. Finally Groote spoke: ‘We keep the plan simple. If Sorenson’s there, we take him. If not, we take Frost if it’s there, or we hide ourselves in the hospital until Sorenson shows up and then we take control.’

‘Simple.’

‘Most things are.’

‘Come on,’ Miles said. ‘Let’s end this.’

Miles entered the keypad number from Singhal’s wallet. The lock holding the ancient iron gate beeped, disengaged, and Miles pushed the metal bars open, left it unlocked.

They ran across the overgrown grass to the hospital’s front door.

‘You first,’ Groote said, ‘since it’s your idea.’

The door was locked. Miles knelt down, tested the lock with Groote’s Mr. Screwdriver, worked it open. They stepped into the silence of the abandoned hospital.

Groote shut the door behind them. Both men held their guns out in front of them, pointing into the dim light. The opening foyer was dusty, scattered with junk – leftover papier-mache monster masks; bright orange flyers, fading, that promoted the haunted-house event and other long-ago October concerts in clubs; discarded paper cups and beer cans; a tattered banner, torn in half, that said: TO

CHAMBER OF HO

They stood and listened for a long minute. The silence made Miles’s ears ache.

Ho? Groote mouthed, pointing at the ripped sign.

Horrors, Miles decided. Chamber of horrors.

Groote tapped at his ear. Listen. And in the hush, he heard a quiet computerish hum from down the hall.

Miles saw Andy beckoning him along the hallway. Sweat broke out on his ribs, in the hollow of his throat, in his hair, and he realized he was more scared than he had ever been in his life. Scared of what would happen, scared of the psychopath standing next to him, scared of what he was becoming.

Groote gestured with his gun toward the hall. They went past several deserted offices. Tattered curtains, leftovers from the haunted house, hung in the windows, the rooms all empty. In the last one a laptop sat on a folding table. Miles moved to read the screen.

It displayed a PowerPoint presentation called ‘Research Options on Memory and Trauma with a Beta Blocker Approach.’

All the bloodshed, all the suffering, all the millions at stake, it came down to a PowerPoint presentation.

Miles put his mouth close to Groote’s ear to whisper, ‘We’re not alone. Sorenson wouldn’t leave this behind.’

Trap us in the hallway, Groote mouthed. He gestured down the corridor. Miles nodded and followed him.

A brick propped open a door at the end of the hallway. A large room loomed beyond. Perhaps once it had been the cafeteria, or a space for socializing. Now it wore false walls, shaped into a twisty maze, a setup of nightmarish paintings on black paint, and mirrors arranged to confuse and frighten. Junk, left behind by the Halloween fund raiser, probably with a thought to reuse it next year, before Dodd bought the derelict property.

Miles could smell the dusty aroma that seems to permeate open spaces long neglected. It had hung like a perfume in the fatal air in Miami, and panic seized his chest. He could not flashback now, no, Jesus, don’t lose control, he told himself, don’t let your brain be a traitor.

Groote nodded at him and Miles went through the door first, gun out, arms level, afraid to breathe, to think, to see. No Andy, no Allison, no DeShawn, please, he thought. Groote followed him. The haunted house-scape still stood in the large room, monster faces leering at them from plywood and black paint: howling ghosts, shambling zombies, big-fanged vampires, all the playthings of manufactured, false fear.

Miles tapped Groote on the shoulder. They hadn’t discussed what procedures to take if they needed to do a search. Groote jerked his head to the right, pointed to Miles, jerked it to the left. Miles nodded. He moved to the left, Groote moved to the right.

Miles walked down a twisting passage. Black fabric, hung to mask the operations of the haunted house, hung in tatters. Silence again.

Andy stood at the end of the passage, and he frightened Miles more than any fabricated monster. ‘You can’t do this. Sorenson will kill you. I mean, you think you’re really going to stand there and shoot another person?’

Miles glanced behind him. Allison stood watching him as though to see what he would do next. He whirled back to Andy; but he was gone. He pivoted again; Allison had vanished. But the curtain moved, and there was no hum of air conditioner to sway it He sensed movement behind him and spun as Sorenson burst through the tatters of black fabric at the corner where Andy had stood, leveling a gun at him and firing.

The bullets needled through the meat and muscle of his arm and his leg. Miles screamed with agony and fell through the black curtain along the passageway, trying to simply put cover between himself and Sorenson. Two more bullets whistled above him, ripping holes in the black cloth. He went flat and he heard two shattering gunshots as he barreled headfirst to where a plywood wall met a wooden support pillar.

Trapped. No way to go forward or sideways.