Jeff Abbott - Fear

Miles rolled back out into the passageway, bullets blazing above him as he tried to gain his footing, and he saw Groote take two shots, chest and shoulder. Groote staggered back, fell hard on the flooring, eyes wide, his teeth chomping into his own lip in pain and shock.

Miles turned.

Sorenson walked toward him, the gun locked on Miles’s head.

Miles fell back against the fabric, a plywood Dracula collapsing on him, Groote coughing and cussing behind him, yelling at him to find his gun and shoot the bastard.

Miles wriggled out from the fake monster as Sorenson charged at him. Miles tried to aim but Sorenson had shot him in his shooting arm and he fired and missed. Sorenson leveled a kick that nailed Miles’s wrist, knocked the gun past the curtains. Sorenson whipped his own gun across Miles’s face.

‘I told you in Allison’s office that I’d end your pain,’ Sorenson said. ‘I keep my promises.’

Sorenson moved past Miles, put the aim of his gun on Groote.

Groote tried to crawl and Sorenson shot him again in the leg. He brought his gun up; Sorenson shot him in the hand.

He screamed.

‘Miles,’ Sorenson said. ‘Who else knows about today?’

‘No one. Leave him alone.’

‘Where’s the rest of the nut squad?’

‘After Yosemite… they all hid. I went with Groote.’

‘You mean that piece of shit I sent after you all actually succeeded in frightening you? Wow. I’ll have to send flowers to his grave.’

Miles shouted, ‘You knew I was a witness. You wanted my death as camouflage for killing Allison. I was supposed to die when she did. WITSEC, everyone else, would blame it on me, especially when the police found my file on Allison’s computer. You tricked me and Allison

…’

‘You have to seize your opportunities when you can, Miles.’

Groote looked up at Sorenson, fighting for consciousness, blood trickling from his mouth, his nose, from his hand. ‘Amanda. Amanda. God, please, help my girl. Where is… she? Never hurt you. Please.’

Sorenson walked toward Groote.

Miles saw himself lying on a floor, the smell of blood and concrete grit heavy as smoke in his nose and Andy lay on the concrete, bleeding.

Footsteps walking past Miles, toward Andy.

Andy, calling for Miles, calling for his mama… but Miles had shot him in the throat.

No. He couldn’t have. Not how it happened.

Miles blinked.

Sorenson leaned over Groote. Groote moaned, spoke pleading words.

But Miles couldn’t hear Groote; he only heard Andy calling, Miles, don’t let them hurt me, please. I’m sorry. Andy clutching his shoulder where Miles had shot him.

Sorenson smiled at Miles. Aimed the gun at Groote.

The fed glanced at Miles. Aimed the gun at Andy.

Not again.

‘Amanda-’ Groote called to his absent child, to the empty air.

‘ Miles, help me,’ Andy screamed, ‘- please! ’

Miles heaved to his feet, stumbled toward the two men, the blood pouring from his leg, ignoring the agony.

Not again. No.

Sorenson fired two bullets into Groote. The hair puffed on Groote’s head; he kicked once and lay still.

The fed fired twice into Andy’s throat.

Miles screamed.

The fed looked at Miles. Tried to smile. Lowered the gun. ‘He tried to kill us all. Your fault, Miles, you said the wrong thing and set him off. Your goddamned fault. You should have shut up.’

Miles fell to the floor.

Sorenson aimed the gun at Miles. ‘Miles, you’re going to talk…’

His voice was calm again, as though they were back, sitting in the plush leather chairs in Allison’s office. ‘I don’t have to kill you. But I need to know what you know. I’ll make sure you get Frost. I’ll trade you treatment for you telling me everything I need to know about who’s coming after us. I can set it up, no problem. I couldn’t let a fuck like Groote live. But you, we can make a deal.’

‘Please… I’ll tell you.’ He drew his knee to his chin, groped for the small gun above his ankle, putting a wince on his face as if pain were overwhelming him. He’d forgotten about it in the shock of being shot, of running, of Groote dying, of memory returning with the force of a bullet. ‘I’ll tell you…’

He tucked his hurt leg close to him, gripped under the cuff of his pants as though grimacing against the pain. Closed his hand around the small pistol.

Sorenson leaned forward and Miles sprang the gun up, firing, painting a neat hole in Sorenson’s eye.

Sorenson fell dead.

‘Uhhh,’ Miles said. He started to crawl back across the concrete, slowly, painfully, aware of the blood oozing out of his leg and arm, toward Groote.

He checked Groote’s throat. No pulse. He dug in his pockets, checking for a cell phone to call for help.

He flipped the phone open, tried to make his thumb work the pad.

He heard footsteps approaching him. Sorenson had help, backup, Miles was dead now, nothing to be done. This was death; this would be peace. He crawled, waiting for the inevitable bullet to break his spine, drill into his head.

A weight slammed into his head, once, then again, and he knew no more.

Stone was cold and damp against his skin. Slowly he opened his eyes and sat up. Dried blood covered his face. He wore only his T-shirt and underwear. Rough bandages, fashioned from his shirt, covered the wound in his arm and in his leg. Pain pulsed under the wrappings, as though fingers had dug around in his wounds, and patched him up without care. The room was narrow, the air tasted dense and coppery in his mouth, as though fear lived and grew in the dark corners and its essence had seeped, over many years, into the stone.

The abandoned madhouse. He was still inside.

He tried to speak. ‘Hello?’ His voice sounded broken. He cleared his throat. ‘Hello?’

Several seconds passed. He heard the clicking of locks – more than one – and the door to the room opened. A person stepped inside the dim light of the room from the bright light of the hallway. Miles blinked and his voice died in his throat.

‘Hello, Miles.’ Allison Vance wore a suit; her hair was lighter, styled neatly, as it had been in the pictures at Edward Wallace’s house. She stayed ten paces back.

At first he thought, My mind’s still gone, snapped, and it shouldn’t be, he knew he had not killed Andy. No. But then she said, ‘Hello, Miles,’ again and her quiet voice echoed, ever so slightly, against the stone. Instead of echoing in his head. Then she raised a gun – the gun Groote had given him, that he’d killed Sorenson with – and leveled it at him.

‘Allison?’ he managed to say. ‘Allison.’

‘My name is Renee Wallace,’ she said.

‘Your… name is Allison Vance. You’re… dead.’

‘No. You’re dead. Unless you do exactly as I tell you.’

‘You – you asked me for help, you set me up.’

‘Miles.’ She cocked her head, offered the gentle smile she’d always used greeting him in her office as they prepared to sit and talk and she would try to pierce his past of secrets. But there was no understanding, no kindness, in her face; the concern was only a false expression painted on a mask. ‘I’m not the problem. You are.’

‘Sorenson said in Santa Fe… he didn’t kill you. I thought he was lying.’ He coughed. ‘The auction-’

‘Miles. There is no auction. Not now. I have a buyer already.’

She’d set him up again. ‘Singhal.’

‘Yes. I’ll make you a deal, Miles. You tell me what I need to know and I’ll make sure you have Frost. I’ll cure you. You’re a killer, and it’s a better offer than anyone else will make you.’

‘I’m not a killer. I remember it now. I didn’t kill Andy.’