Harlan Coben - The Innocent

"Run, Liv!"

Lawrence didn't have to tell her twice.

Dollinger dropped Lawrence and spun around. Lawrence jumped on the big man's back. Dollinger shrugged him off like dandruff. Then Lawrence did something truly foolish. He hit Dollinger with the brown bag. Olivia could hear the clunk from the beer bottle inside. Dollinger turned around and punched Lawrence in the sternum. Lawrence went down hard.

Dollinger shouted, "Stop! FBI!"

I don't think so, big man.

Olivia heard the car take off. The tires squealed as Yates peeled out. She glanced behind her.

Dollinger was catching up to her. And he had a gun in his hand.

Her lead was maybe fifty feet. She ran as hard as she could. This was her neighborhood. She'd have the advantage, right? She cut down a back alley. It was empty- nobody else in sight. Dollinger followed. She risked a look back. He was gaining on her and didn't look the least bit put out.

She spun forward and ran harder, pumping her arms.

A bullet whizzed by her. Then another.

Oh, God. He's shooting!

She had to get out of the alley. Had to find people. He wouldn't just shoot her in front of a lot of people.

Would he?

She veered right back onto the street. The car was there. Yates sped toward her. She rolled over a parked car and onto the sidewalk. They were at the old Pabst Blue Ribbon factory. Soon it would be gone, replaced with yet another no-personality shopping center. But right now the broken-down ruins could be a haven.

Wait, where was that old tavern?

She swerved to the left. It was down the second alley. She remembered that. Olivia did not dare look behind her, but she could hear his footsteps now. He was gaining.

"Stop!"

Like hell, she thought. The tavern. Where the hell was that tavern?

She turned right.

Bingo, there it was!

The door was on the right. She wasn't far from it. She ran hard. She grabbed the handle as Dollinger made the turn. She pulled the door open and fell inside.

"Help!"

There was one person inside. He was cleaning glasses behind the bar. He looked up in surprise. Olivia stood and quickly threw the bolt.

"Hey," the bartender shouted, "what's going on here?"

"Someone is trying to kill me."

The door shook. "FBI. Open up!"

Olivia shook her head. The bartender hesitated, then gestured toward the back room with his head. She ran for it. The bartender picked up a shotgun as Dollinger kicked the door open.

The bartender was startled by the size of the man. "Jesus H. Christ!"

"FBI! Drop it."

"Let's just slow down, buddy…"

Dollinger pointed his gun at the bartender and fired twice.

The bartender went down, leaving only a splash of blood on the wall behind him.

Oh my God oh my God oh my God!

Olivia wanted to scream.

No. Go. Hurry.

She thought about the baby inside her. It gave her the extra spurt. She dove into the back room where the bartender had gestured.

Gunfire raked the wall behind her. Olivia dropped to the floor.

She crawled toward the back door. It was made of heavy metal. There was a key in the lock. In one move she pulled the door open and twisted the key so hard that it broke in the knob. She rolled back into the sunlight. The door closed and locked automatically behind her.

She heard him twisting the knob. When that didn't work, he began to pound on the door. This time the door would not give way easily. Olivia ran, keeping off the main streets, looking out for both Yates's car and Dollinger on foot.

She saw neither. Time to get the hell out of here.

Olivia walk-jogged for another two miles. When a bus drove by, she hopped on, not much caring where it took her. She got off in the center of Elizabeth. Taxis were lined up by the depot.

"Where to?" the driver asked her.

She tried to catch her breath. "Newark Airport, please."

AS MATT CROSSED into Pennsylvania in the white Isuzu, he was amazed at how much of what he'd thought of as useless information he'd retained from prison. Of course, prison is not the great education in all things crime many thought it was. You have to keep in mind that the inhabitants had all been, well, caught, and thus any claimed expertise had something of a shadow cast over it.

He had also never listened too closely. Criminal activities did not interest him. His plan, which he'd maintained for nine years, was to stay away from anything even remotely unlawful.

That had changed.

Saul's stolen car method had borne fruit. And now Matt remembered other law-evading lessons from his time behind bars. He stopped in the parking lot of a Great Western off Route 80. No security, no surprise. He did not want to steal another car, just a license plate. He wanted a license plate with the letter P in it. He got lucky. There was a car in the employee lot with a plate that began with the letter P. The employee car would work well, he thought. It was eleven A.M. Most places would be in early- to mid-shift by then. The employee owner would probably be inside for several more hours at a minimum.

He stopped in a Home Depot and bought thin black electric tape, the kind you use to repair phone cords. Making sure no one was watching, he ripped a strip and put it on the letter P, turning it into the letter B. It wouldn't hold up under close scrutiny, but it should be good enough to get him where he was going.

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

There was no choice. Matt had to get to Reno. That meant flying on an airplane. He knew that would be risky. The prison tips for evading detection, even if good in their heyday, were all pre-9/11. Security had changed a lot since then, but there were still methods. He just had to think it through, move fast, and be more than a little lucky.

First, he tried a little old-fashioned confusion and mayhem. He used a pay phone back on the New Jersey border to make flight reservations from Newark Airport to Toronto. Maybe they'd track that down and figure he was an amateur. Maybe not. He hung up, moved to another pay phone, and made his other reservation. He wrote down his booking number, hung up, and shook his head.

This was not going to be easy.

Matt pulled into the Harrisburg airport parking lot. The Mauser M2 was still in his pocket. No way he could take it with him. Matt jammed the weapon under the front passenger seat because, if things did not go as planned, he might be back. The Isuzu had served him well. He wanted to write a note to its owner, explaining what he had done and why. With luck there'd be a chance to explain in the future.

Now to see if his plan worked…

But first, he needed sleep. He bought a baseball cap in the souvenir store. Then he found a free chair in the arrivals area, folded his arms across his chest, closed his eyes, pulled the brim low across his face. People slept in airports all the time, he figured. Why would anyone bother him?

He woke up an hour later, feeling like absolute hell. He headed upstairs to the departure level. He bought some extra-strength Tylenol and Motrin, took three of each. He cleaned up in the bathroom.

The line at the ticket sales counter was long. That was good, if the timing worked. He wanted the staff to be busy. When it was his turn, the woman behind the desk gave him that distracted smile.

"To Chicago, Flight 188," he said.

"That flight leaves in twenty minutes," she said.

"I know. There was traffic and-"

"May I see your picture ID, please?"

He gave her his driver's license. She typed in "Hunter, M." This was the moment of truth. He stood perfectly still. She frowned and typed some more. Nothing happened. "I don't see you in here, Mr. Hunter."

"That's odd."

"Do you have your booking number?"

"I sure do."