Lee Child - MatchUp

She gave Max a fierce kick just to make sure he was dead.

Then she climbed the bank and followed her trail of blood.

SIMON DROVE OVER A RIDGE and saw an asphalt lane on the right, flanked by forest. He’d seen two driveways in the past five miles. They’d looked welcoming, with signs that advertised facilities for training and breeding horses. In contrast, this turnoff led to a reinforced steel gate and a fence with barbed wire along the top. He steered off the highway and stopped in front of the gate. A number pad was mounted to a pole.

He left the car and pressed the key fob, releasing the vehicle’s trunk. After carefully raising it, he smelled the vinegar stench of carbon dioxide.

But it wasn’t enough to hide another stench.

“You son of a bitch, I pissed my pants because of you,” Nick said.

He lay on his side, his arms taped behind him.

“What’s the code to open the gate?” he asked, ignoring the rain that struck him.

“Code? Gate? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do you want me to close the trunk again? I’ll keep it shut a lot longer. Maybe the next time you’ll do something else in your pants. Or would you rather see your sister?”

“My sister. Oh, I want to see my sister for sure. The stupid skank.”

“Your happy reunion isn’t going to occur unless you tell me the code to open the gate.”

Nick recited four numbers.

He pressed them on the pad and heard a whir.

The gate started to open.

He returned to Nick and told him, “Bye for now.”

He shut the trunk, hopped into the car, and drove through the open gate. In the rearview mirror, he saw it closing behind him. The lane continued through the forest for quite a while. Then Simon rounded a curve and abruptly came to a large clearing. Beyond a gravel parking area stood a two-story log house. A few small buildings sat next to a swimming pool that had been covered for the winter. A bermed area contained a shooting range with metal silhouettes of human-shaped targets.

A drab van was parked in front of the house.

The front door hung open, suggesting that someone had entered or left in a hurry. He stepped out of the car and drew the pistol that he’d taken from the FBI agent. Ignoring the rain, he scanned the clearing. He didn’t dare call Liz’s name, lest his voice attract whoever had been holding her captive.

He took a step toward the lodge.

Movement attracted his attention to the far side of the clearing.

A figure emerged from the trees, staggering.

Whoever it was held a spear and was covered with mud so thick that the rain hadn’t dissolved it. The figure stumbled across the gravel and Simon saw blood on the right arm—and a suggestion of yellow on the figure’s legs.

Liz’s jogging suit was yellow.

He started to run toward her, only to be stopped by a gunshot and a bullet that tore up gravel in front of him. He spun toward the lodge’s porch where a tall woman, with long blond hair and Slavic features, aimed a pistol at him. She wore a beige pantsuit and a brown suede jacket.

“Drop the gun,” she told him.

He obeyed. “Marta?”

“Where the hell is Nick?”

“In the trunk.”

“Alive?”

“How else would I be able to exchange him for Liz?”

“Show me.”

At the edge of his vision, Simon was aware of Liz’s grotesque mud-covered figure continuing to stumble across the gravel. She dropped to one knee, then planted the blunt edge of the spear into the gravel and used it to draw herself up.

“Never mind about her,” Marta said, stepping closer with the gun. “Show me that Nick’s alive.”

He pressed the key fob and opened the trunk.

Peering in, he told Nick, “Your sister’s asking for you.”

Nick said something caustically angry in Russian.

He dragged him out and propped him on his feet. With legs taped together, the man had trouble standing.

“Cut him loose,” Marta ordered.

“I’ll need to reach for my pocketknife.”

“Be careful.”

He pulled out the knife and cut the tape that secured Demidov’s legs. The Russian spread them, steadying himself. Simon sliced the tape that bound the wrists.

“Now drop the knife,” Marta said.

He did so.

Demidov winced as he moved his arms slowly forward, giving the impression that his muscles were locked, then he removed the tape that remained on his wrists.

“This is all your fault.”

“I’m sorry, Nick. I admit I made a mistake. But I corrected it. I got you out.”

“The goddamned restaurants that the health department shut down. The courier you didn’t send, so I had to pick up the money on my own, which is why the feds were able to grab me at the warehouse. That stupid dry-cleaning shop. Every time I leave the office, my clothes stink.”

“Nick, I told you I’m sorry.”

“Where the fuck is everybody? Why didn’t you bring more help?”

“I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t? What do you mean?”

“They’re all in Texas.”

“What are they doing in—”

“Hijack jobs. It’ll look like Texas gangs did it. No one’ll ever suspect that—”

“You sent everybody to Texas? On your own?”

“I thought—”

“You stupid cunt, don’t think. You’re not good at it.”

Marta shot him.

He took a step back and looked surprised.

She shot him again.

Then a third time.

Blood first seeped, then poured from the wounds.

Demidov collapsed to the ground.

Not moving.

She aimed at Simon.

Liz continued to stagger across the gravel. Except for the blood on her arm and the bit of yellow that showed on her legs, she was still covered with mud. With each halting step, she placed the blunt edge of the spear ahead, using it to support her weight. Marta switched her aim toward Liz, then back toward Simon.

The woman peered down at her brother, then lowered the pistol. “Look at what you finally made me do.”

When Liz reached them, she wavered and remained standing only because she leaned on the spear.

“Where’s Max?” Marta asked.

“Dead.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Rambo,” Liz murmured.

“What?”

“Saw Rambo use his knife to make a spear. Saw him hide in a stream. Saw him do a lot of things.”

“You’d better get her to a hospital,” Marta said. “She’s delirious.”

“Hospital?”

“You kept your part of the bargain. Not that it matters.” Marta stared down at Nick’s body. “A lot of people are going to be angry about what I just did.”

“Maybe I can help.”

“How?”

“Protect you. Give you a new start. The FBI. Witness relocation program.”

Marta laughed as if he were making a joke.

Again she stared down at her brother.

Liz’s eyes closed, then she toppled. Simon grabbed her before she struck the gravel. She was terribly cold. He held her tightly, wanting never to let her go. When Simon looked up, Marta was gone.

A few seconds later a black SUV roared into view from behind the house and sped along the lane, disappearing among the trees.

“Sorry I missed breakfast,” Liz managed to say.

He looked down.

She did her best to smile.

“Same time tomorrow?” she asked.

“On a hospital tray maybe. No more talking.”

He picked her up, carried her into the lodge out of the rain, and laid her on a wooden bench.

She closed her eyes.

“Don’t go to sleep. You’ve got to stay awake. Fight the shock.” He tore open the right sleeve of her jogging suit, exposing a bullet wound, and found his cell phone. After calling for an ambulance, he searched the house and located a medical kit in a cabinet in the basement. He washed and disinfected her wound as best he could and bound it with a pressure bandage. She shivered, perhaps the first symptom of hypothermia. He pulled off her cold, wet jogging suit and covered her with a throw that he found on a sofa.