Lee Child - MatchUp

The title itself is even prophetic.

Getaway.

JOHN COREY, FORMER NYPD HOMICIDE detective, and former Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force agent, sat in an Adirondack chair with his fingers wrapped around a glass of Dewar’s, contemplating the possible end of his third career—with the Diplomatic Surveillance Group—and his second marriage. Was it possible, he wondered, that his career and marital problems were of his own making? No. Shit just happens. He took a sip of scotch and stared into the gathering twilight toward Lake Whackamole. That wasn’t the name of the lake, he knew, but it was some gibberish Indian name. P.C. correction. Some melodious Native American name.

Whackyweed?

No, that’s marijuana.

Anyway, it was a lake. A small one in upstate New York, in the middle of nowhere, and the closest town was Nowheresville, about forty miles away.

It had taken him nearly ten hours from Manhattan to get to this godforsaken place in what was called the North Country, sometimes called God’s Country, and he wondered why he was there. He was a city boy and nature made him nervous. So maybe this wasn’t a good place to relax. It sounded good in theory but he should have known better. He sipped more scotch. The familiar smell and taste of it made him relax, even before the alcohol hit his brain.

He looked again at the darkly mirrored lake and the woods around it. He could make out a few other cabins set back from the opposite shore but they were dark. The only lit one, aside from his own, was the one he could see through the trees about two hundred yards to his left. He wondered who his neighbor might be. With any luck, he’d never find out. But maybe it was a hot babe on the lam from city problems, as he was. Or maybe it was a local girl, single or divorced, no kids, great cook, and looking for a drinking buddy.

And she drank scotch.

Most likely, though, it was some backwoods Deliverance psycho who had a collection of chain saws that he wanted to show his new neighbor.

Dick Kearns, Corey’s former police buddy who’d loaned the cabin, had assured him that no one would be at the lake in late October, and if anyone was, they’d keep to themselves.

Good.

So he sat back and stared at the trees.

There were a lot of them. More than in Central Park. In fact, he was actually in a park—Adirondack State Park, a sparsely populated stretch of land bigger than Vermont—and much of it was designated as Forever Wild, meaning he’d have a hard time finding a pub.

He’d been in this neck of the woods a few years before on a case involving a guy named Bain Madox who owned a lodge called the Custer Hill Club. Madox was a billionaire nut job who tried to start a nuclear war with the world of Islam, and the Custer Hill Club was his secret headquarters. In fact, this nearly uninhabited land seemed to be visited by a number of weirdos and bad guys—survivalists, antigovernment wing nuts, mobsters, Irish Republican Army guys in the old days, and more recently Islamic extremists who needed to test their weapons in private. The FBI and the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, as well as the State Police and park rangers, had long taken a special interest in the Adirondack State Park.

On a happier note, the aforementioned unwelcome park visitors were relatively rare and kept an understandably low profile, and he didn’t expect to bump into any of them while he was here. It was more likely that he’d run into a bear. He hated bears. And with good reason. Bears were dangerous. They ate people.

He saw something moving in the brush near the lake, about two hundred feet from his deck. He focused on the spot, but it was getting darker and he couldn’t see anything. It may have just been a breeze off the lake stirring the brush.

Or it could have been a deer.

Or a bear.

He’d left his 9 mm Glock in the cabin, a stupid thing to do when you’re alone in the wilderness. He’d looked death in the eye more than once, and feared no man. But he did have two fears—nuclear weapons, which was rational based on a few of his cases, and bears, which he knew was not totally rational.

He kept staring at the brush, thinking about going inside for the Glock. But he was comfortable in the deep chair, and the scotch made him lazy.

It was mid-October and the trees were already shedding here in the North Country. And it was chilly. He took another sip of scotch. This place was okay in the summer, but after Labor Day most of the tourists and fishermen were gone and the North Country became eerily deserted until ski season began. So even if this wasn’t a good place to relax, it was a good place to disappear for a while. His last case, on his new job with the Diplomatic Surveillance Group, had left him in career limbo, known officially as administrative leave.

He thought back to that case.

He’d been on a routine surveillance of a Russian UN diplomat, Colonel Vasily Petrov, who was actually an SVR intelligence officer and a dangerous man. But the routine surveillance had turned into something that was anything but routine. More politically sensitive. Long story short, he’d broken some rules—or, to be more positive, he’d shown extraordinary initiative—and gotten himself into major trouble.

As usual.

But he’d brought the case to a successful conclusion.

As usual.

So while Washington was trying to decide if he should get a commendation or a pink slip, he was told to stay home and keep his mouth shut.

Feds were such assholes.

On top of all this, his FBI wife, Supervisory Special Agent Kate Mayfield, had accepted a transfer to D.C., and they were now what was called estranged.

Meaning what?

Barely speaking and definitely not fucking.

And to further complicate his life he was involved with a young lady named Tess Faraday who’d been assigned to him as a DSG trainee. Turned out she was an undercover State Department intelligence officer, tasked with keeping an eye on him.

Life was full of surprises.

Some pleasant, some not.

Bottom line, he needed a break from his professional and personal problems and Dick had offered him a cabin on Lake Whatchamacallit. No one will bother you there. No one can find you and, best of all, cell-phone service is pretty bad. That’s what his friend had said. To complete the isolation Dick had no landline phone in the cabin or Internet service. He was reachable, as per the requirements of his admin leave. But how do you know if you’re reachable before you get to where you’re not?

Right?

Anyway, it was good to get away. All he had to do now was figure out what to do with his time. The problem with doing nothing, as he always said, is not knowing when you’re finished.

He yawned and finished his scotch, which had found its way to his brain. Dick had a few fishing poles in the cabin so tomorrow he’d go fishing. And the next day, too. He wasn’t sure what to do with a fish if he caught it. Shoot it? Maybe he’d also take a hike in the woods. Could a 9 mm Glock drop a bear?

He heard more rustling in the undergrowth, coming from the trees to his left. He sat up, listening hard. It was deathly quiet here except for the birds, and sound traveled far in the cool air. He heard the sound again and focused on the nearby tree line. Something was there and he could hear it moving. He assumed it was a deer, foraging for leaves at dusk.

A flock of birds rose from the trees and flew off.

He laid his glass on the flat armrest of the Adirondack chair and stood.

The sound got closer.

Fight or flight?

If he was a bird, he would have taken flight. But he wasn’t, so he took a step toward the edge of the deck. Then, remembering that his gun lay on the kitchen table, he retreated back toward the door. It was not inconceivable that someone had been sent here to whack him. He had lots of enemies. Russians, Islamic terrorists, and criminals he’d sent to jail, not to mention the CIA who had actually tried to kill him in Yemen. But none of those potential assassins were stupid enough to make that much noise.