Джеффри Дивер - The Goodbye Man

“Listen to me,” Shaw said, gasping. “It’s over. The police’re—”

“Shut up!”

“If you want to—”

The blow to the gut was delivered by the apparent leader of the band, a broad, freckle-faced man with fiery red hair. Shaw struggled to keep from vomiting.

“What now?” one asked.

Red told him, “Journeyman Hugh said make it look like an accident. Like he fell and broke his leg and the animals got him. Great Bear Notch is the closest. Let’s go. He gives you any shit, hit him again.”

Shaw, hands zip-tied, and his four captors were now about a hundred yards from the camp. Not far from the escape route to the state highway where — he hoped — Victoria and Frederick had scored a phone and were presently giving tactical information to the FBI and the state police.

Red pointed. “There. I think it’s that way.”

Shaw could see the trees ending about fifty yards ahead, the forest yielding to rocky outcroppings.

“What’s the Notch?” somebody asked.

Red said, “It’s like a cave. Wolves go there. Mountain lions.”

“Why’s it called Bear Notch?” a broad-chested man, balding, and with a prominent scar on his neck and ear, asked.

Red rolled his eyes. “They got fucking bear there too. Happy?”

“Just asking.”

“Weird place. Lot of bones. Stinks. We get him down there, fuck him up and leave him. Like he fell and broke a leg. Couldn’t get out.”

So, Shaw decided, he’d run. When they neared the Notch, the AUs would grow distracted, looking for the best place to lead him into the gully. As soon as they paused, he would stop suddenly and pull away from the one that seemed the weakest — a slim blond man. The assailant would react by tugging him back. Shaw would then launch himself in the young man’s direction, with a headbutt and knee to the crotch. He’d then run flat out into the deepest part of the woods. They’d follow for a time but would grow uneasy, afraid they’d get lost, especially if they split up, which would be the most logical way to pursue him.

Woods like these? In the summer? He’d have a ninety-five percent chance of survival. He’d have to saw off the zip tie but given the amount of rock in the vicinity that shouldn’t take long.

He gave a cynical laugh to himself. Yes, ninety-five percent chance of surviving in the wood. But there was the caveat: if he escaped from four fit men, presumably armed with knives, as Timothy had been. Maybe a Taser. A firearm was another possibility. The chance of him getting away from them ? Make it thirty-five percent.

Then again, thirty-five was as good as a hundred, if you had no other options.

Red, in the lead, held up a hand, signaling them to stop. He was former military, the gesture told Shaw. Discouraging. He’d have some hand-to-hand combat skills. He looked to the right, where fifty feet away Shaw could see the cliff edge. “Over there, I think. That’s it. Brad, with me.”

Leaving only the two guards on Shaw. Good.

As Red and Brad started through the woods, Shaw braced, preparing to tug, lunge, break his prey’s nose and then run.

Red, though, looked back. He squinted and returned. He crouched behind Shaw, who could only sigh as he felt a zip tie ratcheting into place on his ankles.

Hog-tied.

No sprint.

Brad and Red returned from the cliff’s edge to Shaw, Blond and Scar.

“It’s there,” Red told the others. “Like a pit, ten feet deep maybe. Stinks like a butcher shop.”

“Made me dizzy,” Brad said.

Shaw said, “You saw the helicopter. California Highway Patrol and detectives from San Francisco. They’re investigating Eli for murder. You’re accomplices.”

“Quiet down,” Red said.

“You cooperate, I talk to the prosecutor. He’ll cut a deal.”

“We didn’t do shit,” Red told him. “We’re just rent-a-cops, wearing these stupid uniforms.”

“Well, you’re doing shit now,” Shaw said. “It’s already kidnapping. And pretty soon, it’s going to be murder.”

Red muttered, “You don’t know Hugh. He’s not somebody you want to fuck over.”

“All right, well, let me tell you this. If he wants an accident, then the zip ties have to come off. When the FBI finds my body, they’ll find the ties. Even after the animals get to me.”

The men were silent, Brad and Blond glancing toward Red.

“FBI?” Blond asked.

Red: “Shut up.”

“They already have your fingerprints and DNA all over them. So they have to go. And I’ll tell you this, whoever cuts them off... you’re going to die.” Shaw kept his eye on Blond. His voice was calm as the breeze around them. “I will crush your throat the instant my hands are free.”

Scar said, “Maybe he knows some shit like Hugh. That karate.”

“He doesn’t know anything.”

“He could sure handle that gun.”

Red sighed. “Let me ask you: Does it look like he has a gun now?”

Shaw looked from Scar to Blond. “One of you is going to die. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

This was not remotely true. What they could do was simply bash him over the head here, cut the ties and throw him into the Notch. He was about fifty percent sure, though, that given the urgency of the situation none of them would think of this possibility.

Red said, “We’ll just beat you to fucking death here with a rock, cut the ties off and drag you down the hill.” He gave an obviously shrug.

Shaw said, “Leaving your hair, DNA and fingerprints all over more evidence. They’ll have you in a week.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Red muttered. “Get him down there. Now. Break both his legs.”

Blond and Brad dragged him forward.

They got ten feet before a high-pitched scream sounded from behind them.

The two men gripping Shaw turned fast.

Wincing, on his knees, his face as ruddy as his hair, Red was gripping his right shoulder with his left hand, a mocking version of the shoulder salute.

Standing over him, Victoria swung the war club once more. With a glancing blow to his head, Red went down hard.

Brad and Blond released Shaw, who rolled to the ground.

Scar muttered, “Bitch.”

All three men pulled locking blade knives from their pockets and flicked them open.

The closest to her, Brad, charged. The woman easily sidestepped, crouched and simply held the club up. Basically, he shattered his own knee. The pitch of this scream was even higher than Red’s.

Shaw scooted to a tree and rolled upright. Blond was calling on his walkie-talkie. “We’re being attacked!” He sounded incredulous. “We’re near Bear Notch. We need help.”

A clattering response: “We’re sending people.”

Blond moved toward Victoria and nearly lost his jaw to the club before leaping back. He nodded to Scar, meaning flank her, which is something Shaw was surprised they hadn’t done earlier.

Brandishing the club and keeping her eye on them, Victoria jogged to Shaw. “Roll over.”

He did.

Blond called to his partner, “No, stop her!”

Scar moved in but a swipe of the club sent him scurrying back.

Victoria drew her butcher knife and sawed through the hand zips. She handed the blade to Shaw to cut the ankle ties. She rose fast, advancing with the club, standing low and well balanced. She never presented her back to either of them for more than one second.

Her eyes were as serene as could be.

Cold too. Ice cold.

Both men backed away.

Blond said to his partner, “You should’ve taken her. Afraid of a little pussy?”

“Fuck you.”

Shaw climbed to his feet, with the knife held firmly, ready to slash.