Джеффри Дивер - The Goodbye Man

On the other hand, there were some pleasing aesthetic elements: an elaborate koi pond was filled with a dozen sleek elegant inhabitants, in sharp black and white and stark orange. There was, of all things, an easel set up beside a rusting V-block engine; the canvas was a well done oil of a mountain peak and circling bird. It was not an eagle.

He was thirty feet from the porch when the screen door opened. Before he saw anything other than a beefy hand and tree-trunk arm, a voice called, “Well, if it ain’t my good old buddy.”

Grinning, Dalton Crowe stepped out and trooped over the planks, which sagged under his weight. He seemed to be wearing the same outfit as when he’d shot out the tire of Shaw’s rental Kia last week: camo overalls and lumberjack shirt. A .45 autoloader was in a holster, riding high on his broad hip.

“So nice of you to come for a visit, Shaw.” Crowe looked him up and down. His smile was less welcoming than gloating. Shaw’s trip here had been both expensive and inconvenient, and Crowe knew it.

“Here.” Shaw pulled out his wallet, extracted a check and handed it to the big man.

Crowe pulled out his cell phone and took a picture of the draft. Odd to see a biker/mountain man taking advantage of a camera-phone deposit. But the truth was, Crowe’s embrace of high technology was why Shaw was here.

“’K.” He handed Shaw a piece of paper. “That’s the name of the app you download. And the user name and passcode.”

The name was: TroubleMan666 .

Shaw pocketed the slip and walked away.

The man grumbled, “I’m doing this as a favor, Shaw. You still owe me for the reward, the whole fifty K. I woulda got them boys, you hadn’t fucking cheated. I’m going to remember that.”

Without pausing, or turning, Shaw nodded at the easel. “Like the painting, Crowe.”

An hour later, he was in yet another rental, many miles away. The Land Cruiser SUV was rocking over an unlit dirt road. He was taking his time.

He checked the GPS. Drove another mile and then noted a haze of illumination ahead of him. It was a small town in the hills. The name of the place was Moody. There was a lake nearby, and the burg was dedicated, it seemed, to the art and business of fishing. You could buy bait everywhere except for the ice cream parlor, a used bookshop and an off-brand cell phone store, according to window signs.

At the one traffic light in town he turned right and proceeded to Lake View Motor Inn. When he was nearly there, he pulled onto a service road. He killed the engine.

The motel was in a good location for what he had in mind. Behind the place was a dirt road that bypassed the town and led south, good for an escape. He’d checked it out on Google Earth and some better topographic maps and he knew that the SUV could handle the terrain and keep ahead of pursuit.

Shaw slipped from the car and closed the door, leaving the vehicle unlocked. He picked up the empty plastic grocery bag — a thick one — and slipped it into his jacket pocket. No sport coat now. He was dressed in black jeans and matching tactical assault jacket. Gloves too, made of thin leather.

Through the bushes he made his way to the dimly lit motel. He smelled lake and trash, scents that might or might not have been related. He came to a dilapidated fence and, when he pushed open the gate, it fell to the ground.

The motel was composed of individual cabins for guests and Shaw now oriented himself. Keeping to the shadows, he slipped close to Number 7. The clapboard structure was one of the larger units and it featured a private path down to a dock jutting into the dark lake. He detoured briefly and looked over the pier. A covered rowboat was the only vessel along this stretch of weedy, placid shore.

He returned to the cabin and eased into the space between the outer wall and a row of shrubbery, placing his feet carefully. At the window, which exuded soft, yellow light, he paused and looked inside. The unit was a suite, and Shaw could see into both lit bedrooms.

Unoccupied.

On the floor was luggage, backpacks, and cardboard cartons. The TV was on but silent. Local news.

Let’s get to it, he told himself.

From his pocket he extracted a tool with a flat blade. A window lock opener. Similar to the dinner knife he’d used to break into the various buildings at the Osiris Foundation, though this was made for that purpose and was therefore much more efficient. Thin and forged of titanium. In a few seconds, the lock was breached and he slid the window up. Just as at Abby’s dorm, Shaw went through the awkward maneuver of boosting himself up to the sill, sticking his head in and tumbling to the floor inside. He rose and looked around him.

He supposed the occupants were out to dinner and would return soon.

Shaw unfurled the grocery bag and walked around the room, filling the sack.

Five minutes later, he paused and listened. Then walked to the front door, undid the chain and deadbolt and opened it fast, stepping outside.

He nearly collided with the room’s two occupants, who, just like him, had parked their car some distance from the cabin and walked here.

David Ellis — Master Eli — gasped and dropped the carry-out bag of restaurant leftovers he held.

The man with him, Hugh Garner, didn’t waste a moment. Instinctively he went into a combat stance and launched a knuckly fist directly toward Shaw’s solar plexus.

Shaw didn’t move, intentionally not lowering his center of gravity into a defensive posture.

The result was that Hugh’s solid fist slammed directly into the bulletproof plate that was part of Shaw’s tactical jacket. At the thonk , the man blinked in surprise and winced in pain.

Hugh’s hand drew back, invisibly fast, for a second blow — aimed at the head — and now Shaw prepared to fight. He flung the filled grocery bag into the weeds outside the door, far from the reach of the two men. He braced and when Hugh’s knotty fist streaked toward him again Shaw danced aside and the hand glanced off his shoulder.

The blow didn’t hurt much and merely knocked him into the doorjamb.

Behind Hugh, Eli had drawn a pistol. “I’ve got him... get back.”

This was the opposite of what Shaw had anticipated; he’d thought Hugh would be armed and was planning on getting the gun away from him. Eli aimed, and Shaw did the only thing he could do: he dropped low and launched himself into Hugh, his shoulder connecting with the man’s belly and driving him back. He drew on his wrestling training and the grappling skills Ashton had taught the children when they were young. He gripped the man’s leg and tilted and they went down together.

“You fucker.” Hugh grunted.

“Get out of the way!” Eli was calling. Shaw held tight, knowing Eli wouldn’t fire as long as the two men were intertwined.

Hugh pounded hard on Shaw’s back and shoulder and head, chopping; the blows were painful, though not debilitating. Shaw managed to land a strike of his own — a lucky one — on Hugh’s ear and the man cried out in pain.

Shaw hoped the eardrum had ruptured but it probably hadn’t.

They rolled into the dirt, as Eli walked close, holding the weapon unsteadily. “Move, get away!”

“No, no shots!” Hugh whispered. “The noise.”

Shaw took advantage of Eli’s uncertainty. He broke away, lowered his stance and held his hands out, circling. Shaw assumed some generic kung-fu position — something he’d seen in a movie. It was meaningless. Hugh recognized it as such and smiled.

Eli said, “Hugh, let me—”

“No. I want to take him,” the big man muttered.

And that was undoubtedly true; Shaw had destroyed Hugh’s very lucrative and enjoyable life. But this fight would not be an opportunity for the former head of the Assistance Unit to take anything.