Джеффри Дивер - The Final Twist

“You got me. I confess.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Let’s call nine-one-one. I’ll give myself up.”

The headmistress smiled kindly. “Once we have it, all the rough stuff goes away. And we’re out of your life forever.”

Shaw was eyeing his opponents even more closely than the matronly Braxton was studying him.

Droon displayed the want-to-smack-it-off grin. Blond was expressionless. He had a habit of flexing his fists. He’d been a boxer. But then, noting scars, Shaw decided that since boxing wasn’t chic anymore, he’d probably be into bare-knuckle boxing or mixed martial arts. And when he killed — there was no doubt in Shaw’s mind that he was a murderer — he did so without conversation. It was a job to complete; he’d kill, collect his check and get home, turning the pits of his eyes to TV or computer porn.

The other two, the guards in the suits, were uneasy. They didn’t smack of military and had probably never seen combat. They were a threat, certainly, given their weapons, but they would be second-tier risks.

Braxton, as he’d decided before, was probably not a danger — unless that colorful purse of hers, macramé, of all things, held a Glock or Smith & Wesson.

The woman said to Droon, “We have that meeting tomorrow. I want to tell him something. Something concrete.” She nodded to Shaw.

The petite, wiry man said, “Oh, I’ll get something. He may not be in a talkative mood now. But that’s gonna change. I guarantee it.”

Braxton looked over Shaw. “Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going down to the basement and...”

Her voice faded as Shaw rubbed his eyes, shook his head slowly. He winced.

She gazed at him with curiosity, frowning.

“Not feeling all that great.”

Droon muttered, “Why’s that our concern, son, what you’re feeling, what you aren’t?”

Shaw closed his eyes and leaned against the wall.

“What’s he doing?” one of the security men asked, the bigger one.

“Watch him,” Braxton said.

“Let’s get him downstairs,” Droon said. He looked around. “This’s gone on for too long.” A glance at Blond. “You want a piece of him?”

The man with the bleached hair and the inky eyes said nothing but gave a brief nod.

Droon said to Braxton, “My man here gets good results.”

She said to the security guards, “We’ll be down there for an hour or two. No disturbances. Open the library back up. If anyone asks what happened, tell them it was a medical emergency. Nothing more than that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the bigger one. “We’ll make sure.”

Staring at Shaw, Droon asked no one, “The hell is he about?”

Shaw said, “Just... light... headed. Not feeling too well.” He sagged and rubbed his eyes again.

“Jesus,” Braxton said, angry. “Is he sick?”

“What’re you doing?” Droon snapped. “What’s he doing?”

“I’m dizzy.”

Which wasn’t an answer to the question. The true response was that Colter Shaw was engaging in the art of misdirection: keeping everyone’s attention focused on his eyes, shoulders, torso, arms.

Not on his left foot.

Which was presently easing up the wall to the electrical outlet near the floor.

A paper clip protruded from one slot in the outlet, another from the second slot, millimeters apart. He had taken them from the cubicle where he’d been just before he’d run to the wall. He had no intention of pulling the alarm, which he’d figured had been disabled too. What he wanted was to get to the wall and stick the paper clips, which he’d unfolded to triple their length, into the outlet.

Droon started toward him.

Still leaning against the wall, Shaw held up his hand. “Just give me a minute...”

Frowning, Droon paused.

Shaw pressed one paper clip into the other with the upper part of his left shoe.

The resulting spark and staccato bang, impressive, were like a firecracker detonating. Instantly the library went dark.

Droon and the security guards dropped into a crouch, looking around, not understanding what had happened.

“Shots!” the skinny man cried and ducked.

Shaw, protected from the current by his rubber soles, sprinted to the fire door.

“Wasn’t a shot, you idiot,” Braxton raged.

Shaw had taken a gamble — that the system overriding the latching mechanism of the emergency door would deactivate when power was lost.

Before Droon and the others could recover and pursue, Shaw grabbed a chair and then slammed into the exit bar with his hip. The door crashed open. He shoved it closed and wedged the chair back against the door handle, bracing it.

A shout. Shaw believed it was “Stop him!” He knew for sure it was Braxton’s voice.

Shaw was tempted to run straight to his cycle but he kept to his original plan, turning to the right, away from the Yamaha, and sprinted full-out for the cross street. He heard a crash. It would be the fire exit door being muscled open and the chair that barred it flying into the street.

“Shaw!” Droon was shouting.

Shaw sprinted harder. At the side street, Morrison Lane, he turned to the right again.

And learned he’d made a mistake. Morrison did end at a park, but it was filled with people, who’d be in the direct path of any shots.

Then Shaw noted ahead of him an alley, on his left. He knew from the map that it would lead him to several parking garages, which he could weave through, giving him the chance to shake Droon and Blond. Shaw could then emerge and circle around to his bike — and his weapon.

Thirty yards until the alley.

Twenty, fifteen...

A glance back. No pursuers in sight yet.

Ten.

Five.

Before he got to the alley, he stopped and ducked behind a dumpster. He looked back at Droon and Blond moving in his direction. They were alone. The black-suited security people would have continued along the street on which the library was located.

Okay, into the alley...

He sprinted around the corner.

And stopped fast.

A dead end.

The alley was completely blocked by a construction site wall, ten feet high, plywood. The paint job — dark blue — was relatively new; only a few graffitied obscenities and gang tags marred the surface. This explained why the barricade had not been depicted on the map he’d examined in the safe house.

Shaw didn’t bother to look for alternative forms of escape. The alley was doorless and windowless and though his father had taught him how to ascend walls of various heights and configurations, the technique for surmounting a ten-foot sheer surface was not part of the repertoire, not without rope or timber.

He’d no more than turned around when Droon and Blond stepped into the mouth of the alleyway.

Both were breathing hard and Blond winced with an apparent stitch in his side. He wasn’t happy for the exercise.

Droon might have had a pain somewhere but he was also smiling broadly, as if Shaw’s irritating attempt to escape had given the crazy man license to be particularly hearty — and creative — when it came to the torture that would follow.

Noting the absence of doors and windows opening onto the alley, Droon returned to the mouth and peered out. He looked up and down the street. His face revealed a hint of satisfaction, which meant no traffic, no pedestrians.

No witnesses.

He joined Blond once more. The two stood about twenty feet from Shaw. Neither was holding a weapon. They knew Shaw wasn’t armed; he’d been through the metal detector. Blond now drew a silenced pistol. The SIG Sauer — a big, expensive and accurate gun — was pointed at the ground.

Blond: “We need a car.”