Blake Crouch - Confidence Girl - The Letty Dobesh Chronicles

Fitch has to report to prison tomorrow. If I can survive until then…

She returned to that comforting thought she’d had in the mangroves. The idea that if she survived until tomorrow, until Fitch was gone, she would be in the clear.

Is this another assumption that’s going to get me killed?

Fitch’s security detail had played a part in this. Exactly how much they knew was uncertain, but they were culpable. Fitch’s life would be over tomorrow, but theirs would carry on. If the old man didn’t close the deal, could she really expect this force of ex-military contractors to leave this loose thread dangling?

Another impulse of fear swept through her.

A new realization setting in.

Hiding all night from Fitch might not be enough to save her life.

14

Letty stood up and walked out of the sea, the taste of saltwater on her tongue. When she reached the shore, she pulled off the mask and dropped it and the snorkel in the sand. She gripped the knife. Headed quickly down the south beach. The fear fell away, anger rushing in to fill the void.

She could see Fitch in the distance—his white shirt bright as day in the moonlight. He walked sixty yards ahead and she was gaining on him, keeping close to the trees that lined the beach in case Fitch suddenly spun around. Her footfalls in the soft, white sand were soundless. She picked up her pace, moving now at a full run. The wind blowing her skin dry. The faster she ran, the angrier she got, the less afraid she felt.

Fitch was almost to the dock, Letty only twenty yards back from him now. Her legs ached from the full-on sprint. Her lungs burned. Tears streamed out of the corners of her eyes.

She knew exactly what had triggered it.

Being down under that cool, December water.

How could she not think of Daddy? Dead twenty years and yet still with her. Always with her. She’d heard somewhere that every person reaches a certain age, and though they keep getting older, they never feel any older.

In so many ways, she was still that nine-year-old girl shivering in cold bathwater.

In prison, she’d sat through enough AA and NA meetings to know the drill.

The propaganda.

Admit a lack of control.

Acknowledge a higher power.

Make amends.

Embrace forgiveness.

That was all fine and good. But at the end of the day, the nine-year-old trapped in this woman’s body could care less about twelve steps. Her world was imbalanced in the worst possible way—she’d had a monster for a father. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never get over it.

Up ahead, Fitch stepped over the dock.

Letty slowed from a sprint to a jog, trying to mask her accelerated breathing.

She leapt over the sand-blasted planks.

Took the final steps slow and careful.

Fitch held the revolver in his right hand. His gait looked tired, like an old man’s.

Letty tightened her grip on the knife and pushed the point of the blade into his back.

Fitch took a sudden breath and quit walking.

She said, “I’ll shove it through to your stomach. Drop the gun, I swear to God.”

He still held the gun. Letty leaned her weight into the blade, and as it started to penetrate, the revolver hit the sand.

She lunged down for the gun and let go of the knife as she swiped it up.

Stumbled back away from Fitch.

The revolver was a giant thing. Must have weighed four or five pounds. It was nickel-plated and over a foot long with Raging Bull engraved down the side of the barrel.

Letty had to struggle to keep it leveled on Fitch’s chest.

“You just stay right there,” Letty said, backing another foot away.

Four cartridges remained in the cylinder.

“You lost your lovely dress,” Fitch said.

“Get down on your knees.”

Fitch carefully lowered himself into the sand. “That’s a big gun for a little girl. Packs a helluva kick.”

It took two fingers to pull the hammer back.

“Wasn’t personal,” Fitch said, the pitch of his voice kicking up a few degrees. “I hope you understand that. You are formidable little girl. A scrapper. In another life, I’d have you come work for me.”

“Why is that all I ever hear anytime somebody does me wrong? Nothing’s ever personal anymore. All those people you ripped off...that wasn’t personal either, was it? Just business, right?”

“Letty—”

“No, you’ve explained yourself plenty. Your men are offshore in boats?”

“Yes.”

“Are there any other boats on the island?”

“No.”

“Do you have your cell phone with you?”

“No.”

“We’re going to the house.”

“Why?”

“Get up. Start walking.”

“Calling the police would be a very bad idea, Letty.”

“Get. Up.”

Slowly, Fitch stood.

“Now walk over to the dock,” she said. “And do it slowly with your hands raised.”

But Fitch didn’t move. He just stared at her.

“Do you think I’ll tell you again?” she asked.

“I knew. I knew it all along. From the minute I met you—this would be one hell of a night, Letisha. Rare to feel I’ve met my match.”

He let slip a long, tired breath.

Like he’d come to the end of something.

And sprang at Letty.

It was the loudest gunshot she had ever heard, with a kick like a shotgun.

Fitch sat in the sand, his mouth dropped open. He made a sucking sound, as if trying to draw breath. The hole in the dead center of his chest was massive. Letty was shaking. Fitch fell back onto the beach and stared up at the stars. There was so much blood she knew he was going to die.

Out on the water, a motor growled to life.

Letty turned around. She looked down the dock and out to sea.

A single spotlight glided toward her, the motor getting louder as it approached. Soon, she could see the profile of the speedboat. It was seconds away from reaching the end of the dock.

15

Letty sprinted inland. Already, she could hear men’s voices behind her. Shouting her name. Her real name. Ordering her to stop as their shoes pounded against the planks.

She tore up the steps onto the deck and shouldered through the front door.

After several hours in the dark, the onslaught of light made her eyes water.

Letty barged into the living area and rushed to the cordless phone. It was still lying on the floor where she’d dropped it. She grabbed it, hit TALK, held it to her ear.

Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep—

She raced down the hallway into Fitch’s bedroom.

Slammed the door after her, locked it, flipped the lights.

Thank God.

There it was.

Lying on the desk.

She picked up Fitch’s cell phone and flipped it open, praying it still held a charge.

Outside, she could hear numerous sets of footsteps hammering up the stairs.

Men screaming her name.

They charged into the house.

Hide.

Letty crossed the hardwood floor to the French doors.

Someone was coming down the hall.

She turned the handle.

Locked.

The knob on the other door rattled—someone trying to get in.

She was out of time.

Nothing left to do but fight.

Three bullets versus three or four men.

Thinking, This may be how it ends for you. Are you ready?

The door splintered, a man kicking it in from the other side.

She aimed the revolver at the bedroom door.

After two more kicks, it burst open, and the muscled girth of James filled the doorway. His cheeks were flushed from running. With one arm, Letty trained the Raging Bull on his substantial center mass. In her other hand, she gripped the cell phone.

Her thumb keyed in 9-1-1.

James held a black pistol at his side. At least for the moment, he was smart enough to keep it there.