Gregg Hurwitz - Prodigal Son

The vehicle was barreling at him.

There was nobody at the wheel.

Candy reared up behind the turret, readying to drop back through the roof into the driver’s seat.

She was shouting at him.

His ears were blown out, and he heard the words as if through earplugs: “Move!”

He threw himself to the side, the massive tires ripping through the puddle where he’d stood an instant before. Peeling himself up, he stared after the JLTV as it blazed across the parking lot toward the circular building.

Just before it struck the box truck, Candy gained control, the vehicle swerving abruptly and swinging back around. Through the open window, she shouted at him from the parking lot. “Get your car and clear out!”

He gave a thumbs-up and strode back wincingly to the Civic as she powered off to her own getaway vehicle.

He fell behind the wheel, praying that the car’s electronic ignition had been sufficiently out of range of Candy’s EMP device. His fingers, slimy with mud, had trouble gripping the key, turning it.

Nothing.

He heard his teeth grind, felt a vein pop in the side of his neck. Tried again.

Still nothing.

He exhaled through clenched teeth and gave it one more try.

Miraculously, the engine coughed to life.

He accelerated out of the lot and up the long road to the perimeter, whipping through endless testing fields. He tried to take control of his breathing first. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Slow, steady, keeping the heart rate low.

His earpiece was missing, and he thought to call Joey to tell her he was alive, but when he glanced at his RoamZone, the screen was slivered with countless cracks from the explosion.

Dirt and sweat stung his eyes. Steering with one hand, he wiped at them with his knuckles, but they were so dirty that he wound up just smearing the grime around. He assessed himself for further damage. A deep throb in his right forearm. The reopened wound had bled through his shirt, and he tore the long sleeve away and peeled back the bandage.

Groping in the backseat, he found his trauma kit, ripped out hemostatic gauze, and slapped it on. It was treated to promote rapid coagulation, which was the best he could do in the middle of a getaway.

At last he made out the rear access gate, still retracted in the distance. His exhale came as a hiss. For a moment the path was clear.

Then the gate rumbled back to life.

And started to close.

He stood on the accelerator, aiming for the gap.

His shot at freedom slowly wiping from view.

His head throbbed, his teeth ached.

Almost there. Almost closed.

The Honda hurtled forward and scraped through, the edge of the gate screeching along the side and clipping the mirror off. The car popped free, fishtailed slightly, and straightened again on the open road.

Evan choked out a breath of relief.

An instant later a red Corvette T-boned him.

68Stop

The Civic spun a full 360 through the scrub, tilting up on its two side wheels, taking a moment to decide whether or not to roll.

It crashed back down on its chassis, rocking on the tires.

Evan tugged at the door and spilled out onto the dirt, his elbows jarring the ground. Blood-laced drool spilled from his mouth.

The Corvette stared at him. Impossibly, one headlight remained on, a cyclops eye gauging his weakness.

He coughed a few times. Rolled to his side. Pried himself off the earth.

Now a man stood before the headlight, his silhouette perfectly framed.

He shifted, the glow catching the side of him.

Declan Gentner.

He wore a gray pinstripe number, his shiny black loafers fogged slightly with dust from the impact. He held a Smith & Wesson pistol at his side, a .45 with a fancy silver-ported barrel.

“You’re going to come with me,” he said.

Evan coughed some more. “Just shoot me and get it over with.” He sensed that he was talking too loud, his hearing still muted.

“Oh, no,” Declan said, his voice deepened out with anger. “We have two hundred and six bones to get through. We’re going to do this over the course of a few days.”

It hurt for Evan just to hold his eyes open. He lifted his gaze. Saw a slight bulge in the ground a few steps in front of Declan.

“Well,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Declan’s hand tightened around the Smith & Wesson. But he didn’t move.

“When I cut your sister’s throat,” Evan said, “I could hear her breath leaking through the slit.”

Declan’s arm started to shake. His face hardened in the harsh light, a visage carved from stone, all bony points and severe lines of facial hair.

He took a step forward. A strangled noise escaped him. “Stop,” he said, his voice suddenly less secure, higher-pitched.

“She knew exactly what was happening to her,” Evan said. “She had time to think about it before she bled out.”

Declan’s lips peeled back from his teeth, the bared grimace of a wolf. He started for Evan. One more step. And then another.

His polished loafer set down once more, and a clack sounded from the earth.

He froze. Looked down.

Evan said, “Land mine.”

Declan shook the gun at Evan, his neck corded with rage. “Get your ass over here.”

“No thanks.”

“I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking end you right here.”

Evan realized he was stooped over in pain and with effort drew himself upright. “Naw,” he said. “The recoil from the pistol will set off the charge. Can’t kill me without killing yourself.”

Declan was quivering now, his whole body shuddering. Evan could see him bearing down, trying to control his muscles. “If I’m gonna die anyway, might as well take you with me.”

Evan said, “That would require you not being a coward.”

Declan lined the sights on Evan’s face. For a moment they were perfectly still, regarding each other across a moonlit stretch of scrub. Then Declan screamed, mouth stretched wide, dried spit linking his jaws. It was the purest howl of rage Evan had heard. And terror.

Evan staggered to the Civic and lowered himself painfully into the driver’s seat. The car was still running, a minor miracle, though the windows were shattered, the bumper missing, and the tire screeched against the well when he turned the wheel.

He studied the ground before the headlights for more land mines, then let the car crawl forward.

He drove right past Declan, not even bothering to look over, though in his peripheral vision he could sense the gun swinging to stay aimed at his head.

The car bounced geriatrically up onto the road.

He drove away, the Civic wheezing and groaning. He just had to make the meet point and reclaim his truck.

Blinking through blood and sweat and grime, he tried to steady his hands on the wheel.

He got about a quarter mile before the boom shook what was left of the rear windshield.

69The Love You Deserve

After dragging himself to the meet point, switching to his truck, and driving home, Evan slept on and off for thirty-six hours, a blissful block of hibernation in his floating bed.

Before parting ways with the others at the target range, he’d tasked Joey with contacting Andre and Veronica to inform them that they were safe so he could collapse and begin to heal. He’d tried to thank Candy, but she’d kissed him on the mouth, surprising him with her tongue. Before he could react, she’d climbed into her Jeep and vanished once more. The kiss had left him a bit breathless, but he told himself it was just from his injuries.

On Tuesday night he roused himself for good.

Cleaning and stitching himself up took longer than he would have thought, dozens of tiny injuries slowing his progress to an arthritic crawl.