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He reached out and put his hand against the nearest vehicle—the big black car he’d seen when he first entered the garage. Using the cane and the car, Hardie somehow made it back up to his feet. Only then did he realize what he was touching.

Jesus Christ.

He hadn’t seen this thing in more than five years.

The Coma Car.

Well, technically, it was a Lincoln Town Car. But the last time Hardie had seen this—or its older cousin, because this thing looked brand-new—he’d only been able to enjoy it from the inside. While unconscious.

And it was the last thing he remembered before waking up in prison.

A trunk-release trigger was mounted under the dash. Hardie popped it, then walked around to the back to fully admire Doyle’s ingenuity. As he remembered, the trunk contained a fully functional life-support system. Complex and expertly engineered, to be sure, but even a first-year nursing student could figure out how the needles and hoses and wires would be inserted in a living human being.

“Doyle, buddy, we’re going to Hollywood,” muttered Hardie.

Which is when he heard movement behind him.

 * * *

“Charlie?”

Deke Clark.

More or less the last person Hardie expected to see in this garage. Deke—who’d really gotten old. Still, he held a gun, classic two-hand grip.

“Hi, Deke.”

“Where the fuck have you been, man.” A statement, not a question.

“They sent me away.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. They sent me pictures. I’ve been looking for you for five years. I hired people to go looking for you. But you vanished without a trace.”

“Well, I’m back. So what are we going to do?”

Deke looked around the garage, saw the bodies lying in pools of their own blood. “You do that?”

“You would have, too.”

“Who’s the guy on the floor?”

“His name’s Doyle. He’s one of the ones who sent me away.”

“Law firm of Gedney, Doyle, and Abrams,” Deke said, then sighed. “The police found Gedney. On the roof of the St. Francis.”

“Yeah. He’s another one who sent me away. There’s this one. Doyle. Fuckin’ Abrams will be next.”

Deke tensed up. “You don’t understand, man. Stop for a minute and consider your situation. The world thinks you’re a killer. That’s right. Far as everyone’s concerned, you killed an innocent woman five years ago and went on the run. Now you show up and start killing more people? Don’t you realize the road you’re headed down?”

“You don’t know what these sons of bitches did to me.”

“I know, Charlie. Believe me…I. Know. They’ve been threatening to do the same thing to me, Ellie, everyone close to me. They deserve to die screaming for what they’ve done. But this isn’t how we fight them. We drag their asses out into the light and we burn them.”

Hardie said nothing. Deke Clark was one of the smartest and toughest guys he’d ever worked with—besides Nate Parish, of course—but now his eyes were full of fear. Maybe Hardie would have been the same way had the roles been reversed.

“Come on, Charlie. Let’s go. Let’s get out of here.”

“No. I’m not finished.”

“Finished what? You have nothing to finish. You come back with me and you start explaining. Other people will finish this. You? You’re done. You don’t have to do this anymore. We can get help. You’ve got to stop now and come home.”

Home.

That’s when it occurred to Hardie.

“Do you still have people on Kendra and Charlie?” he asked.

Deke swallowed. “They’re fine. Perfectly safe.”

“You’re not answering my question. Does the bureau still have a detail on my wife and son?”

Deke couldn’t lie; he was practically incapable of it. Hardie knew that.

“Listen, Charlie…”

“Goddamn it, how long you been retired?” Hardie asked. “The person who answered the phone said you were gone.”

“It’s been a while, man. Look, back when you went missing…”

“How long have Kendra and Charlie been without protection, goddamn it!?”

After a quiet beat, Deke said: “I look after them.”

“What, do you sleep in your fucking car outside their house and keep constant vigil? Does Ellie join you? You living your life making sure nobody kills my family? Who’s watching your family? You got a detail for that?”

“Hardie…”

Hardie leaned on the cane and turned away from Deke. All this time he could relax with one assumption: that his wife and son were being looked after. Deacon Clark was the fuckin’ Boy Scout of the Philly branch of the FBI; his word was bond, you needed nothing else. He’d never imagine Deke leaving the FBI. Never. No way. The man was one drunken night away from having J. Edgar Hoover tattooed on his dick. Hardie had always comforted himself with knowing that Deke would never fall down on the job. Even if Hardie were to die, Deke would honor his promise.

But his family was wide open, exposed.

And right now in the worst danger of their lives.

All because of him.

Deke couldn’t tell if the man was crying or ready to collapse or laughing from nervous exhaustion or what. All he knew was that it was finally time for Charlie Hardie to come home. He slipped the gun inside his jacket pocket and walked over to Hardie, put his hands on his shoulders, told him everything was going to be okay, even though it probably wasn’t. Right here, in this room, were three men Charlie had killed. Another on a roof just a dozen blocks away. No matter what had happened, you can’t make murder go away. He could feel Hardie trembling a little under his touch.

Look at him. With a cane and everything. If the moment weren’t so horrible Deke would have maybe found a little amusement in the notion of Charlie Hardie, baddest man in Philadelphia, having to get around with a cane.

Didn’t explain where he’d been the past five years.

“Come on, Hardie,” Deke said softly. “It’s going to be all right.”

Deke briefly looked past Hardie to see the interior of the trunk. At first it looked like somebody had shoved a bunch of medical gear back here—oxygen tanks, IV bags, tubing. But then he saw how neatly it was all arranged. “What the hell is that?”

Deke was so mesmerized by the contents of the trunk that he didn’t feel the tip of the cane against his chest until it was too late.

He barely felt the shock.

31

The question is not when he’s gonna stop, but who is gonna stop him.

—Cleavon Little, Vanishing Point

HARDIE DROVE THE big bad black Lincoln Coma Car down the Pacific Coast Highway.

If you’re going to check out the gorgeous California coast, might as well do it in style—with someone special on life support in the secret trunk.

They stopped in Big Sur. Hardie had a burger and a beer in a small place called Ripplewood. The beer hit him hard. He used to have a high tolerance, but five-plus years on the secret-hospital-and-prison wagon must have killed it. His head swam. Not good. He couldn’t afford to be drunk for the next twelve hours. Hardie ordered three glasses of ice water. The waitress didn’t even flinch—she brought all three and one straw, as though she knew the deal.

Back outside, and once he was sure nobody was around, Hardie popped the trunk and slapped Doyle until his eyes opened. He hadn’t gotten everything perfect back here in the trunk of the Coma Car—and Hardie was no doctor. But the fucker was securely bound, at the very least. And guaranteed to be super uncomfortable.