That didn’t mean he didn’t think about it, though.
One second to fall forward…
Another second to grab the gun…
One last second to pull the trigger and destroy her face.
Surely he could endure the agony of a hundred bullets blasting through his body, severing veins and shattering bone and spraying gray matter for three seconds?
Yeah. Right.
“That was a wise choice,” Abrams said. “You probably could have killed me, but you wouldn’t have made it out of this room alive. Your family would have died within the hour, too. We have Mann and her team assembled in Philadelphia right now. And while it may have felt good to take my life, that would not have done a thing to change our operations. I am not the be-all and end-all of the Industry. I’m just an employee. Just like you.”
Hardie looked around the room, all those guns pointed at him, the utter hopelessness of it all.
He laughed. “I should have just run.”
“We would have found you.”
“I should have pulled the trigger,” Hardie said. “You’re going to kill me anyway.”
Abrams smiled and leaned back in her chair, put her feet up on the desk. She wore boots with heels tall and sharp enough to lobotomize a man through his eye sockets.
“Oh, Mr. Hardie,” she said. “It’s much worse than that.”
33
You always makin’ big plans for tomorrow, you know why? Because you always fuckin’ up today.
—Roberto Benigni, Down by Law
PEOPLE ALL OVER Southern California heard the explosion—a kind of end-of-the-world roar that brought certain Santa Barbara residents to their windows, fearing the worst. When you looked up into the pale blue sky you saw the missile and the trail of fire almost as long as the missile itself and your heart seized—but for just a moment. Because this missile—a rocket, actually, 235 feet tall—was zooming away from Southern California at 17,500 miles per hour, not screaming toward it.
Older residents, though, were used to such launches. Vandenberg Air Force Base was nearby, and ever since the 1960s the government had been launching all kinds of space shit up from Slick Six—the nickname for Space Launch Complex-6.
The newcomers, on the other hand, were mesmerized by the sight, at least once the initial fear drained away. They summoned their kids and went outside to their perfectly maintained lawns and pointed up at the sky, idly wondering if they should invest in a telescope. Might be cool to show the kids these kinds of things. Or maybe start looking up at the stars on a regular basis.
Within the hour, however, the explosion and the rocket and the fire trail and the telescope and everything else were forgotten, and people got back to their lives. Miracles are cool and all. But there are things to do.
Hardie woke up cold.
Freezing cold.
He opened his eyes.
No memory problems this time. There had been no need for a shot. The training had been important; he needed to remember every piece of it. There was a checklist of duties to perform.
But this morning he indulged himself and looked in on his family first.
Kendra was making chicken soup. Both she and Charlie, Jr., were fighting colds. Kendra had already taken apart the chicken and was now chopping thick carrot slices. Made him nervous to watch her fingers move so quickly, chop chop chop chop chop chop chop, even though her fingers were curled under, just as they were supposed to be. Still, fingers could slip. And if something should happen…
Charlie, Jr., was in the living room, holding up an imaginary gun and blasting away digital opponents on a flat screen. Nothing real, except the anger on his face. You could tell when he got off a particularly gory shot, because his eyes lit up in a certain way. Partly appalled, partly amused.
Hardie’s family.
They were right there in front of him.
Actually, they weren’t. Their digital images were right there in front of Hardie, on the screen. His actual wife and son—their flesh-and-blood bodies—were far, far below.
He should be passing over them soon, actually.
THANKS & PRAISE
If I could round up everyone who supported me during the writing of Hell and Gone and put them in a secret prison somewhere, those walls would contain the coolest people on earth.
First, I would use fabric hoods and plastic wrist-tie cuffs on a group of people I like to call… the Wardens.
My keeper and minder for thirteen-plus years now has been the lovable yet hardboiled David Hale Smith. This book is dedicated to him, not just for his faith in me, and his unflagging support and advice since the turn of the last century, but because he’s the kind of agent who inspires you in the present while keeping an eye on the bigger picture. I love DHS like a brother and without him I couldn’t have found my way through the novel you’re holding in your hands (or on your favorite e-reading device) (or direct mental implant if this is the year 2019).
By his side, smacking their batons against their gloved palms, are the amazing Richard Pine, Lauren Smythe, Danny and Heather Baror, Angela Cheng Caplan, Shauyi Tai, Jessica Tscha, and Kim Yau, as well as the whole (chain) gang at Inkwell Management.
In the brand-new Mulholland Wing of my secret prison you’ll find John Schoenfelder, Miriam Parker, Wes Miller, Michael Pietsch, Luisa Frontino, Theresa Giacopasi, Betsy Uhrig, Barbara Clark, Christine Valentine, and the rest of the stellar Little, Brown team. Some may question the wisdom of incarcerating my publishers, but you have to understand: they trapped me in a karaoke prison during BookExpo America 2011 and refused to let me out until I did my drunken Jim Morrison impression. It wasn’t pretty; they deserve the sentence they’ve received.
In an adjoining office in the control tower is Ruth Tross and the amazing Mulholland UK team. Their office has the wet bar, and they know exactly why. Next door you’ll find Kristof Kurz, Frank Dabrock, and the rest of the team at Heyne in Germany.
My official prison doc, and the man who keeps me from making serious medical blunders in all of my books, is the legendary Lou Boxer. He’s the most noir guy in all of Greater Philadelphia, yet an absolute sweetheart. Explain that one…
I would also forcibly (yet lovingly) detain certain people I like to call the Prisoners—those unfortunate souls doomed to a life sentence of breaking rocks in the tough-yet-fertile fields of publishing. This list includes the lifers and the new fish (and I’ll let you sort out who’s who):
Megan Abbott, Cameron Ashley, Janelle Asselin, Brian Azzarello, Jed Ayres, Josh Bazell, Eric Beetner, Stephen Blackmoore, Juliet Blackwell, Linda Brown, Ed Brubaker, Aldo Calcagno, Jon Cavalier, Sarah Cavalier, Stephanie “Mos Stef” Crawford, Scott and Sandi Cupp, Warren Ellis, Peter Farris, Erin Faye, Ed Fee, Joshua Hale Fialkov, James Frey, Joe Gangemi, Sara Gran, Allan “Sunshine” Guthrie, Charlaine Harris, Charlie Huston, Tania Hutchison, John Jordan, McKenna Jordan, Ruth Jordan (mystery nerd trivia: only two of the previous three Jordans are related!), Vince Keenan, Anne Kimbol, Katie Kubert, Ellen Clair Lamb, Terrill Lankford, Joe Lansdale, Simon Le Bon, Paul Leyden, Laura Lippman, Sophie Littlefield, Elizabeth-Amber Love, Mike MacLean, Mike Marts, David Macho, Patrick Millikin, Scott Montgomery, Lauren O’Brien, Jon Page, Barbara Peters, Ed and Kate Pettit, Keith Rawson, David Ready, Marc Resnick, Janet Rudolph, Jonathan Santlofer, David Schow, Joe Schreiber, Brett Simon, Jason Starr, Evelyn Taylor, Mark Ward, Dave “Vigoda” White, Elizabeth A. White.