He felt urgency himself, pushing harder and closing within two hundred feet. Men were carrying suitcases from the Escalades and loading them into the helicopter. He ran as fast as his legs could take him, fighting through stiffness and pain, remembering Mancini and the pickup past his left shoulder, ignoring all the warnings that flashed in his head.
He looked up again. Saw the sides of the SUVs from a hundred feet, then the bottom of his right loafer slid across something and he lost his balance and fell forward. He tried to break the impact with his hands, but still hit his chest and chin hard enough that his teeth smacked together and he lost his breath. Ten seconds later he had recovered. He tasted blood in his mouth and felt it dripping down his chin. More alarming was the sound of the helo engine revving up as if it were about to take off. Again he ran, hobbling this time, ignoring the pain from his knee, mouth, and lungs.
Out of breath, he ducked behind the first SUV. The whine of the helo engine was deafening, the light it emitted blinding. The rotors kicked up a violent swirl of dust that stung his skin. They seemed to be waiting. Crocker saw someone emerge from the back of the other SUV carrying a suitcase and hurrying-a short man with a wrestler’s body wearing a black tracksuit.
Crocker got up and sprinted toward him. Halfway there, someone screamed from the helo. Shots rang out. He fixed his eyes on the man’s legs and launched himself. Hit the back of the man’s knees hard and saw stars.
They were grappling in the dirt, dust in his eyes and mouth, more swirling around him, the man screaming and swearing in a language that sounded like Chinese.
Crocker located the man’s head with his hands, delivered some quick, short blows to the front and right. Then the man twisted violently and kicked him in the groin. All the air went out of Crocker, and the pain was so intense he couldn’t help but loosen his grip just enough for the man to squirm away.
He reached for him blindly, ignoring the pangs that shot up his back and down his legs. The helo started lifting off. Shots rained down on Crocker, tearing up the ground around him. He rolled under the helo and looked for the man but couldn’t find him.
As the helicopter rose, he rolled left, then got to his feet and zigzagged sharply left and right. The helo stopped at thirty feet and hovered. Automatic-weapon fire poured from the doors and windows on both sides-like a wave of deadly bees.
Seeing a boulder ahead, he dove behind it and hugged its base, heart pounding, dirt in his mouth. The firing paused momentarily. He thought of Cyndi waiting. Jenny, Holly. Maybe the guys in the helicopter had lost sight of him. Maybe they were going to wait for him to give up, which would never fucking happen.
While the helo continued to hover as though the men inside couldn’t decide whether to land and eliminate him or fly away, he quickly considered his options. There weren’t any.
Past the bottom of the boulder he saw a glint from the chrome hardware on the black Pelican case the man had been carrying. Either Crocker had managed to wrestle it away or the man had left it. Didn’t really matter.
Maybe the guys can’t see it ’cause it’s black and covered with dirt?
He hoped so as he looked for a route of escape. Any movement of his part would involve tremendous risk, so he waited, hoping that the next moment would reveal a solution, the tension stretching tauter by the second.
Looking at his dirt-covered hands, he realized he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring. He felt for it in his pocket.
Yeah, it’s still there.
Moments like this distilled existence to its essence-life and death, good and evil, love and hate. He loved Holly and always would.
Imagine thinking of her with my last breath.
The sound of the helo engine deepened. He saw the landing lights wash over the landscape.
Taking what he knew was a foolish risk, Crocker snuck a look. The helicopter was landing, which meant he was fucked. They would see the boulders. They would figure it was the only place in the vicinity where he could be hiding.
Just as he expected, shots rang out and pinged off the rock. He glanced behind him, looking for the route of escape. Facing forward again, he saw the flicker of flames in his periphery near the SUVs. Seconds later the sky lit up with a massive explosion that shook the ground and pushed the helo up and to the left like a toy. A large piece of metal from one of the Escalades clanged off the rocks. The closer SUV was engulfed in flames.
Manny? WTH!
He held his breath as the helo spun left. He was praying for it to crash, but the pilot managed to level it. The engine whined higher and the helo ascended and banked left. He followed its dark shape along the ridge of the mountain as the Escalade continued to burn.
He waited a minute until the sound of the rotors chopping the air receded and was replaced by the hiss and crackle of flames.
“Manny?” he called.
“Boss.” His small, pained voice tripped across the landscape to his right.
He found Manny lying on his side, his face glowing orange in the reflected light.
“You saved my ass, buddy. You torch that vehicle? How?”
“Matches and my shirt.”
“You better?” he asked, his chest heaving and sweat beading on his forehead.
“My whole right side is fucked, but I can move.”
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
He ran and recovered the Pelican, then crossed to the intact Escalade. The handle was hot but the door wasn’t locked. He took a quick look at the other Escalade burning twenty feet away and quickly catalogued the things he needed to do: hot-wire the SUV, rush his colleague to a hospital, find his phone, and call Jeri.
As he pried off the housing around the ignition box, he remembered two more things: He’d left Cyndi waiting, and he wanted to call Jenny, too. She always seemed nearby, even when she wasn’t. He’d felt the same about Holly, and thought for a second that maybe there was still a chance to sort things out. Then he reminded himself that their marriage was over. He had to come to terms with that. He would.
James Dawkins woke to a continuous hum in his head, as though the song he was listening to had gotten stuck. It took effort to partially open his eyes, and when he did, he saw white and mustard colors and a shape directly in front of him. He made out a broad-shouldered Asian man sitting across from him wearing an implacable expression and sunglasses.
Dawkins sat up in the cream-colored leather seat. His left arm felt numb. As he shook blood into it, the Asian man looked past his shoulder and called to someone in a language Dawkins didn’t understand.
“Where are we?” he asked.
The man didn’t respond. Dawkins blinked, looked left and right, and slowly realized he was in a small jet that was airborne and probably had been for a while. Before he had a chance to think another thought, an Asian woman with sharp cheekbones and wearing a black pantsuit sat beside him, bringing a scent of soap.
“Did you rest well, Mr. Dawkins?” she asked gently in accented English.
She wasn’t Dr. Nikasa, and as his brain brightened into consciousness, details began to come back-the speech in Geneva, the drinks in the hotel suite, now this. “I…uh…Where am I? How did I get here? Where is Dr. Nikasa?” he asked.
The woman’s mechanical smile never left her face. “Okay, Mr. Dawkins. If you wish me to explain, I will.”
His blood pressure spiked. “I…I don’t know why I’m here. I must have been taken against my will.”
She took a long breath and spoke quickly. “Mr. Dawkins, we have hired you for a short period of time. Two months probably. Three months at the most.”
His mouth turned dry and his neck grew hot. “Hired me? I don’t understand.”