“John verbatim,” Alex agreed. “Moriarty taught you self-defense?”
“Yes, I learned a lot from him, and some things from…from my life before he found me.” He looked away.
“From surviving.”
“Yes. And of course, I’m really lucky.”
He moved off again before Alex could ask him how anyone who was raised by a drug addict and a serial killer could consider himself lucky.
He closed the distance between them as the last of the light continued to fade. The moon would not be up for several hours, and here, in this small canyon, the sunlight was lost sooner. Kit slowed a little. Alex felt rather than saw the ground level out as they reached the old trail. When they came to the gate in the fence, instead of opening it, Kit crouched down, then bent close to the ground. When he stood again, he whispered to Alex, “Someone has been here already. The grass has been flattened by the gate.”
“What do you recommend?”
“Let’s listen.”
They waited for what seemed an eternity to Alex before Kit climbed agilely over the gate without opening it. Alex did the same. He moved as quietly as possible, but he couldn’t see three feet in front of him. He nearly bumped into Kit at one point. Kit took hold of Alex’s left hand, put it on his shoulder, and began leading him in that way. Alex adjusted to the seven-step gait as they made their way to the edge of the woods that lay between the stables and the school buildings.
Kit came to a sudden halt. He stood very still. Alex began to feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise and unsnapped his holster. He let go of Kit. A sound came from somewhere up ahead-the snap of twigs.
Someone was moving through the woods.
Almost in the same instant, he heard someone moving behind them as well. Kit heard it, too. He put a hand on Alex’s shoulder, and they both moved into a crouching position.
The man behind them was not far away now, and moving closer. If he was trying to move quietly, he wasn’t succeeding. Suddenly, the one in front began to move quickly. Behind them, a flashlight came on, aimed toward the man in front, although it failed to reveal anyone. “FBI! Hold it right there!” the one with the flashlight shouted.
Alex knew the voice.
Kit took off running, into the trees. The beam of the flashlight followed him.
Alex stood. “Hamilton!”
But Hamilton was lifting his weapon to fire. Alex ran low and toward him. He dived and hit the FBI man’s legs, knocking him over just after the gun went off. Too late, Alex thought miserably.
He had knocked the wind out of Hamilton, who had lost his weapon in the fall. Hamilton was looking up at Alex in complete shock.
“You son of a bitch!” Alex said. “Helping these assholes!”
Hamilton came to his feet. “Brandon, you stupid fuck-you just assaulted a federal agent.”
“I’ve just started assaulting a federal agent,” he said angrily.
In the next moment, bright light came filtering through the trees. Someone had turned on the baseball field lights. Alex flattened himself to the ground.
Hamilton frowned but stayed on his feet as he looked for his gun. Of course, thought Alex, Hamilton had no need to hide. A Sedgewick graduate, he must be Everett Corey’s source of inside information. Any moment now, he’d point out Alex’s location.
Hamilton found the gun and had just bent to retrieve it when a loud shot rang out. He made a grunting sound and fell.
Alex felt confused-why had Hamilton been shot? The answer occurred to him almost immediately: for the same reason Whitfield and Addison had been shot.
Alex listened, and not hearing any other sounds, moved on his belly to where the FBI man lay on his side. A large stain was spreading on Hamilton’s shoulder and back. “Get out of here,” Hamilton whispered.
“Save your breath for the jury,” Alex whispered back. He loosened Hamilton’s tie and pulled his jacket off, causing Hamilton to groan. He tore the shirt away from the wound. There was a small entry wound, a messy exit at the back, but it had missed Hamilton’s heart, lungs, and spine. “You lucked out. If I can stop the bleeding, that is.” He found two gauze pads in his first aid kit and applied pressure to the wounds. Hamilton groaned again.
“Keep quiet if you don’t want your friends to finish what they started.” He found some scissors and tape.
“Friends?” He clenched his teeth, fighting pain. “I’m not with them.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Explosives,” Hamilton gritted out in a low voice. He closed his eyes.
Alex’s hands stilled. “What explosives?”
“Maybe…timing device…” He was mumbling, drifting off.
“Where?” Alex said urgently. “Where?”
“Tower,” Hamilton said, then passed out.
Alex did his best to stanch the bleeding. He heard someone moving through the woods, though, and decided to find better cover. He covered Hamilton’s white shirt with the ruined dark jacket, both to keep him warmer and to make him less of a target. Alex crept as quietly as he could to heavier brush.
A tall figure clad in dark clothing cautiously emerged from the trees, a man carrying a rifle. He stood still, listening.
Cameron Burgess. He had grown taller and more muscular in the years since his father’s death, Alex thought.
A sound came from Alex’s right. Cameron turned quickly toward it, rifle raised. Alex took out his own weapon. But Cameron was staying near the trees, and at this distance, Alex wasn’t going to chance a shot that would probably only reveal his own location.
Another sound, near the same place. Alex found a stone and threw it hard to his left.
Cameron spun on his heel and faced the place where it had landed.
The baseball field lights went out.
Cameron called out, “Everett?”
There was no answer.
Alex felt a rush of relief. Maybe Hamilton’s shot missed Kit after all.
Cameron disappeared into the woods.
Alex followed carefully, doing his best both to keep track of the sounds of Cameron’s movements and to avoid giving away his own position.
He could not proceed with any speed-in the darkness, without Kit to guide him, he was afraid of tripping over roots, or cracking his head on low-lying branches. But he wasn’t going to use the flashlight and risk making a target of himself.
The sounds in front of him stopped. He waited.
Minutes passed. He thought of the explosives. He thought of Chase being held under Everett Corey’s control. He made himself wait.
He heard a rustle of leaves and other sounds and was no longer sure that Cameron was alone. Was Kit nearby? Or had Everett overcome his dislike of the woods?
Suddenly there was a whiplike snap, a startled cry, the sound of what might have been a brief struggle, and then silence. A moment later, he saw light near the place where the sounds had been made. He heard a soft laugh.
He moved cautiously and quietly. He forced away thoughts of Hamilton’s talk of explosives, and of the hostages and what might be happening to them.
One thing at a time, he told himself. Get safely out of these woods.
The light, he was certain, was nothing more than a lure. A flashlight, its beam pointing up through the tree branches. He considered ignoring it, but the sounds he had heard could only mean that someone was in trouble. Before long, he was near enough to see what the flashlight was illuminating: Kit, hanging upside down.
He appeared to have been caught in a snare, but someone had obviously set to work on him after that. His wrists were bound and dangled below his head-his fingertips were only a few inches above the ground. His ankles were bound together with a second length of rope, tied to the black one, which held him suspended. A piece of silver duct tape covered his mouth. His jaw was swollen, his forehead scraped and bleeding. His eyes were closed, but it seemed to Alex that he was holding them closed, almost as if he were meditating-or perhaps the light bothered him.