‘Your house-’ Gabriel gasped, and a second bullet hit him, this time in the shoulder. Gabriel shrieked, twisted in the dirt with a stunned look on his face. Evan could see a man’s legs walking toward him.
Your house. Evan fought down the sudden surge of terror in his chest, his guts.
The voice called, ‘Be still now, Mr. Gabriel. You keep moving, you make me very nervous. I don’t like being nervous.’ Then the voice brightened. ‘Evan? You under the car or in it?’
Evan gave no answer. That voice. It was the voice from his parents’ kitchen. The voice of his mother’s murderer. Rage surged up in him.
‘Hey, Evan, the good guys are here. FBI. Come on out, please.’
Evan didn’t trust anyone who said he was FBI but who shot a wounded man.
‘All’s well, Evan. It’s safe now. If you’ve got a gun, toss it out, we don’t want any accidents.’
Gabriel groaned and sobbed.
‘Evan. I don’t know what this crazy old bastard told you, but you’re perfectly safe. I’m FBI. My name is Dezz Jargo and’ – a pause for emphasis – ‘I know your dad. He’s sick with worry about you. We tracked Mr. Gabriel here. I need you to come out. We’re gonna take you to your dad.’
Jargo. Evan imagined Jargo would be an older man. This guy looked too young to run a criminal ring.
‘Show me your credentials,’ Evan yelled.
‘Well, there you are!’ Dezz called kindly.
‘He’s a fucking liar,’ Gabriel yelled, and the walking legs delivered a sudden kick to Gabriel’s head. Blood and two front teeth flew free from the mouth, and Gabriel lay still. Evan couldn’t tell if he was still breathing.
‘Evan, come out now please,’ Dezz said. ‘For your own safety.’
Evan fired at Dezz’s feet.
Carrie moved from the garage to the kitchen. Silence, except for the television, tuned to CNN.
‘Evan?’ she called. ‘Evan, honey, it’s me. Carrie. Come out.’
Silence. A shiver took hold of her chest as she went into each room. Afraid she would find him dead.
He had called, he had to be free.
Unless it was a trap, and as soon as Evan called her, Gabriel killed him. She tried to think. Gabriel was ex-CIA. These files – she wasn’t sure what they contained that made Jargo sweat – were of interest to Gabriel because he’d gone freelance, or he’d turned traitor, or he’d gone back to work for the Agency. Smoke and mirrors, this world was nothing but smoke and mirrors and she could not see the truth of anything except Evan lying in the bed, saying, I love you.
She moved through the downstairs rooms quickly, efficiently. She hurried upstairs. The last time she had seen him he was lying in bed, asleep, perfectly at peace, and now he had endured all this hell. His mother dead, and she had been powerless to stop it or to protect Donna or him. His mother, strangled. Hers had been shot.
Please, Evan, be here, not down there with Dezz. Or be gone. Gone far away where I can’t find you.
She tore through each room, praying to find him first.
Dezz howled and jumped at the missed shot, but he didn’t retreat far. Instead he gave a twisted laugh. ‘Fucking funny way of saying thanks for the save,’ he called. ‘Gabriel was aiming for you when he was telling you to come out. I saved your ass.’
Evan waited. He thought Dezz would run for cover. It was sensible. Dezz didn’t. But he didn’t come any closer.
‘Your father,’ Dezz said, ‘his name is Mitchell Eugene Casher. Born in Denver. He’s been a computer consultant for nearly twenty years.’
‘So?’
‘So, if I’m just FBI, I know that. But I’m his friend, Evan. His favorite ice cream flavor is butter pecan. He likes his steak medium. His favorite television show of all time is Hawaii Five-O and he often bores people with plot summaries. Sound familiar?’
It did. ‘How do you know him?’
‘Evan, I have to trust you now. Your father does special work for the government. I handle his cases. I’m here to protect you. Your family has been targeted by very bad people. Including Mr. Gabriel here, who was kicked to the curb by the CIA.’
The voice. He compared Dezz’s voice to the voice that had spoken behind him, when he’d knelt in the kitchen, a gun at his head, his mother’s dead face six inches from his. Now he wasn’t sure. Those whole horrible moments fogged in a haze. He tried to remember the voice that had spoken while his mother was dead, the voice in his ears while he was dying at the end of a rope. ‘Be a good boy and come out. I’ll share my candy with you.’
‘Don’t talk to me like I’m four years old,’ Evan said.
‘I wouldn’t dream of talking down to the famous director.’
Evan waited. A caramel wrapper dropped by Dezz’s feet.
Evan thought, If I shoot him, there is still one more. If the two of them are still together.
‘Got a friend at the house who’s worried about you,’ Dezz said. ‘Carrie’s here with me.’
Evan thought he had heard wrong. ‘What?’ His chest tightened. A lie. It had to be a lie.
Ten seconds of silence and Dezz said, ‘Sorry, Evan, stay still, I just need to take a simple precaution,’ and he shot out the right front tire of the Suburban. The heavy SUV sank and settled down where the tire blew.
‘I can’t risk you shooting me and driving off,’ Dezz said. ‘We’re not doing a Mexican standoff. I want to take you to Carrie. And to your father. Come out, hands up, we call him. Get everyone back together. Nice family reunion.’
Evan gritted his teeth. No. Dezz was a liar, a killer. He wouldn’t believe anything he said about Carrie. These men had found invisible files on his computer, erased his computer back to a default state in seconds, found Gabriel’s hideout in the middle of nowhere. Learning his girlfriend’s name was nothing. It was a trick, it had to be a trick, to lure him out.
He had to get out of here. But he couldn’t drive the Suburban, not with a shredded tire.
The Ducati. It stood near the front of the Suburban, where Gabriel had parked it. The Suburban faced the gate. The bike was to his right, and Dezz stood over to the left and halfway up the hill. No way Gabriel pocketed the keys when he got off the bike, ready to shoot Evan. Right?
Gabriel gave out what sounded to Evan like a long, dying sigh.
Evan would have to leave the suitcase behind, with the cash and his damaged laptop inside. He had the South African passport that Gabriel had shown him in his pocket and Gabriel’s CIA ID. The duffel bag was in the car, too. But, he remembered, on the passenger side. He played the sequence of escape in his mind. Roll out on the passenger side of the Suburban. Ease the door open, grab the duffel – it held the small locked box he’d taken from Gabriel, and his film gear. Shoot at Dezz to chase him back up the hill. Jump on the bike, go through the gate. It was probably suicide. But at least he was going down trying.
‘Bring Carrie down here, let me see her, and I’ll come out,’ he called.
Silence for a second, and Dezz said, ‘You come out and I’ll bring her to you.’
Dezz paced about twenty feet away. Close into the trees.
He’s waiting for you to go for the motorcycle. No, Evan decided. He was just waiting. He could see Dezz’s face now: blondish hair, thin features, he looked sick-boy sallow, junkyard mean, flat-out crazy.
Did you kill my mother? He’d heard two voices, that he was sure of, but this was only one guy.
Stay focused. Keep your hand steady when you fire. His father’s voice in his ear, although he’d never been very good at target practice when his father had dragged him to the range, and he hadn’t been in years. Evan wriggled out from under the car on the passenger side, the Suburban’s chassis between him and Dezz. He opened the door. He grabbed the duffel, put the strap over his shoulder.
Dezz ran straight for him, aiming, yelling, ‘Evan, great, arms up please where I can see them, okay?’
Evan fired over the hood and Dezz’s jacket sleeve jerked as if tugged from behind. Dezz dropped to the ground and Evan kept firing over Dezz’s head until the gun emptied. He reached the motorcycle.