When the whiteness faded, Aaron found himself flat on his back. His eyes focused just in time to see the man standing over him and the muzzle flash. He didn’t feel the bullet enter his gut, but the crack of his head against the floor jarred his spine.
I’m hurt, he thought as he watched the masked man walk to the discarded phone.
The gunman kept a disinterested eye on Aaron as he picked up the receiver.
“Yes, hello,” he said. “Yes, that’s right... Yes, gunshots. The manager has been shot. He got into an argument with a man calling himself Morgan. Jack Morgan. The guy shot the manager before abducting a woman and her two kids.”
Aaron’s mind struggled to process the deception. Everything was fading and he sensed time running thin, like the last grains of sand tumbling through an hourglass.
“No, I’m afraid not,” the masked man said into the phone. “The manager is dead.”
Aaron was surprised not to feel sick at those words, and bewildered by how remote the world seemed. Finally, it dawned on him. Time had run out for him.
Chapter 26
I slowed down once we reached the highway. I turned onto the ramp and joined the main carriageway, heading for New York.
Stunned by what had happened at the motel, neither Beth nor I said anything. Our soundtrack was the gentle, intermittent thud of the car rolling over highway section dividers, the spray of tires pressing through slush, and the muted sobs coming from the children in the back. Beth tried her best to soothe them, but they’d been badly shaken by what had happened. Finally, they settled into stunned silence.
“Who are you?” Beth asked me at last.
“Jack Morgan,” I replied. “I’m a private detective. Your father hired me to find you.”
I sensed her shift in her seat and glanced over to see her eying me with suspicion.
“You’re Elizabeth Singer, right? And these are Daniel and Marianne?”
“Beth, Danny and Maria,” she corrected me. “I’d like to see some ID.”
I reached into my pocket and handed her my wallet. She checked my identification and placed the wallet on the central console.
“Why were those men after you?” I asked.
“Can you pull over?” she said. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
She looked pale and was gulping for air, so I slowed and steered the car to a halt on the shoulder.
“Are you OK, Mom?” Maria asked.
“I’ll be fine. Just wait here,” Beth replied hurriedly, before jumping out.
She left the door open, and the cold wind blew snow into the car. She ran over to the barrier, and I watched her buckle against the metal and heave. I turned to the kids, who were watching their mother fearfully.
“It’s OK,” I assured them. “Probably just nerves.”
“Mr. Morgan,” Beth yelled, still leaning over the barrier. “I need you. I need your help.”
“You’ll be OK, kids,” I said, releasing my seatbelt and stepping out.
I hurried over to Beth. “What is it?”
The blow came out of nowhere. She spun around with a rock in her hand and clocked me on the temple. I went down immediately and my vision blurred. I couldn’t pass out. Not here. Not now.
I dug my nails into my palms and the pull of oblivion receded. I came to my senses and saw Beth jump into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes.
“Hey!” I yelled. My mouth was full of saliva and I felt nauseous. “Stop!”
Beth glanced at me, put the car in gear and stepped on the gas as I staggered to my feet. I stumbled forward as the wheels spun in the slush. They caught the road surface and the sudden friction sent the car lurching forward at speed. Beth had misjudged terribly. Almost immediately the car went into a fishtail skid. It veered toward a passing truck and Beth overcompensated, turning the wheel so hard, the M-Class swung round, sped across the shoulder and hit the barrier. The collision brought the car to a grinding halt, and I forced myself toward it. My legs felt weak and unsteady, but I had to get to them.
I opened the back door to find Maria and Danny crying. The car stank of fuel and silicon dust.
“Are you OK?” I slurred. “You hurt anywhere?”
Maria shook her head.
“Mom!” Danny cried.
The children had been wearing seatbelts but Beth hadn’t put hers on. The airbags had deployed but somehow her head had hit the driver’s window. There was a bloody crack in the glass.
I opened the door and leaned in.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
She was groggy and bleeding from a wound on her forehead.
“Get away from me,” she said, her words barely decipherable.
“Why? Why are you trying to escape from me?”
“My father,” she groaned. “My father...”
She took a deep breath, clearly struggling to speak.
“My father is dead,” she said before passing out.
Chapter 27
The osprey was lit up by flames dancing within the fuselage. Floyd was drawn toward a figure standing in front of the wreckage. He knew who it was before he reached her. He wanted to call out, to warn her to step away from the inferno, but he had no power over his body and drifted like an automaton. As his wife turned toward him, Floyd saw tears in her eyes and her face was riven by distress.
“The children...” she cried, but Floyd heard no more.
He was woken from the nightmare. It took him a moment to bridge the gap between dream and reality.
John crouched beside him, the concern on his face clear even by moonlight.
“We need to go now,” he said. “There are men moving through the town. Mercenaries. I think they’re looking for you.”
Floyd got to his feet and hurried across the large living room to the window that overlooked the valley. He could see torch beams swinging to and fro in the shadows of the men wielding them as they moved from house to house further down the mountain. Outraged cries and aggressive commands filled the air.
“Get dressed,” John said, handing Floyd some clothes. “Chris is downstairs getting the horses ready.”
Floyd pulled a pair of woolen trousers over his shorts, and slipped a cotton tunic over his head, before putting on a heavy Soviet coat badged with the hammer and sickle. John was similarly dressed. He handed Floyd a pair of Nuristani riding boots and pulled on a pair himself.
Floyd heard more cries in Kamviri in the distance, and demands made in Russian.
“We don’t have long,” John said.
He pulled back the corner of a rug to reveal a trap door. He opened it and led Floyd down a run of wooden steps to the stables. Chris was checking the saddle on a large horse.
“They’re ready,” she said. “Supplies and gear.” She pointed at three backpacks at the bottom of the stairs. “Yours is the blue one.”
Floyd picked it up and shrugged it on.
Chris grabbed a coat from a peg near the door and put it on. She and Floyd slung packs on their shoulders, and she took the reins of a gray horse and led it to the stable door. The horse’s hooves scuffed and clopped against the door.
“This one’s yours,” John said, giving Floyd the reins of a brown mare.
Floyd patted its muzzle and followed Chris. Floyd brought up the rear with a brown and white stallion.
Chris paused by the door. “We lead the horses out on foot east along the alley. When we reach the main road, we mount up and head south. Got it?”
Floyd nodded.
Chris switched off the stable light and opened the door. The hinges creaked, the horses snorted excitedly, and John’s stallion pawed the floor. Floyd had never been so conscious of noise and tried to will the world into silence. He hardly noticed the blast of ice-cold air that hit him as Chris moved into the alleyway.
She looked both ways, then signaled to Floyd and John to follow. Voices drifted up the mountainside. They were close, perhaps only a few houses away. Floyd’s horse tried to move back into the stable, but he patted her flank.
“It’s OK,” he said, and led her along the alleyway, past the neighboring house.
John followed and the three of them walked without saying a word, aware of people waking in the surrounding buildings. Floyd’s breath formed clouds in the chill, and steam rose from his horse’s nostrils. He realized he had no idea what time it was, that his watch must have been taken along with his flight jacket when he was sentenced to execution. It must have been late because the people who came to their windows looked stunned by sleep and annoyed to have been woken by commotion in the town. A few looked at the trio leading their horses and nodded, but most had their eyes turned toward the other end of the alleyway, which seemed to be where the trouble was happening.
A voice yelled in Russian. Floyd glanced over his shoulder to see the silhouette of a man in the light of the torches. He was looking their way.
“Come on. They’ve seen us,” Chris said, mounting her horse.
The man at the other end of the alleyway yelled as Floyd and John climbed into their saddles. Chris urged her horse forward and Floyd’s followed its lead. He hadn’t ridden for years and gripped the reins tightly. He looked back to see John following, behind him a cluster of torchlights and figures running toward them.
The horses’ hooves pounded with greater urgency, and clouds of vapor swirled around their heads as they gathered speed.
Over the beating rhythm of the hoofbeats came a sudden, ugly crack. Then another. And another.
“They’re shooting!” John yelled. A moment later there was another volley and he cried out in pain.
Floyd looked back to see the Englishman slump forward. He reined in his horse, but John raised his head.
“Go!” he barked through gritted teeth. “Don’t let this be for nothing.”
Chris pulled up. “I can’t leave him,” she said as Floyd passed her. “Head south. There’s a map of the passes in your bag.”
Floyd urged his horse on. It galloped out of the alleyway onto the main road through Kamdesh. Floyd glanced back to see Chris tending to John as a gang of men closed in on them.
Adrenalin surging, heart thumping, Floyd flicked the reins and turned the horse south. His mount raced forward at full pelt and didn’t seem to need further encouragement, but if there was more speed to be had, Floyd wanted it.
“Yah!” he yelled.
He heard more shouts behind him, but didn’t look back. Soon he and the horse were lost to the darkness.