There were plenty of Third World countries into which he could vanish, only to resurface as a man with a different identity boasting the kind of skills that were always in need. Fallon couldn’t imagine himself wallowing away the time on a beach, no matter how beautiful or plentiful the women. His life had been defined by killing for too long to either risk or want change.
For now going off the grid meant avoiding all forms of security cameras and public transportation, including buses, trains and airplanes. Rental cars were out, as well, and stealing too many cars could leave the kind of pattern he needed to avoid.
That left hitchhiking. Mr. Beechum’s was the fifth car in a week to chance picking him up. Fallon didn’t kill the others and hadn’t expected to kill Beechum until the ditzy man kept speaking enthusiastically of the new job he was headed for. That’s when the plan unfolded for Fallon, and the best he was able to do for Beechum in return was kill him in quick, painless fashion.
“I love kids” was the last thing the teacher said. “Making a difference in their lives and all.”
In that moment Fallon couldn’t have known the kind of difference he’d end up making.
Fallon saw the two vans creep toward the school’s entrance when he was in the third day of discussing “The Most Dangerous Game.” They were noteworthy first for the fact they drove onto the grounds down the wrong side of the U-shaped drive fronting the building and second because the vans wore the markings of a professional cleaning service. Such markings always allowed for unquestioned access to buildings, public and otherwise, but why would a middle school with a full janitorial staff need a professional cleaning service?
Fallon’s heart began to beat faster as the vans drifted out of his line of sight. Two vans meant a dozen men or more, certainly overkill on the part of his former employers. And if they had ascertained his presence here at Hampton Lake, they’d be much better off laying an ambush instead of storming the building in full awareness of his conceivable escape.
That reality should have made him feel better.
But it didn’t.
Instincts had saved his life often enough for Fallon to learn to trust them, and right now they were scratching at his spine like scalpels peeling back the flesh.
“Rainsford’s my kind of guy,” Trent was saying from his customary perch in the back of the room.
“Why?” Fallon managed to ask, not really paying attention. His eyes strayed out the window again, but the vans did not reappear. He moved closer to the glass, hoping to better his angle.
“Because he kicks General Zaroff’s ass. And it was Zaroff’s own fucking fault.”
“Why?” Fallon asked, intrigued in spite of the nagging feeling that wouldn’t go away.
“Because he’d been playing the game too long. Hunting men, who knows how many of them.”
“So why stop?”
“Because he should’ve known he’d meet his match. Sooner or later. It’s like, you know, inevitable.”
Fallon moved away from the window, suddenly intrigued. “So why’d he keep doing it? Come on, people, put yourself in Zaroff’s shoes.”
“’Cause it’s all he had,” said a girl in the front row. “All he knew.”
“What else?”
“He was good at it,” someone else answered. “When you’re that good, you don’t think anybody’ll ever beat you.”
“Was Rainsford better at the game than the general?” Fallon asked his class.
“No,” said Trent. “Zaroff lost ’cause he got lazy. When you get lazy, you get beat every time. But Rainsford, he was a hero.”
“Why?”
“He saved lives. Of Zaroff’s future victims. Not all heroes mean to be heroes, if you get my drift.”
“May I have your attention please?”
The voice of Principal Meeks boomed over the school’s PA system.
“All students and teachers, please report to the gymnasium immediately. That’s all students and teachers, please report to the—”
The principal’s voice cut off in midsentence, as if he’d accidentally hit the wrong switch. Fallon watched his students begin to rise from their desks, replaying Meeks’s words in his head—not for content so much as cadence. Something all wrong about the tone and import. Fallon knew the sound of a man under duress, because he’d put countless men in just that position.
When you get lazy, you get beat every time….
“No,” Fallon said before the student closest to the door could open it. “Back to your seats.”
“But—”
“Back to your seats.”
The edge in Fallon’s voice had his students returning to their desks without further question. The hallway beyond filled with students spilling out of nearby classrooms, the heavy trampling of feet signaling the approach of those emerging from the two-story wing at the building’s head.
“Mr. Beechum?”
Fallon swung toward the windows again. They only opened inward at the very top, enough to provide ventilation but not escape.
“Mr. Beechum?”
Fallon didn’t answer. Mr. Beechum was gone.
“Trent,” Fallon said, the persona shed, cold eyes boring down on the boy who’d been his favorite, “give me your switchblade.”
“My wh—”
“Now, Trent.”
The voice not raised, just measured and certain.
“It’s a butterfly knife.”
Trent fished the butterfly knife out of his backpack, brought it up to Fallon and extended it toward him in a trembling hand. Fallon wished he could smile at him reassuringly, the way Mr. Beechum would.
Except Mr. Beechum was gone.
“Okay,” Fallon said, “everyone line up starting on this wall and wrapping around to the back of the room. Shoulder to shoulder. Very close. Out of sight from the door.”
“Why?” a girl asked, moving to obey.
Fallon didn’t answer. Beyond his classroom, the thick flow of students and their teacher escorts continued down the corridor, oblivious to whatever might be transpiring. Fallon hoped he was wrong, but knew he wasn’t. He had spent his life as Zaroff, the odds stacked heavily in his favor. But now suddenly he found himself as Rainsford.
When you’re that good, you don’t think anybody’ll ever beat you.
Well, whoever had come in those vans was in for a big surprise, weren’t they?
The moments passed in silence broken only by the loud breathing of his students. Or maybe it wasn’t loud. Maybe Fallon just heard it that way.
The hallway emptied, a few stragglers passing the windowed door and then no one. A pause, then fresh footsteps crackling atop tile alone followed by the creaking echo of doors being thrust open, each growing louder.
Fallon snapped the butterfly knife’s blade into position.
A boy whimpered. Two girls began to sob, then a third.
Fallon pressed a single finger against his lips, signaling them to be quiet, ducked back so he was out of sight from the doorway.
The heavy footsteps drew closer. The knob rattled, door easing inward.
A student gasped.
A man lurched past Fallon, never seeing him. Fallon noted the high-end submachine gun he was steadying with a second hand in the last moment before he pounced. Arm wrapped around the man’s neck to silence him as he drew Trent’s butterfly knife on a sharp upward angle required to slice through bone and gristle, digging into the lungs and shredding them.
The man gurgled and rasped, fighting against Fallon as bloody froth poured from his mouth. Fallon snapped his neck for good measure, studying his face as he dragged him across the room before the horrified stares of his students.
The man was Arab; Fallon could tell that from sight, as well as smell. Smells were important to him. You spend enough time all over the world, in the various cesspits of humanity, and you begin to know men by their smells as much as anything. An Arab, all right, and in that moment Fallon realized everything he had been dispatched to Iraq to prevent had finally come to pass. The foreign stink come home.