Chapter Thirty-Nine

 

DAVIS

 

I can feel my phone vibrating loudly in my pocket. Another thing I have to ignore right now, and another thing I can't. It stops for a second, before it starts vibrating again.

Nobody acknowledges the sound, but I know they can all hear it. There's no question of why I'm not answering it, though, thankfully. The answer's fairly obvious. I would if I could, but I can't. After all, I'm not exactly in charge here, either.

Everyone knows that, it seems, except for Logan Beauchamp. The other two look at the expression on his face, see every ounce of anger he can muster—and it's all pouring right onto me.

That seems to be good enough for them. It's all a charade, for someone's benefit, probably mine, when Donaldsen turns to Pollack.

"You know, I'm pretty thirsty. Let's see if we can't scare up a drink at the machine. We'll leave the two of you to get acquainted."

Logan looks up at me. It must hurt, moving like that. He's been locked in so he can't move, not so he can look around the room comfortably. But here he is, straining his neck to give me the evil eye.

I don't know how, or what they're getting, but I know that there's surveillance on the room. They wouldn't leave me alone in a setup like this. Not if they knew anything about my activities the past few days.

Of course, all of that was intended to catch the real bad guys out there. The ones who went bump in the night, not little fish like Ryan Beauchamp. Too small to do anything with. A waste of my time, of everyone's time.

I swallow hard. Can we talk, or will they hear? Will they hear now, or will it only be later, after I've already had a chance to get out of this shit?

Timing is of the utmost importance, after all. Especially if Donaldsen decided that he needed to come early. There's something here that needs to be done, and needs to be done soon.

The question that remains is, what is it? The question of why he's here is the most pressing, but I don't have a good answer for it, and I fear I'm not going to.

Instead, it's just going to be more questions until I get out of here. Donaldsen never liked it when I asked questions. Couldn't stand it. I always paid the price, so I learned not to ask them, not when he's around. Not unless I was in the right kind of mood, at least.

Logan looks at me, his neck pulled tight.

"Are you alright?"

"I knew I shouldn't have trusted you, you god damned bitch."

"Shut up, Logan—they've got the room bugged."

He pulls hard at his arms, but they don't do much but move forward a little. He pulls a little more upright. An inch or two, maybe. It looks like it hurts, but I can't be sure that I can get him free and out of here before they get back.

"You got caught," I said passively. I hope that he'll hear the question in it, but he doesn't.

"No thanks to you, you—"

I put a hand on his chin and pull it up a little. Just past the point where I think it starts to hurt, and then I go down on my knees.

"I need to know what happened. Give me the story, or you're going to find you have a very short list of friends in this world. Maybe only one."

"Fuck you," he growls, but then he lets his neck slack for a minute and I can see the fight going out of him along with it.

"I was waiting for Ryan to get back, and they came in through the back. I got caught with my pants down, so to speak. I ran for the gun, but they got me 'fore I could do anything with it."

"How long have you been in here?"

"Twenty—no, thirty, forty minutes? Maybe? They didn't cuff me like this until they left, but—"

"Alright. Could you take them if you had to?"

"I don't know, but I'd like to give it a shot."

I smile a grim smile. "You know, I'd like that. I'm sorry, but this is going to hurt."

I hit him in the face, hard enough to send the chair to the ground. I pick him up by his hands; the important movement, I hope, is hidden by that. The switch, when I hand him a key to his cuffs. His hand closes around it as I pull him up straight.

I can hear the door working now. There's no way I was going to stop them coming back in. Instead, I take a deep, hard breath and stand up as fast as I can, and make a bee-line for the door, shooting past Pollack.

He actually moves to get out of my way, a pair of bright-red Coke cans in his hands. I can hear Donaldsen having a god damned aneurysm about it as I file down the hall, moving as fast as I dare. I can't afford not to be followed, but I'll be damned if I get caught.

I turn my head 'round to see that Pollack's decided to follow me after all. He doesn't seem to be nearly as concerned about appearances as I am, and he's closing the gap fast. Time for me to follow suit, then.

I hit the stairs running. I don't have any special disadvantage, at least, wearing sneakers and jeans as compared to his dress shoes and suit. Some days, some women would have been wearing a skirt and heels. I might have, too, if I'd been forced to. If there was a function that day, maybe.

But not today, not on a day where I've barely slept for three of the last seventy-two hours; not on a day when I'm just on a stakeout. I'm dressed for comfort, and so I'm not hampered by my clothes as I practically leap down the stairs three at a time.

I'm already at the base of the first staircase by the time Pollack gets through the door, but I don't get away. I don't know if I wanted to.

Every second that Pollack wastes on me is another second that Logan Beauchamp pounds on Donaldsen. Or gets away, for that matter. For an instant, I hope that he kicks Donaldsen in his god damned balls, but I don't have time to waste thinking about it. I'll have to ask about it later.

A shot goes off. I don't have to wonder who fired it, or who he was firing it at. I only have to wonder—to hope—whether or not it hit. I don't want to have to deal with a Ryan Beauchamp whose brother has just died.

I don't know that anyone could stop the shitstorm that would come down on the A.T.F.'s collective heads. Not once he'd decided that we were playing for keeps.

I don't have time to worry about it, though. Pollack's bearing down on me, closing the gap by a tenth of a second with every floor. He's almost close enough to reach out and touch me—almost—when I finally get the ground floor door open, and then I'm through.

He doesn't call for security. I don't know why, but I do wonder if it has something to do with the tied-up man in their hotel room. Pollack doesn't know that Beauchamp had any chance in hell to get away from that shot, which is an advantage I'm going to have to carry forward as best I can.

As long as there's an advantage to be gained from it, which I'm not entirely convinced that there is. There's a very good chance, a very good one, that Beauchamp got free, but not near free enough before Donaldsen got his gun out.

Donaldsen isn't a field agent. He hasn't been for years. But that doesn't mean that he's not a decent shot. He can shoot in a straight line, if it counts, and the target isn't being too erratic.

I have to hope that this was one of his off days.