Friday, December 8
Bud Cobb blundered forward like a bull elephant through a forest. Each hand held a large, spouted five-gallon gasoline can, obviously full. He paused to survey his surroundings with complacent indifference. Like any bull elephant, Cobb believed he had no real adversaries. His size and brute strength, his willingness to give and take punishment, would vanquish all threats. Cobb thought he was at the top of the food chain.
He’d soon find out that he was just chum.
Agostino at least used his brains. He appeared fifty feet from Cobb, out of a small patch of saplings, stepping with all the caution of a twelve-point buck during hunting season. He paused halfway to the shelter, sniffed the air as he scanned his surroundings.
After a hesitant shuffle, he came on quickly, zigzagging, eyes more on the distant commotion than his goal. Cobb bumbled after him, breaking every twig in his path. They paused fifteen feet from Tanner, crouched at the far corner, partially hidden by a pile of long-harvested underbrush.
“Fucker could show up here,” Agostino said, fumbling in his pants pocket. He pulled out a keychain. “You see him, you shoot him. Don’t say hello, just pull the fucking trigger. Got it?”
Cobb pulled out a revolver. “Yuh.”
“And don’t fan the damn thing, it fucks up your aim.”
“Oh, okay.” Sulky.
“Get that brush out of the way.”
“Yuh.” Cobb put the firearm away, picked up the containers, and shuffled into the access slot. Setting the cans down, he hauled the long-dead saplings aside. Agostino shouldered past him.
“Wait there.” He pointed. Cobb moped to the appointed spot, ten feet outside the access stairs.
Agostino finally found the keyhole.
“Uh.” Cobb cleared his throat. “Do I get to play with her again?”
Agostino opened the door, picked up the containers.
“Not now.”
“Well,” Cobb whined, “when?”
“Jesus. Later.”
“Can I light the fire?” A pre-schooler, begging treats from a dumber-than-dirt parent. Who were these two idiots? How had they, and that drunk, managed to pull this racket off?
“Jesus, Bud, shut the fuck up.”
Agostino disappeared through the door. Cobb turned in a circle, then reversed and circled again. He raised his arm and sighted, making firing sounds. Powpowpow. The pistol, a .38 probably, looked inconsequential in his big hand. He left off playing cowboy and began playing with himself, the firearm forgotten as he rummaged in his pants.
Tanner’s probing fingers found a hard-edged object, a rock or piece of cement. He overhanded it to his left. It hit a tree, rattled away into the brush. Cobb whirled clumsily, dropping into a crouch, pistol weaving as he squinted into the darkness. He tiptoed forward with all the subtlety of a well-fed hippo returning to its river. Five feet from Tanner.
He leaped, reaching Cobb before he reacted. An elbow strike, and he went down hard, the handgun falling. Almost at once he tried to rise, one hand groping for the weapon. Tanner kicked him in the head. The hippo collapsed. Tanner pulled out zipties, and fitted them around his beeefy wrists. Started on his ankles, connecting wrists and ankles. One tidy, secure pack—
“Bud, get in here,” Agostino called from the doorway. “Fat cow needs a fucking forklift and—holy shit!”
Tanner threw himself past Cobb at the same time Agostino pulled the trigger on a .22 caliber handgun. One, two, three, four distinctive little pops. Tanner scrambled in an arc to the projecting wall, saw that the roof extended only partway, and vaulted over.
An instant of free fall, and a messy landing between Agostino’s outstretched arms. The gun flew into the darkness and Agostino somehow evaded Tanner’s off-balance strike and stumbled inside, shrieking like a pre-teen spotting her first snake.
Tanner barreled into the shadowy, low-ceilinged space. A camping lantern hissed in one corner. The room smelled like a public porta-john after a frat party. He grabbed Agostino’s sleeve as he swiveled with the ease of familiarity through the cluttered space. He jerked free, jumped behind a table topped by a long, plastic-wrapped package.
“I’ll kill you,” he screamed, raising another handgun. “You’ve ruined it all, everything! You’re dead—”
Tanner launched himself over the table, and the package came to life. Both he and it tumbled to the floor, Agostino kicking wildly and trying to fire a pistol with the safety still on. Tanner, up on his knees, threw himself forward as Agostino got the safety off and pulled the trigger. A white-hot poker ripped through Tanner’s side.
He swept Agostino’s feet away, grabbing his arm as he fell. Beneath them, the package bucked. They twisted and rolled and Agostino pulled the trigger, and the bullet passed Tanner’s face with a heated blast, Tanner chopping at his flailing arm, and the pistol thumped onto the squirming plastic. Agostino writhed and screamed, his clawing fingers seeking Tanner’s face.
The package rolled into them and Agostino scrabbled on the floor, hands sweeping out for the firearm and Tanner elbowed him in the side of the head. He crumpled, tried blearily to rise. Tanner rose, grabbed him by his lapels and backhanded him. Agostino whimpered and raised his arms but Tanner brushed them aside.
“C’mon, big boy, you’ll beat up a woman, let’s see how handy you are with a man.”
“No! Don’t touch me! Don’t hurt—”
“Long’s they can’t fight back, huh?” Tanner shook him, then lined him up and punched his beautiful nose, relishing the moist crunch. With a gurgle, Agostino’s eyes rolled up and he fainted.
“Disappointing.” Tanner shook his head and reached for the ziplocks.
Behind him, someone chuckled. A gun barrel pressed into his neck, wobbling as the hand that held it trembled. The smell of booze. Athena had been right: let it get personal and it all went to shit.
“Move and your brains are all over the floor, Carl,” Stanley Green said. “Hands on your head.”
Tanner raised his hands, locked them atop his head.
***
“Pick up the girl,” Green said, jabbing the gun for emphasis.
“Girl?”
Everything went gray as pain sliced across the back of his head. “Don’t be coy. And don’t try anything. I know who you are, Omega Man. I can still check stuff out.”
The bubble-wrapped package moved. Above the duct-taped mouth, Cynthia Voight’s swollen eyes stared at him with terrified appeal. Murmuring soothing nonsense words, he slid his arms under her and hoisted her.
It was like picking up an engine block. His side felt like a blowtorch played along it, and a dull ache spread across his ribs in brutal waves.
Green gestured with the gun. A silencer was screwed on the barrel: it wobbled as Green’s hand jerked.
“Hold it while I get this dumb fuck on his feet.”
“He’s out. Glass jaw.” Tanner hefted his burden, trying not to treat her like an antique rug. She was wrapped in bubble plastic and bound with layers of strapping tape. Only her face and feet were free. She felt feverishly hot and smelled rank. “Can I put her on the table?”
“We’re outa here in thirty seconds. Hold the bitch, she’s worth a fortune. I’ll deliver her tonight.”
Cynthia Voight moaned and writhed. Tanner tightened his grip.
“You’re the shooter out there?” Green grunted a yes. “Why’d you miss me?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“So you’re the one in charge? It’s your brain child?”
“Been doing it for years on a small scale. You think this moron,” he kicked Agostino, “runs all this? That he figured it out? He’s a poser, a fake. All he’s good for is beating up women who’re tied down. I’m the one calls the shots.” He kicked Agostino again. “Worthless.”
He stared around the space, eyes calculating. Smiled when he saw the gasoline containers. He picked up the first one, worked off the cap with only one lightning glance at the spout, and poured in an arc, putting the last splashes on Agostino’s back.
Agostino stirred, moaned. Green bent down, whacked him across the back of his head with the pistol.
“Best way all around,” Green said conversationally. “Before he met me, he was just a hard-drinking has-been. I’d been doing it small time, to order, and I saw he could make a difference. That face. Women are stupid. Gullible.” He tossed the can aside and picked up the other. “I trained him. Now I ride herd on him. He’s a loose cannon and getting worse. That blow job shit? What was he thinking?” The other cap wouldn’t budge. “And he’s sampling the goods. How can you promise untouched goods and deliver something with teeth missing?
“And my idiot nephew? Had to steal your girlfriend's car to do the hit. Jesus. Surrounded by morons.” Still he worried at the cap. “A while back, one of our best customers, a big property developer in southeast Georgia, came down here for his merchandise and this asshole,” another, harder, kick, “had punched her until she was pissing blood. He’d put tooth prints on her tits. A dentist coulda built a fucking bridge, the prints were so deep. Lost that sale.” He grimaced. “Eight to twenty-five grand a pop, you better deliver as promised.” Yet another kick. “He’s a liability. Fucking cap.” Green looked down.
Tanner dropped Cynthia feet first and lunged, catching Green with a throat strike, his hand buried in fat as Green instinctively tucked his chin. Still, he reeled back, not losing the gun as Tanner slashed his hand again. This one sank deep in the side of his thick neck and Green’s body went slack. Tanner grabbed the man’s arm with a—
Cynthia thrashed herself under their feet and both men stumbled. Green, flailing wildly for balance, pulled the trigger and bullets whanged off the ceiling and walls. Tanner, in mid-air, twisted and grabbed for him.
With a roar, another gun fired. Green grunted and rose on his toes, eyes opening wide. Tanner whirled: Jan Jones stood in the doorway, pistol in her extended fists. The firearm was rock solid, not a quiver. He whirled back, but Green’s shaking hand pointed the gun at Cynthia.
“She dies,” Green said, but didn’t pull the trigger.
“What’d you do with Noëlle?” Jan shot a warning glare. “Tanner. Don’t move a muscle.”
“Noëlle? Hmmm. Brunette, green eyes?” Green displayed his teeth. “Ate her for dinner.” His voice was phlegmy. Slowly, he brought the pistol up. It wobbled side to side, more than just the tremors. “We took turns with her for a week...” He coughed. Blood trickled over his chin. “And then…and then we stuck a spit through—”
Jan fired once more. Green grunted. He slid sideways, legs buckling. Tanner jumped for him. Green pulled the trigger. Three shots.
Jan gave a little gasp of surprise.
Tanner landed on Green and this time his elbow drove home. Green’s eyes rolled up, the gun falling, and Tanner grabbed it and turned, leaden feet barely able to move, reaching, reaching for Jan as she began to fold, only her grip on the doorway keeping her upright.
“I’ve got you,” he said, seeing the dark, obscene blotch high on the center of her shirt.
She smiled, cerulean eyes clear and happy. “Yes, you do,” she said, and crumpled.
Tanner eased her down, fumbled the phone out and swiped it on. No bars. He scrambled outside, seeing bars pop up only when he was standing upright ten feet from Bud Cobb’s sprawled corpse. He’d been shot in the back of the head. Uncle Stan, cleaning up loose ends.
Tanner dialed Omega. Told night duty his coordinates and bare facts, and ordered him to re-route the team. “One woman seriously wounded, gunshot to chest, medevac required.”
He dove back inside, failed to find Green’s pulse, leaped to Cynthia and ripped off the duct tape. As she whooped in air, he worked his penknife along the wrappings.
“Listen to me,” he said. No response. He slapped her face. Her eyes focused. Barely rational.
“Green’s dead. So’s the stupid one.” She shuddered, made a noise deep in her throat. “Agostino’s out for now. A good guy’s shot.” He peeled layers back. She was naked, stinking, marks everywhere. He freed her arms, handed her the knife. Took off his jacket. “Finish. Put on the jacket. Go outside. You’ll see a brushfire. There’s police there. Get help.”
She nodded and, whimpering, sawed clumsily at her bindings. Tanner whirled away, back to Jan. She lay as he’d left her. Panic speared him; he sank to his knees.
***
He tried not to see the red-rimmed hole in her shirt. She breathed in deep jerks of her diaphragm. Each breath made her groan.
“Hey. We’re gonna get you all the help you need.” He cleared his throat, but the lump wouldn’t budge. “Jan. Sweetheart. You’ll be okay.”
Screaming madly, trailing strips of plastic, Cynthia Voight blundered past them like a long-dead thing crawling from a grave.
“Jan,” he whispered, patting her cheek. “January Jones. Open your eyes, sweetheart. Let me see those beautiful blues.”
“Carl...” Her lids fluttered open. “What...?” Awareness came back in a rush and she winced. “Jeez...hurts.”
“You got shot.” His voice cracked on that last word. The world whirled as he bent down to pick her up. He didn’t remember her being so heavy.
Her eyes widened. “Feels like I got trampled...by a damn elephant.” She swallowed, coughed. “Oh, Jesus…hurts,” she groaned. “I feel bad... that woman...she okay?”
“She’s getting the ambulance.” He got on one knee, slipped his arms under her. Tried to lift. Couldn’t. “This isn’t easy to find.”
“I managed just fine...”
“Yeah.” He kissed her cheek as he hefted, trying to find an angle to raise her. Everything went fuzzy. “But you’re a wonder woman.”
“Agostino? Did he get shot? Tell...me yes.”
He glanced at the crumpled figure: not moving. “Be a long while before he bothers anyone.” Which way was up? He strained, not believing she wouldn’t budge.
“Shot. Am I...?” Terror in her eyes. “Am I going to...” She swallowed.
“Nah. You’ll be fine. As frog’s hairs.”
“Everything hurts.”
“Ambulance’ll be here shortly. Don’t worry about a thing.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you…lying to me?”
“Scout’s honor.” He kissed her forehead, rested his cheek against her temple. Heard the constriction as she breathed.
“I’ll be okay.” Relief. She relaxed. “Okay...”
He felt her muscles go slack and panic battered through him. Not yet, not yet!
“Stay with me, Jan.” He couldn’t keep the plea from his voice. “They’ll be here any minute and we’ll get you to the ER and—”
She hauled in a breath. “Noëlle. What he said...”
“Lies. We’ll try to find her. Stay tuned.” Please, dammit, stay tuned.
Fire blazed through his side as he finally got her off the floor. Panting, afraid he’d drop her, waves of pain weakening him, he turned to the door. She rested her head on his shoulder.
“Green...bastard.”
“You got him. He’s dead.”
“Good.” She coughed, groaned. “Can you...scuba dive?”
What? He staggered through the door on rubbery legs. The steps looked impossibly high. He raised one leg, swung it up and forward.
“Can I scuba dive? Sure.”
Breathless. He transferred his weight, brought the other leg up, up, up. Second step. Leaned into it, almost fell.
“Want to learn.” She coughed again and he looked down, saw the blood on her chin.
“I know the place,” he said. “Small island…Bahamas. Great…dive sites. Wall diving, one goes down...almost a mile—”
“Skip that one.” She spoke around a throat obstruction. He made it up the step, now had to get up the impossible next. He kept talking.
“There’s a wreck, from the Spanish American war.” He tried to catch his breath. No dice. “Sound good?”
“Fab...fabulous...”
The ground rose up as his knees folded. He twisted in time to keep Jan from hitting the wall. With his remaining muscle power, he pulled her close. Kept talking through a cotton-filled mouth.
“We’ll go there…day you get out…got a friend has a small plane…I’ll borrow it.”
“Sounds...great...”
Her face was the color of the cement, her skin cool and damp: shock. She shuddered. How long did she have? How long did they have? He bent closer, trying to ignore the bolts of pain, the waves of dizziness, the rising nausea.
“We’ll do shallow dives,” he said. “No big sharks sites. Less you want to. I’ll do anything you want, honey. Leap tall buildings...”
“Wish you could...get the stitch out of my...” She tried to put her hand on her chest but stopped. “Oh my god, that hurts. Where...where am I shot?”
“Middle. Missed…everything important.”
He took her hand, so small, kissed her knuckles, rubbed his lips against her soft skin. A hair-thin trickle of blood slicked across her lower lip. She grimaced. Her teeth gleamed. White. No blood? Where, exactly, had she been hit? He fumbled at the front of her shirt, felt the wetness. The shirt wouldn’t come free. Could he work it up?
“Of course,” he said, smiling, smiling, smiling as he inched up her shirt, “we could go to Belize…great diving…you pick…how’s that? Belize, Bonaire…St. Lucia—”
“Bahamas,” she whispered. “Tanner, can I...get off this damn floor? I’m freezing.”
He didn’t correct her. Just cuddled her closer. Felt the blood seeping from her wick into his shirt. “I’ll just hold you, sweetheart, see if that’ll help.” He put his hand along her jaw, felt the tremors. Kissed her. She tried to kiss him back.
“Better?”
“Mmmm. Hey...am I bleeding?”
“Not much. You’ll be better in no time, January Jones. Then we’ll go drink…piña coladas. Make love all night…”
“All night?” Her voice was slow, breathless. “Aren’t we...too old for that?”
“Hell, no. Got years of that ahead of us.”
He was out of breath. Out of everything. Lights gleamed on the trees. He heard voices, feet pounding. Far away. Too far. A heavy rhythmic thudding. Medevac? Jan stiffened, blew out a gasp, relaxed with a tiny shudder. A great feeling of emptiness filled his middle.
He raised his face from hers, stared into the darkness. Lights arced in the branches. “Medic!” He shouted. “Medic!”
“Years,” Jan whispered. “I’d like that. A lot...”
“Me, too. And we’ll sit in sidewalk cafes and people-watch.”
He shouted again, held her closer and ran his hand along her arm. Voices nearing, bright lights arcing. He could see the blood, red on her chin. Fresh. He linked his fingers with hers.
“We’ll hold hands…and smooch and—”
And she went slack, boneless, and he pulled her close and felt her muscles release and—
“Medic,” a woman shouted. “Let’s have her, sir!”
Stunned, aching and dizzy, he was slow to react. A man hauled at his shoulder as gloved hands pressed Jan’s neck. Someone pulled her off his lap, out of his grasp. His arms flopped down.
“She’s gunshot,” he gasped. “Upper chest.”
“Looking for a pulse,” the medic said to her colleague.
Tanner tried to reach Jan, so still on the ground. He couldn’t move.
“Sir, get out of the way, sir.” The EMT did a double-take. “Sir, you’re bleeding.”
“Just a scratch. Tend to her. I’ll be fine.”
Speaking into his shoulder mic, the medic knelt at Jan’s side.
Tanner stared, believing and not believing they could reverse what he knew to be true. He’d held other dying people, held them and lied to them, sometimes even told them the truth, eased them out of life, he knew how it went. He knew she was lost to him. The two EMTs mumbled, and a multitude of radios crackled, people commanded and questioned.
Other people rushed past. Voices echoed. Everything was hazy. He blinked. Still misty, wobbly. The reek of gasoline, the dying whine of an ambulance, Agostino’s whimpers as he was muscled up the stairs…
“That’s the sonofabitch,” Cynthia Voight cried. A commotion, Cynthia weeping, Agostino’s frantic, stuttering voice trying to make it all go away. Tanner wanted to get up, go to Cynthia, or maybe to Jan, but everything faded.
A medic knelt at his side, asked him something. He stared dumbly. The medic lifted his shirt, yelled something about a gunshot. He pushed at the medic. Jan. He needed to…
“Tanner! Where are you?”
Athena. He pushed the EMT, got to his knees, pressed his hand to his side where fire gnawed and bloomed. Felt the wetness. Toppled over, everything going colorless, hollow, receding....so far...
But not before he heard the female EMT say, “Got a pulse! Let’s get her out of here.”