Long Lost (Myron Bolitar) (22 page)

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Authors: Harlan Coben

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BOOK: Long Lost (Myron Bolitar)
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Three minutes.
My cell phone rang. The caller ID showed me that it was Terese’s phone again. I said a tentative hello.
“We know you are outside,” the refined voice said. “You have ten seconds to walk through that door with your hands up or I shoot one of these fine ladies in the head. One, two . . .”
“I’m coming.”
“Three, four . . .”
No choice. I jumped up from my crouch and sprinted to the door.
“Five, six, seven . . .”
“Don’t hurt them, I’m almost there.”
Don’t hurt them. Duh. But what else was there to say?
I turned the knob. It was unlocked. The door opened. I stepped inside.
The refined voice: “I said, hands up.”
I put my hands high in the air. The man in the mug shot stood across the room from me. He had white tape across his face. His eyes were the black you get from a broken nose. I would have taken some satisfaction in that, but for one thing, he had a gun in his hand. For another, Terese and Karen were on their knees in front of him, hands behind their backs, facing me. They both looked relatively unharmed.
I glanced left and right. Two more men, both with guns trained on my head.
No sign of the blond girl.
I stayed perfectly still, hands up, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible. Win had to be close by now. Another minute or two. I needed to stall. I made eye contact with the man I’d fought with in Paris. I kept my tone even, controlled.
“Look, let’s talk, okay? There’s no reason—”
He put the gun against the back of Karen Tower’s head, smiled at me, and pulled the trigger.
There was a deafening sound, a small spurt of red, absolute stillness; a moment of suspended animation followed, and then Karen’s body dropped to the floor like a marionette with her strings cut. Terese screamed. Maybe I screamed too.
The man began to swing the gun toward Terese.
OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod . . .
“No!”
Instinct took over and it was a mantra: Save Terese. I dived, literally as though I were in a pool, toward them. Bullets from the two guys on my left and right rang out, but they had made the common mistake of covering me by pointing their guns at my head. Their aim ended up being too high. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Terese rolling away as he started training the gun on her.
Had to move faster.
I was trying to do several things at once: keep low, avoid bullets, get across the room, pull the gun from my leg holster, kill the bastard. I was closing the gap. Zigzagging would have been the preferred route here, but there was no time. The mantra kept ringing in my head: Save Terese. I had to get to him before he pulled the trigger again.
I screamed louder, not out of fear or pain, but to draw his attention, to make him at least hesitate or turn toward me—anything to divert, for even a half second, his goal of shooting Terese.
I was getting closer.
Time was doing the in ’n’ out thing. Probably a second, maybe two, had passed since Karen’s execution. That was all. And now, with no time to think or plan, I was nearly on him.
But I was going to be too late. I could see that now. I reached out, as if I could cover the distance that way. I couldn’t. I was still too far away.
He pulled the trigger again.
Another shot rang out. Terese went down.
My scream turned into a guttural cry of anguish. A hand reached into my chest and crushed my heart. I kept moving forward, even as he turned the gun toward me. Fear was gone—I moved on pure, instinctive hatred. The gun was almost pointed in my direction, almost on me, when I ducked low and slammed into his waist. He fired off another bullet, but it went wild.
I drove him hard toward the wall, sweeping him off his feet. He swung the butt of the gun down on my back. In some other world at some other time, it might have hurt, but right now, the blow had all the impact of a mosquito bite. I was beyond pain, beyond caring. We landed hard. I let him go, scooting away, trying to get a little distance so I could go for the weapon in my ankle holster.
That was a mistake.
I was so consumed with pulling out my gun, with killing the bastard, that I nearly forgot that there were two other armed adversaries in the room. The man who’d been on my right was running toward me, his weapon raised. I jumped back as he fired, but again it was too late.
The bullet hit me.
Hot pain. I could actually feel the hot metal rip into my body, stealing my breath, knocking me flat on my back. The man aimed again, but another shot rang out, striking the man in the neck with such force it nearly decapitated him. I looked past the fallen corpse, but I already knew.
Win had arrived.
The other man, the guy who’d been on my left, turned just in time to see Win spin and pull the trigger again. The big bullet hit him squarely in the face, and his head exploded. I looked over at Terese. She wasn’t moving. The man in the mug shot—the man who had shot her—started running away, slipping into the drawing room. I heard more gunfire. I heard someone yell to freeze and stop. I ignored them. Somehow I crawled toward the drawing room. Blood poured off me. I couldn’t tell exactly, but I figured the bullet had landed somewhere near my stomach.
I clawed through the opening, not even checking to see if it was safe.
Move forward,
I thought.
Grab the bastard and kill him.
He was by the window. I was in pain and maybe delirious, but I reached out and grabbed his leg. He tried to kick me off, but there was no way. I dragged him down to the ground.
We wrestled, but he was no match for my rage. I gouged his eye with my thumb, weakening him. I grabbed his windpipe and started to squeeze. He started to flail, hitting me in the face and neck. I held on.
“Freeze! Drop it!”
Voices in the distance. Commotion. I wasn’t even sure they were real. More like something from the wind. Might be something I was hallucinating. The accent sounded American. Familiar even.
I still squeezed the windpipe.
“I said, freeze! Now! Let him go!”
Surrounded. Six, eight men, maybe more. Most with guns aimed at me.
My eyes met the killer’s. There was something mocking in them. I felt my hold slacken. I don’t know if it was the command to let him go or if the bullet wound was ebbing away my strength. My hand dropped off him. The killer coughed and sputtered and then he tried to take advantage.
He brought up his gun.
Just as I hoped.
I had pulled the small gun from my leg holster. I grabbed his wrist with my left hand.
The familiar American voice: “Don’t!”
But I didn’t really care if they shot me. Still holding his wrist, I took my gun, pushed it under his chin and fired. I felt something wet and sticky hit my face. Then I dropped the gun and fell on top of his still body.
Men, a lot of them from the feel of it, tackled me. Now that I had done what I had to, my power and will to live drained away. I let them turn me and cuff me and do whatever, but there was no need for restraints. The fight was out of me. They flipped me onto my back. I swiveled my head and looked at Terese’s still body. I felt a pain as enormous as any I had ever known consume me.
Her eyes were closed and soon, very soon, so were mine.
PART TWO
22
 
 
 
THIRSTY.
Sand in the throat. Eyes won’t open. Or maybe they do.
Total darkness.
Engine roar. I sense someone standing over me.
“Terese . . .”
I think I say it out loud, but I’m not sure.
 
 
 
NEXT snippet of memory: voices.
They seem very far away. I don’t understand any of the words. Sounds, that’s all. Something angry. It gets closer. Louder. In my ear now.
My eyes open. I see white.
The voice keeps repeating the same thing over and over.
Sounds like “Al-sabr wal-sayf.”
I don’t understand. Gibberish maybe. Or a foreign language. I don’t know.
“Al-sabr wal-sayf.”
Someone is shouting in my ear. My eyes squeeze shut. I want it to stop.
“Al-sabr wal-sayf.”
The voice is angry, incessant. I think I say I’m sorry.
“He doesn’t understand,” someone says.
Silence.
 
 
 
PAIN in my side.
“Terese . . . ,” I say again.
No reply.
Where am I?
I hear a voice again, but I can’t understand what it’s saying.
Feel alone, isolated. I’m lying down. I think I’m shaking.
 
 
 
“LET me explain the situation to you.”
I still can’t move. I try to open my mouth, but I can’t. Open my eyes. Blurry. Feels like my entire head is wrapped in thick, sticky cobwebs. I try to scrape the cobwebs away. They stay.
“You used to work for the government, didn’t you?”
Is the voice talking to me? I nod but stay very still.
“Then you know places like this exist. That they’ve always existed. You heard the rumors, at the very least.”
I never believed the rumors. Maybe after 9/11. But not before. I think I say no but that might just be in my head.
“Nobody knows where you are. Nobody will find you. We can keep you forever. We can kill you any time we please. Or we can let you go.”
Fingers around my bicep. More fingers around my wrist. Struggle but pointless. Feel a pinch in my arm. I can’t move. Can’t stop it. I remember when I was six my dad took me to the Kiwanis carnival on Northfield Avenue. Cheesy rides and attractions. The Madhouse. That was the name of one. Mirrors and giant clown heads and a horrible laugh track. Went in alone. I was a big boy, after all. Got lost and turned around and couldn’t find my way out. One of those clown heads jumped out at me. I started to cry. I spun around. Another giant clown head was right there, mocking me.
That was what this felt like.
I cried and spun around again. I called for my dad. He shouted my name, ran inside, knocked through a thin wall, found me, and made it okay.
Dad,
I think.
Dad will find me. Any second now.
But no one comes.
 
 
 
“HOW do you know Rick Collins?”
I tell the truth. Again. So exhausted.
“And how do you know Mohammad Matar?”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“You tried to kill him in Paris. Then you killed him before we grabbed you in London. Who sent you to kill him?”
“Nobody. He attacked me.”
I explain. Then something horrible happens to me, but I don’t know what it is.
I am walking. My hands are tied behind my back. Can’t see much, just small dots of light. A hand on either shoulder. They roughly pull me down.
Lying on my back.
Legs bound together. Belt tightened across my chest. Body lassoed to hard surface.
Can’t move at all.
Suddenly the dots of light are gone. I think I scream. I may be upside down. I’m not sure.
A giant, wet hand covers my face. Grabs my nose. Covers my mouth.
Can’t breathe. Try to flail. Arms tied. Legs bound.
Can’t move. Someone is holding my head. Can’t even turn it. The hand presses down harder on my face. No air.
Panic. I’m being smothered.
Try to inhale. My mouth opens. Inhale. Must inhale. Can’t. Water fills my throat and runs up my nose.

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