THIRTY-THREE

•   •   •

The next morning Tiffany stood by the glass door that led to a back deck overlooking the Warwick River. The water moved lazily toward the bigger Choptank, where it would eventually empty into the Chesapeake. A couple of mallards paddled along the far bank, where a lone great blue heron fished for its breakfast. Across the river an abandoned home sat quietly, the grass around it at least knee-high. A light breeze bent the grass at a subtle angle. The sky was clear and growing lighter shades of blue by the minute.

Jack entered the living room and sat on the sofa. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Tiffany turned. “I could live here. It’s so peaceful and feels so secluded. You fish?”

“Nah. Not anymore. I used to, many years ago. Even had a small boat I’d take out on the lake. Fishing is such a metaphor for life. I’d spend hours out there, just sitting and waiting, thinking, being patient, praying.”

“Praying?” Tiffany knew Jack was religious —her dad had talked about it —but for some reason she just couldn’t see Jack Calloway praying.

“Yeah. You ever talk to God?”

“Is that what you call it?”

“That’s what it is.”

“I always thought of praying as something priests do, something done at the front of fancy churches.” She looked out the door again. The heron was gone and the mallards had moved farther upriver.

Jack tilted his head to one side and eyed Tiffany like a professor would a curious student. “You can talk to God anywhere and at any time. His ears are always open.”

Tiffany watched the ducks paddle upstream and all but the very tail end of them disappear beneath the glassy surface of the river. “Well, I guess if I ever have anything to say to him, it’s nice to know he’s listening, huh? That’s more than I can say for a lot of the guys I’ve known.”

“He’s not like anyone you’ve known before. He wants you to talk to him. He cares about what’s going on in your life.”

She turned away and sat in an overstuffed chair that faced the door. She pulled her knees to her chest. “Does he? ’Cause there’s some pretty wild stuff going on right now.”

“He knows.” Jack stood and walked to the glass door. He stared at the river for a long time, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, eyes following the movements of the waterfowl. He turned his head slightly toward Tiffany. “He knows you better than you know yourself. That’s a scary thought if you think about it.” He paused and chewed the inside of his cheek. “And comforting in a way, don’t you think?”

Across the river, in the tall grass, a flash of light caught Tiffany’s eye. “Jack —”

Jack turned even as the glass door popped and shards sprayed like they were hit with a baseball bat. He spun to his left and hit the floor hard next to the sofa.

Immediately Jack’s shirt turned deep red around the right side of his chest and shoulder. He winced and rolled to the wall.

Tiffany froze, unable to move her legs. She saw what had just happened, but it had yet to fully register in her brain. Jack had been shot. Jack. Had. Been. Shot.

“Tiffany!” Jack hollered in a strained voice. “Get out of here.” He reached behind his back with his left hand and pulled out a pistol.

She dropped to her knees. “I can’t leave you. Not like this.”

“Go. Take the truck and get out of here. Get my laptop and take it with you.”

Her chest tightened; her arms began to shake. A lump the size of a grapefruit had lodged itself in her throat. “No. I can’t.”

Sweat beaded on Jack’s forehead, cheeks, and chin. His breaths were short and labored. The color had drained from his face and his lips had already turned an odd shade of blue. The hand in which he held the gun shivered. He wheezed when he spoke. “You have to. Stop Patrick. That’s it. Stop him.”

She didn’t want to leave him, but she knew it was the only way.

“I’ll be okay,” he said, but she knew he wouldn’t be. He needed to go to a hospital. Jack winced again. “Listen.” His voice was calm now, clear. “I’ve been shot before. I know how this goes. This isn’t going to kill me. I’ll get help from a neighbor, get to a hospital. Okay? I’ll be all right. You need to get out of here before the cops show up.” He pulled up his pant leg and retrieved another handgun from an ankle holster. Handing it to her, he said, “Take this. And use it if you have to.”

She took the gun. She still had her own in her backpack, but when being chased by trained assassins, one can never have too many handguns. She kissed his forehead and ran for the front door, grabbing Jack’s computer bag and her backpack on the way. She’d go to Kill Devil Hills by herself and stop Jedidiah Patrick from assassinating the vice president. How, she had no idea. She had no plan. She had two guns, a laptop, and a location. That was it.

•   •   •

Tiffany Stockton was a good driver, even a great driver. She’d never gotten into an accident, was never cited for a traffic violation of any kind, never received even so much as a parking ticket. She was generally courteous and cautious on the road and normally drove within the posted speed limit.

But now Tiffany was not that driver. Behind the wheel of the Ford F-250, she had the pedal to the floorboard, had already blown through two stop signs, cut off an elderly woman in a Buick, and demolished every speed limit.

And still the Volvo trailed her.

After exiting the condo, she’d hopped into the truck, thrown the laptop bag and her backpack onto the passenger seat, and laid down rubber getting out of the small parking lot. But as soon as she hit the main street going through Secretary, a Volvo SUV appeared in her rearview mirror. They had to have been waiting for her. She’d hit a couple side roads and made a U-turn to head south, hoping that within the confines of the small town she could lose her pursuer, but whoever was behind the wheel proved to be a more competent and patient driver than she’d wished for.

Going seventy in a forty-five, she glanced in the mirror again. The Volvo hung back at a safe distance. It was a newer model, expensive and fast, and could have caught her minutes ago, but it seemed content to just follow. She slowed and the Volvo slowed. Her hands were sweaty on the wheel; her heart thudded in her chest. She weaved through the other traffic on the road, still surpassing the speed limit by fifteen miles per hour. She had to keep heading south, keep the sun to her left; she had to get to North Carolina.

Ten miles later the Volvo made a move. The driver must have grown impatient and tired of following. It quickly closed the gap between the two vehicles and tailed her by only a few feet. It flashed its lights as if it wanted Tiffany to pull over. Tiffany ignored the lights and depressed the gas pedal. The truck’s engine whined louder and the speedometer climbed to seventy-five again. Tiffany glanced in the mirror often but kept an eye on the road, not only for other travelers but for police cruisers as well. The last thing she needed was for the state police to join the chase. She didn’t know who the guys in the Volvo were or for whom they worked. They could be FBI or DHS, capable of convincing any local cop that she was a fugitive and under their jurisdiction. They would arrest her, take her to their lair, and torture information out of her.

Instinctively she slowed a little; the speedometer dipped below seventy, then sixty-five, then to sixty. The speed limit was fifty along this stretch, so no cop would tag her for doing just ten over that.

In response, the Volvo also slowed. Its front bumper was just inches from the rear of the Ford, though. The windshield of the Volvo was tinted, so Tiffany couldn’t see the driver or passengers, if there were any. She couldn’t be sure if it was a lone pursuer or a car full of armed men.

Her question was answered when a man dressed in a black long-sleeved T-shirt poked his head out of the passenger side window, then his arms. He held a pistol of some kind, big and black. He steadied himself against the window’s frame, pointed the gun at the truck so steadily that Tiffany could see the hole at the end of the barrel. Suddenly the rear window of the truck popped just to Tiffany’s right, over her shoulder. She flinched and screamed, and the truck swerved so severely she almost lost control of it.

After righting the truck on the road, she checked the mirror. The Volvo had dropped back to about twenty feet but quickly closed the gap again. There were no other vehicles along this stretch of road. On either side was marshland as far as she could see. Flat terrain, tall grass, standing water. She hit the gas and the truck accelerated to seventy-five again, but the Volvo wasn’t deterred at all; it maintained its close distance.

The man appeared again, his head, shoulders, arms sticking out of the passenger side. Gun in hand. Tiffany swerved on the road, right to left and back again. A moving target was always harder to hit. She accelerated faster, too, pushing the truck to eighty miles per hour.

Another shot was fired and this one hit the window frame above the rear window. She had to do something different. Her pursuer was not going to give up until he’d hit his mark and she was limp behind the wheel and the truck was in the marsh up to its running boards in mud.

She had an idea that just might work. It was a long shot, but maybe her only shot. She lifted her foot from the accelerator and allowed the truck to slow to seventy, keeping it centered in her lane. As soon as the man emerged from the window, she accelerated again. The Volvo reacted and also accelerated.

When the front bumper of the Volvo was so close she could no longer see it in the rearview mirror, she yanked the wheel to the left, pulling the truck into the left lane. A moment later she hit the brake. The Ford slowed and the Volvo, unable to react quickly enough, appeared beside her. Quickly Tiffany stomped on the gas and jerked the wheel to the right.

The F-250 had the Volvo by at least a thousand pounds. The vehicles collided with an awful clash and scrape of metal. Tiffany leaned against the wheel as the truck pushed the Volvo to the road’s shoulder and then to the marshy land beyond.

Just before her own tires sank into the muck, Tiffany broke away, swerving a bit until she found the road again. She looked in the mirror and saw the Volvo halfway up its tires in water and mud. She let out a scream and hit the steering wheel. Her hands shook uncontrollably; her heart was in her throat. She slowed the truck to fifty-five and drew in a deep, shuddered breath.

Now to find a different vehicle.