| |
HIS CAR SWERVED OFF the road, and smashed into a fire hydrant. A geyser of water spewed over the windshield.
Mr. Bleak roared, eyes wide and neck corded. He ignored the wound, felt no pain. His pulse pounded in his ears, and tunnel vision focused on September’s figure stumbling away.
Mr. Bleak grabbed his phone with one swollen hand, collected his go-bag, and staggered from the disabled car. A block away, he saw a familiar RV parked next to an old, beat-up truck. He paused in the shadow of a nearby house as a crowd gathered. Pulling up his coat collar to hide his bloody neck, he walked with confidence through the throng. In less than a minute, he reached the battered SUV, climbed inside, and found keys still in the ignition. And a gun in the glove box, just like the one he’d picked up at the cemetery. He’d always been lucky that way.
For the first time in his long career, he ran.
After working for the Wong family for two decades, he’d survived by following orders, leaving no trail, appearing immediately when summoned, and disappearing just as quickly. This time, Wong wouldn’t be happy. Instead of his usual clean job, he’d left a trail any wannabe CSI could follow. Nothing incriminated him, of course. But any extraneous link back to Wong wouldn’t be forgiven.
He drove just under the speed limit to the Heartland city limits, and made a call. He’d never risked so much before, but those at the other end of the line offered his only hope for damage control. Judge Southgate had made a similar call, and triggered Bleak’s activation. But Southgate had had no leverage, unlike himself. He literally knew where bodies were buried. Bleak only needed a buffer of a few hours delay to transfer his insurance—documentation only he controlled that protected him from contract termination—and the funds to put his retirement plan in place.
When the service answered, he recited his prepared spiel, waited for the voice to repeat the message, and disconnected. If successful, he’d know shortly.
Within minutes, he received a text with instructions. His relieved smile stretched painful burned skin, but he didn’t care. Relief was within his grasp. Rather than the expected instructions to return to the airport, he drove north as directed. In forty minutes, Bleak pulled into the designated spot to wait. A new, unmarked car with untraceable credentials in the glove box would be delivered shortly.
While he waited for the final text confirmation, Bleak wiped down the steering wheel with one of the gloves that no longer fit his swollen hands. He exited the old car—it stank of dog, an odor he now despised—and visited the lavatory. The shiny metal that served as a mirror offered only a shadowy look at the stab wound in the side of his neck. It had begun to throb, but no longer bled. He set his phone on the lip of the sink, and pulled wads of paper towels from the rack, soaked them in cold water, then dabbed his sore face. He stuck his hands under the cold water stream. The backs of his hands carried blackened tissue courtesy of Southgate’s final act. He’d since learned that Southgate’s daughter escaped the blaze. He didn’t know or care about the identity of the girl who died in her stead. Wrong place at the wrong time.
The door of the men’s room squeaked open. Bleak looked up just in time to recognize the blurry image standing behind him, holding an iridescent neon cane. He grabbed for his gun, but his sausage-size fingers fumbled and it dropped to the tile floor.
Wrong place and very wrong time.
“HELLO UNCLE DANNY.”
Charlie’s voice shook as she swung the cane again and again. She kept swinging until his teeth littered the bathroom and he lay still. She retrieved his gun, and hand shaking, finished the assignment. It was the only way Mrs. Wong agreed to help her.
Charlie texted a brief message on the phone she’d stolen from Teddy’s RV, and the reply came immediately. It directed her to the promised car, complete with new identity and access to funds courtesy of Uncle Danny.
With Sherlock beside her, Charlie drove away, anxious to begin a new life.
