The Book Of Fate Part 41

"That's not security. It's a doorman with a sewn-on badge!"

"I'm talking about the cameras, Rogo. That's what they're afraid of-being seen! And no offense, but until you just blurted it to Dreidel, I probably would've been fine."

"Just go. Now!"

"Y'think?" I ask, pulling into an open spot for a quick three-point turn.

"Just turn the car around and get your a.s.s outta there before-!"

As I throw the car into reverse, there's a knock against the driver's-side window. Turning to my left, I spot the tip of a gun tapping against the gla.s.s.

O'Shea points his pistol right at me and raises his pointer finger to his lips.

"Tell them you're fine," O'Shea says, his voice m.u.f.fled through the window.

I stare at the gun. "L-Listen, Rogo-I'm fine," I say into the phone.

Rogo says something, but I can't hear him.

"Tell them you'll call back when you find someplace safe," O'Shea adds.

For a moment, I hesitate. O'Shea tightens his finger against the trigger.

"Rogo, I'll call you back when I find someplace safe."

I shut the phone. O'Shea rips open my car door.

"Nice to see you again," he says. "How was Key West?"

90.

Let's go, Wes. Out," O'Shea says, gripping the shoulder of my s.h.i.+rt and dragging me from the Subaru. As I stumble across the asphalt of the parking lot, I realize the car's still running. He doesn't care. He doesn't think this'll take long.

"Keep going . . . toward the fence," he adds, barely a step behind. His gun is no longer out in the open. But through the outline in his jacket pocket, it's still clearly pointed at me.

We head toward the back corner of the parking lot, where there's an opening in the tall shrubs that leads to a shaded dog run that runs parallel to the lot. The dog run is narrow and not too long. But tucked behind the shrubs, it'll keep us out of sight.

"So Key West," O'Shea says, still right behind me. "Your buddy Kenny says hi."

I glance over my shoulder just as we reach the two lampposts that flank the entrance to the dog run. O'Shea offers a smug grin, but the way his sandy-blond hair is matted to his head, he's had a tougher day than he's saying. The drizzle of rain looks like beads of sweat across his pug nose.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, turning back to face him.

He doesn't even bother calling me on it. "Where's the photo you took, Wes?"

"I told you, I don't-"

In a blur, his fist c.o.c.ks me in the face, jamming into my left eye and sending me cras.h.i.+ng to the muddy path. As I skid backward on my b.u.t.t through the damp gra.s.s, my whole eye socket's throbbing, like a just-rung bell.

"I know you have the photo. Hand it over, and you're free to go."

"It-it's in the glove compartment," I say, pointing to the car with one hand and holding my eye with the other.

He glances back at the Subaru just as two more cars glide into the parking lot. Their headlights are on, slicing through the early darkness and turning the light drizzle into tiny fireworks that flicker in the distance. Fellow tenants coming home from their day's work. Planting his foot on my shoulder, O'Shea studies the entire scene like he's reading someone's palm.

Without a word, he reaches down, grips the front of my s.h.i.+rt, and pulls me to my feet. Even before I get my balance, he whips me around, and I crash chest-first into the nearest tree. My cheek sc.r.a.pes against the bark, momentarily forcing me to forget the pain in my eye.

Behind me, O'Shea kicks my legs apart and starts frisking through my pockets, tossing the contents to the ground: wallet, house keys, the folded-up sheet of paper with Manning's daily schedule on it.

"What're you doing?" I ask as he pats my chest and works his way down my legs. "I told you it's in the glove compar-"

There's a soft crackle as his fingers pat my ankle.

I look down at him. He looks up at me.

I try to fight free of his grip, but he's too strong. Choking my ankle, he hikes up my pant leg, revealing the glossy black-and-white photo that's curled around my s.h.i.+n, the top half of it sticking out of my sock.

Enraged, O'Shea rips it free and shoves me aside. His anger swells as he stares down at the speedway photo of Micah, crumpling the corner of it in his hand-but just as quickly, he finds his calm and catches his breath. Relieved that he's not in it, he locks back on me. The fact I'm still alive means the photo isn't the only thing he's here for.

"Where's Lisbeth?" he asks.

"We had a disagreement."

"But she still let you use her car? Sounds like she's being plenty helpful."

"If you want to know if she's writing a story-"

"I want to know where she is, Wes. Now. And don't say I don't know. I don't know."

"But I don-"

"Don't say I don't know!" he shouts, pulling his gun and pointing it directly at my face. Lowering his voice, he adds, "I know you were speaking to her about the crossword. Now-"

There's a crack of broken sticks and a jingle that sounds like Christmas bells. Behind O'Shea, through the opening that leads to the parking lot, a short woman in a pin-striped business suit shakes a metal dog leash as she leads her fluffy beach-colored c.o.c.ker spaniel through the entrance of the dog run.

Before the woman even realizes what's happening, O'Shea crosses his arms, hiding his gun under his armpit.

"Sorry," the woman says, laughing nervously as she ducks down and cuts between us. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

"No problem at all," O'Shea replies, turning just enough that she never gets a clear look at his face. "We're just waiting for our dogs to come back-they love running down to the end."

The woman nods, glancing back just long enough to see that neither of us is carrying a leash. Quickly turning away and pretending not to notice, she follows her dog's lead as she's tugged to a small patch of gra.s.s about ten feet away.

I'm tempted to run. She's a perfect distraction-and a witness. But as O'Shea lowers his chin and his hazel eyes disappear in the darkness of his brow, I hear the message loud and clear. If I make a move, he'll kill her too.

"Good girl, Murphy-there you go," the woman says, tugging the dog back between us and reentering the parking lot. For a full minute, we watch her from behind as she crosses the lot and heads for the back door of the building. The woman looks at her dog, at her watch, for her keys-but to her credit, she never looks back. With a faint crack, the metal door to the building slams, and the woman disappears. O'Shea's arms unfold, and his gun goes right back to my face.

"Sorry, Wes," O'Shea says as he pulls back the hammer of his gun. "This is gonna sting."

"Wait . . . what're you doing?" I ask, stumbling backward into a nearby tree.

The light rain taps against his face, but he barely notices. His fair skin s.h.i.+nes with a yellow glow in the darkness.

"O'Shea, if you do this . . . the investigation they'll open: You'll never be able to cover it up."

O'Shea grins as his finger tightens on the trigger. "Funny. That's what they said to us last ti-"

Pop, pop, pop.

The sound hiccups through the air. My body goes cold. Not from pain. From the sound. Pop, pop, pop Pop, pop, pop-an echo from the past-firing now.

Across from me, O'Shea, a look of angry surprise frozen on his face, shudders and s.h.i.+fts, cras.h.i.+ng backward into the lamppost. He slaps his shoulder like he's slapping a bug bite. His knees start to buckle. His head dips slightly to the side. Still, it's not until I spot the blood coming from his shoulder that I even realize he's been shot. His blood looks black in the dim light as it runs down his suit.

"Nuuh!" O'Shea grunts as his head slams back into the lamppost. His gun drops to the muddy ground. The way he's teetering and leaning on the lightpost, he's about to follow. Behind me, there's another crunch of broken sticks. Before I even register the sound, a tall blurred shadow in a black windbreaker races past me, right for O'Shea.

"Move, Wes! Move! Move!" the shadow shouts, ramming his forearm into my back and shoving me out of the way. But as I slip on the gra.s.s and fight for my own balance, there's no mistaking that voice. The voice from Malaysia . . . from the warning on my phone . . .

Boyle.

91.

Wes, get the h.e.l.l out of here! Now!" Boyle hisses, his gun pointed at O'Shea. A wisp of smoke twirls from the barrel.

Sliding to the ground with his back against the lamppost, O'Shea crumples to his knees. Fighting to stand up, he doesn't get anywhere. He's already in shock. Taking no chances, Boyle rushes in and jams the barrel of his gun against O'Shea's head. "Where's Micah?" he demands.

Down on his knees, O'Shea grits his teeth in obvious pain. "You finally found his name, huh? I told him this wou-"

"I'm asking you one more time," Boyle threatens. Moving the gun from O'Shea's head, he jabs the barrel into the wound in O'Shea's shoulder. O'Shea tries to scream, but Boyle puts his hand over O'Shea's mouth. "Last time, O'Shea! Where's he hiding?" Pulling back the hammer, he digs his gun into O'Shea's wound.

O'Shea's body shakes as he tries to speak. Boyle lets go of his mouth. "H-He's dead," O'Shea growls, more p.i.s.sed than ever.

"Who did it? You or The Roman?"

When O'Shea hesitates, Boyle twists the gun even deeper. "M-M-Me . . ." O'Shea grunts, his eyes wild like an animal's. "Just like I'll do with y-"

Boyle doesn't give him the chance, pulling the trigger and shooting him through the same wound. There's a m.u.f.fled pop and a splat as a hunk of flesh explodes out the back of his shoulder. The pain's so intense, O'Shea doesn't even have time to scream. His eyes roll back. His arms go slack.

Crumpling like a sack of pennies, O'Shea rag-dolls forward. The instant he hits the dirt, Boyle's all over him, pulling O'Shea's hands behind his back and snapping his wrists into plastic flex cuffs that Boyle's pulled from his pocket.

"Wh-What're you doing here?" I ask, barely catching my breath.

With a loud zzzip zzzip, the cuffs clench, locking O'Shea's wrists behind his back. If Boyle wanted him dead, he'd fire another shot. But the way he's wrapping him up, he clearly wants something else. What's more amazing is the way Boyle moves-patting down O'Shea's body, working so fast . . . the way his triceps tense underneath his windbreaker . . . he's been training for this.

"Wes, I told you to leave!" Boyle shouts, finally turning my way.

It's the first time I get a good look at his eyes. Even in the dim light, they glow like a cat's. Brown with a splash of blue.

In the distance, a car door slams with a metal chunk. chunk. Boyle jerks to the left, following the sound. The tall shrubs block his view, but the way he freezes, leaning in to listen . . . like he knows someone's coming. Boyle jerks to the left, following the sound. The tall shrubs block his view, but the way he freezes, leaning in to listen . . . like he knows someone's coming.

"We gotta go!" he insists, suddenly frantic as he pulls O'Shea's gun from the mud and pockets it.

"How'd you know I'd be here?"

Refusing to answer, he furiously rolls the unconscious O'Shea like a log, flipping him on his back. "Help me get him up!" Boyle demands.

Without even thinking, I move in, grabbing O'Shea under his left armpit. Boyle grabs the right.

"Were you following me?" I add as we lug O'Shea to his feet.

Boyle ignores the question, cutting in front of O'Shea and dropping to one knee. As O'Shea topples forward, Boyle hoists his shoulder under O'Shea's midsection, boosting him up like he's lugging an old rolled-up carpet.

"I asked you a-"

"I heard you, Wes. Get out of my way." He tries to step around me. I sidestep, staying in front of him.

"You were were following me? Is that to track them down or-?" following me? Is that to track them down or-?"

"Are you paying attention, Wes? Nico can be here any minute!"

I stumble at the words. My mouth goes dry, and I swear, every sweat gland in my body opens.

"Now get the h.e.l.l out of here before you get both of us killed!" Shaking his head, Boyle rushes around me with O'Shea on his shoulder. I spin back and watch as he plows down to the end of the dog run.

"Where're you taking him?"

"Don't be stupid!" he calls out, shooting me one last look and making sure I get the point. "There'll be time for chatting later."

In the distance, as he turns away from me, Boyle's black windbreaker camouflages everything but his bald head. Draped over his shoulder, it's the same for O'Shea, whose pale neck s.h.i.+nes as his head dangles toward the ground. Boyle yells something else, but I can't hear it. At the clip they're going down the tree-lined path, they quickly fade in the darkness. The sun's already set. And I'm once again standing in silence. In shock. All alone.

Behind me, a car door slams in the parking lot. On my left, a cricket's chirp scratches the night air. The drizzle continues and another twig cracks. Then another. It's more than enough.

Spinning back toward the parking lot, I run as fast as I can. Another car door slams. This one's quiet-like it's on the very far end of the lot. No time to take chances. Scooping up my wallet, house keys, and the photo, I dart between the lampposts, back to the parking lot. As I cut between two cars, no one's there.

After stuffing my wallet back into my pocket-and the photo back inside the ankle of my sock-I run through the lot, searching row by row and scanning the hood of each car. Along every metal roof, the overhead lamps cast a circular reflection that ripples with each raindrop. Still no one in sight. It doesn't make me feel any safer. If Boyle's been following me the whole time, then anyone cou- No, don't even think about it.

s.h.i.+fting into a full sprint, I plow toward Lisbeth's car, rip open the door, and practically dive into the driver's seat. The car's still running. My phone's still sitting on the armrest.