Fatal Strike (30 page)

She stared at it, recoiling. “I can’t take that.”

He gave her an incredulous look. “Fucked if you won’t! Don’t tell me you’re going to get uptight about the stupid stuff? Now?”

“Thirty-eight thousand bucks? You call that stupid? You’ll need that money yourself. That’s a huge amount of money!”

He squeezed her hand again. “Lara,” he said. “I have lots of money. I’ve socked it away all over the place, more than I know how to spend. If I can’t spend it on the people I love, what the fuck good is it?”

She shook her head. So damned uncomfortable with it.

“If we get through whatever’s going to happen, and it runs out, I’ll just make more,” he said. “Read my lips. Not. An. Issue. Got it?”

She stared down, miserably, at the canvas bag he’d shoved beneath her hand. All that it represented, and all that it threatened.

She didn’t want his money. She wanted
him.
Always and forever, and this was a poor, poor trade. “I already owe you so much,” she said.

He reached up, touched her face. “I just wish it were more. And I owe you just as much, you know. You saved my ass, too.”

She snorted. “That is bullshit.”

“It’s true,” he said, stubbornly. He lifted his hand to touch her face, stroking her cheek slowly and hypnotically with the side of his index finger. “But we are light years past this conversation, you and I.”

She was lulled by his silken voice, the faint, rhythmic caress on her face. The unique mix of caustic irony and gentleness that was Miles. She turned her face, pressing it against his hand, like a cat.

He cupped her cheek in his palm, leaning closer. “You do know that everything I have is yours, right?” he asked, and this time, there was no irony in his voice at all. “Till the end of time. Did you get that memo, in all the excitement? Or do we need to play catch-up?”

She squeezed her wet eyes shut and shook her head.

“I’m not just talking about money. I’m talking all of it. Heart, soul, body. All my hopes for the future. The places I want to see with you, the stories we’ll tell, our adventures together. The meals we’ll cook, the walks, the drives. All the nights together, all the mornings. Coffee and toast, conversations and jokes. All the winters and the springs and the summers and the falls. For as long as we get. All yours, Lara.”

She pressed her hand to her mouth. It burned, inside her. A sweet and awful twisting pain, that vision which could never exist.

He reached up with ritual slowness, and brushed her tears away.

“Oh, for God’s sake, stop it,” she forced out through trembling lips. “Don’t make me cry. You’re killing me.”

He pulled her hand up. Pressed her knuckles to his lips, and then to his forehead. Bowing his head and hiding his own face.

She lost it for a while, but fought until she could drag in a breath without hitching and gurgling. She blew her nose into her napkin. Miles wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and gave the bag another push. “Put it in your bag,” he said. “Don’t leave it lying around.”

She took it, still hesitating. “Did you take enough to rent a car?”

“I have plenty,” he assured her gently.

The waitress arrived with their food, so they pulled themselves together. She got down more than half of the chili and cornbread, but even Miles seemed to have trouble getting around his sandwich today.

“Will you give me your phone number?” she asked.

He shook his head. “You don’t need the phone to contact me,” he said. “And if you can’t reach me that way, then the phone will be useless in any case. Come on, your bus is leaving soon.”

The station was a small one, just a few blocks away, next to a railroad track. Miles stayed way back, careful not to watch or listen as she bought her ticket and tucked it inside her jacket.

He walked her over, and held her, breathlessly tight, arms shaking, outside the gaping door of the bus. The driver finally leaned out, frowning. “All aboard,” he bawled.

She climbed on, clutching her bag. She couldn’t look away from his eyes. Breaking that eye contact would rip something vital out of her.

She shouldn’t have agreed to this. She saw his logic, she followed his reasoning, but only with her head. Not with her heart.

The bus lumbered away. She craned her neck back, staring at his tall, broad, graceful body, the coat blowing back like an old-fashioned greatcoat. His hair lifted in the wind. His love for her shone from his eyes. She clung to the sight of him. Every second she could look at him was a desperate gulp of air.

And she was about to dive underwater.

 

Tearful farewells played hell with the grinding war machine.

Miles was a mess when her bus turned the corner. Luckily for him, icy algorithms and laser sharp hyper-functioning wits were not required to buzz around on a motorcycle and look for a car rental. He was so grateful for the alternative identity the McCloud Crowd had given him on his thirtieth birthday. A costly, blatantly illegal gift. To think he’d laughed in their faces at the time. Hah. Payback.

Petrie said that they had recovered a Glock 23 revolver from a dumpster right near the car that held Barlow’s body. His gun. As if he’d be stupid enough to murder a cop and then dispose of the gun in a dumpster at the scene. Then again, normal people did dumb things in the aftermath of committing violent crimes. He was a long way from normal now. Farther than he’d ever dreamed he’d get.

In any case, the impending manhunt just accelerated his agenda. He wished he could go to the McCloud Crowd, with their experience, their confidence, their ferocious expertise, like he’d been doing ever since they’d discovered each other years ago. But the time for that was past. He’d gotten them all into this fucking tarpit. He’d put their young, vulnerable families at risk. Now he had to put it right.

One fatal strike, fast and hard. As far from everyone that could be used against him as possible. Lara, the McCloud Crowd and their progeny, his parents, hell, even Cindy was probably in danger, if they’d fingered Jeannie. He’d lived with her for years, and followed her around for years before that. He hoped Erin had warned her.

He rented a car with the alternate driver’s license, the matching credit card. Rain poured down. It would take hours to get to Blaine. He found some mindless rock on the radio to zone out to, and hit the road.

His thoughts kept on drifting rebelliously over to that fantasy he’d spun for Lara of their life together. The days and the nights, the winters and the summers. Jesus, he had to stop that self-indulgent shit. He wasn’t coming out of this clusterfuck with his life intact. He’d be lucky to survive at all. Or not. Maximum security prison, or death row. Neither of them could be characterized as lucky. Oregon had the death penalty on the books, though they’d never used it.

Maybe they’d make a special exception for dickheads like him, who murdered cops and billionaire philanthropists.

It occurred to him that with his developing abilities, it was quite possible that no prison could hold him unless he chose to be held.

That idea did not make him any happier. Life as a fugitive. Great.

He blew out a hard, sharp breath. Time to rev up the war machine and do the hard thing. As far as it took. Even if he had to forget who he was. Become something else entirely.

He would finish that bastard before they ran him down.

 

It was pissing rain and dark when Lara got to the Portland bus depot. She roused herself from her contemplation of the raindrops coursing sideways on the bus window, the streaks and blurs of colored light, to scoop up her bag. She had to change buses again. The money bag was belted around her waist, since it made her flipping nervous, carrying thirteen thousand bucks around in a tatty old gym bag, and the canvas was thick and uncomfortably scratchy against her skin.

The bus station blew her mind. It was the first time she’d had to deal with a big, crowded public place since Miles had pulled her out of the rat hole, and it was overwhelming. Intense echoing noise, the swirling crush of fast-moving people, the garish colors of the candy stands and the magazine racks, the juice and soda machines. So much blazing fluorescent light. She was grateful for the sunglasses.

She peered at her ticket, eyes watering. Her eyes were a problem. She was nearsighted, and had worn contacts way back when. A million years ago, the pre-rat hole, pre–psi-max Lara Kirk. A woman she barely remembered. They’d abducted her in the night, and she’d been without vision correction ever since. Not that it had mattered in her cell. It sure mattered now, though. Her blurry vision made her feel vulnerable and naked. Like she needed any more of that.

She had to walk all the way over to right under the monitor, take the sunglasses off and peer up, squinting for a long time to figure out the numbers, the destinations, the gates.

hey u howzitgoing popped up on her internal screen.

It literally weakened her knees. She was flooded with warmth and unreasonable joy. Edged with terror, of course.

im good everything proceeding as planned and u?

still driving. ways 2 go still. miss u

ME 2

did u eat? he demanded, predictably enough.

She laughed out loud, and the woman standing next to her to check the monitors gave her a nervous glance and edged away.

not yet still digesting the diner lunch

bullshit its been hours go eat smthng NOW

fine fine dont worry will do

NOW

dont text and drive u meathead its dangerous

hah There was a pause, and she could practically hear him snickering in her mind’s ear. He went on. L8r then love u

b careful she replied. I love u 2

always ttyl

She stayed that way, staring blindly up at the monitor for a minute or two, just reading and re-reading that virtual transcript in her head. Milking it for every little shining drop of comfort it could give her.

But it was time to move. Her second bus had been late, delayed by heavy rain, and it had been a tight connection to begin with. A trip to the bathroom, a bottle of apple juice, a bag of roasted cashews, not because she was hungry, but just because fulfilling her promise to him made her feel closer to him. And then it was time to hustle to her gate.

It was just a couple of minutes before boarding time, but evidently the bus wasn’t going to be very full. There was hardly anyone waiting, just an elderly couple dozing on the bench, and a pair of teenagers wrapped around each other. The driver had not arrived yet. Maybe this bus was delayed, too. Maybe she’d get another seat to herself. She was not up for friendly chatting.

“Lara? Holy shit, babe! Is that you?”

She spun around with a squeak of alarm, and found herself face to face with a big, burly, blond guy in a long, cable knit sweater and a huge, draped, knit scarf. Bearded, with dreads and a big, toothy smile. His eyebrows and lashes were so white, they were invisible, and his face was very pink. She’d never seen him before in her life.

She backed away. “Excuse me? Who are you?”

“Oh, come on! Don’t you remember the rave on the beach at Phuket? I’m not surprised if you don’t remember. You were pretty fucked up that night. But I guarantee . . . you had a real good time.” He leered, leaning closer. “Man, girl, you really know how to party.”

She backed away further, and glanced around, her inner alarm bells shrilling. The kids were still kissing, the old couple still dozing. “No. You’re mistaking me for someone else,” she said very loudly. “I’ve never been to Phuket, and I—”

“Aw, c’mon. Gimme one for old time’s sake!”

He yanked her into a tight, smothering kiss, his moist, fleshy lips smashing hers painfully against her teeth. Too tight to scream. His arms were like huge steel cables, tightening around her. She managed to twist her mouth away, opened it to yell—

He stuck his tongue in it. His tongue was big and muscular and slimy, prodding deep. She wiggled, mewled, as he picked her up and swung her playfully around and around, never letting her feet touch the floor, farther and farther from anyone who might be watching.

“Scream and you die,” he whispered, and seized her wrist in a huge, damply hot hand, torquing it into a twist that zinged electric agony all the way up her arm. “Feel this? Inside your coat?” He prodded her with something cold and hard under her shirt. She’d dragged in air to scream, but it broke off into a cry of pain as he stabbed the gun barrel up under her rib. “It’s aimed at your liver. Got me, bitch?”

She gasped for air, caught between the stab of the gun barrel, the white-hot pain still flashing up her arm. Her heart pounded heavily in her ears and his voice came from far away. “Kiss me back, cunt,” he growled into her ear, “or I will shoot you.”

She looked into those bright, round, white-lashed eyes, glittering with excitement. His breath was sour. He was pressing an erection against her belly. Grinding it against her. His lips were shiny and wet.

“So shoot me,” she said coldly. “Prick.”

He laughed, raucously, as he swung her around and around again. He set her on her feet. She gasped, stiffening, at the needle sting in her neck.

Not psi-max. She knew psi-max inside out and this was not it. Just a sedative or a muscle relaxant, but the association with the needle sting was so strong, the vortex started to whirl anyway . . .