Free Fall (55 page)

The truck started picking up speed again almost immediately, and as it moved past, revealed a man standing at the far edge of the road. Darby leaned forward and squinted, thinking for a moment that it was just a trick of the deepening shadows and the trees partially blocking her view.

But then the figure darted into the woods and disappeared.

Beamon leaned over the kitchen counter and looked out into the living room at Tom Sherman. He hadn't moved in over an hour except to take a few mindless pulls from the drink in his hand. He just sat there in front of the fire, staring.

Six months ago, when Beamon had first noticed the changes in his friend, he'd thought it was a little bizarre. Then, after some time had passed, he'd thought it was kind of sad. Now, though, it was starting to piss him off. The man had let himself become completely paralyzed just when Beamon needed his help most.

He wished he could bring himself to call Carrie. She'd be able to tell him how to snap Tom out of whatever it was that had a hold of him. Or better yet, send over a few magic pills that could wake him up for a few days. But he'd closed that door, and it was better to just leave it shut.

Beamon grabbed his beer off the counter and peered through the oven's window at the frozen pizza starting to bubble inside. He and Darby were on their own in this thing now. All he could hope for was that Taylor would do what he said he would and the whole thing wouldn't blow up in their faces.

The doorbell sounded just as Beamon was reaching for a pair of oven mitts. He looked behind him through the kitchen door as Tom Sherman slowly rose from his chair and started toward the front of the house.

Had they locked Darby out? He didn't think so. Beamon leaned further over the counter, but Sherman was already down the hall and out of sight. He slid his hand over the back of his sweater and felt the hard outline of his pistol. Paranoid, he thought to himself as he started for the front of the house. He really was starting to get paranoid.

Beamon paused for a moment when the phone started to ring, but then continued around the corner as his friend pulled the door open.

There was no one there.

He tensed, reaching for his gun again, but then spotted the Fedex driver walking back toward the driveway. There was already one box on the porch, and by the time Beamon made it to the front door, the driver was digging around in his truck for another.

Beamon didn't follow his friend onto the porch, instead staying just inside the doorway as the driver struggled up the steps with the second box and laid it down on top of the other one. Sherman didn't seem concerned he'd already looked at the labels and obviously recognized the return address.

The deliveryman smiled politely and bobbed his head as he held out an electronic clipboard.

"Thank you," Sherman said, taking and signing it. The man's response was another silent head bob.

When Sherman handed back the clipboard, the deliveryman took a step back, but didn't return to his truck. He still hadn't uttered a word.

Beamon chewed at his lip, concentrating on the man. There was something not right he seemed to be making a conscious effort not to speak.

"You. Say something."

"Mark! Look out!"

Beamon jumped out onto the porch at the sound of Darby's shout and grabbed for his gun. Unfortunately, he instinctively went for it with his right hand, which was attached to an arm that still wasn't in working condition. By the time he had his fingers around the pistol's grip, the deliveryman had a 9mm aimed at his chest and another man was crashing through the trees at the edge of the clearing with Darby firmly attached to his back.

Beamon had no choice but to go completely still as the man in front of him stepped back to give himself a wider view.

"I'm still watching you, Mr. Beamon," he warned, shifting a little to allow him to better see his partner, who was struggling to unwrap Darby's arms and legs from around his torso. The accent was Russian, or if not, no more than a solid two iron from the Russian border.

Beamon suddenly realized he wasn't breathing, but couldn't seem to muster the concentration to start again. Ignoring the gun aimed at him, he turned and locked his eyes helplessly on Darby. Despite the much larger man's efforts, she had tightened her grip on him over the past few seconds, and now had her feet locked together over his stomach. Her left forearm had worked its way under the man's chin and she was using her right hand to sink it in deeper.

To Beamon, they seemed to be moving in slow motion as the man finally tired of trying to shake her loose and aimed his pistol back over his shoulder at the girl's head.

"Darby! Let go!" Beamon shouted, but she didn't seem to hear. His teeth clenched shut hard enough for him to hear them grind as Darby jerked away from the barrel of the pistol and arched her back wildly, pulling with everything she had on the man's neck. Even with the distance between them, Beamon could see the rope like muscles and tendons suddenly coil across her bare forearms. What caused the dull popping sound, though, he wasn't sure of until the man's knees suddenly went slack and he crumpled to the ground on top of her. Darby laid there for a second or so, then suddenly scooted out from under the dead body like it was burning her.

The man with the gun trained on Beamon calmly muttered some thing in Russian. His face was devoid of emotion as he recalculated his plan in light of his partner's untimely death.

Beamon had been in a number of gunfights during his career way too many, in fact. He'd lived through most of them more by luck and the stupidity of his opponent than anything else. Unfortunately, neither one of those things looked like it was going to work for him today. This guy was clearly a professional probably one of the surviving dinosaurs of the KGB who had chucked their political philosophy and embraced capitalism a little too zealously.

"Come here," the Russian called to Darby.

Beamon glanced over at Tom Sherman as she approached. He looked completely brain-locked.

Darby stopped only a few feet from the Russian and stared him directly in the eye. The remorse and horror that Beamon had expected to see in her wasn't there. If she felt anything about killing that man, it didn't show.

"And who might you be?" the Russian said quietly, his eyes moving smoothly from one captive to another and then along the treeline.

She just stood there, glaring at him.

"Is there anyone else out there?"

She shook her head but still didn't speak.

When he nodded toward his dead partner lying on the grass, uncertainty was hanging at the edges of his eyes.

"You get involved with very dangerous women, Mr. Beamon. Youstav was actually quite good at what he did." The Russian motioned Darby toward Beamon and the statue like Tom Sherman with the barrel of his pistol.

"If you wouldn't mind, young lady, I'd like you to very slowly bring me your friend's gun. Butt first, please."

Darby relieved him of his pistol as ordered and handed it grudgingly over to the Russian.

"Thank you," he said politely, turning to Tom Sherman as he stuffed Beamon's gun in his waistband.

"I'm here for a file. I believe you know the one of which I speak?"

Sherman didn't seem to hear.

"It's inside," Beamon cut in when the Russian started to look a little put out.

"Good. Fine. We're going to go get it and then you're going to help me carry some valuables out of the house to my truck."

This wasn't good. Not at all.

"That's a union job," Beamon said, trying to buy a little time to think.

"Last thing I need is trouble with the union."

The man smiled and tossed him a pair of handcuffs.

"I wouldn't want to see you get in any trouble, Mr. Beamon. Why don't you handcuff your self to the railing? I think Mr. Sherman and the young lady will be enough help."

Beamon started to feel a slight pain in his lower lip where he'd been chewing on it. He was screwed and what made it really fucking intolerable was that he'd done it to himself.

"This botched robbery thing is a bit over the top with three deaths, isn't it?" he said, attaching one side of the handcuffs to the railing and the other to his wrist with comic slowness.

He was just stalling now and it was obvious.

"I'm a little embarrassed about that, Mr. Beamon, particularly with you here," the Russian said, starting to herd a seething Darby Moore and nearly comatose Tom Sherman back into the house.

"Normally I wouldn't have taken this kind of last-minute job, but the money ..." His voice trailed off for a moment, leaving his paycheck to Beamon's imagination.

"All I can say in my defense is that this mimics the MO of a man who was recently released from prison, and whom I can guarantee doesn't have an alibi for this evening." With that explanation, they disappeared through the door and left him handcuffed to the depressingly sturdy railing.

When they reappeared ten minutes later, Beamon's mind was still a hopeless blank.

"In the box, please," the Russian said. Sherman tore open one of the boxes on the porch, placed the Prodigy file in it, and then covered the file with the pricey knickknacks Darby had brought out.

"Okay," the Russian said.

"Just a few more of the bigger things electronics and the like, and that will be all."

Beamon didn't like the sound of "that will be all." He yanked uselessly on the handcuffs as they disappeared into the house again, struggling to come up with something that would save their asses.

They reappeared with Sherman's television and part of his stereo system just as the wind picked up and started to create a sad wail in the trees. Beamon watched helplessly as they crossed the dirt path to the Fedex truck and piled the stuff in the back. That was it, they'd had it.

As the Russian led Darby and Sherman back toward the house, Beamon noticed that the gusting wind had diminished, but the wail had grown louder. The Russian obviously made the same observation and froze at the bottom of the steps. It took only a few moments to become clear that it wasn't the wind. It was a siren. No, it was multiple sirens.

Sherman seemed to come fully awake for the first time in weeks when he saw the Russian's momentary distraction. He suddenly lunged at him, grabbing his gun hand and swinging wildly at his head.

"Tom! No!" Beamon shouted, throwing himself forward, only to be snapped back by the handcuffs.

There was no chance there never had been. The Russian was far too fast and much too strong. He slipped the punch easily and paused for the briefest moment, seeing in Tom Sherman's eyes the same thing Beamon had that he'd never expected to win.

Darby and Beamon both jumped at the sound of the pistol firing and watched Sherman topple back onto the stairs.

"Oh, my God, oh, my God," Darby cried as she dropped to her knees and pressed a hand against Sherman's wound, trying to stop the blood that was already flowing down his sides and through the cracks in the wood porch.

"You ... You son of a bitch! You shot him!"

Beamon focused on the Russian as he tried to get his mind back on line.

The sirens were getting louder and a hint of nervousness was becoming visible through the Russian's icy facade.

"Sound carries funny out here," Beamon managed to get out of his constricted throat.

"Those sirens aren't far away I'd say they've already turned up the only road in or out of here. You'll have to get out on foot."

He could tell that the Russian wasn't completely buying this he was probably thinking that the cops were just chasing a local drunk.

Fortunately, Darby was tracking on the conversation as she tried to stop Sherman's life from leaking all over the porch. She reached a bloody hand under her sweater and threw Beamon's cell phone down on the steps.

"I called them, you bastard. Now maybe you'll get to find out what it's like to be shot."

The Russian looked up at the house for a moment, and then back at the treeline.

"They probably heard the gun," Beamon said, talking quickly.

"And if they get here and find everyone dead, they'll be coming after you. You'll have a hundred rednecks who've been hunting this country for their entire lives all over these woods. And every one of them will have a rifle and a dog."

"Your proposal?" the Russian said. The sirens were getting loud now.

"I don't care about you you're just a hired gun. And I'm sure as hell not going to send a bunch of local cops to their deaths chasing a pro. I don't want their blood on my hands."

The Russian looked at his fallen companion for a moment and then freed Beamon from the cuffs. They ran together toward the dead man and dragged him back to the base of the steps leading to Sherman's porch.

The Russian dropped his gun next to the body and started backing away, covering Beamon with his own .357.

Once he'd disappeared into the trees, Beamon dropped down and pulled Darby's hand from Sherman's wound, replacing it with his own.

"Get out of here, Darby! The cops can't find you here. Go back to your truck, and when they've all passed by, drive out. Call me on my cell phone later." "No!" she said in a voice thick with emotion.