Peak Oil (31 page)

The car cranked and roared to life as Neil pushed in the accelerator, the six-cylinder engine still powerful beneath the hood, despite its age. He gained on the red trucks and then honked, flashing his lights. They slowed down, and Neil hoped that they would mistake him for Andy Fitch as he overtook them. He fired four times as Vick or Pete rolled down their window. The truck jerked sharply to the left as the driver slumped sideways, and then it slammed into a tree, smoke billowing from the crumpled hood and the horn blaring noisily.
 

Neil turned the wheel and spun the vehicle around, tires screeching as he headed back to the golf course, plowing over it toward the forest. He saw flashlights beams in the forest, waving from side to side. Neil hoped that they had lost Alexa and the good doctor somewhere in the dense woodland.

Neil slid the car to a halt at the edge of the forest, jumped out, and scampered toward the footpath beside the fence. He cautiously made his way forward, holding the gun in front of him, trying to discern any shapes in the gloomy pathway ahead of him. A dark figure sat crouching in the path, patting a dead dog lying on its side. Neil snapped his fingers.

“What the—?” the man grunted as he spun around. Neil crunched a boot into the man’s face, and the man slumped down beside the animal as Neil pistol-whipped him over the skull.

Neil stood still, listening attentively, controlling his breathing. He heard a commotion in the foliage somewhere to his right, footsteps crunching through dead leaves and branches snapping. He plunged headlong into the forest, following the sound of the noise.

A man in front of him shouted, “Stop!” and then fired a shot into the forest ahead of them. Neil’s heart pounded in his chest and he swallowed, praying that it had missed. He rushed ahead and dispatched two men with bullets to the back of their heads, his pistol shots reverberating through the forest. He had given up all thoughts of not attracting attention to himself; he had to make sure that Alexa was safe.

He leaped ahead twenty yards and killed another unsuspecting guard; the man had turned around, searching for the location of the shooter behind him. Fury coursed through Neil’s body: he couldn’t believe that these people were hunting Alexa like a dog; as far as he was concerned, they all deserved to die. He scooped up a double-barrel shotgun that lay next to one of the dead guards and bolted forward, hot on the heels of men ahead of him.
 

The forest opened up, and the men stumbled out in front of him, frantically searching for cover. He fired as he ran, jumping over the body of the fourth man and firing again as he reached the clearing, taking out two men as they turned around in a desperate final bid to face him.
 

He glanced up and down the main drag, searching for any signs of movement, listening for any sounds that might give away Alexa’s location. Three hundred yards to the north, Alexa and the doctor stumbled out of the forest. Alexa limped toward the road and then stood hunkered down, holding her hand up, shielding her face.

Then everything happened in a blur.

A car almost ran her over, and Neil saw someone jump out and dash toward Alexa. Another man ran toward the doctor, half supporting, half dragging him to a Humvee.
 

A US military light-armored vehicle. The good guys.

They bundled into the Hummer and sped off, Neil running behind them, shouting and waving his arms.

“Get her to a doctor,” Neil screamed as the vehicle roared away from him.

Neil plodded through the forest, his arm covering his face to protect him from the backlash of the young spruces and green saplings. He slowed his pace, listened closely for any peculiar sounds, and then stopped when he heard a low, guttural growl close by. He scanned the area, trying to distinguish shapes and forms from the darkness that surrounded him. He decided that the risk of being found would be less than walking blindly into a trap and dug out a flashlight from his backpack. He crouched and then slowly panned the light to his left and right. The luminous reflection of a pair of yellow orbs in front of him caught his attention, and he pointed the beam straight at the cat.

It was a haggard looking ocelot, and it had a blue collar with a name tag around its neck. Its hair stood up at scruffy angles, the coat patchy and unkempt, as if it had been in a fight. It snarled again and leaped toward Neil, and he had to dodge as the animal swiped at him with a front paw. Neil pointed the gun, ready to fire.

The cat growled and hunkered back, and then it looked around, seemingly confused. It hissed a final time, a white, stringy liquid oozing from the corner of its mouth. Then it turned around and trotted stealthily away.

He holstered the weapon and jogged toward where he had parked Fitch’s classic sedan, shining the light in front of him. He made rapid progress and was back at the Lincoln in less than a minute. He cranked the engine and tore wide, gaping skid marks into the soft grassy earth as he headed back to the refinery. He had a playdate with Andy Fitch.

Neil glanced down at the seat as the two-way radio crackled. “Pete, Vick? You guys out there?”

It was Fitch. Neil frowned, and then he cupped his hand over the radio and spoke from the corner of his mouth. “Yes, boss?”

“Where are you guys?”

“Um, in the forest, following the girl.”

“You get that bitch, you hear me?” Fitch shouted, panic in his voice. “It looks like a damn war zone down here.”

“Affirmative, boss,” Neil answered, glowering at the radio.

“I’m heading off to the ranch. You bring me the bitch when you find her,” he said and hesitated. “Where’s my damn car?”

“They used it to escape into the forest, boss. But they’re on foot now.”

Fitch grunted and then answered in an irritated voice. “Okay, I’ll take the truck.”

“Okay, boss.”

Neil slowed down and dimmed the lights, parking beside the neatly clipped hedge next to the road. A minute later the red truck roared past, heading for the exit. It slowed down slightly as Fitch probably ogled the damage caused by the crashed truck against the tree and then accelerated away loudly. Neil spun away and veered through the hedge, leaving a trail of broken branches and flittering foliage in his wake. He bumped off the sidewalk onto the blacktop and then allowed Fitch to build up a reasonable gap between them before tailing him discreetly, following him to the ranch.

He leaned back in the seat, feeling tired and excited at the same time. It had been an exhilarating evening, and he knew that Alexa would get the best medical treatment now that backup was in town. But he also knew that his job wasn’t yet complete. Anderson Fitch had to pay for what he had done.

Neil cut the engine as he approached the ranch and then rolled the Lincoln down a ditch on the right-hand side of the road. He jogged across the blacktop and scrambled over one of the entry gates, which read “No Entry.”
 

The sun was starting to color the horizon a soft pink as Neil bolted through the grassy fields toward a canopy of trees two hundred yards away. A cow lifted her head and glanced up at Neil, and then she shifted a couple of feet and continued grazing lazily, her tail flicking from side to side.
 

Neil crouched at the edge of the clump of trees, catching his breath and inspecting his surroundings. His joints cramped painfully as the morning air seeped through his T-shirt, reminding him why he loved a warm bath or shower so much. With Alexa.
 

After all of this was over, he was going to take a long and lazy holiday on a beach somewhere, sipping cocktails and indulging in some carnal fornication with the woman he loved. He wondered if she felt the same. He stood up and stretched, rolling his shoulders; some days it felt difficult to keep up with her.
 

He heard the soft gurgling flow of water close by and walked past the trees to the edge of the river. It was much wider here, the muddy stream meandering slowly to the south. He pulled his binoculars from his backpack and scanned the banks.
 

He saw a jetty upriver, with a twin-motored speedboat tied to it. The jetty led up to a wooden staircase, onto a deck, and finally to a large cabin on the grassy slopes. A man stood in front of the cabin, and Neil immediately recognized the distinctive gait of a soldier as he patrolled the area.

Neil waited for fifteen minutes, trying to ascertain whether there were any other soldiers around. The sentinel made a trip around the cabin every four minutes or so, but no one else appeared. The man seemed alert, stopping and surveying the surroundings regularly and then continuing his march-around.

Neil trundled down the grassy slope toward the river and then jogged along the edge of the bank toward the jetty. He pulled himself onto the platform, glanced around, crawled to the edge, and snuck onto the boat. The keys were still in the ignition, and the outboard motors were trimmed down, ready to be used. Small mercies. He hoped the engines would start at the first crank.

He turned the key, and the engines roared to life. He slammed the throttle lever forward and bounced back onto the jetty, almost losing his balance as the boat surged forward. He watched it hurtle toward the far side of the riverbank and then hunkered down beneath the stairway.

Neil heard the distinctive bang of heavy footsteps on the wooden walkway as the guard came rushing down the stairs toward the jetty. He peered over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the boat exiting the water and bouncing up the opposite riverbank, its propeller gouging a hole into the sand and the engine whining as the boat hurtled onto shore, where boats were not supposed to go. The guard leaped down the final steps, landing with a thud, mouth agape as he watched the boat tilt to its side and come to a screaming halt, engines roaring and billowing white smoke in protest.

Neil stood up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around slowly, a surprised look on his face as realization dawned that he had been set up. Neil connected him with a solid knee in the stomach and chopped an elbow down on the man’s neck as he doubled over. Neil finished him off with a kick to the face and then, with his foot, rolled the man over onto his back. The guy was out stone-cold, front teeth missing.

Neil stood for a moment, listening, alert. His senses had been primed by another spurt of adrenaline, and he jogged up the steps toward the expansive deck in front of the cabin. The sliding doors stood open, and Neil slipped inside.

The place felt large and airy inside and was almost bare but for a comfortable leather sofa and a whitewashed dining room set. A watercolor painting hung on a wall, and Neil recognized the framed Wassily Kandinsky immediately. He examined the abstract painting; his mother used to buy etches of everything she thought was pretty, and this exact one had hung in their living room when he was a kid. Except that this was an original. It must have been worth a couple of thousand, at least. He slid the painting to the side, looking for a hidden safe, but there was nothing.

He ambled through the cabin and noticed some photos on a mantelpiece above the fireplace. He was surprised to see a much younger looking Patsy, the waitress at the diner, standing behind a young, blonde, teenaged boy, probably fourteen years old. Andy Fitch stood next to her, an arm slipped around her waist, a hand resting on the boy’s shoulder. Next to them stood Dr. Ryan with a grin on his face. Fitch had a thin smile on his lips and he was winking as the photo was taken.

Another photo showed Fitch, Harvey, Ryan, and a bunch of other men he didn’t recognize looking up from a table, their glasses raised in the air in a cheer. It had been taken recently.
 

The rest were of Ryan, holding a large fish in his arms or posing next to a buck that he had probably shot somewhere in Africa. Neil scanned the room; it was functional but understated, exactly like Dr. Ryan was, Neil guessed.

He inspected the bedroom and rummaged through the drawers but found nothing that interested him. He exited the cottage, and then he removed his binoculars and looked up the gently sloping hill. Fitch’s palace sprawled forcefully at the crest of the hill, and men in dark uniforms scuttled across the lawn, dumping reams of what looked like computer printouts and cardboard boxes on the grass.
 

Neil jogged toward the house, darting to the side, using the stables as cover. He vaulted over the whitewashed fence and into the horse corral and then headed toward the stables. The animals were skittish as Neil ducked behind them, whinnying and trampling and bobbing their heads, baring teeth like they wanted to bite. He ducked into a pen as a man appeared at the entrance, surveying the horses, trying to figure out what was making them so jumpy.

The guy wore a dark blue camouflaged uniform and had a Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder. He was a hired hand, well armed. Neil heard the man say something in Russian into a two-way radio. Then he grunted and left.

Neil peeked around the pen door, skulked to the barn opening, and peered outside. There was a fifty-yard gap between the barn and the back of the mansion; Fitch obviously liked being close to his horses. Neil noticed the guard enter the mansion by a back door, glance over his shoulder a final time, and then firmly close the door behind him.

He dashed to the back of the house, ducking below a window. He sneaked a peek inside and saw a large kitchen, which was empty. He scrambled on all fours toward the door, nudged it open an inch, and then slipped inside. The kitchen was enormous, with granite countertops, an old wood-burning stove alongside a shiny, new, electrical one, and a walk-in refrigeration unit to the side of the room. A fancy, paneled-glass door led to a large dining room—the same room where he had met Fitch the previous day. It looked empty.