tell her he was alive, but when he glanced at his RoamZone, the screen was slivered with countless cracks from the explosion.
Dirt and sweat stung his eyes. Steering with one hand, he wiped at them with his knuckles, but they were so dirty that he wound up just smearing the grime around. He assessed himself for further damage. A deep throb in his right forearm. The reopened wound had bled through his shirt, and he tore the long sleeve away and peeled back the bandage.
Groping in the backseat, he found his trauma kit, ripped out hemostatic gauze, and slapped it on. It was treated to promote rapid coagulation, which was the best he could do in the middle of a getaway.
At last he made out the rear access gate, still retracted in the distance. His exhale came as a hiss. For a moment the path was clear.
Then the gate rumbled back to life.
And started to close.
He stood on the accelerator, aiming for the gap.
His shot at freedom slowly wiping from view.
His head throbbed, his teeth ached.
Almost there. Almost closed.
The Honda hurtled forward and scraped through, the edge of the gate screeching along the side and clipping the mirror off. The car popped free, fishtailed slightly, and straightened again on the open road.
Evan choked out a breath of relief.
An instant later a red Corvette T-boned him.
68
Stop
The Civic spun a full 360 through the scrub, tilting up on its two side wheels, taking a moment to decide whether or not to roll.
It crashed back down on its chassis, rocking on the tires.
Evan tugged at the door and spilled out onto the dirt, his elbows jarring the ground. Blood-laced drool spilled from his mouth.
The Corvette stared at him. Impossibly, one headlight remained on, a cyclops eye gauging his weakness.
He coughed a few times. Rolled to his side. Pried himself off the earth.
Now a man stood before the headlight, his silhouette perfectly framed.
He shifted, the glow catching the side of him.
Declan Gentner.
He wore a gray pinstripe number, his shiny black loafers fogged slightly with dust from the impact. He held a Smith & Wesson pistol at his side, a .45 with a fancy silver-ported barrel.
“You’re going to come with me,” he said.
Evan coughed some more. “Just shoot me and get it over with.” He sensed that he was talking too loud, his hearing still muted.
“Oh, no,” Declan said, his voice deepened out with anger. “We have two hundred and six bones to get through. We’re going to do this over the course of a few days.”
It hurt for Evan just to hold his eyes open. He lifted his gaze. Saw a slight bulge in the ground a few steps in front of Declan.
“Well,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Declan’s hand tightened around the Smith & Wesson. But he didn’t move.
“When I cut your sister’s throat,” Evan said, “I could hear her breath leaking through the slit.”
Declan’s arm started to shake. His face hardened in the harsh light, a visage carved from stone, all bony points and severe lines of facial hair.
He took a step forward. A strangled noise escaped him. “Stop,” he said, his voice suddenly less secure, higher-pitched.
“She knew exactly what was happening to her,” Evan said. “She had time to think about it before she bled out.”
Declan’s lips peeled back from his teeth, the bared grimace of a wolf. He started for Evan. One more step. And then another.
His polished loafer set down once more, and a clack sounded from the earth.
He froze. Looked down.
Evan said, “Land mine.”
Declan shook the gun at Evan, his neck corded with rage. “Get your ass over here.”
“No thanks.”
“I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking end you right here.”
Evan realized he was stooped over in pain and with effort drew himself upright. “Naw,” he said. “The recoil from the pistol will set off the charge. Can’t kill me without killing yourself.”
Declan was quivering now, his whole body shuddering. Evan could see him bearing down, trying to control his muscles. “If I’m gonna die anyway, might as well take you with me.”
Evan said, “That would require you not being a coward.”
Declan lined the sights on Evan’s face. For a moment they were perfectly still, regarding each other across a moonlit stretch of scrub. Then Declan screamed, mouth stretched wide, dried spit linking his jaws. It was the purest howl of rage Evan had heard. And terror.
Evan staggered to the Civic and lowered himself painfully into the driver’s seat. The car was still running, a minor miracle, though the