The White Mountain (22 page)

Randall flicked on his
blinker, changing lanes to pass a slow-moving Kia, and checked his rearview
mirror for any signs of flashing lights.

There were none.

Twenty miles later, he was in
the clear, so far, with nothing behind him but the shrinking Kia in the
distance.

He checked Mary’s beacon
again.  Still pulsating.  Still moving.

Randall exhaled.  He tried
her cell phone, and again, got no response.

Answer your goddamn phone
so I can warn you!  Shit.  Stay smart, Lamb.  Don’t get into any trouble.  Use
that bullshit detector
. 

The one that hadn’t worked
when he’d lied to her.  Guilt and regret added a few pounds to the knot in his
stomach, then crawled down his leg and deposited themselves in his foot,
weighing down heavier on the gas pedal.

“Idiot,” he said, punching
the dashboard, shattering what remained of the prehistoric eight-track stereo. 
He cursed, removed a piece of sharp plastic that had punctured the soft skin
between his knuckles, then wiped the blood on his jeans.

Stay focused, shithead. 
If they got to her, take it out on Richmond, and Barton and…and…

Who’s the third?

And what were they doing? 
The idea that there were
three
components of this mythical Ares figure
made more sense than a single individual with enough skill to eliminate some of
the world’s deadliest men over the past thirty-odd years.  A man might have a
chance against a lone enemy, but being blindsided by two more was a surefire
way to become worm burger.  No wonder Ares had become such a legend.  Nobody
had beaten him because they were playing an unwinnable game.

The contest was rigged. 
Rigged by Richmond, Barton, and Mr. Who.

But why?  Invite the players,
have a bunch of murder-minded adrenaline junkies off each other, and then take
the prize money?  Was that it?  Whoever was running the contest had to be
ignorant of what was happening with his game, otherwise, why bother with it at
all?

Unless the three Ares’
controlled the game and there was never even a prize to begin with.

Again, why?  Did they get
their jollies knowing that ten ignorant sons of bitches were out there clawing
at each other’s eyes for a chance at ten million bucks?  Seemed like a long way
to go, a lot of loose ends to contain just for a few laughs.

No, that couldn’t be it. 
Couldn’t be.  Too much of a risk.

Could the government be
involved?  Could the
United States government
actually be smart enough
to find a way for their high-value targets to eliminate each other every couple
of years?

Not likely.

Randall shook his head, snorted,
and hung his arm out the window.  It was too much to think about.  Too many
possibilities with no clear answer or reason.

He decided to let his mind
rest for a while.  The only thing he had to worry about, in order to make
himself feel better about the whole goddamn, screwed up situation, was getting
to Mary, and getting her out alive.

Damn the consequences.  He’d
get her out, get her safe, and deal with whatever happened to him if the time
came.

When.  When it came.

The evil ringmasters of this
crazy-ass circus wouldn’t just let him walk away.

Ares would be expecting him,
and he knew, now that Geisha was dead and rotting, that he’d be getting a phone
call soon.

From whom, he had no clue,
since Enigma was the proud owner of a shiny new toe tag back at the Smythville
morgue.  Did Ares even know he was cold and blue?

Would it come from the
moneyman, the guy running the show?  Should Randall tell him what he knew, tell
the guy that his untouchable winner (
winners
) had scammed him for the
past thirty years?

Would it come from Ares himself,
one of the three?

Who knew?  Didn’t matter. 
Not anymore.

Mission Objective:  rescue
Mary.

CHAPTER 21

Mary whipped her head
around.  “What does that mean, if
I
win?”

Billy waved a scolding finger
back and forth, back and forth.  “No more details than that.  We don’t want to
ruin the surprise.  But for now, we’ve got some time to kill.  Out of the car,”
he said, face and tone going stern.  Flat and blank.  “Serious here, don’t try
anything.  Get out and start walking toward the entrance.  We’re going out
back, to the storage building.  Don’t bother trying to yell, unless you think
your voice can carry a half-mile or so.  Don’t try to run.  Not that you could
anyway, but you’ll need to save your energy.  And besides, I’m a good shot, and
I most certainly know when to pull the trigger.”

Mary hesitated, calculating
her options.  He was right.  Yelling would do no good.  Buried so far back into
the deserted industrial park, the distance to the nearest person with a set of
ears was probably closer to a mile.  Running, not a chance.  Even if she came
equipped with two workable legs and were to overtake him somehow, surprise him
with a quick fist and then ran, he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her in the back. 
The scant seconds it took her to make it twenty or thirty feet would be her
last.  He might even let her get a little farther, toying with her, just to
give her a little hope, before the bullets ripped through her skin, bouncing
off of bone, shredding her heart and lungs.

She had no other
alternatives.

Sufficiently pissed off that
she had to obey, again, she opened the car door, left the keys in the ignition,
and stepped out into the weighty cloak of humidity, feeling beads of sweat
immediately prickle her forehead.

Damn you, Randall.  This
was for you.  It’s your fault I’m here.

However, the thought that he
was still alive, one of the final two remaining, gave her a renewed sense of
possibility as she remembered her GPS locator that he’d given her, tucked
securely away in her breast pocket.  If he survived, at least he’d know where
she was.  He had a game to finish, though, and she had no idea how long it
might be before he had a chance to track her down.

If I win.  What did he
mean by that? 

“Get going,” Billy said,
slamming the passenger door shut.  “Get that cane working a little faster.  Taking
your time won’t make this go any slower.  That’s it.  Right around here.  In
front of me.”  Urging her with the gun barrel and a sneer.

She paused.  Testing him. 
Asserting her determination.  “Not until you tell me what’s happening.”

He held his arms out, leaned
back.  “Mary, come on, I don’t want to do this.”

“I’m not moving.”

Billy nodded.  “We can fix
that.”  He lifted the gun and fired.

Mary screamed as her cane
splintered and broke in two.  The abrupt lack of support, where all her weight
had been resting on the hardwood hickory stick, sent her to the ground.  Her
leg throbbed as she pushed herself up, hot asphalt scorching her palms.  She
balanced herself, wiped the dirt and dead, dried grass on her pants, burning
holes in his chest with a laser glare.  “Good shot,” she admitted.

“I missed.”

“I’m still not going
anywhere.”

“Next time I won’t.  Walk. 
Now.”

She stayed, unmoving.  He
wouldn’t shoot her.  Not yet anyway.  It’d ruin all the fun he wanted to have
later.

Later, whatever that meant.

Billy waited, too.  And they
stood, saying nothing, staring at each other, locked in a stalemate of wills
until his phone rang once more.  He answered with a sharp, “What?”  Never
taking his eyes off Mary, never wavering with his aim.  “Wait, you’re telling
me…he did?  Well, that’s just about damn near perfect.  Get him here, fast…no,
dammit, the place we discussed.  Right.  Yeah…already?  That’ll help.  Okay,
good work…you’ll get your money tomorrow.  Enjoy Bali.”  He hung up, gave Mary
a self-satisfied, arrogant look.  “Randall Blevins.  Winner.  Well…somewhat.”

“He made it?”

“I don’t know how he managed
to get past the last one, but he did, and our contact says he’s on the move,
heading north on the interstate.  Which is a little disturbing, honestly,
because he was supposed to wait until we told him where to go.”

“Why wouldn’t he?  Ares is
here.”

“
Ares
is supposed to
be in Atlanta this time.  My flight was scheduled for tomorrow.  He’s going the
wrong direction.”

“So?  Maybe he’s just out for
a drive.”

“Not likely.  He’s on his way
here for a reason.  Geisha’s signal went out somewhere along the interstate,
eighty miles up the road from Smythville.  Which means—”

“He was already coming this
way.”

“Right.  He knows something. 
Are you wearing a wire?”

“A wire?  No.  Why?  Where
would I get a wire?”

“Voice transmitter? 
Something like that?”

“No, nothing,” she said, but
her brief hesitation betrayed her as she thought about the small GPS locator.

Billy stepped forward,
slowly.  “Give it to me.”

“I don’t know what you’re
talking about.  I don’t have anything on me, Chuck. 
Billy
.  Whatever
your name is.”  Mary hobbled backward a step, then another.

“Give it to me.”

“I don’t have anything on me.” 
The small disk in her pocket felt like a hockey puck.  She was certain he could
see it bulging through the material.  “Randall knows I’m here.  He’s tried to
call a few times and I didn’t answer because I was pissed at him.  Maybe he’s
worried about me.”

“What’d the messages say?”

“I haven’t checked.”

“Give me your phone.”

“It’s in the car.  Cup holder
between the seats,” she lied, sensing the slightest of opportunities, feeling
the weight of her cell sitting snugly in a pants pocket.

“Stay there,” he said as he
shuffled around the front, hand sliding across the car’s hood.  “Don’t move.”

“I won’t.”  Yet another lie.

Billy reached for the
driver’s side door handle, paused, and studied her.

Mary tensed, every muscle
taut, ready.   She couldn’t shake the impression that he was reading her mind,
crawling around inside her thoughts, piecing together what she planned to do. 
She expected him to turn away, to decide the phone wasn’t worth it, that it
didn’t matter why Randall had been calling, and that he should simply get on
with whatever he intended.

She relaxed, for a fraction
of a second, when he pulled on the handle and eased the door open.

He leaned in.  “It’s not
there.”

“Check the floorboard.  Maybe
it fell.”

She watched him through the
windshield, head dipping, disappearing behind the dash.  Blind to her location,
blind to her intent.  She moved.

One hesitant step at first,
testing the weight on her leg. 

It’s okay.  I can do
this.  Do it now!

Step, step, step, quickly,
quickly.  She tilted her body and jumped, driving her shoulder into the car
door.  Jamming it against him, jamming him into the frame.  Hard, denting the
metal as he grunted and buckled, falling out and rolling backward onto the
blacktop.  Mary clambered up, scrambled around the door, wincing, hissing at
the stabbing shards of pain in her arm, her bad leg.

Dazed, Billy looked up as she
kicked the gun from his hand, sending it end-over-end, landing out of reach. 
She struck with another well-placed shot to the side of his head, stunning
him.  She spun around and climbed into the car.  She’d done it.  She could get
away.  She’d be safe.

She reached for the…

The keys!  Where are the
keys?

A hand in her hair, head
slamming against the steering wheel.  The horn honked, punctuating the motion. 
Yanked back, the interior of the car, the light through the windshield, were blurry,
hazy amid a thin glaze of moisture in her eyes.

Billy’s arm appeared in front
of her face.  “Looking for something?”  Hand open, the keys rested against his
palm, middle finger looped through the key chain’s shiny, metal ring.

He gloated too long.  Mary
whipped her hands up, grabbed him, thrusting herself to the right, all her
weight pulling as hard as she could.  He slammed against the car, howled, and
recoiled as Mary latched onto his thumb and twisted, listening to the
satisfying snap of small bones. 

He screamed, cursed at the
sky, yanking her hair as she scrabbled at his fist, fighting for the keys. 

Mary wrenched free from his
grasp, losing a clump of hair as she met his wrist with her open mouth, biting
him, tasting sweat and the remnants of that morning’s soap.  He wailed again,
desperately trying to break free, opening his hand.  Mary clawed at the keys,
latched on, and jerked, peeling them away along with a layer of skin from his
finger.

One sharp, pointy elbow gouged
into his eye, and Billy went down outside the car.