Where Evil Waits (12 page)

T
HE
R
UGER LIT UP
from the loft window. They ran. Aidan was quick like a rabbit; Luke took long, ground-eating strides that sent spikes of pain into his right thighbone. They sprinted through the trees to the sound of bullets popping from the Ruger in the loft every two seconds and when they were close enough that Luke knew Kara would be out of ammunition, he stretched out his arm and fired toward the west, still running, sideways, keeping the shooter pinned with a shot-per-second until Aidan dashed into the garage. Luke fired his last bullet and followed him.

“Jump in,” he shouted, lunging for the car. The top was down.

Aidan did, head-first, crunching into a ball to fit in the tiny space behind the front seats. Kara wrangled with the front door and fell into the passenger seat, clutching Luke’s cell phone in hand. He turned the ignition and the tires screamed, and the car lurched backward and fishtailed into the turnaround. Narrow mountain roads; he would save no time trying to go out backward, even in daylight.

“In the glove box,” he shouted over the roar of the engine, “there’s a nine-millimeter.”

She jostled the latch and found the gun, while Luke threw the Porsche in gear and gunned the gas. Aidan grunted. Not much of a seat back there. A rifle shot soared overhead. Luke ducked and swerved, and Kara cursed. A second later, she opened up with the 9mm.

“Keep firing but get down, for God’s sake,” Luke shouted. “Get your head down.”

She did, and the car tumbled down the long drive, Kara sticking her arm out and firing behind them.

Three minutes after it had started, it was over.

Luke slowed, then pushed a button that brought the roof of the Porsche up over them. “That’s it,” he said. “We’re out of range. You’re okay. Put the gun down.”

Kara’s hands fell to her lap and Luke closed his hand over them. He wrenched the 9-millimeter from her hand and dropped it on the floor beside her feet, driving more reasonably now, sharing in the flood of adrenaline. Her breaths were shaky, her fingers clammy and trembling.

“Aidan?” she said.

“I’m okay,” he said. In the rearview mirror, Luke saw him trying to unfold his limbs. He couldn’t. The seat was too small. “God, what was that?” he asked.

It was a good question. Kara and Aidan had disappeared in a boat explosion and been reported by the local news as missing but presumed dead. Ten hours later, the killer knew exactly where they were.

Kara’s phone was disabled. Knutson was transferring everything on it to Bureau computers. “Do you have iCloud enabled on your phone, Aidan?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah. I guess so. I mean, it came free with the phone, right?”

Luke gritted his teeth. Christ, he should have checked that. Should have known a kid wouldn’t part with his
precious phone. “The bastard’s probably been tracking both of you just like a navigation system would.”

“Then he can still track mine.”

“No. Yours is disabled. I didn’t know Aidan brought his,” he snarled.

“How do we know he didn’t follow us just now from the house?” Aidan asked.

“He was on foot. There’s no other way up to that house but this road. He’ll have to hike to wherever he left a vehicle before he can start after us. Even if he has a motorcycle, it would have had to be far enough away that we have a good head start.”

“I can’t believe it,” Aidan said. “I never thought about some stranger tracking my phone.”

“Maybe not,” Luke said. “But someone did.”

Sasha watched them scatter. For three seconds after his first shot, it was like playing pinball: The kid rolled into the creek bank, the man shot after him, the woman—Kara?—bounced off the deck railing and ricocheted inside. Open season, Sasha thought, and was starting to enjoy himself.

But he hadn’t prepared for the gunfire that opened up from the top floor of the house. Just when the kid and man started running for the garage, gunfire came from inside. Controlled and consistent: a shot, then a couple seconds—just enough to tempt Sasha into taking aim again. Then another shot, another pause, and so on. Over and over until the man and boy had gotten close to the house.

The bitch. She’d ruined his day at the arcade. And she
was
Kara—there was no doubt about it. Her hair was dark now and cut close to her head, and she’d been dressed more like a nightclub bartender than an attorney. But it
was Kara. He’d been watching her for too long not to recognize her gait, her actions, the flow of her movements. Those traits hadn’t changed since she was a child.

The pinballs rolled into the garage, while Sasha remained treed by gunfire. Nothing came close—she was just keeping him cornered long enough to give the others a chance to get inside, but it still pissed him off. In his imagination, he’d had her cowering on the floor in a heap of terror, acknowledging his superiority. Not fighting back.

Nontheless, it didn’t matter. He was still in charge and he’d succeeded in sending her a message.
Your ruse didn’t work, Kara. I know you’re alive.

A little sports car—Porsche, he thought—launched from the garage. Sasha sent a few rifle shots after it and Kara fired back as they pulled away. Not the same gun this time; the sound was different. He’d have to find out who the man was. Whoever he was, he was well-armed.

The car vanished and Sasha let out a sneer. So, she’d found herself a bodyguard. Faked her own death, disguised her appearance, and hired an armed bodyguard. He should have known. Just as soon as he’d learned she had probably faked their deaths, he should have figured she had help. She lived in the justice system. She was acquainted with all sorts of cops and lawyers and even rabble.

An unexpected turn to the game, Sasha thought, with a pinch of admiration. He’d have to think about this.

He climbed down from the tree and neared the house. Hesitated. Would anyone else be in there?

He thought about it, remembered the way the kid had sneaked out and how a single gunman—Kara—had kept Sasha at bay from the third-story window while the
bodyguard rescued the boy. No, there wasn’t anyone else in the house. If there was, it would have been all hands on deck to get Kara’s son back to safety.

So. Time to have a look at the man Kara had helping her.

He went in through the garage. Functional, but not much used. Upstairs. The kitchen was extravagant—big, with gourmet perks. A man who liked to cook. Or maybe he had a woman living here, too. Sasha kept going, through a great room furnished with cushy neutral furniture, with skylights and soaring windows, then through a dining room and three bedrooms. In one bedroom sat a daybed and a sofa, both of which appeared to have been slept
on
but not
in,
as if the users of the room were only visiting. He stuck his head in the adjoining bathroom and found two bags of clothes—women’s clothes in one and a boy’s in the other.

Sasha smiled. These were the clothes Kara and her son Aidan had discarded, in favor of the ones they were wearing now.

Very smart, Kara.

He thought about it, checked the bathroom wastebasket and looked in the shower and toilet. Nothing. He went back to the big kitchen and looked in the trash can beneath the counter.

And there it was: locks of wavy blond hair. Kara’s hair, all cut off now.

He smiled and collected a handful of yellow silk, pocketed it, then dug a bit farther. Found a discarded wig, some boxes of hair color, permanent ink markers, and a pattern for a tattoo—all the evidence of the Chandlers’ transformation. He laughed aloud, sheer glee overwhelming him.

Such drastic measures. She must be scared out of her mind.

And the man… Now, there was a mystery. Sasha continued through the house, finding his way to the master bedroom and closet, going through every drawer and article of clothing. Nice suits—
really
nice suits—and general clothing, basic toiletries and linens, a few electronics. But nothing else.

Sasha looked around, frowning. The place was housekeeper-clean, generically decorated, and comfortably furnished. But it wasn’t lived in. The pictures on the walls were art, not family photos. The knickknacks on the shelves appeared store-bought rather than collected. There were no plants or personal items lying around or little piles of paperclips and loose change. No little bowls on the shelves where life’s detritus had gathered.

He headed up to the third floor and found the window where Kara had taken even, carefully strategized shots in his direction. The blinds were bent all to hell, and a couple of shards of glass still jutted out at the bottom of the window frame, having snagged there. Shell casings littered the floor.

He frowned. Shell casings. Where had the gun come from?

He went back downstairs, past the bedrooms and the great room, and found one more level of living space, six steps down a landing. A sunroom sprawled off the back of the house, with three sets of French doors opening onto a massive deck.

He smiled. This was the man’s office. A huge desk, a computer, a phone, a fax machine, a printer-copier, the works. And on the opposite wall, a gun cabinet with broken glass. Sasha closed his eyes and could see it: Kara
coming out on the deck and realizing that her son was on the run, seeing the man go after him, then hearing shots and racing back into the house, terrified, running to grab the first gun she could find, breaking the glass to get to it…

She must have been panicked. The thought made him smile.

He went to the desk, booted up the desktop. Not much on it, and he didn’t recognize any of the icons, not even for the operating system. That wasn’t unusual—fifteen years in prison had left him behind the technological curve—but still… He clicked on one of the icons. A security block came up. Clicked on another one, same thing. He managed to get into one, but it was encrypted.

Sasha frowned. This dude had some serious issues with paranoia. Either that or he had some serious secrets.

Or he was someone a lot bigger than Sasha had considered.

His pulse picked up speed and a tide of anger rose: another curve ball thrown by Kara. Who the fuck was this guy? He had to think.

And had to hurry. It had been fifteen minutes since the shooting had started. This house wasn’t an easy place to get to, but if this dude was connected to authorities, they may have made a call the minute they got out of gun range. He shouldn’t spend any more time here.

But he couldn’t leave without sending a message. He had to show Kara what she’d done now.

He fingered the hair in his pocket and pulled some out. What would she think if she got a photograph of her own hair, and realized how close he’d been?

He shook his head. There was something creepy about that, given the circumstances, but creepy wasn’t good
enough. He wanted her terrified. Feeling responsible. Feeling guilt for pretending to be something she wasn’t.

Feeling his power.

He rubbed his forehead, thinking, his pulse pounding in his temples. The noon news had reported that enough evidence had been found to presume both Aidan and Kara Chandler dead from the boat explosion. They meant body parts. Which, of course, wasn’t true, since Sasha had just seen their body parts all in good form, running like hell. She was good—good enough to get the police to report utter lies. Good enough to write her own rules for the game. Good enough to get someone smart and strong and capable working with her.

His nose itched and he reached up. Blood. Goddamn it, his nose was bleeding. Blood pressure rising. He swiped his sleeve across it. He had to get out of here.

He walked back through the house, keeping his sleeve against his nose, looking for inspiration. He found it in the garage.

The perfect way to turn up the heat.

E
VEN FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER
their escape, Kara still felt out of breath. She could hardly fathom what had happened.

Varón pulled onto the broken-up parking lot of a gas station that appeared to have been abandoned decades ago. “Let me have my phone,” he said, and Kara handed it to him. She’d grabbed it off the kitchen island before she ran out of the house to meet them in the garage, just as he had told her to. Even trapped by a volley of rifle-fire, he’d been able to think clearly.

It was more than Kara could say for herself.

He killed the engine and climbed out of the Porsche. He stepped a few paces out of earshot and began talking into his phone.

Kara sank back against the seat and watched him. None of it made sense. Least of all, Varón.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” she asked Aidan. “You were humped over.”

“Jeez, Mom. I just outran a guy shooting a rifle at me. I don’t think a side-cramp is a big deal.” He plucked at his wet, muddy clothes and blew out a breath. He frowned,
but clearly had something more to say. He shook his head. “You know, back there in the woods—”

Kara waited but he didn’t finish. “What?” she pressed.

“He kept me from getting shot. Varón did. He threw his body over me when the shooting started.”

Kara closed her eyes.

“I mean it, Mom. If a bullet had come my way, it would have hit him first. He protected me.”

A rush of gratitude surged in but collided with a wall of uncertainty. Luke Varón, drug lord and hit man. Hired by her as a glorified bodyguard, and now saving her child’s life.

Kara stroked Aidan’s face—he didn’t pull back the way he usually did—and the sensation that her entire universe sat beneath her fingertips eked in. If anything happened to Aidan… She swallowed back the thought. She couldn’t dare to finish it.

She looked at Varón. He spoke into his phone a few feet from the car, fury vibrating around him like heat waves off the pavement. The cuffs of his sleeves hung loose and his shirt was dark with mud and water. His hair stuck up from where he’d raked his fingers through it. For a man accustomed to utter and complete command of his world, the fact that a sniper had encroached on his property seemed to have knocked him for a loop.

He disconnected and stood for a minute, his hands low on his hips and his face turned skyward. Formulating a plan, for sure.

“Stay here,” she said to Aidan, and got out. She walked over to where Varón was standing. He turned a determined, dark glare on her.

“He shouldn’t be with us,” he said, his voice so low Kara had to strain to hear it. He tipped his head toward Aidan.

“I know,” she said, and he let out a breath. He seemed relieved.

But Kara was hanging on to control by a fragile thread.
Look what you’ve done.
She’d put her own son in the path of a killer. Two killers: the shooter and Varón. Which one was more dangerous?

Varón spoke quietly. “Knutson will take him. He had a son once. You can trust him.”

He took Kara’s arm and headed back to the car. Aidan was silent as they got back in but Varón caught Aidan’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“I’m taking you to meet Knutson,” he said. “You’re going to a condo. Police would call it a safe house; my people will treat it that way and keep it secure. So long as you do what you’re told, you won’t get hurt.”

Kara felt Aidan’s rising panic. “Mom, please,” and she turned on him.

“Damn it, Aidan, do you know how frightened I was back there? Do you?” Tears began to flow. “I have to know you’re safe. I’m not doing this to hurt you, Aidan. I’m doing it to keep you alive.”

“And what about you?” Aidan asked. “What’s going to keep you alive?”

“I am,” Varón said. Then his voice went chilly. “My shipment, remember? I need her.”

Varón turned the key and the engine snarled to life.

Kara closed her eyes. She was usually so in control, so self-assured. But the horror and exhaustion of the past week had shaken her in ways she couldn’t even identify. All she knew was that people were dying and her son had been shot at, and that Varón was the one person involved who seemed to know what steps to take.

Aidan curled into the backseat. Kara wondered about
his acquiescence and thought that deep down inside, he might be relieved. He was trying to be so mature and so strong, but he was still a child. He’d lost his uncle and learned that his father’s death had been a murder. He’d learned that someone had threatened him and left behind everything to go on the run with a stranger. He’d gone outside for two minutes and been shot at. He had to be terrified.

They drove for forty minutes, northeast, then pulled into a mall parking lot where Varón got out. He left the keys in the ignition.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re leaving this car.”

Kara and Aidan climbed out. Kara watched as Varón dug her iPhone back out of his pocket, turned on the power, and dropped it in the ashtray of the Porsche.

“Wait—” she said, but he held up a hand.

“All the information that was on your phone except for the location system has been moved. Nothing’s lost.”

Aidan understood before Kara did. He looked at Varón, and despite that he’d never admit it, he looked impressed. “You’re gonna let him hunt down that phone, right? Follow his own tracker?”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Varón said. “If he’s got any brains, he won’t follow it. He’ll know we’re waiting for him.”

“Still,” Aidan said. “Send it to Timbuktu.”

They followed Varón to a silver Escalade parked about fifty yards away. It was unlocked, with keys inside.

Kara looked at him. “You’re very efficient, Mr. Varón.”

“Resources. I believe they’re the reason you hired me.”

Yes. But his ability to snap his fingers and have people jump to obey his every command was as frightening as it was convenient.

She tried not to think about that, climbed into the Escalade, and they left the Porsche in the parking lot of the mall. They drove the Escalade up 400, out of the metropolitan area, then doubled back and took small roads back to I-75. An hour later, they pulled into a state rest area on the highway.

Knutson was there, his face set in a scowl.

Varón stiffened. “What’s the matter?”

Knutson glanced at Kara and Aidan, then apparently decided to speak in front of them.

“I didn’t want to tell you over the phone. I sent someone to your house to scout around right after you called and said you’d bailed. But before they got there, nine-one-one got a call. Your house is on fire.”