The Nowhere Man

31 A Hard Man

Evan awoke naked on the floor of his bedroom, blinking into the harsh light of morning. His head throbbed. His mouth was chalky, his throat dryer than it had ever been. A single breath led to a coughing fit.

He started to rise when a ring of fire ignited around his neck.

His body slapped the floor, his muscles twitching against the rustic oak planks. He managed to fight one hand up to the blazing nerves of his throat and felt a metal band clamped into place.

A shock collar.

Behind him he heard Manny laugh. “This is gonna make our job easier, ése. No more getting our arms all tired holding up the shotgun and shit.”

Evan pushed himself onto all fours, managed to get a wobbly foot down beneath him.

His neck caught fire once more, nerves burning up through his face. His chest struck the floor again. Convulsing, he couldn’t tell if the shock was still running or if he was just feeling the aftereffects of the current sizzling through his skin.

When his vision unblurred, he watched Manny turning the transmitter over in his hand, admiring it. “This thing is great.”

“Take it easy,” Nando said. “René’ll be furioso if you fry his brain.”

“It’s not gonna fry his brain. People use it all the time.”

“For chimps in labs. At the lower setting.”

Manny grinned. “Boss did say to put a little more oomph in it.”

Evan shoved himself up again, wiped drool from his lower lip. He sneaked a glance at the inside of his arm, saw the tab of Scotch tape preserving René’s fingerprint stuck there, hidden from view. “No breakfast cart this morning?”

The next shock flipped him onto his side. Through the static he heard Manny laughing.

“Gimme that.” Nando wrestled the transmitter away. “It’s time for his exercise.”

Manny walked over and kicked Evan’s feet. “Hurry up and get dressed. Or I take back the transmitter.”

Evan trudged across the snow-dusted ground, scratching at his skin beneath the shock collar. The new guard in the tower watched him not with binoculars but through the scope of a dedicated marksman rifle. It wouldn’t have the range of the sniper rifles in the mountains, but the right one in the right hands could be effective to six or even seven hundred meters. When Evan paused to identify the gun from its silhouette, the guard reached into his pocket.

Evan barely had time to wonder what he was doing before countless needle tips jabbed into his neck. He lost his legs again. Snow against his cheek, crusting the hollow of one eye. He lay there, panting for breath. There’d be no getting used to the shock level.

So the tower guard was also armed with a transmitter for Evan’s collar. And God knew who else. Evan pulled himself up and staggered for the tree line, keeping his gaze low.

He’d thrown on multiple layers again. He felt bulky beneath two shirts and two sweaters, ballooning at the midsection like Tweedledee.

Once he was hidden by the evergreens, he sat with his back to a tree and groped around the collar. Contact points rimmed the inside, metal prongs grouped in twos, the rounded tips jutting into his skin. His thumb found a notch near the back where the band snapped into place. No keyhole that he could discern. Perhaps the release was remote-controlled as well? The collar had little give; there’d be no moving the contact points off the skin. It was tight enough that swallowing was hard, like having a peach pit at the base of his throat that would not go down.

Rising, he hiked up the gradual slope of the northern face, wanting to get a better look at the entire valley. He crested a bulge in the mountainside and assessed his options. From this vantage it was clear that the western and eastern sides of the range were too steep to be traversed. Clifflike runs of shale would prevent any ascent while simultaneously leaving him exposed. He doubted that René had bothered to place snipers on those ends of the range. One shooter to the north and one to the south, aided by the eyes of the guard in the tower, could contain Evan in the valley.

Since the northern slope provided the best route to freedom, René had positioned the stronger sniper there. Which meant that when Evan made a break, he’d head up the opposite mountain. Wanting a better view of the southern rise, he hiked higher up the northern range now.

This was his last chance to recon.

He was leaving tonight.

Tomorrow René was planning to force him to empty out his bank account. Which was unacceptable for a host of reasons, not least of which were the ramifications of wiring money from his account without his own meticulous encryption procedures in place. Charles Van Sciver and an array of the most powerful search-software programs ever created were working around the clock for the faintest trace of the Nowhere Man to blip onto the radar. One click of the mouse would make Evan disposable to René and put Van Sciver onto his scent at the same time.

He was unwilling to deal with either complication.

Not with Alison Siegler and the boy out there waiting.

The thought sharpened his purpose, quickened his step. He fell into a rhythm, making decent time. The sun dominated a blue and cloudless sky, warming him enough to break a sweat despite the temperature. He stopped at intervals to eye the mountain across from him, mentally charting courses and backup courses, noting potential positions the sniper might take and the blind zones of those respective positions.

The Third Commandment: Master your surroundings.

He’d just started up again when a loud crack announced itself and a football-size chunk of bark flew out of the tree trunk to his side.

Evan halted. His breath wisped from his mouth once, twice.

He took a small step forward, and another rifle report sounded. Wood splintered overhead, and then a heavy bough rushed down, crashing a few feet in front of him.

He paused again, oriented upslope, trying to zero in on the sniper’s position. He stepped to the left. This time he saw the muzzle flare an instant before the round kicked up dirt to the side of his boot.

The sniper was herding him down the slope toward the chalet.

Knowing he was clearly visible in the scope, Evan raised a hand: Got it.

Turning around, he started down the mountain.

He kept on in the direction the sniper had indicated, moving swiftly. Once he’d crossed a ripple in the mountainside, he knew he’d moved out of range of the scope. Rather than continuing down, he carved along the hillside, keeping to the dense trees. The pine air tingled in his mouth, his throat. At last he circled to the rear of the barn.

Bellying down behind the tree line, he peered through the trunks at the back door about fifty yards away. Two of the narcos patrolled the barn at intervals, the Dobermans trotting alongside. Evan watched and timed them.

In the tower beyond, the guard scanned the woods with his scope, holding his radio to his face with increasing frequency and agitation. A few minutes later, a contingent of three guards exited the barn and jogged into the forest to the north. Though it wasn’t yet dusk, they wore night-vision goggles pushed up high on their foreheads in case the hunt went long.

Evan watched them go, then waited for the patrol to rotate one more time. When they passed, he broke cover and darted for the barn.

The first ten paces left him in full view of the tower, but the guard there stayed focused on the northern slope, rifle scope pressed to his face. Evan sprinted for the cover of the barn, at last falling under its shadow.

The rear door was unlocked. He cracked it, peering inside, wind whistling across the back of his neck. The G-Wagons and the Rolls were parked among a scattering of mechanic’s tools. The gear lockers rimming the interior sported hefty padlocks. Though he could see no one, he heard the echo of voices somewhere inside.

Footsteps crunched the fresh snow along the adjacent side of the barn — the patrol returning. The breeze carried the sound of the dogs’ panting, and then plumes of breath wisped around the corner a few feet off the ground.

Evan slid into the barn, eased the door closed.

The open space was broken only by a small box of an office that was little more than two thin walls and a flimsy door in the corner. Through the interior window, he spotted movement, so he hit the floor and lay still, breathing grease fumes.

Cold air drafted beneath the rear door, blowing against his face. He heard the patrol approaching and tensed in case the guards detoured inside. The sounds grew near, and then shadows dotted the gap beneath the door — broad blocks for the men’s boots, flickering spots for the Dobermans’ paws.

They passed.

Evan rolled behind the nearest G-Wagon, then rose to a crouch and peered through the vehicle’s windows into the office. All he could make out now was a sturdy arm leaning against a cabinet, the back of the hand tattooed with a too-wide grin.

A voice carried over. “What is he planning?”

It sounded like Nando.

He heard Despi answer from somewhere in the office. “I don’t know.”

Nando again. “Will he wire the money tomorrow?”

“He won’t tell me.”

“What does he tell you?”

“Nothing. He tells me nothing. He is a hard man.”

“Maybe you’re not good enough. Maybe we need to replace you. With your sister.”

If Despi replied, Evan couldn’t hear it. His eyes picked across the scattered gear, finally lighting on what he was looking for.

A car jack.

The one he’d spotted Samuel using two days earlier to prop up the Rolls-Royce.

When the handle was turned, the scissor jack cranked open into a diamond, but when closed it was relatively thin. Thin enough, he hoped, to hide beneath his bulky sweaters and smuggle back into his room. Given that Manny and Nando no longer came within twenty feet of him, he had a decent shot. He just had to sneak back to the woods, circle around, and then emerge casually from the tree line.

But first he had to get his hands on the jack. It rested in the open just beyond the hood of a Mercedes, three steps onto the wrestling mat.

If he made a move for it, he’d be briefly but completely exposed.

“We send a man by her apartment now and then, watch her watering her tomatoes on the balcony,” Nando was saying in the office. “Beautiful hair, just like yours.”

Despi’s reply was muffled by the walls.

Evan crept from cover. One step, setting his boot down silently, rolling from heel to toe. Another brought him onto the blue rubber mat. He leaned over, reaching for the jack. His fingertips had just reached the metal when the door flew open and Despi filled the frame, her face burning.

Dex and Nando remained behind her in the office, though their gazes were not yet lifted.

Despi stared at Evan, trying to process his being here.

Crouched over the jack, he stared back.

Her expression held a mix of dark emotions; it was unclear which would win out. Keeping his eyes locked on hers, Evan started to retreat behind the hood of the G-Wagon, moving out of Dex and Nando’s view.

That’s when he heard the rear door open behind him.

Claws scrabbled against the concrete floor. The Dobermans erupted in snarls. He was hidden between the two big SUVs, but not for long.

Despi remained unmoving as a statue in the doorway, her lips slightly parted, one hand still raised from when it had shoved open the door, her eyes flared wide. She blinked, swallowed hard.

He held up his hands and nodded at her: Go ahead.

The dogs’ barks grew louder. On the far side of the G-Wagon, the narcos shouted in Spanish. He sensed movement behind Despi, Dex and Nando drawn toward the commotion.

Evan gestured at her more firmly: Do it.

She raised her arm. Pointed at him. It took two tries for her voice to work. “Here! He’s here!”

She’d done an admirable job conveying panic.

Nando knocked her aside, barreling past her, his heavy coat flicking high in his wake. Already he held the transmitter aloft, pinching the button with his thumb.

Evan registered barely a half thought—Oh, fu—and then the current surged into him, radiating through his head and torso.

Convulsing on the floor, he sensed the dogs’ snapping jaws inches from his face. Confused, they barked and snarled; humans weren’t supposed to twitch like that. As they strained their leads, their handlers leaned back to keep them from tearing into him.

A command rang across the concrete from the far side of the barn: “Off.”

The Dobermans waddled back a few steps and sat, panting around wide grins. Ropes of saliva necklaced the sleek, dark fur of their chests.

Evan rolled his head on the rubber mat, catching an upside-down view of René silhouetted in the opening made by the pushed-back barn door.

He said, “You don’t stop, do you?”

Evan made a noise intended to convey assent.

“No more walks for you. No more exercise. And no more time.”

“Until what?” Evan’s words came out fuzzy.

“Until you wire me my money. Open of business tomorrow.” René continued in and stopped behind the Dobermans, stroking their heads. “Good boys. Good, good boys.”

He fished treats from his pocket and rewarded them.

“Do you like dogs?” René asked Evan.

Evan coughed hoarsely into the mat.

“It’s their loyalty that gets me,” René observed. “Purer than love. You know the joke. Lock your dog and your wife in the trunk of your car for twenty-four hours. When you open it, which one is happy to see you?”

The Dobermans bared their teeth. Their marble eyes stayed locked on Evan, who’d managed to shove himself to a standing position, his hands on his knees. The skin of his neck prickled, angry and raw. Behind Nando, Despi caught his eye, her forehead twisted in anguish. He looked down quickly, not wanting to give away their rapport.

“Put him in his room,” René said to Dex. Then, as he breezed past Evan, “Be showered in time for dinner.”

Evan shook his head, trying to clear the static. Too late he realized he was smirking.

René halted. His face reddened. “Is something amusing, Evan?”

“No.”

“Why are you grinning?”

“Because I get it now.”

“Get what?” René waited, growing impatient. “What do you think you get?”

Evan squared to him. “I think you want to be a psychopath, René. But you’re not. I think what you are is lonely. I think the only way you can get guests to your dinner table is by paying them or forcing them. I think you believe you can buy your way out of your misery, and that isn’t amusing — it’s profoundly fucking pathetic.”

René drew his head back, his chin doubling. His flush deepened, color seeping unevenly along the nipped-and-tucked lines of his face. Then his expression hardened, the vulnerability clamped behind a mask of controlled rage.

He walked across the barn, through the rolling door, and out into the blazing white. Evan was watching him fade into the lightly falling snow when another jolt of the collar cut his legs out from under him.