The Survivor

Chapter 58

NEW ODESSA. The scrolled letters on the glowing yellow sign were visible from a block away. The parking lot sat empty until Nate pulled the Jeep in and slotted it into a front space. The vast bouncer-the one who’d shoved his face to the table-preened beneath the awning, peering at the dark glass inset in the oak door and making imperceptible changes to his cropped hair.

He turned as Nate approached and grinned broadly, showing off a gap between his front teeth. “You come back for more-”

Removing a handgun from the waistband of his jeans, Nate walked right past him, firing down through his thigh. As the big man grunted and began a slow-motion collapse, Nate pushed through the big door, never breaking stride.

The waitstaff flitted between the empty tables, changing linens and flatware, making the most of the pre-dinner break. They paused at Nate’s entrance, the memory of the gunshot hanging in the dim air. In the TV mounted above the bar, he caught a picture of himself and a snip of a newscaster’s chirpy declaration: “-in a startling reversal, the former bank hero now wanted in connection with the murder of a federal officer-” He kept on, pistol low at his side, weaving through workers. In the rear banquet hall, a band dressed in costumes suited to a medieval fair tuned their instruments, the shrill cacophony amplified off the brick walls.

Nate beelined for the VIP table encircled by pillars. Sure enough, the Georgian was there, poring over paperwork, one jaundiced hand poking at an accountant’s calculator as the other groped blindly between a platter of pickled fish and a wineglass. He lifted his head at the sound of Nate’s approach, his meaty lips twitching with disdain.

Nate kicked the chair straight out from under him, the hefty man toppling forward, his face smashing into the platter. The wineglass went sideways, his hands groping at the tablecloth, pulling himself up even as the cloth lost traction. Wheezing, he collapsed into the neighboring chair, hand cupped beneath his mouth, drooling blood through his fingers onto the starched linen. Red wine blotted his shirt. A piece of herring clung to the bulge beneath his chin. His eyes were wide, rolling, and his vast chest heaved. The lock of dyed black hair swooped up and away from his forehead as if aspiring to flight.

With his strong hand, Nate slammed the big head to the table, pressed Danny Urban’s Glock 19 to his temple, and brought his clenched teeth to just above the man’s ear. “Tell him I’m coming for him. Tonight. Understand?”

The Georgian’s frantic nod against the tablecloth rattled the shards of the shattered platter.

Nate left him in the mess. The workers stood frozen between the tables. As he walked past, they lowered their eyes with respect.

Under the awning the bouncer was slumped back against the wall, each short breath blowing a string of saliva from his mouth. Bone glinted deep in the wound. His pant leg was lifted, snared on the ankle holster, and he leaned forward a few inches, reaching vainly for the gun. His trembling fingers were feet away and not getting any closer.

Nate stepped over his legs on his way out.

Yuri and Misha had taken the replacement Jaguar because the Town Car looked too conspicuous. A sheet of paper wedged on the dashboard and reflected up onto the windshield held numerous addresses, each a secondary residence of one of the Overbays’ relatives or friends. The top two addresses were crossed out. Next up was the cabin belonging to Nate’s father.

Flicking a cigarette out the window, Yuri turned off at the base of Bouquet Canyon and headed upslope. Wearing a sport coat and jeans bleached to within a shade of white, Misha reclined in the passenger seat, turning the map this way and that.

Blue and red lights flashed behind them, and Yuri lifted his eyes to the rearview, cursing under his breath. A Chevy Tahoe, raised on big knobby tires, with a light bar and a big black bumper guard like a shark’s mouth. A Forest Service ranger. As Yuri signaled and pulled over, Misha removed a pistol from beneath his sport coat and racked the slide to chamber a round.

Yuri waved at him. “Not yet.”

As the ranger approached in his pressed green uniform and the silly broad-brimmed hat, Misha slid the pistol beneath his leg and smoothed his hands down his thighs.

The ranger tapped the glass, and Yuri rolled down the window.

“Whoa there, pal. What happened to your face?”

“I haff climbing accident. The rope, it…” Yuri made a snapping noise.

The ranger whistled. “Well, I suppose you’re wondering why I pulled you over.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You tossed a cigarette out the window.”

Yuri smashed his palm to his forehead, a big show of self-recrimination, and swore at himself in Ukrainian.

The ranger bobbed his head, amused. “Where you boys from?”

“Ukraine.”

“I got a sister-in-law from Russia.”

“Different country,” Misha said.

Yuri turned his head slowly and offered Misha a covert glare.

“St. Petersburg,” the ranger said. “Beautiful.”

“Yes,” Yuri said.

“I tell you what. I know how you folks smoke there, so I’ll just give you a warning. This is fire-hazard country. You can’t be doing that here.”

Yuri gave him a thumbs-up. “Okeydokey.”

“And careful climbing. Watch yourself. I don’t want to have to search-and-rescue you.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

The ranger nodded and started away.

“Officer,” Misha called out, the handcuffs hidden in his lapel pocket giving off a faint jangle as he leaned forward.

Yuri’s hands clenched the wheel.

The ranger came back to the window. Misha held out the map and the piece of paper. He pointed to the address of the cabin. “We are looking for a friend’s house. But the street is not on the map.”

The ranger looked at it. “Oh, right. There’s a turnoff here. See? Marked by a big stupid Santa Claus sign. Take that road a quarter mile and you’ll see the house. No more’n five minutes.”

Misha smiled. “Thank you very much.”

Yuri rolled up his window and eased out onto the road. They drove awhile, finally spotting the ridiculous plywood sign of Santa astride a motorcycle-WHAT’S YOUR WISH FOR THE NEW YEAR?

The cell phone rang, and Yuri answered on Bluetooth, Pavlo’s voice hissing through the speakers: “He’s coming. Get here now.”

The reception flickered in and out, and Yuri pulled over in the shade of the plywood sign to hold the connection. “What happened?”

“He went to New Odessa, passed threat to me through the Georgian. Said he is coming for me. I served time on the Arctic Circle, and he thinks he can say anything to threaten me?”

A rare show of outrage. Yuri and Misha looked at each other. “We will be right there.”

Yuri clicked off the call.

Misha tapped the window with a knuckle, indicating the turnoff right beyond their front tires. “We are all the way here. Why not go and look?”

Yuri hesitated, casting a glance up the dirt road. “Because Pavlo did not tell us to.”

“How long can one look take?”

Yuri weighed this, then slotted the gearshift into drive and started down the road. They coasted around the bend, the cabin coming into view way up ahead, a stream of smoke rising from the chimney. An older man appeared from the side of the house and started up the porch, bearing a stack of firewood in his arms.

Yuri’s phone rang again, once, and then the signal went dead.

He touched the brakes. Stared down nervously at the phone. No bars.

Up ahead, the screen door banged shut, the man vanishing into the house.

Yuri exhaled through his teeth. “The father is alone. No sign of the Jeep.” He considered a moment longer, then flipped the car around.

Misha made a sound of disappointment. “Okay, then. We will go to Pavlo’s house and prepare for Overbay.”

“Why did he go to the Georgian?” Yuri asked. “Why does he warn us?”

Misha lifted the pistol from beneath his leg, dropped the mag, then locked the slide to the rear so the bullet ejected. It spun shimmering in an arc before his face until he trapped it in a fist. “He wants us all in one place.”