Trust Me

33

Luke ran. Not deeper into the parking lot, where he knew the Mercedes sedan could corner him as their partners had caught Aubrey; nor back toward the razor-tipped fence where the two men had corralled him.

He ran toward the highway.

The grass funneled out into a short expanse – maybe sixty feet across – and then a service road and then the torrent of cars, traffic still brisk at a late hour, people returning from Manhattan.

Behind him, the Quicksilver Mercedes vroomed off the asphalt lot, onto the dry grass.

Blood coursed down his calves where the wire had bit. He did not dare glance behind him; he did not want to see. It was worse than being pursued by Mouser and Snow because this was teams, coordinated, an inexorable fist closing around him.

Luke hit the service road and a minivan laid on its horn, nearly veering off the road trying to avoid him. The van revved past him, leaving a wake of burnt stench and a scream of you crazy asshole as he ran. The pursuing Mercedes lurched across the grass, closing the distance fast, and now he glanced back, saw a rear window powering down.

He measured his options in one glance. He could go to the right, where the service road curved toward a distant intersection and the Mercedes could run him down or scoop him up. Or he could go left, where he’d be running headlong into one-way traffic. But to the left was an entrance ramp onto the highway, bordered by a crash barrier, so the Mercedes would have both to go against the one-way traffic and make a 180-degree, sharp-as-nails turn to follow him onto the highway.

He headed for the ramp.

Two cars hurtled at him, both screaming with their horns and he ran between them, feet snapping on the white line. He ran like a machine, the wind carrying him, trying to urge every bit of speed from his tired muscles.

A screech yowled behind him, metal sliding, skimming hard against other metal. He turned as he sprinted along the highway entrance ramp, another car zooming past him in a blur.

Luke stormed up the ramp, and he glanced back. The Mercedes began a sharp turn to navigate the entrance, smoke misting the wheels.

Five lanes of traffic, a median wall, and then five more lanes. They would catch him if he hugged the shoulder and ran in the direction of the traffic. Or smear him like jam along the concrete.

But a stream of traffic coursed by, and he couldn’t get across the lanes in time; it would be a violent waltz where one wrong step or one veering driver would kill him.

No time to hesitate. He saw the approaching cars and their headlights, and he had to dodge them.

A belching semi rocketed past him and he ran the first lane in its wake, seeing a station wagon in the second. The wagon slammed brakes and he jumped and ran around it, clearing it and the third lane as the station wagon resumed speed.

The Mercedes powered fast onto the highway. He froze, no choice, five zooming sedans powering past him. He was trapped, the Mercedes approaching, trying to navigate to his lane.

The Mercedes aimed dead on for him as the fifth car blasted by and he ran, brakes screeching, a crunch as a car swerved over into another lane, its side crumpling against another sedan. The Mercedes cut around the cars, heading straight for Luke. He could see the triumph on the driver’s face.

Then the Mercedes was rear-ended by a brake-slamming truck.

Luke turned and ran through the final lane and vaulted the concrete wall. The slowing of traffic had already started due to the inexorable human urge to rubberneck and while the New York-bound traffic didn’t slam to standstill, he managed a short, brutal dash to the opposite side.

A truck barreled past him on the exit ramp, clearing him by inches, and he fell on the concrete and saw the tires just miss his outstretched fingertips. He looked up and the truck was past him, slowing at the end of the ramp, brake lights brightening. He cleared the ramp by hurtling himself over its edge, dropping fifteen feet to soft dirt. He went to one knee, weary with the cold, shaking and the adrenaline turning on him, burning like poison in his veins. He staggered back to his feet and caught his breath, the quavering in his legs finally easing.

He ran down the service road, the weight of the knapsack heavy on him.

They got Aubrey. He had to get her back.

He ran to the intersection where an all-night mart sat in a puddle of streetlight. He walked in and heard the soft sounds of Indian sitar music drifting above the shelves. A few minutes ago he’d been dodging cars, now he was shopping. He wondered if he looked shell-shocked. He bought a first-aid kit and a hot coffee and a bottle of water. He went to the bathroom and inspected his cuts. A thin shallow one marked his stomach – the concertina wire had nipped him where his shirt had been hiked and twisted. Another cut had sliced through the back of his jeans, a scoring across his calf and lower back that stung even more when he saw them. He smeared on disinfectant gel, applied adhesive bandages to the worst of the cuts, and swallowed aspirin. He downed the cold water in four long gulps. He drank the still-warm coffee and the heat began to seep into his blood, under his skin.

Luke left the mini-mart and walked away from the highway. He had to keep moving. But it was late and they would not stop hunting him. He did not feel panic; rather the calm of resolution.

He was going to take the war back to these people.

First things first. He was still entirely too close to the air park and the highway, and the Quicksilver team might have friends.

He found a taxi letting off passengers close to a bus station. He showed the cabbie the address for Quicksilver he’d stolen from the food manifest.

‘That address, you know what part of the city that is?’

‘That is near NYU in Greenwich Village,’ the cabbie said, after consulting a detailed map.

‘Let’s go.’

The cabbie informed him of everything wrong about New York, a city Luke had always enjoyed visiting. Luke sat in the back seat and listened only enough to make agreeing grunts when required for politeness. When they reached Washington Square, Luke asked the cabbie to let him out at the entrance to the park. Luke walked through the darkened paths and sat down on a bench. He surveyed the immediate area for trouble and police and saw only a drunk reclining on a bench thirty feet away, staring at the grass as though it held the secrets of the universe.

What will they do with Aubrey?

He imagined the worst for a long while and when the drunk approached and asked if he had five bucks, he got up and walked out of the park. He did not walk to the Quicksilver address. He found a small hotel that catered to New York University visitors and paid cash for a minuscule room. He registered under a fake name, Brian Blue, because a weird abstract blue painting hung in the lobby, and Brian was the name of the annoying neighbor who’d badmouthed him on the television news. He sprawled on the lumpy bed. He wanted to curl into the cocoon of sleep but he couldn’t. They had Aubrey. She had been kidnapped, again, and the thought of what she must be enduring burned. Being kidnapped at gunpoint, he knew, was not something you got accustomed to, even with practise.

He had thought he was taking them to safety. He wished he had talked her into going to the police; now she’d be safe. And he would be able to give up this fight, just vanish, run, find a nice big rock to hide under.

He stared out the window. Running was no life. Hiding was no life. He couldn’t give up, not yet. He had never felt so alone, even chained in the cabin. There, escape had been the only option he could pursue. But now, he could try to save Aubrey, or go to the police and surrender, or try and fight the Night Road and Henry.

He unpacked the knapsack. The useless gun, the laptop that he’d already picked clean. He pulled Eric’s key ring from his pocket. The Chicago Bulls toy basketball on the end of the ring caught on the pocket’s inside lining. He yanked it free.

There was a slight catch on the edge of the toy ball, under the Bulls logo. He hadn’t noticed it before. He worked his thumb on the catch.

The ball popped open.

Inside was a USB plug, the kind that slid into a computer port.

The other half of the basketball was solid. It was a hidden thumb drive; a portable way to carry computer files.

‘Oh my God,’ Luke said in the silence of the room. He powered up the laptop and logged in. Then he slid the secret thumb drive into the laptop.

The thumb drive appeared on the screen. Holding his breath, biting his lip, he clicked on it. Inside was a single file. He tried to click it open, but all he got was a dance of gobbledygook, glowing random numbers and letters, across his screen.

The file was encrypted.

Eric had started his career in bank operations; he would know about encryption. Luke knew then this must be the file that contained the whereabouts of the fifty million dollars. Nothing else could be so important. The thumb drive was Eric’s insurance in the face of certain death from the Night Road, his bargaining chip for Quicksilver. He’d simply carried it in his pocket.

This was the information on where the fifty million was hidden, and the key, he knew, to stopping Henry and the Night Road.

But he had no idea how he could access the information. The encryption key needed to be on the computer, and it wasn’t on this laptop.

He tucked the gun under his pillow; even empty, it reassured him. And he put the key ring under the pillow as well. Luke closed his eyes and the weight of what he knew he must do pressed him into fitful exhaustion.

As the darkness pressed against the windows, the eyes of the Night Road and Quicksilver kept watch, scanning every credit charge, every hotel database, looking for Luke’s name, Eric’s name, any sign, any mistake that would signal his location.

And while the thousand electronic eyes watched, he slept.