EYESHOT: The most gripping suspense thriller you will ever read (19 page)

She felt her adrenaline high tapering off, but knew this wasn’t the end. This was just a breather. The Soviet Cowboy would certainly be back before full dark. How long then? Twenty minutes? Fifteen? Until then, she was trapped in this crevasse in the center of Tapp’s valley like a soldier pinned in a trench. She knew Roy was down there, too. If he wasn’t, the sniper would have already blown his head off.

So where was James?

* * *

James was hanging underneath the Soviet’s jeep.

He wished he wasn’t. He was already regretting the idea. He braced both arms around some sort of lateral bar and tucked his feet up to what he guessed was the transmission case. This was the most familiar he’d ever gotten with the underside of a car. It sucked. He couldn’t tell how much clearance he had with the rushing desert floor below and he honestly didn’t want to know. He really, really wished he hadn’t done this.

On the subject of wishes – he also wished the Soviet had left a gun in his unattended jeep. That had been James’ first priority after he’d cut himself free and bolted to it, wincing while gunshots thumped from the gully. He had checked the Soviet’s glove box, the console, under the slashed seats. Nothing. Just a sweaty jeep with three stiffening bodies in the back. No keys, either – the bastard carried them on that jingling ring. Before James had been able to think of anything else, he had heard Elle shouting and seen the Soviet doubling back to—

Jagged rocks scraped his back. A big one, then two smaller ones. Then a vicious one that felt like an ice pick in his collarbone, drawing warm blood. He gasped and his front teeth scraped against dirty steel, like biting a chalkboard. Everything hurt. His elbows quivered with Charlie Horse tightness, he badly needed to pee, and the muscles in his stomach threatened to burn through his skin. He adjusted and readjusted his feet but found no firm traction, only temporary holds and a slow slide. Gravity was a patient enemy that would never tire. James was already exhausted.

The Soviet stomped the gas and the engine snarled a few inches from his face. Smothering air stung his eyes. He tasted burnt oil. Dirt clods pelted the sides of his head, kicked up by monster truck tires. He felt like he was breathing into a hair dryer. All the while, the vehicle shuddered up and down over every imperfection in the terrain, threatening to slip free of his sweaty hands.

Yep, this was a bad idea.

But he couldn’t drop to the ground and let the jeep pass overhead. Not an option anymore. The Soviet had chugged too far uphill. The vehicle was now certainly within Tapp’s eyeshot – if James dropped or fell off the chassis now he would find himself exposed and very dead. It wasn’t dark yet, either. Dusk, yes, but not dark.

At least Elle was still alive.

And so am I.

He shuddered with raw excitement, a guilty nervous glee he hadn’t felt since he was twelve and grimacing at the acid taste of vodka in his friend’s basement, as he imagined Tapp’s thousand-dollar scope sweeping over the roof of the Soviet’s jeep without knowing his prey clung underneath. Bad idea or not, this was a big step. For the first time all day, William Tapp didn’t know exactly where James was.

He only
thought
he did.

Squeezing his eyes open, he saw the setting half sun rotate behind his left elbow and realized the jeep had changed direction from north to south. The bumpy ride had improved, too. The Soviet was back on the packed dirt of Shady Slope Road and was . . . yes, he was driving toward Tapp now, straight toward the sniper’s side of the valley. Even better. Straight to the marksman’s den as the night descended, where the coward was roosted and vulnerable up close. It was almost too good to be real.

James felt a tormented grin crawl over his face.

I’m coming for you, Tapp.

You may own every inch of this valley, but you can’t own the night.

18

NIGHT VISION, read the military-style polymer case.

Tapp popped both latches under the wet thump of his own heartbeat. This gadget cost over three thousand dollars and he had operated it only once, last year. It was still an unfamiliar thing which he kept stashed in his nest the way one would keep a fire extinguisher, and he now wished he had thought to bundle the instruction manual with it. He was lousy with manuals anyway, often leafing through them once and discarding them to discover the subtleties with his own hands. Right now, those hands were shaking.

His BlackEye X3S wasn’t military spec anymore, but it was damned close (close enough for some Brazilian SWAT teams, and at least one outfit of red beret hand-choppers in Nigeria). It was a bulbous optic swollen with curves and knobs. He thumbed in the silver disc battery and closed the trapdoor like a sewer lid. He couldn’t peel the covers off and look through it yet – not quite dark enough. Fifteen more minutes, tops. The tech had come a long way from those primitive Starlight scopes in Vietnam, but light overload could still destroy a night optic. Although the BlackEye online ad boasted an automatic shutdown feature to save the image intensifier tube from such damage, did Tapp really trust it? Nope. No, sir. He was gravely protective of his nice things and this third generation night scope, capable of spotting a human at two miles in moonless darkness, was one of his nicest.

This particular model – the X3S – worked its magic by gathering whatever ambient or infrared light it could soak up and squeezing it through a photocathode tube, which turned photons into electrons. These electrons were multiplied thousands of times through a micro-channel plate and then reconverted back from electricity into visible light through a phosphor screen, creating that trademark green-tinted night vision that penetrated every shadow’s secrets.

This is definitely a . . .

He tried to make another pun; something about the situation being a
sea change
, referencing the fact that the BlackEye allowed him to
see
in the dark, but it just wasn’t happening. His heart wasn’t in it. In fact, his heart was slamming against his ribs like a dryer with a brick in it. Slippery panic welled up inside him and every time he pushed it back down, it came up stronger. He just wanted to go home. Finish this shit show and hit the road and go to bed. Yes, sir.

Something growled downhill.

Clear to his naked eye, Svatomir’s jeep was humming up the incline three hundred meters away. That Mac-11 had to be dry by now, so Svatomir was making a trip to the supply shed (the bungalow, Tapp affectionately called it) to retrieve his Saiga 12 – a chunky Russian 12-gauge mated with an AK-47 receiver. Picture an Osama bin Laden-style assault rifle that fired
shotgun shells
. Aiming optional. Two quick pulls would turn most creatures from solid to liquid. Birds become showers of red feathers and snakes become stringy clots of scales. Svatomir loved the Saiga 12 because it was the firearm equivalent of an ‘easy button.’ Tapp loved the Saiga 12 (right now) because it had an LED torchlight mounted under the barrel. With it, Svatomir could scrutinize every nook and cranny of the sheltered arroyo, while every other square centimeter of the valley would belong to Tapp and his BlackEye night vision. So yeah, the situation was under control.

Alright, James. What now?

You stay in the arroyo . . . Svatomir kills you.

You run for the hills under darkness . . . I kill you.

On autopilot, William Tapp’s hands had already turned his rifle sideways, bolt-side up, to swap scopes. With a baby screwdriver he attacked the first eight screws on the cantilever, sealed with blue Loctite, and they dropped like black flies into his palm. He heard Svatomir’s jeep grumble closer but ignored it.

* * *

Under that jeep, James hung on by fingernails and prayers.

Shady Slope Road crossed the arroyo on a black trestle and then halfway up Tapp’s incline, the Soviet veered west off the road and followed a slithering horse trail over two ascending switchbacks. In the fading dusk he saw the destination over his elbow – a heap of scrap metal under Army-brown camouflage netting, and beside it, nestled snugly into the hillside like a Tibetan mountain temple, a small rectangular building. It was the building Elle had spotted in her Nikon screen. Two hours ago it had been a distant smudge in a lens, and now it was real.

His arms were clay. He couldn’t hold on much longer. Twice he let his back dip to the racing ground. Twice it bit him and he recoiled up against the undercarriage, torn and gasping. Three times now – or was it four? – he’d sworn he was at his limit, and then he’d surprised himself each time and somehow kept holding on.

Don’t. Let. Go.
He pressed his cheekbone to the hot steel.

Barely glimpsed over the right tire, he saw the sun had sunk beneath the horizon and a crest of clouds had taken its place. The storm had overtaken half of the sky. Behind the left tire, he could see the very first stars pinpricking the eastern horizon. The world was falling into blues and blacks now and he hoped it would be enough to conceal Elle’s escape. With any luck, the incoming storm would choke out the moonlight. Rain, if it happened, would be terrific and cut down visibility even further. It was at least six miles back to the highway and more to Mosby, but Elle could make it if she paced herself, took unpredictable routes, and moved intelligently. But what about her injuries?

She had a hole in her chest, sealed with hardened blood and a sandwich bag. There was a pernicious little shard of Tapp’s bullet buried somewhere in her guts, drifting freely, slicing everything it touched like a razorblade. How long could she go without medical attention?

The Soviet tapped his brakes. James felt the discs squeal beside his head, slightly independent of each other. He rolled his head back to see the destination creeping closer, upside-down. Composed of maybe two or three rooms, the battered little structure seemed to be a plywood skeleton fleshed with mismatched plates of corrugated sheet metal. Some were corroded and pitted with rust and others gleamed fresh silver in the dying light. A gray door, heavy-looking and a few centimeters crooked, told him which side was the front. Dim yellow light poked through the seams. A lantern or a chemical light inside, James figured.

He pulled himself back up the moving chassis and decided this building was his objective. He supposed he could find some sort of bladed or blunt weapon in there at least, and at the very best, a gun. And if miracles did still occur on this godless stretch of Mojave, perhaps a CB radio or satellite phone. Maybe he’d be able to contact the police. If the next few minutes went truly, spectacularly well, he could distract the two killers long enough to secure Elle a head start. There was nothing better to hope for. He understood that he would likely die here, which was fine. All that mattered now was Elle. Saving Elle.

As the jeep slowed to a walking pace, James let his legs drop. They felt like noodles. His heels scraped the road, leaving tracks in the dirt. This was also fine. Acceptable.

Just keep holding on . . .

After the Soviet whined his brakes for a teasing eternity, the jeep cranked into park and the miserable ride ended. James let go and didn’t register hitting the ground. He just sort of time-traveled a second into the future, sprawled flat. Spreading warmth on his scalp. Flashbulbs on the edges of his vision. He must have banged his head on a rock. Another concussion. Sure, why the hell not?

The Soviet killed his engine. Dry silence.

James rolled on his side and waited for the Soviet’s boots to hit the ground a few inches from his face. Beyond, he saw the blackness of the scrap heap. But it wasn’t a scrap heap at all.

Cars. A junkyard row of them, parked door to door with inches between them. There were eight or nine maybe, all different locales and stories. Two pickup trucks. A sleek black Jetta, like the one his old general manager had driven. Two station wagons, one with a racked canoe on top. And more, further down and out of view, parked with the same tedious efficiency. His mind darted to Auschwitz, of all places, to haystack heaps of shoes and scrounged dental fillings and pocket change catalogued in ledgers. Such dull evil. It made him feel cold.

The Soviet kicked the driver door open, and James held his breath. He got out, kicking dirt in James’ face, and then took a gasping stumble, his duster slapping wetly against his thighs. One hand clasped to his stomach, darkened with blood. He walked straight to the building, leaving the driver door ajar but the keys jingling in his pocket, and threw the metal door open and ducked inside. He was in a hurry.

So was James.

He rolled out from under the jeep and sprung alongside the closest of the stashed cars, which happened to be Roy Burke’s red Acura. Tapp hadn’t seen him (or if he had, he hadn’t fired yet). He flattened his back to the bumper with his palms on the ground. The rapidly cooling air stung his throat. His bladder felt the size of a basketball. His joints slushed. He peeked uphill and saw there was only another two hundred yards of terrain rising up to form a jagged horizon behind the building. He knew no sniper of such expertise would ever silhouette himself against the sky. This meant William Tapp was less than two hundred yards away.

He was so close.

Better yet, the shooter had no reason to be scrutinizing this little motor pool on his doorstop because as far as he knew, his three victims were safely herded inside the dry riverbed. James was in Tapp’s blind spot.

I’m so close, and you don’t know it yet.

He looked over the Acura’s hood and estimated the strange shaggy-dog building to be twenty paces away. It was still his objective. He heard a mechanical humming from within, and the Soviet moving, pacing, huffing, opening a drawer, slamming it shut, opening another—

Something snarled beside him and he flinched. The radio! Still crammed in his back pocket through some minor miracle. He’d forgotten he had it.

Tapp’s voice dribbled in. “James.”

He said nothing.

“James? You . . . you still alive in there?”

In there
. As in,
in the gully
.

So far, so good.

James wavered and then clicked the input button, keeping his eyes on that gray door as he waited for the Soviet to reemerge. The situation hung on a knife-edge and he didn’t want to risk speaking aloud – but Christ, wasn’t everything a risk now?

“. . . James?”

“I’m here,” he whispered through his teeth. “I’m still here.”

“Good. Quick question, James.”

“Shoot,” he said.

Tapp made a gasping, croaking sound. At first James thought the sniper was choking on something, but no luck. It was laughter. Giddy laughter, rippling through his voice in waves: “That’s a good one. That’s a really, really . . . good one.”

“Good what?”

“No one . . . ever appreciates puns.” The sniper caught his breath and sniffed, audibly grinning. “It’s like they’re toxic or something. I don’t . . . I don’t get it. Folks say puns are the mark of an infantile mind. Wordplay for retards. The lowest form of humor. Thank you, James. It’s been a long day. I needed that.”

He nodded. “I, uh, figured it was worth . . . worth a
shot
.”

“Not bad, James. Not bad for being
under the gun
.”

“Well, I
aim
to please.”

The killer belched. “I’ve always felt that a good pun is its own . . . re-word.”

That one ambushed James. He laughed. It came out like a cough.

Tapp was pleased with himself. “Gotcha.”

God help me, I just laughed at a pun. Elle would kill me.

He cleared his mind and focused on that gray door. Any second now, it would swing open and the Soviet would return to his jeep, and when he did, he would leave the building unguarded. Right under Tapp’s nose. James would then bolt inside, search for a phone, gather information, recover weapons, do something. Anything.

I’m on the offensive now
, he realized.
It’s my move.

Inside the shed, the Soviet slammed something. It sounded like a high-school locker, harsh and jangling.

“Know what scares me, James?” Tapp asked.

“Yeah?”

“I . . . I don’t dream. Never have, ever.” The sniper licked his lips and paused. “Why do you suppose that is? What’s wrong with my brain?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“When I was a little kid, I used to worry it was because I didn’t have a soul. I couldn’t conjure up dreams, because I had zero spiritual activity inside me. I thought maybe I was born without one. Or I signed a deal with the devil when I was very young, like three or four years old, and just didn’t remember it. Who’s to say you’d remember? Maybe the devil doesn’t . . . let you. So for years, I’d go to bed desperate, eating a pound of Gummy Bears every night. Sugars kick-start dreams. I would pray, beg, hope, that that would be the night I’d dream about something. Even a nightmare. Because it would mean my soul was alright.”

James said nothing.

“It’s stupid, but it still gets to me. Because I know I’m not normal. Normal people can’t do what I do.” The killer exhaled and crackled static. “Isn’t that just . . . rich, James? I fear that I’m missing something that I’m scientifically certain doesn’t exist anyway.”