The Inner Circle (31 page)

And it had been a key of sorts, one that lead us to an assistant director of the FBI, who claimed he didn’t know anything, which, according to the Kid’s nifty program, was a lie.
 

Even so, where did that leave the rest of us? Carver was still dead, we had voted to disband, Ian had taken off, and others were soon to follow.
 

So what were the four of us doing out here now in the bleak and inhospitable Arizona desert?
 

I wasn’t sure about Maya or Drew or Jesse, but I was thinking about that lone candle in the darkness, the wick becoming shorter and shorter. I was thinking about how the only way for evil to triumph is that good men do nothing, and I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. Not while I still had the power to do something.
 

Drew called. He said the target was turning off the interstate, heading south.
 

I started to relay this message to Maya, how we were getting off at the next exit, when I suddenly heard a familiar high-pitched whine.
 

The radio was off, the only sound that of the wind raging through the opened windows, but the noise was distinct, coming from behind us.
 

I quickly turned in my seat.
 

A black sport bike—a Ducati no less—was racing up the left-hand lane.
 

It was there for only an instant before passing us by, doing at least one hundred, disappearing down the highway and letting the high-pitched whine fade away into nothingness.

45

The town was named Hope Springs.
 

Out in the middle of nowhere, it was the kind of town whose population was less than one thousand. A few cars and pickups traveling along the main strip, but hardly anybody out and about, not in this heat, not when they could find solace from high-powered air conditioners or overworked fans.
 

Just as we passed a Circle K grocery store, the Kid called.
 

“He’s got a gun.”
 

“What type of gun?”
 

“Revolver. Looks like a Smith & Wesson.”
 

“You think it’s loaded with blanks?”
 

“How the fuck should I know? But I’ll tell you, this doesn’t look good. Whatever Simon’s been telling this guy, he hasn’t been taking it well.”
 

“How so?”
 

“For starters, the sorry bastard’s been crying for the past five minutes straight.”
 

I had called the Kid earlier about the Ducati, told him that while I wasn’t one hundred percent certain it was the same one that had saved us in Miami, I was pretty certain. He had said, Yeah, well, pretty certain won’t fucking get you laid at the prom. I was half-tempted to ask him if he had even gone to his prom, but instead told him to keep an eye out for it regardless.
 

Now I asked him if he’d seen it.
 

“Nope.”
 

“Are you sure?”
 

“Yep.”
 

When I’d disconnected with the Kid, I called Drew.
 

“If he pulls off anywhere, keep driving and circle back around. We’ll try to make contact first.”
 

I told him about the Kid’s call, how the Abortionist had a gun.
 

Drew said, “Good luck.”
 

Less than two minutes later, the Abortionist made his turn.
 

We had just passed through the heart of Hope Springs, and judging by the few weathered and decrepit buildings, not to mention the single traffic light hanging suspended above the intersection, it was a safe bet to say it was an unhealthy heart.
 

Up ahead, the Abortionist turned into the parking lot of one of the town’s two gas stations.
 

Drew continued forward, didn’t even tap his brakes.
 

The gas station looked reasonably sized. Two islands covered by an overhang to help protect those weary drivers from the harsh desert sun as they pumped overpriced gas. The building itself was white stucco, its entire front mostly glass and plastered with signs announcing sales on soda and ice cream and claiming their cigarettes were priced as low as the state would allow.
 

Three cars were already parked in front of the building. Another car was at one of the islands, its weary driver not looking so weary, a young woman in a sundress fanning herself with a magazine as she watched the numbers cycling upward and onward.

The Abortionist parked in front of the building. He was out of his car and walking, his head lowered, when Maya made her turn and parked four spaces away.
 

He didn’t seem to notice us—didn’t even seem to hear us—as he neared the two glass doors leading into the store. Presumably he was deep in thought, concentrating on the task at hand, his mind trying to wrap itself around the cactus which had become the next part of Simon’s game. He was probably trying to figure out how to go about this and not get pricked, not get hurt, and I can’t say I didn’t blame him. He didn’t look very sure of himself as he walked, his shoulders slouched, but neither would I if I were carrying a small revolver in my right hand.
 

The Abortionist wasn’t even trying to hide it as he opened the door and stepped inside.
 

“Shit,” I said, already flinging off my seatbelt and scrambling to open the door. I withdrew my Sig just as I stepped out of the car, saying to Maya, “Stay here and call Drew. Tell him to get his ass back here pronto.”
 

I slammed the door, hurried up onto the walkway toward the store’s entrance.
 

Tinny music was coming from speakers perched in different spots of the overhang. At the moment Steely Dan was singing about reelin’ in the years.
 

The young woman in the sundress was still by her car, pumping her precious, leaving-a-hole-in-your-wallet fuel, too busy fanning herself to have noticed the gun in the Abortionist’s hand.

I couldn’t see through the windows, not with all those cardboard signs taped in different spots. All I could see were the racks of snacks, boxes and bags, twelve-packs of soda stacked precariously on top of one another.
 

A dusty pickup truck pulled into the parking lot, what looked to be a father and son. I wanted to wave them away, tell them to get the hell out of here, when, from inside the store, I heard the first scream.

46

It wasn’t much cooler inside the store.
 

A half dozen box fans were situated around the place, at the ends of each aisle, picking up the slack of the failing air conditioner. A sign above the counter read
A/C on FRITZ
with a frowny face scribbled in marker below it.
 

The music playing outside was playing inside too, but most of it was drowned out by those six box fans, all set on high, creating a kind of maelstrom as it used the stale air to crinkle bags of pretzels and potato chips, fan the pages of magazines, send the advertising mobiles hanging from the ceiling off in drunken dances where they never got very far and always ended up in the same place.
 

Besides myself, there were five other people—a man and a woman, both in their sixties, both Mexican; a guy in his thirties wearing a straw cowboy hat; the counterman, also Mexican; and the Abortionist.
 

The counterman was behind the counter, his hands held up in front of him. The three others were frozen off to the side, also with their hands raised.
 

The Abortionist was the only one not partaking in the hand raising. Instead he had the Smith & Wesson aimed straight at the counterman.
 

“Come on, please, just give me the money. I don’t—I don’t wanna hurt anybody. Just please, give me the money and I’ll go.”
 

This was what he was saying when I entered the store, when an actual bell dangling above the door with a string tied to it announced my presence with an off-key jangle.
 

The Abortionist was already in a bad state. Any untrained eye could see that the hand grasping the gun was shaking. Any untrained ear could hear the nervousness and fear in his voice.
 

He was starting to ask for the money again when he heard the bell jangling and spun around, already starting to say something to whoever else had unfortunately walked in on this early afternoon fracas.
 

But he didn’t say anything. He tried, his mouth moving, but he couldn’t seem to form the words.
 

All he could do was stare back at my Sig aimed straight at his chest.
 

“Put the gun down, Clark,” I said, talking to him but also talking to the thick black glasses on his face, staring at the center where the camera was located and where Simon and Caesar and everyone else in the Inner Circle was watching me right this moment.
 

He was clearly spooked at hearing his name, but slowly shook his head, the gun grasped in his hand shaking even more.
 

“I—I—I can’t. If I don’t do this, they’ll kill them. I just—I need the money.”
 

“They’re already dead, Clark. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you that, but your wife and sons are already dead.”
 

The Mexican woman began sobbing, whispering a prayer.
 

Clark shook his head slowly, staring back at me through the lenses of the glasses, his hand trembling so much now it looked as if the gun had gained one hundred pounds.
 

“No,” he said in a small and soft voice, and dropped his head, his shoulders hitching up, the shaking gun lowering.
 

“I’m here to help you,” I said to him, taking one slow step forward, keeping the Sig aimed right at center mass in case he tried anything stupid, anything rash. In case Simon had already broken him enough that he didn’t care who he killed or hurt to get to his family.
 

I was less than ten feet away, the fans roaring around the store, Steely Dan still pouring from the speakers, when the Abortionist dropped the gun.
 

His hands went to his face, and he began sobbing, his shoulders hitching even more.
 

Keeping my own gun aimed, I bent and picked up the Smith & Wesson, placed it in my back pocket.
 

“Let’s go,” I said.
 

He looked up at me, his face red, tears in his eyes. He nodded once and took a step forward.
 

The Mexican woman was still sobbing, still praying, and the three other men were doing nothing more than curiously watching. They stayed where they were, their hands up, their gazes now on me.
 

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” I said to them.
 

I took the Abortionist by the arm and led him to the doors. I pushed one open without taking the extra second to look through the glass, and in doing so almost knocked over the man and the boy stepping up onto the sidewalk.
 

The man said, “Whoa,” and caught the boy, an amused expression on his face. The amusement didn’t last long. A moment later he saw the gun in my hand and immediately reached for the gun holstered to his belt. Whether he was an off-duty cop or just an average American citizen expressing his second amendment rights, I didn’t care to find out.
 

I shouted, “Don’t move!” and aimed the Sig right at his face.
 

He froze.
 

“We’re leaving now,” I said. “We’re doing so peacefully. No need to make things worse.”
 

The man said nothing. His other hand gripped the boy and pushed him back behind his body.
 

“I got him.”
 

This was from Drew, standing outside the SUV now parked beside Maya in the Focus. He had his gun out, the barrel trained on the man.
 

This wasn’t going down nearly as well as I had hoped, but there wasn’t any time to worry about it. Right now we had to get out of here as soon as possible before the police showed up. Not even twenty seconds had passed since we stepped outside, but I was sure the counterman—or someone else inside the gas station—had already dialed 911.
 

“Get in the SUV,” I told the Abortionist.
 

He wiped at his eyes. “Huh?”
 

“Get in the SUV now.”
 

Before he could take a step in the SUV’s direction—Jesse opened the driver’s door to get out and help—a thought occurred to me and I reached out and snatched the glasses off his face.
 

“Hey,” he said, startled, trying to grab for them, but I dropped them to the ground and smashed them with the heel of my shoe. He looked up at me, dumbfounded. “Why’d you do that?”
 

The music from the speakers in the overhang had changed. Steely Dan had faded to be replaced with Buffalo Springfield, telling us that something was happening and whatever it was wasn’t exactly clear.
 

Jesse came up behind the Abortionist. He gently grabbed his arm and the back of his neck to start leading him to the SUV.
 

“Let’s go,” I said again, pointing the way, and that was when I heard the low oncoming rumbling from the street.
 

Jesse and Drew and Maya heard it too. They all glanced toward the main drag—Jesse pausing as he led the Abortionist toward the SUV—right as a red Corvette convertible came roaring down the main strip.
 

It happened so suddenly that we forgot all about the man and the boy.
 

It happened so suddenly it gave the man enough time to grab his gun and pull it from its holster.