Bad Ending (Agent Juliet Book 5) Read online

  “Freeze,” she yelled.

  “No,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “Put the girl down.”

  “They’re my nieces,” I said. “I ain’t trying to hurt anybody.”

  “We can talk about this,” she said.

  “You don’t understand.” I started backing toward the street with the girls. Bumped into the gate. “Della, open that up for me.”

  The cop bent her elbows, pointing her gun at the sky. She put one hand up to show me she was friendly. Then I realized why she’d done it. She thought I was using Eva as a shield. She wouldn’t shoot as long as I had a kid in front of me. Thinking that made me feel like an asshole—even more so because I was kind of relieved that I had picked Eva up.

  “This doesn’t have to end badly,” the cop said. “Talk to me. Tell me what you want.”

  I looked over my shoulder, trying to figure out the fastest way to get out of there.

  The police cruiser was parked on the hydrant, lights flashing, engine running.

  “Come on,” I said to Della, backing out of the open gate.

  “Vanzetti,” the cop called over her shoulder.

  Her partner came running, but he lowered his gun at the last second when he saw the girls.

  The cops watched me the whole way. I could feel how bad they wanted to open fire.

  I made it to the car door, sidestepped around it, never turning my back to them.

  “Get in and climb over, Della.”

  She did.

  I sat down in the driver’s seat, pulled my legs in, and jerked the door shut as fast as I could.

  Shots banged off of the glass and armored panels. The cops lit that car up. Thank Jesus the thing was bulletproof.

  I shoved Eva over the electronics in the center console.

  “Seatbelt,” I said, dropping the car into gear and punching the gas. “Put it around both of you.”

  Della started to argue, but I yelled, “Now!” and she shut up and did it.

  In the rearview, the cops were shrinking. Vanzetti was in the street now, still shooting. The lady cop was talking into her radio.

  A car honked at me. I straightened the cruiser out and got on my own side of the road. I took a left, then another one. Eva was whining about Della pulling the seatbelt too tight.

  It wasn’t until we made it onto Riverside Drive that I realized this was the second time in my life I’d stolen a squad car. Somebody really needed to cough up the money to make run-lock ignition standard.

  *****

  Almost no one was headed out of Manhattan on the George Washington Bridge that morning, so even though the trip in had taken more than an hour, westbound took about a minute and a half.

  I kept an eye on the rear view mirror while I messed with the switches, trying to shut off the flashing lights and siren. No army of cops following us yet. Finally, I got the right combination of ups and downs. The lights quit.

  I took the second exit in New Jersey, not really looking at the sign, and merged onto a highway.

  The radio that before had just been static and a bunch of people talking all at once suddenly went quiet. Then—

  “Attention, all units. Car M489 has been stolen by a white male. Suspect is early-to-mid-twenties, dark blond or light brown hair, approximately five-foot-ten, one hundred and eighty pounds, wearing a dark blue or black hoodie and jeans. Markers include a tattoo on his neck and a large bruise on the right side of his face. Suspect should be considered armed and extremely dangerous. He’s wanted for murder, assault, battery, and kidnapping. He has taken two small children hostage, both pre-Kindergarten females, both of mixed ethnicity. It’s unknown whether one or both of the hostages are injured. Signal for Car M489 is southbound on New Jersey Highway 46. Coordinating with New Jersey state troopers now. Standby.”

  I looked around. Still no sign of cops. But they didn’t need to tail us when they had a fucking LoJack on the car. I took the next exit and listened to the dispatcher update everyone on the radio. We had to ditch this car fast.

  A green attractions sign announced that a Wal-Mart was coming up in two miles on my right. I turned off and followed the arrows. The dispatcher relayed our position again.

  Wal-Mart’s parking lot was only half-full, probably because it was so early and close to the city. Back in Arkansas, the place stayed packed all day and night.

  I pulled into a spot between a shitty purple van and a brand new, shiny, red Mazda. Took my blood-soaked hoodie off and checked my t-shirt. If somebody got close, they might notice that reddish-brown stain looked an awful lot like blood, but I figured the odds were still better without the hoodie.

  A new dispatcher came on the radio. “All units, please be advised that a squad car marked M489 stolen from Manhattan is stationary at location NJ15-021 Wal-Mart. Suspect is armed and extremely dangerous, with two young female hostages.”

  “This is Patrol 146,” a man’s voice said. “We are two miles from location and en route. Over.”

  “Approach with extreme caution, Patrol 146. Sending SWAT backup to your location. Over.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Come on, girls.” I got out and tossed the hoodie under the squad car. The girls followed.

  Any other day, I would’ve stolen the Mazda—because fuck rich people who still shop at Wal-Mart—but it was locked and the van’s back gate wasn’t.

  I helped the girls inside, shut the door, and climbed over the dirty seats to the front. It smelled like cold McDonald’s and farts.

  “Seatbelts,” I said.

  “Eva’s not putting hers on,” Della tattled.

  “Do it, Eva.” I opened the ash tray and swiped my hand under the seat, looking for keys. Nothing.

  “A friend-fry,” Eva said.

  “Don’t eat that,” I snapped.

  “She did,” Della said.

  “Girls, put your seatbelts on and stop eating shit you find.” I got down in the floorboard. Patrol 146 couldn’t be far away. How in the hell did hotwiring work? Just yank out a bunch of wires and touch them together until the van started or would that fuck something up?

  Then I saw the screwdriver under the seat. A flathead, just like I used to keep in my truck after the key broke off in the ignition.

  No way was somebody here that trashy.

  I stuck the screwdriver into the ignition and turned. The van squealed to life.

  “Thank you, Jesus.” I hopped into the driver’s seat. The van shook as it backed out of the spot, but calmed down when I put it in drive.

  A gray Charger with lights on top and the New Jersey State Police seal plastered on the side pulled into the parking lot.

  “Get on the floor, girls.” My voice cracked when I said it.

  The Charger turned down our row.

  I held my breath. White-knuckled the steering wheel. Checked the cracked rearview mirror.

  The girls were on the floor. The back windows were tinted. Even if the cop had my description, I didn’t have on the hoodie anymore and he surely couldn’t see my neck tat from there. As far as he knew, I could’ve been any guy who shopped at Wal-Mart and drove a shitty van—I glanced down at the speedometer—at a normal, legal speed.

  Just as the Charger passed us, the lights and siren flipped on. My heart stopped. My foot was halfway to the gas pedal.

  But the Charger kept going. It drove up behind the empty squad car and boxed it in.

  All the air whooshed out of my chest. I was so relieved I felt like I might pass out.

  “We need to put our seatbelts on, Uncle Jamie,” Della said. “It’s bad not to wear seatbelts in the car.”

  “In just a second.” I eased us out of the parking lot and back onto the highway. “Okay. We made it. Okay.”

  *****

  The girls fell asleep just before we crossed into Pennsylvania. The gas tank ran dry just after. I parked the van in a shopping plaza and left the girls sleeping while I wandered around, looking for an unlocked vehicle. Nothing. But there was a far
m truck with the window down about half an inch.

  I’d never actually broken into a locked car, but I’d seen it done on TV. I bent the truck’s antenna back and forth until the metal gave, then made a loop out of the small end. It took me five tries, but I hooked the door lock and pulled it up.

  “Hey,” yelled someone behind me. A mom-looking woman carrying a big purse and a handful of plastic bags. “What are you doing with my—”

  I lifted up the hem of my shirt, flashing the butt of the Sig at her.

  She froze.

  “Go back into the store,” I said.

  She didn’t move.

  “You got insurance, right?” I asked.

  A few seconds passed. She nodded.

  “This piece of shit’s got to be worth more in insurance money than it is right now,” I said.

  She didn’t say anything and I didn’t have time to dick around. I pulled the Sig and pointed it at her.

  “Give me your purse and get lost,” I said.

  The woman put her hand on her hip. “You know, you could get an honest job and work for a living like the rest of us.”

  “And you could get your head blown off,” I said. “Purse. Now.”

  She threw it at me and started back toward the store. “Asshole punk.”

  Della woke up when I moved her into the truck. Eva stirred, but stayed asleep. Coming back from the dead must’ve really tired her out.

  I found the keys in the woman’s purse and got us the hell out of there. I made it back onto the interstate before reality started to sink in.

  Eva had been shot in the head. And lived.

  The KiloT-4 super-serum stuff. That had to be why NOC-Unit wanted the girls—because a bullet to the brain wouldn’t kill them. A couple of invincible little kids who could be taught to disarm and attack anybody three times their size, like Della had done with Ms. Baker.

  My hands were shaking. Too much adrenaline, too much insanity. Eva was alive, Della had saved me, and I needed to get them both somewhere we could hide. That was all I could deal with right then.

  *****

  We were able to refill the gas tank twice before Audrey K. Deardorff—the woman who the truck belonged to—canceled her credit cards. We ditched the truck in Tennessee and picked up a dusty Oldsmobile. That went a lot smoother than the previous three grand theft autos because it happened late at night, in the kind of small town where you left your car unlocked with the keys in the console.

  It was just after two-thirty in the morning when we crossed the Arkansas line.

  “Me hungry,” Eva said.

  “Don’t talk like a baby,” Della said.

  “Leave her be,” I said. “We’ll get something to eat after a bit, a’ight, Babygirl? We just need to get somewhere first.”

  “Are we going home?” Della asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess. Kind of.”

  “Will Mama and Daddy be there?”

  “No, D. We talked about this. Remember?”

  “They’re still in heaven?” Della said.

  “Yeah. Forever.”

  “I don’t like that,” she said.

  “Me either,” I said.

  Della looked out her window for a while.

  “Why don’t you tell me about preschool?” I said. “What kind of stuff did you do? Were there other kids in your class?”

  “A couple,” she said.

  “Were they like you?”

  “Nobody’s like me. I’m unique.”

  “I mean, do they get hurt like you and Eva?”

  “Me and Eva don’t get hurt.” Della held out her arm. “See? No scratches or burns or anything. They just go right away. Gramma said that Dr. White liked that, how they go away so fast. Gramma said that I was very impressive and unique.”

  The leather steering wheel cover creaked under my fingers.

  “Dr. White was at your preschool?” That came out sounding pretty strained, but considering the circumstances, I gave myself a pass.

  “No, just at the doctor’s office. Our teacher only was at preschool.”

  “What’d you learn at preschool, D? That disarm, incapacitate thing?”

  “Disrupt, disarm, incapacitate.” She did a seated kick. “And judo! Chop!”

  “Me don’t like that,” Eva said.

  “You’re not old enough to like it yet, you dumb baby.”

  “Stop it, Della,” I said.

  “She’s not,” Della said. “She’s only three.”

  “Me hate you,” Eva said. “Me hate you and Gramma and doctor and Uncle Jamie and Mama and—”

  “Stop!” I smacked the steering wheel and they shut up. “Just everybody be quiet for a while. We’re almost home.”

  Della gasped. “Uncle Jamie, Eva peed her pants. That’s bad. We’re only supposed to pee in the—”

  Metal crunched. Safety glass from my window rained down on me. The steering wheel spun and the Oldsmobile swerved onto the shoulder.

  I don’t remember hitting the tree, but when I opened my eyes the front of the Oldsmobile was pinned between a big Southern pine and the grill of a pickup truck.

  “Girls?” I twisted around in my seat. They were crying, but fine.

  Of course they’re fine. Super-serum, dumbass.

  The truck’s doors opened. Rifle barrels stuck out of the open windows, but no bodies. No targets. Professionals.

  “Shit.” I climbed into the back and unlocked the girls’ seatbelts. “Come on.”

  Della’s door was furthest from the truck. I put my shoulder against it and shoved until it screeched open.

  “But I can fight those guys,” Della said.

  I grabbed her arm, pulled her out of the car, and picked Eva up.

  The shooting started immediately. I ducked and ran. It was awkward carrying Eva and dragging Della along, but I couldn’t take the chance that we’d get separated.

  “Ow!” Della tripped. “My leg got shot. Uncle Jamie, my leg.”

  I kept pulling her. “We can’t stop.”

  “I want to fight them. I can kill them.”

  “What? No. Jesus. They’ll—” But they wouldn’t kill her. They couldn’t. “There’s too many of them. They’ll take you back to Dr. White.”

  Eva pushed her face into the hollow of my neck and started screaming, “Me don’t want to. Me don’t want to,” over and over again.

  It was taking forever for my eyes to adjust to the dark. I had one Sig and that little .22 left. Those guys were probably a full NOC-Unit team with unlimited ammo. And if they were NOC-Unit, they would have night vision goggles. So, while we ran around like chickens with our heads cut off, they could just saunter up behind us.

  The shooting died down to one shot every few seconds. They were spreading out, maybe trying to surround us. I picked up the pace.

  My boot caught on something. I let go of Della’s hand to try to break the fall, but I couldn’t. Eva and I hit the ground and rolled. I slammed back-first into icy water. My hip banged off a rock. My face submerged and I sucked down a lungful of water.

  Eva was choking and coughing and trying to climb up onto my head, but the water wasn’t that deep. I splashed and fought until I made it to my knees.

  “You’re fine, Babygirl.” I rubbed her back. Tried to keep my own coughing to a minimum. “You’re fine.”

  “Uncle Jamie?” Della asked. “Did you get shot, too?”

  Just enough moonlight was coming through the trees that I could see her outline at the top of the bank.

  “Slide down here,” I said.

  Dirt and dead leaves skittered past and splashed into the river. Della stood up and brushed off her butt.

  The shooting stopped. After all that noise, the silence felt heavy. I didn’t want to make a sound. I tried to be quiet as possible as I climbed out of the water.

  Once I got Eva resituated, I grabbed Della’s hand and started down the river. I had no idea where it would come out, but at least we would stay below the NOC-Uni
t team’s line of sight for a little while.

  The river widened and bent. On the opposite side, a hollow was carved back into the bank next to a rotted tree. Probably a catfish hole during high water. It looked big enough for the girls to sit in.

  I led Della over to it, knelt in the water in front of the hole, and splashed my hand around inside to check for snapping turtles. It was empty and shallow—less than an inch deep.

  But Eva wouldn’t let go of my neck.

  “I need you to get in there, Babygirl,” I whispered. “Just for a little bit.”

  “Too dark,” Eva said.

  Della wiggled back into the hole and sat down.

  “It’s not so dark,” she told Eva. “See? Wet, though.”

  Eva’s grip eased up. After a couple seconds, she let go and ducked in beside Della.

  “A’ight now,” I said, “I need you guys to be so quiet. If you see somebody who ain’t me, don’t move at all. Stay put right here until I come get you.”

  *****

  I found a cedar a few hundred yards back downriver from the girls, climbed up, and got situated with my back to the trunk. A couple minutes passed. My heart rate calmed down. I took a deep breath. Smelled that wintery scent of frozen sap and cold mountain water. Seemed like forever since the last time I had smelled that.

  It took a while, but the first guy came creeping along not fifteen feet from my tree. He was wearing a pair of night vision goggles and scanning side to side, but not looking up.

  I eased the Sig out of my jeans. Body armor was standard for a NOC-Unit field op, so a shot to the chest would just knock the wind out of him. I aimed. Waited until he walked into my sites. Squeezed the trigger.

  His NVGs jerked sideways. He dropped to a crouch, fired three-shot bursts in an arc from left to right, and started backing away. I pulled the trigger as fast as I could, as many times as I could. Shitty shooting. A waste of bullets. But one finally hit him in the head.

  I wanted to jump down and go after the M16—I was better with a rifle than a handgun—but I didn’t want to be caught on the ground if the rest of his team came running. I ejected the Sig’s mostly-empty magazine, put a new one in, and waited.

  My ears readjusted to the quiet. The smell of gunpowder dissipated and the mountain smell came back.