The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(87)

Peter heard the rumble of an expensive engine, the crunch of tires on the driveway, and the slam of a car door right beside the truck. Lipsky had his pistol out so quickly that Peter didn’t even see it happen.

“Is the party still happening?” Skinner’s pale, aristocratic face peered through the gap between the truck and the warehouse, his white-blond hair stylishly unkempt. “I wanted to see the device before it was too late.” He put a foot on the bumper, climbed up onto the loading dock’s bumper pad, and peered into the truck, his eyes wide. “Wow! That is really something, gentlemen.”

His face was flushed. He wore an off-white summer-weight suit, a money-green tie, and a feverish grin. The finger that Lewis had broken when he tore the gun from Skinner’s hand was set in a cheap drugstore splint. Peter hoped it hurt like hell.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” said Lipsky, truly angry for the first time that Peter had seen. “You’re supposed to be on a plane.”

Skinner waved him off. “Private charter, direct to the Caymans,” he said. “They’re on my clock.” He dipped his hand in his pocket and came out with a little knife that he opened with his thumb. “But I have something to settle with this guy first.” He started toward Peter.

Peter held hard to the cargo ring with both hands and prepared to kill Skinner with his feet, but Midden took a step to intercept.

“Ow! Hey,” said Skinner, holding his wrist. “Give me that!”

“Jon, control yourself,” said Lipsky.

“He wrecked my Bentley! That was a three-hundred-thousand-dollar car!”

Lipsky put a hand on his arm. “I’ll buy you another one. Okay? Whatever color you want. But you need to be on that plane. Now, don’t touch anything else, get in your car, and go directly to the airport. When you get to the hotel, destroy your suit and shoes and replace them from the hotel shop. Do you hear me?”

“Come on, he’s going to die anyway. Why can’t I kill him?” Skinner sounded like a child. Something was definitely not right in there.

Peter said, “You know he’s slipped his leash, right?”

“Shut your mouth, or I’ll give him his knife back.”

“Look at his eyes, Detective. What if he decides to stab a stewardess? Then you’re really screwed.”

Lipsky pivoted and swung his pistol into the side of Peter’s head, which flared in a bright burst of pain. He closed his eyes against it and kept breathing, in and out. Kept the static from rising up completely.

Lipsky’s voice was a little farther away now. “Keep an eye on him, Sergeant. I’ll come for you when it’s time. We’re almost there.”

“Can I hit him?” Skinner’s voice was eager.

“No,” said Lipsky, calm again. “You’re leaving.”

“What about the nigger? The one who was with him when he wrecked my Bentley?”

“Wait,” said Lipsky. “There’s someone else?”

Felix walked past to slip out the loading dock door. Boomer followed with Dinah and Miles.

Lipsky rolled down the truck door with a clatter. Then the clank of the latch. Peter was trapped in the back with Midden and the bomb.

Waiting for Lewis.

He heard Boomer talking faintly through the aluminum skin of the truck. Then Lipsky, and maybe Dinah.

Breathe in, breathe out. The white static rose.

Then he heard the bark of a dog.





44


TWO HOURS EARLIER




Charlie


Run. Charlie, run!” his mother screamed. Charlie froze. He’d never heard her sound so scared before.

There was a loud noise and smoke in the room, and Lieutenant Ash’s two friends raced forward with guns in their hands. But his mom shoved him through the door to the basement stairs and closed the door behind him. He stood on the step in the dark with Mingus beside him and he couldn’t see anything.

He put his hand on the door and felt the thunk as she threw the deadbolt.

Mingus growled at the banging and shouting above them. People were shooting, Charlie knew. Shooting at one another. Maybe at his mother.

Then Mingus bumped Charlie with his shoulder, nudging him down the stairs. Charlie reached out to grab his rope collar. Mingus pulled him onward through the dim, musty maze of the basement to another set of stairs with a faint rectangular frame of light at the top. Charlie climbed up into the kitchen of some kind of empty old restaurant that smelled like spilled beer and old people. He locked the basement door behind him, ran past the bar and the tables with their chairs stacked on top, opened the deadbolt on the outside door, and ran across the street, the dog hard at his heels.

He watched from the shelter of overgrown bushes, Mingus crouched beside him, as two men put his mother and brother in the back of a plain white van and climbed in. Charlie felt a wave of relief seeing them alive, even if they did have what looked like old shirts over their heads. But the other two men, the friends of Lieutenant Ash, did not come out.

The dog growled.

“Mingus, quiet,” said Charlie. “Just wait.”

He didn’t think anyone had taught the dog those commands, but Mingus seemed to understand. Charlie wished he had his baseball bat, but he knew better than to think it would help him against these men and their guns. He was angry and afraid in equal amounts. He wondered if that was how his dad had felt when he was off at war. Or back home.