The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(54)

The perfect answer. But I couldn’t do it.

Putting aside the vision, putting aside the possibility that the salvation of the world was resting in Buddy’s hands, he was…innocent. A genuine innocent. The fact that he’d never suspect a betrayal was exactly why I couldn’t betray him. Not if I wanted to live with myself.

“Ruthless,” I muttered, remembering Naavarasi’s words. “Just not ruthless enough. Damn it.”

I rummaged through the plastic box, checking tags and took the keys for the Wildcats. And the key for the bus.

I jogged down the steps and tossed a key to Westie, underhand. He caught it with a grin. “We’re ready to roll. Buggies are loaded and fueled. So how are you gonna get those gates open for us?”

“The hard way,” I said, waving Jake and Buddy over. “My original plan fell through, so here’s how we’re gonna do this. Jake, Westie, each of you take one buggy and a pair of night-vision goggles. Buddy, ride shotgun with Jake. I’ll be in that transfer bus, about a hundred feet ahead of you. I crash the gates; you blast right on by. Take a hard right the second you clear the second gate, point the buggies southeast and don’t stop for anything.”

Jake’s brow furrowed as I tossed him the other key. “What about you? We’ve got a spare seat. We’ll stop for you—”

“Look, once I hit those gates they’ll have a chopper in the sky within two minutes, with more on the way. If you get caught in a searchlight, it’s all over. And if you take the time to stop for me, you will get caught. I’ll keep the bus moving as long as I can, to try and draw their attention away.”

Westie shook his head. “They’ll stop you eventually, friend. And they won’t be gentle about it neither.”

“I told you I’d get you out of here,” I said. “Don’t get caught and make a liar out of me.”

“Damn, man.” Jake looked down at the key in his hands like it was a million-dollar bill. “Thanks. Don’t know what else to say.”

“My help isn’t free. First, make sure Winslow knows my debt is squared.” I pointed at Buddy. “Second, you get this guy wherever he needs to go, no questions asked. If he’s gotta talk to somebody at the bottom of the ocean, you make sure his ass gets on a submarine.”

“It’s not that far,” Buddy murmured. Then he frowned. “I don’t think it’s that far.”

“Deal,” Jake said, and he clasped my hand in a vice grip.

I shook with Westie next. He let out a nervous chuckle. “You’re one weird bastard, but I’m glad to know you. If you make it out of this alive, first round of drinks is on me.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” I said.

I turned to Buddy. “This is why,” he told me.

“Why what?”

“This is why I told you I was sorry, back in my cell,” he said. “I saw when I closed my eyes. Saw the buggies. Three seats, not four.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “Just get out of here and do whatever you need to do, all right?”

He wrung his hands, shifting from foot to foot, his eyes darting around the garage. Everywhere but on me.

“There’s something else,” I said. “What is it?”

“The voices told me something. They say it’s really important, that you have to hear it. But it’s bad news and I don’t want to say.”

“I can take bad news, Buddy. Give it to me straight.”

He scrunched up his face and tilted his head, listening.

“They say…you’re going to die here. They say you have to die here.”

“Tell your voices,” I said. “I don’t believe in fate, prophecies, or dying young. I’ll make it out of here. Just not tonight.”

“I just deliver the news,” he said in a small voice.

Outside the garage bay, the purple sky faded to black. Stars twinkled in the distance, as far away from here as I wanted to be. I patted Buddy on the shoulder and walked away.

“All right,” I called out, “remember, stay about a hundred feet behind me. Once you’re through, hit the desert and don’t stop. No looking back.”

“Hey,” shouted one of the other prisoners on Jake’s detail. “What about us?”

I paused, my hand on the bus door, and shrugged. I looked at the two cars between us, freshly washed and waxed.

“You’ve got two choices,” I said. “You can stay right here, turn yourself in peacefully, and maybe get some good-behavior time knocked off your sentence. Or you can grab the keys to those cars and follow us out. Odds are you get rammed off the road or gunned down before you reach I-80, and nobody’s ever gotten farther than that, but hey, maybe you’ll be the first. Somebody’s gotta win the lottery, right?”

I climbed onto the bus while they scrambled for the key box, falling over each other in their desperation. I wasn’t surprised. Grimly amused, maybe, but not surprised.

I sat in the stiff vinyl driver’s seat and buckled up. The engine fired to life with a throaty growl and the hood rattled like it had a stallion underneath trying to kick its way out. The cabin filled with the acrid smell of diesel and gunpowder.

As I stomped on the clutch and wrestled the cracked plastic shift knob into first gear, I couldn’t help but smile. Corman always told me learning to drive stick would come in handy, I thought, but this probably wasn’t the situation he had in mind when he taught me how.