The Chaos Kind (John Rain #11)(22)

“You’re right that we need to put our heads together,” Dox went on. “And we want the same thing you do. So I’ll tell you what. We have a car—a minivan, as it happens. One of us can drive, the other two can lie down. When we get somewhere quiet, we can park and all sit in back and debrief to our hearts’ content. Maybe even bring in a little takeout. I don’t know about you, but I always get hungry after surviving a gunfight.”

“What are you doing?” Larison said. “We had a bugout point, why are you changing the plan?”

Good God, anytime something seemed to be cooling off, Larison had to turn a damn flamethrower on it. “Because, in case you haven’t been keeping up on current events, so far this morning not one thing has gone according to plan.”

“Bullshit. You want to stick around because you want to see Livia.”

That riled him, mostly because it was true. He stared at Larison. “Why are you saying her name in front of him?”

Larison took a step closer. “You can say mine and I can’t say hers?”

In spite of everything, Dox couldn’t help but smile at that. In contrast to what he’d done with Manus, Larison had stepped closer to Dox to emphasize his anger.

“Remember when we used to fight?” Dox said. “We’d be an eyeblink from shooting each other. And now? All you’re thinking to do is punch me in the face. That’s some kind of in-group we’ve formed, and I for one am proud of it.”

For a second, Larison stared at him, incredulous. Then he started laughing. “I give up,” he said. “You crazy bastard, I’ll get the van.”





chapter

seventeen





DIAZ


For a long moment, Diaz stood rooted to the steps, watching the now-empty street, unsure of what to do. Had that man really told her not to go into the park? That people were trying to hurt her in connection with . . . what, with Schrader? There had been three of them, hadn’t there? But suddenly she was unsure. It felt so surreal, she wondered if it had even really happened.

Just a few minutes earlier, as she was approaching the park, she’d heard what sounded like gunfire. It hadn’t been very loud, though, and there had been so much of it that she’d dismissed it as something else. Kids with firecrackers or something. But the park was designed to suppress the sound of the highway it was built over. Could the design suppress the sound of gunshots, too?

She realized she was afraid to go in. And that decided it for her. She turned, marched up the stairs, and walked into the park.

She saw it all immediately. Bodies. Several of them.

She froze, her heart suddenly hammering so hard it seemed she could hear it. “Shit,” she said. “Shit, shit, shit.” Her voice sounded unnaturally high, and she realized her throat had constricted. Still, it was a comfort to hear herself saying something, anything.

She jerked her head right, afraid whoever had done this was still here. Nothing. She jerked left—and saw another cluster of bodies, the ground around them soaked with blood. She stood staring for a moment, shocked, sure she wasn’t seeing correctly.

They’re statues. It’s a joke. It’s, it’s . . .

She tried to pull out her cellphone but her arms were frozen. She tried to say shit again, but nothing came out. Confused, she tried to move her feet. They were stuck. She heard a roaring in her ears, as though water were rushing past. It was like one of those nightmares where you’re glued to the ground or sinking into it—

The freeze, she heard Livia saying. A normal survival reflex. But to break it, you have to take external action. Say a word. Flex your hand open and closed. Take a step. Something. And make that one external action lead to another.

She tried to say shit again, but it was as though her throat was locked tight, her jaw wired shut.

“Sh . . . sh . . . ,” she managed. She felt her stomach clenching and she pushed harder, managing to draw out the sound: “Shhhhhhhh . . .”

And then the word broke through. She said it again and again, afraid if she stopped, her throat would close again. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit . . .”

She was talking. She could talk. “Move, Alondra,” she said, panting. “Fucking move . . .”

But she couldn’t. Her legs wouldn’t listen. She imagined her toes. Tried to wiggle them. She made her foot turn back and forth, as though stubbing out a fallen cigarette. She forced the foot forward, an inch, another, two more, like someone confirming the ground would support her weight. She managed a shaking step. Then a second. And suddenly the freeze was gone. It was as though she’d burst free of a straitjacket, an invisible cocoon.

Her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t reach into her jacket pocket, and when she finally did, she nearly dropped her cellphone. She managed to punch in 411 and was about to press Call when she realized that was information, it was 911 she needed. She deleted the entry, got the correct digits in, hit Call, and raised the phone to her ear.

One ring, then: “911, what is your emergency?”

“This is Alondra Diaz,” she said. Her voice was still high and shaky and she fought to control it. “I’m an assistant US Attorney. I’m in Freeway Park. There are . . . bodies here. Five. No, wait, six.”

“Ma’am, are you sure—”