The Final Twist, Jeffery Deaver [philippa perry book TXT] 📗

for making an emergency call when there was no apparent threat of violence, and Braxton would deny everything. She’d report him as a dangerous trespasser.

He’d put a call to police/fire down as a last resort and try some other way to get out.

He decided that he would get to the fire exit. He put this at a seventy percent chance of success. Since the door opened onto that side street, he couldn’t run directly to his cycle; that would mean crossing in front of the library. The hostiles would see and simply hurry from the front door to intercept him.

No, once on the side street he would turn right, away from his Yamaha. A half block away he’d turn right again onto another narrow street he recalled from the map he’d studied earlier. He’d continue on this for three or four blocks, where he’d come to a park surrounded by businesses and restaurants. There he could vanish into crowds and continue north, then cut east and finally south and get to the motorbike without approaching the library.

Shaw was a good runner. Ashton had trained the children in the art of both sprinting and long-distance running, using as models the famed tribal runners, the Tarahumara in Mexico and the Sierra Madres.

He was sure he could out-sprint scrawny Droon and the musclebound Blond.

The other guards? The tall one couldn’t be a runner; he was too stocky. The slighter one? Maybe he was fast.

Shaw couldn’t dodge their bullets of course, and the big unknown factor was: Would they risk drawing and using their weapons in public? Probably.

Which is why the fire door escape offered only a seventy percent chance of success.

He looked through a gap in a row of insurance industry books. Braxton stood at the door to the lobby, scanning the first floor, arms crossed. Droon and Blond started walking toward the stacks on Shaw’s left, as he faced them. The security guards remained together and began the right-side flanking movement.

Shaw slipped to the fire door.

Push Bar. Alarm Will Sound.

Shaw hoped it wasn’t like the emergency exits at airports; with those, pushing the bar resulted in a blaring alarm, but the lock didn’t unlatch for fifteen seconds—to give security a chance to approach and see who wanted to get out onto the tarmac.

He took a deep breath, readying himself for the sprint.

A firm push on the bar of the fire door.

The bar traveled all the way to the base of the device, without resistance. Nothing happened. There was no alarm, and the lock didn’t disengage.

The mechanism had been disabled.

Shaw fished the safe house keys from his pocket and tried to jimmy the lock. It didn’t work. He tried the slimmer motorcycle key. Nothing.

He slipped into a workstation and looked out from underneath. The net was closing. He could see legs and shoes. The four hunters would converge on him in minutes.

Time for the last resort. He glanced at a nearby wall and, in a crouch, hurried to it and knelt, directly underneath the fire alarm box.

His right hand snaked upward aiming for the alarm.

“Now, lookee here.” The voice behind him was singsongy, eerie because of its phony cheer. Ebbitt Droon continued, “We shut that little old alarm thing down too, don’tcha know? All in honor of you, Mr. Colter Shaw.”

10

Droon and Blond were now joined by the two security men.

Rising, Shaw looked over Blond, whose cold eyes were the shade of ebony, suggesting that the shocking yellow of his hair came not from genes but a bottle. Shaw had seen eyes like that before: he’d earned a reward of twenty thousand dollars by tracking down an escaped serial killer near Tulsa. Once in handcuffs the man had stared at Shaw with a look that said: If I ever escape again, you’re next on my list. Blond’s gaze was of the same species.

Droon said, “So here you are, Mr. Didn’t Listen to What I Told Him. And not more than a couple of weeks ago, wasn’t it? Heavens. You are something else.”

Shaw fired a focused gaze at Droon. The scrawny man—the gangs would describe him as a skel—wasn’t the one who had grappled with his father on Echo Ridge, combat that resulted in Ashton’s death, but he worked for the organization that was responsible and this made him as guilty as the killer, in Shaw’s mind.

Droon squinted back and his haughty impishness vanished. He looked away.

Shaw surveyed the area, checking left then right. His eyes made a leisurely circuit. Sizing up the guards and Blond.

Droon’s confidence returned. He repeated, “Coupla weeks. During which you had plentya time to muse over what I said, about you keeping out of our matters here. But didn’t take, looks like. How come?”

The upper Midwest patois was pronounced and what he brought to the sound was the tone of the unstable.

“Who’s getting into whose space, Droon? Answer me this. You were in Tacoma just a few days ago, setting fire to somebody’s perfectly nice SUV, just so your boss could rob me.”

The fire, which had engulfed a Nissan Pathfinder, had been initiated to distract Shaw, so that Irena Braxton could steal the phony map and the GPS-rigged copy of Walden. Shaw now feigned irritation. He needed to keep on life support the façade that the map and book weren’t a setup.

Droon said, “Oh, think I’ll plead my Fifth Amendment right on that one, son, don’tcha know?” He looked Shaw up and down. “Do say I’m sorry we didn’t get to go one-on-one. That would be a most enjoyable five minutes.” He glanced at Blond with a wink. The big man beside him said nothing, those dark marbles of eyes peering at Shaw. His arms, and they were substantial, dangled.

The two security guards remained back five or six feet.

Droon said to Blond, “The one I was telling you about. Doesn’t look so balls-out, does he? Told you.” A laugh. His bravado was fully recovered. Another sweep over Shaw. “Now.