Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3), Brett Battles [best books to read in your 20s TXT] 📗

She sets up her computer to alert us if anyone at the Prices’ house says anything else, and we make our dinner—a best-we-can-manage version of pad see ew—then settle in and watch Samurai Gourmet on Netflix.

At 11:48 p.m., after we just started the eleventh and penultimate episode in the series, Jar’s computer bongs with an alert.

I pause the video while she picks up her laptop. It’s kind of late for conversations at the Prices’ and I figure it must be someone saying goodnight. But upon looking at her screen, Jar bolts upright.

“It’s Evan,” she says. “He is leaving.”

She angles the computer so I can see it. On it plays the video feed from the bug I left in the tree across the street from the house. He’s sneaking along the back of the house, toward the picket fence.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s see where he goes.”

We rush out of the house, Jar bringing her backpack and laptop, me bringing jackets for both of us. After I pull the truck onto the street, Jar hands me a set of comm gear. I shove the earpiece into place and tap the mic to activate it.

“Check, one, two,” I say. “Check.”

“You’re good,” Jar says.

“Evan?” I ask.

“He is almost done removing the pickets from the fence.”

We’re still two blocks away, and I’m worried he’ll disappear into the night before we have him in sight. I gun the engine and race faster than I should down the residential streets.

Just ahead, the corner with the street that runs past the side of Evan’s house comes into view. It’s the same street Evan used when walking home on the night I watched him climb up the side of his house. Which gives me an idea.

I pull to a stop just short of the curb. “Follow him. I’ll track your phone.”

Without hesitating, Jar jumps out of the truck, leaving her laptop behind for me. I pull out again and speed to the corner, then turn so that I’ll drive right by Evan’s house. It’s dark enough on this block that he shouldn’t be able to see my features if he looks, but I’m betting he’ll keep his head down until I’ve passed.

That is, if he’s still in the area.

I keep an eye out for him as I drive by but the street looks deserted. I drive past his house and continue for another block before I turn left.

I want to pull to the curb and wait for Jar to report, but I also know if Evan was hiding somewhere as I passed by, it needs to sound like I’ve driven away, so I go three blocks north before stopping.

“Anything?” I ask over the comm.

Two clicks, which means no.

Crap.

Did we miss him? If we did, then I have a feeling we’re out of luck, because I doubt we’ll spot him again until he returns.

I begin counting off the seconds. When I hit thirty, I’ll go pick up Jar.

Jar clicks her mic three times as I reach seventeen. Something’s happened.

“Evan?” I ask.

One click. Yes.

I snatch up Jar’s laptop and type in her password. I’m pretty sure I’m the only person on the planet who has reached this level of trust with her. I open the tracking software and select Jar’s phone from a set of potential devices, which includes all the phones belonging to our colleagues at work. It’s a way we can keep track of one another when necessary.

A map of the surrounding area appears, and on it a red dot showing me where Jar is located. The dot remains stationary, about a dozen meters from where I let Jar out. Then it starts to move, going west down the street that runs by the side of the Prices’ house.

I take a road that runs parallel to the one Jar and—presumably—Evan are on, heading in the same direction. When I’m two blocks behind them, relatively speaking, I slow to avoid getting ahead of them.

After relaying my new position to Jar, I say, “Give me three taps if he turns toward me, and four if he goes the other way.”

She taps once to acknowledge my instructions.

Three minutes go by without any change. Even at my reduced speed, I am still gaining on them, and have closed the two-block gap to less than one.

“He’s getting into a car,” Jar whispers in my ear, her words coming in a rush. “Come get me.”

I whip the truck around and double back to the intersection I just passed, then take that road to the one Jar is on. Before I reach the corner, I kill my headlights and make the turn.

About a block and a half in front of me, I see the rear lights of a sedan speeding away and assume it’s the one Evan is in. Jar steps out from between two parked cars ten meters ahead. I stop just long enough for her to swing the door open and jump in, then we’re off again.

I nod toward the sedan’s taillights. “That’s them, right?”

As she says, “Yes,” the sedan turns right and disappears.

I flick on my headlights and race ahead.

“How many were in the car with him?”

“Three.”

“Were you able to see them?”

She nods. “The dome light came on when he opened the door. Teenagers. Two boys and a girl. I have never seen any of them before.”

The road the sedan turned onto is one of the main arteries in town. They’re heading in the direction of the business district. When we reach the intersection, I do what my grandmother would call a California stop, slowing the vehicle enough to check no one’s coming but never bringing it to a full halt.

The sedan is a little more than three blocks ahead of us.

If this was a normal Friday night, I’d assume they’re headed to one of the fast-food places on Central Ave., most of which would probably be open until at least midnight. But we all know these aren’t normal times, and I highly doubt any of those places are staying