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

for the offense. I’m going to get your partic’lars, find out where you live and your family or, if you prefer, loved ones live.”

“No, please!”

“Yes, please!” he mocked. “Then you’re going back to the office and you’re overwriting every single bit of that digital copy of that cassette. ‘Overwrite’ is the key word. ’Member that. Nothing really gets deleted ’less you overwrite it, as you probably know, being in this business.”

Braxton said, “No calls to the police. Or my associates’ll drive straight to your house.”

“No!” Her voice choked. “I have children!” Her hand kneaded the envelope manically.

Droon said, “Settle there, Lovely. You make sure everything’s gone and . . . promise never to say a word about this again. And your little ones and hubby’ll be fine.”

“How could you do this?” she raged.

Droon frowned as if he didn’t understand the question. He turned to Shaw. “I want the original cassette too, don’tcha know? Where is it? And don’t be playful. We don’t have all day here.”

Shaw’s face darkened. “All right.” He held up his right hand—indicating no threat—and reached into his jacket pocket with his left, removed the cassette.

“Lookee. Wasn’t that easy and painless? Toss it here.”

Shaw did and the man picked it up.

In that giddy, grating tone, Droon said, “All right, Miss Julia, the sooner you hightail to the office, the sooner—”

“Wait.” The urgent word came from Braxton. Her head was angled, eyes squinting. “Wait.”

Helms was frowning, and Droon turned toward her.

“You were scanning his safe house when you picked up the call from Julia, right?” Braxton asked.

Droon said, “Well, yup.” There was an uneasiness in his voice, as he looked at his boss’s powdered, troubled face.

“What phone did he pick up on? What was the number?”

“I . . .” Droon was thinking. “It started with eight-four-five or eight-four-something, I’m pretty sure. I can look up—”

“Jesus Christ!” Braxton’s voice raged. “That’s his iPhone!”

The woman would know that Shaw had been using his encrypted burner—the Android platform—since he’d been in San Francisco because he knew BlackBridge could listen in on the iPhone, which was unprotected.

If Shaw had picked up the call about the audiotape on the Apple, it was because he wanted them to hear the conversation.

“It’s a trap! There’s nothing on the tape. The static? That was just bullshit. He’s got people here.”

The pale man and Droon lowered their stances and scanned around them, weapons extended.

Shaw was disappointed. He had hoped to play the game out a little longer to get more information from Droon and Braxton—and more incriminating admissions.

Braxton whispered to Helms, “Get back in the truck, Ian. Now.”

Colter Shaw then gave a nod.

From the woods nearby, the “park ranger,” who was, in reality, Ty, Russell’s associate from his group, called, “You with BlackBridge, hands where I can see them! Drop the weapons. Lie facedown on the ground! If you present with a weapon or any threat, you will be fired on.” He let loose a burst of rounds from his silenced H&K submachine gun. Dirt kicked up ten feet in front of the BlackBridge crew. “Now!”

The pale op did exactly as told, tossing his pistol away as if it were burning his skin. Braxton, grimacing, unhooked her macramé hippie purse from her shoulder and dropped it. She began kneeling. When finally down, she eased face forward to the dirt. Ian Helms followed suit.

Ebbitt Droon began to do the same, making a show of reaching out to set his gun gingerly on the ground. But he suddenly reared backward, putting the plumbing van between himself and Ty. He looked right at Shaw, his eyes both sadistic and amused. “No, sir, no, sir.”

He began to lift his gun toward him. Shaw instinctively crouched, hands forward in a defensive posture.

Which is when the woman beside him—not audio expert Julia but Shaw’s friend Victoria Lesston—pulled the trigger of Shaw’s Colt Python .357, which was in the white envelope. Because she wasn’t able to aim, the big round missed Droon by a few inches and blew apart the side-view mirror of the plumbing van. Droon stumbled backward and fell, his gun flying into the brush. He rose and fled into the woods.

Victoria offered Shaw the Colt, but he said, “No, cover them.” Nodding toward the BlackBridge crew. He didn’t waste time searching for his Glock. Shaw turned toward the well-trod footpath Droon had disappeared down and sprinted after him.

67

Shaw caught up with the wiry man fifty yards away.

Breathing hard, Droon turned back, drawing the SOG knife from the scabbard on his belt.

“Okay, Reward Man. Pretty much had it with you, don’tcha know?”

Shaw ignored the words and assessed the terrain. A flat grass-covered clearing. Fair ground for both of them.

Never fight from a downhill position.

Droon moved quickly, dancing back and forth, the knife hand—his right—always in motion.

Shaw tried, and he only tried once. “It’s over, Droon. You know it. Don’t make it harder on yourself.”

“Haw, you’re a funny man to speak, Shaw.” He lunged and swept the blade back and forth. Shaw easily dodged. “We debated finishing you in the camper in Tacoma. I was for that. But Irena said you might have something else for us. Something helpful.” Another swipe. “And damn if you didn’t. You found that certificate. That made her day, my oh my.”

Shaw was paying no attention to the words. Let him talk, let him use up oxygen. What he was doing was studying Droon’s arms and hands. That’s what you always watched in a knife fight. He kept his own in front and kept dancing away from Droon, making the small man come to him, then backing off.

Instinctively, Shaw was thinking of the rules of combat with blade.

Rule One: If you’re attacked by someone with a knife and you’re unarmed, run.

Not an option here.

Droon, laughing, giddy, eyes filled with glittery light, kept jogging forward and back, sweeping the knife between the men. Shaw moved back, but returned immediately, keeping his own hands up and open—to avoid breaking a finger—and slammed them into Droon’s right