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

killed himself. That means you’re guilty of felony murder. And I haven’t even got near conspiracy yet. Oh, by the way, we didn’t trespass in your vehicle to plant a listening device. Your window was open, and my microphone just happens to be very good. So, no warrant needed.”

Shaw gazed over at Braxton. He took satisfaction in the fact that the woman who was responsible for his father’s death looked truly stricken. Her overly made-up face was taut. She was no longer grandmotherly, but ghostly.

Helms muttered, “I want an attorney.”

Ty said in an oddly formal voice, “That will be arranged, I’m sure.”

The takedown operation had been improvised and more than a little rushed. But no matter. It had worked. They now had everything they needed to get BlackBridge. Shaw texted Russell then walked up to Victoria, who was rubbing her shoulder—the one she’d injured last week. “You okay?”

“Just sore is all.”

Her eyes widened slightly as she saw the slash on his hand, the messy blood.

“It’s okay.” He walked to his bike, lifted the seat and got a bottle of alcohol. He poured it over the wound, exhaling at the hot pain that radiated up to his jaw. She tore open the bandage he’d taken out, and when the liquid had evaporated off, she pressed on the skin and smoothed the edges.

“Droon?” She nodded toward the woods.

Shaw shook his head.

“I was going to say sorry I missed him. But worked out better this way, right?” she asked, in a soft voice.

Yes, Droon had been his. It couldn’t end any differently.

He was about to ask her a question, when he suddenly sensed that the ambient sound had changed.

The parking lot had been filled with the white noise of traffic. San Bruno is bordered by the 101 and 280, both multilane Silicon Valley arteries and as busy as can be at all hours.

He’d been aware of the sticky rush of traffic. Been aware of the guttural whine of aircraft descending toward or departing from San Francisco and San Jose airports. Been aware of the wind in the pine and maples, a distant dog complaining.

Then, rising, rising, was the sound of a vehicle engine, growing louder.

Insistent.

He found his Glock in the brush, and he thought: Helms, Stone and Braxton had had their phones in the chaotic moments after she figured out the trap. She might have a speed-dial button on her mobile: need backup or distress.

Shaw’s team had a good defensive position where they were.

But the black Escalade was plowing unexpectedly over a pedestrian trail.

“Ty!” Shaw called. “Hostiles.”

The big man nodded and clicked off the safety of his H&K.

He glanced at the Colt in Victoria’s grip and, digging into his pocket, handed her ten loose shells. She reloaded and slipped the live shells in her pocket, then crouched, looking toward the approaching SUV.

A smoke grenade spiraled from the window of the SUV and popped, filling the area with dense gray cover. Shaw couldn’t see for certain but he believed at least two men were out, firing automatic weapons—loud, unsilenced—in three-shot bursts. Shaw and Victoria rolled to cover behind a fallen tree. Ty was behind a low berm of grassy earth.

But he and Shaw lowered their weapons. It was impossible to acquire a target. Shaw squinted through the raw, pungent smoke, Victoria too. She said, “Flank them?”

A nod. He started left, she right.

But they got only a few feet before the relentless machine-gun fire tore into the air and ground around them, spitting dirt and rocks and branches high into the air. The stream of slugs swept toward her.

“Victoria!” Shaw called, as he saw her go down.

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Too much incoming fire, too much smoke to acquire targets.

Angry shouts from the attackers. “Move it, move it!”

Both Victoria and Ty were hidden from sight by the smoke.

“Victoria!”

No response. Shaw’s heart was slamming.

He tried to find a target. But it was impossible to see anything clearly through the thick, creamy cloud.

He knew they were in the SUV because the machine-gun spray had ceased. Shaw couldn’t hear the doors slam—the weapons fire had partially deafened him—but he knew the Escalade was speeding away along another trail, a narrow one.

He stared in that direction but holstered his Glock.

Never discharge your weapon without a clear target . . .

He turned back. “Victoria!”

Still no response.

Jesus . . .

He’d gotten her into this.

Coughing, spitting out the vile fumes, he strode through the cloud to where he’d seen her fall.

“Victoria!”

Still nothing.

Come on, come on . . . Please.

He pushed through the smoke.

No body, no blood trail.

Had she been wounded and then snatched by one of the attackers?

Then . . . Did he hear a voice?

Again: “Here.”

“Victoria.”

A bout of coughing.

“Here!”

Then he saw her on her knees in a clump of sedge grass. He ran to her and helped her up. She clutched her torso. Then lowered her hands. No blood. No bullet wounds. She’d fallen hard to the ground, it seemed, the breath knocked from her lungs.

Arm around her shoulders, he helped her out of the haze. They were both coughing and wiping tears from the smoke, which wasn’t the sort from wood or paper; the grenades spewed corroding, chemical fumes created by burning potassium chlorate or hexachloroethane and zinc. While not intended to debilitate, the thick clouds stung and choked.

“Ty!” Shaw called, looking around.

The broad-chested man was staggering from the berm behind which he’d taken cover, coughing and spitting as well.

Now that the smoke was drifting away on the breeze, they could see, probably a hundred yards away, the SUV was rocking along the pedestrian trail, about to turn out of sight.

Shaw said to Victoria, “You okay to go after them with me?”

She nodded. Shaw looked to Ty, who did the same.

The three of them started out of the dissipating cloud.

Then, suddenly, the Escalade lurched hard to the left, narrowly missing a tree. Something had flown from the right front tire.

A muted boom rolled over the landscape. Shaw knew it would have been much louder had his ears been functioning better. Then the windshield of the SUV