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I imagine Charlemagne snuffing out that fire; her spark lost forever...
Before I realize it, I’m running blindly again, and I almost trip over a spruce tree’s long, low-hanging branch.
I pull back my calm.
I can do this. This is easy for me, I remind myself. I’ve slept outside, naked in the woods, in every kind of weather, for many nights, since my very first memories. My father’s training, while brutal, prepared me for emergencies just like this one. And since the day I escaped him, I’ve never let myself get soft.
The whole time I held Tamara captive, I spent at least a couple of hours a day running through the woods barefoot. Not only to keep my stamina up but to toughen the soles of my feet. I’m comfortable outdoors in any weather and am intimately acquainted with the woods around this property.
I push aside all thoughts and memory of Tamara. I make her very small and hide her inside my heart, where she’s safe. What I need to do is concentrate on getting clothing and a vehicle and making my way to the road.
We psychopaths are born with a special affinity for extreme danger. Our focus becomes blade-sharp under stress. Tests on psychopaths show their heart rates remain steady, slow down, even, as they balance on skis at the top of cliff-high ski runs, or disarm bombs. I remember that now. How could I have forgotten?
As soon as I force myself to think clearly, it’s as if a map superimposes itself over the woods and I know exactly where I am. Landmarks spring up in front of me, and I use them to make my way to a small camouflaged hut in the woods, where I keep an emergency getaway stash.
Unfortunately, Charlemagne’s already been here. I know he’s somehow disabled my perimeter alarms and he’s been prowling through these woods for months. I swing open the door, but there’s nothing but an empty room. He beat me to it. At some point, he broke in and stole my ATV, modified dirt bike, clothing, and the stash of fake ID and cash I had hidden here.
A volcanic eruption of fury escapes from somewhere deep inside me, and I let out a single bellow of rage.
Tamara. He has Tamara. He’s hurting her.I will fucking cut him up into little pieces when I catch him. I will make his death last for weeks.
Then I regain control again. With clinical detachment, I note that I have never experienced such repeated loss of control under duress, and that when I have time, I will need to thoroughly investigate this new phenomenon. But right now, I need every single cell in my brain dedicated to finding my brother.
I pause in the doorway of the hut, surveying the darkening woods. I need to decide if I should head straight for the rural road near my property or look for another stash. If I make the wrong decision, it’s going to take me at least half an hour out of my way.
I will take a chance. There’s another stash that’s better hidden, in a hideout carved into the hillside. I’m a long distance from the street. If I go straight to the road, wrapped in a blanket with no clothing on, who knows how long it will take me to flag down a car.
I hurry through the woods, the blanket wrapped tight to protect me from the plunging temperature. The sky is velvety black and the air smells smoky. I start to jog, but with purpose and control this time. The gunshot wound on my foot tears open and bleeds, and branches slash at my face, but I get to the hideout in ten minutes, and I am rewarded for the beating I’ve taken. Charlemagne didn’t find this one.
I’ve hidden a modified dirt bike that can run in the woods and on the highway, clothes, ten thousand dollars in cash, fake ID, a gun, clips full of ammo, and food and water.
Strapped to the back of the dirt bike is a travel bag with several neatly packed changes of clothes, toiletries, and other items I might need if I have to go on the run. I pull on wool slacks, a turtleneck, a chunky cable-knit sweater and a fisherman’s cap, then a thick leather jacket. I peel open a package of QuikClot from my first-aid kit and dump it into my bleeding gunshot wound, then wrap a fresh bandage around it before I pull on socks and boots.
After I gulp down the water, I stuff an energy bar into my mouth. I chew it as I fire up the bike and tear through the woods.
Tamara. Tamara. Tamara.Her name pounds through my body in tune with the beat of my heart.
I drive parallel to the rural road, using it as my guide until I make it to one of the main, paved roads.
Tamara’s crawled back out of my subconscious again, and she’s screaming. Her voice cries out in my head. Her beautiful face swims in front of me, crystalline tears running down her cheeks.
Save me. Where are you? Why have you abandoned me? He’s hurting me!
Once again, I viciously shove all thoughts of her deep down into the darkness that fills me, and I pour ice-cold calm into my core, slowing my heartbeat and steadying my breathing. I feel as if something inside me is tearing and bleeding from the strain of it, but I do what has to be done. I always do what has to be done.
I drive as fast as I dare, which is only a few miles over the speed limit. I can’t risk being pulled over, still not knowing what Charlemagne has told the police. They might have an APB out for me with pictures of my face.
It feels as if eons pass before I get into an area with cell phone service. I pull into a parking lot and use a burner phone that I had stashed in my bag, and risk making a call to my attorney, Algernon Brooks, a man who’d slit his sainted mother’s throat for the right price. That’s exactly what I look for in a lawyer.
He knows a lot about me, including the fact that I have a twin brother who’s been locked in an asylum for years, and the fact that Joshua Smith isn’t my real name. He also gets paid seven figures a year to make sure that, in the eyes of the law, I’m as pure as the driven snow. He and my head of security, a former CIA black ops assassin named Garrett Jones, are my go-to cleanup crew.
“It’s me. How’s the weather down there?” My code phrase to let him know it’s really me calling. The code phrase changes weekly.
“Colder than a witch’s twat. Hell, I thought you were dead,” Algernon says. “I’ve been trying to call you all day.”
“I’m hard to kill. Talk to me.”
“You sound different.” I can hear the suspicion in his voice.
