The Eyes of Others Page 27

  The unmistakable glow of headlights appears on the road coming toward us. That must be Grimman in the Suburban. Now I just have to stall long enough for him to get here without getting shot.

  “Last chance to surrender,” I threaten, pointing down the road at my oncoming rescue.

  “I don’t think so. My mission isn’t over yet.”

  “Colby’s dead, Boston.” He looks surprised. Maybe it was the use of his nickname or maybe it was the news about his boss. Either way, it caught him off guard.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  I look back down the road and see that the headlights aren’t from the Suburban at all. They belong to an old, beat-up pickup and it’s stopping. Another set of headlights farther off in the distance are coming as well. That must be Grimman, but it’ll be too late.

  “What do you mean it doesn’t matter? It’s over.”

  “It’s not,” he tells me as climbs up the embankment to the road and stops next to the truck. The muzzle of his weapon never moves off me. “Colby wasn’t our guy.”

  “Then who is?” I ask, trying to stall as long as I can as he opens the door and cranks the window down.

  “That’s what I plan on finding out,” he says, climbing into the truck and pulling the door closed. He aims his weapon out of the open window.

  “Hollinger!”

  “Don’t give me a reason to shoot you,” he says right before the truck starts to accelerate away, leaving me standing in the pouring rain.

  I search the ground and find my gun lying in the mud a few feet away. I retrieve it and scamper up the embankment to the road. I train my gun on the departing truck but don’t squeeze off a round. At this distance, it had almost no prayer of hitting it, and now I’m not so sure I’d want it to.

  “Jesus,” Grimman says after stopping behind me in the Suburban and giving me a once-over. “Are you okay?

  “No, I’m pissed off. We need to get him. Let’s go!”

  .

  ~ chapter 61 ~

  eugene “boston” hollinger

  “I’m guessin’ things didn’t go as planned, bro,” Louisiana says sarcastically as he steps on the gas.

  “What gave it away?” I shout over the engine’s complaining. This vehicle isn’t built for speed, that’s for sure. “I’m glad I let you tag along on this road trip after all.”

  “You should have let me go in with you. What happened with Colby?”

  “I don’t think he’s the mole.”

  “Bos, Bos, Bos, you change your mind an awful lot these days. You said he was your man.”

  “Yeah, well, it looks like I was wrong.”

  “He’ll be thrilled to hear it,” Louisiana laments, checking the driver’s side mirror.

  “Not really. He’s dead.”

  “He’s dead?” he asks, his head jerking around towards me.

  “That’s what the FBI agent friend of ours said.”

  “You’ve grown that close, have ya?”

  Louisiana makes a sharp right turn way too fast for the weather. The back end fishtails out, and he turns into the skid. I hang on for dear life. I’m grateful Louisiana went into the heart of D.C. to retrieve his truck from where he parked it when he first got to town, but now I’m questioning the sanity of it. I suppose it beats being in FBI custody, but there was a reason we never let him drive in Iraq.

  “Do you know where you’re going?”

  “Does it look like I’m from around here, bro?”

  “You’re right, we need a plan and fast. The police are going to be all over us in no time.”

  “The police?”

  “Colby called them even before the FBI interrupted.”

  “What? How did he … you know what? We need to work on your home invasion skills, bro,” he says, shaking his head.

  “Another time,” I tell him, looking into the passenger side mirror. “They’re gaining on us.”

  “Your friend from the woods?”

  “No doubt.”

  “Reach back and grab the bag in the backseat,” he instructs me.

  I unfasten my seat belt and retrieve Louisiana’s bag of destruction from the back. I immediately refasten my seat belt and unzip the medium-sized duffle. Inside it are various types of grenades, both homemade and military issue, plastic explosives, detonators, and, not surprisingly, the tranquilizer gun he threatened to shoot Maryland with back at Tara’s friend’s apartment.

  “Jesus, dude,” I say, when I finish sifting through it.

  “I know, it’s great, right?”

  “Yeah, what do you want?”

  “Let’s start with the flash bangs.”

  I pull two devices out of the bag and push the whole thing down to the floorboards at my feet. I admire the cylinders. He didn’t make these.

  “Where did you get these?”

  “Wal-Mart. Straight or right?” he asks when we come up to a traffic light.

  “It’s red and there are cars waiting. Go right.”

  For the second time, he almost loses control in the rain. I check the mirror, hoping the massive Chevy Suburban that is chasing us doesn’t fare as well. It does, and now they’re back to gaining ground on us.

  “You know we’re going in a circle, right?”

  “Are you always this calm when the police are chasing you? When do we toss these?”

  “It’s all about timin’, bro. Roll down your window,” he commands.

  I look in the mirror. The headlights and flashing blue strobe on the FBI vehicle are coming up behind us fast. I roll down my window and he does the same. I sure hope he knows what we’re doing or we’re going to get pinched and start a long prison term tonight.

  “Now?”

  “Not yet.”

  I feel the truck slow a little as he takes his foot off the gas. I hope he’s not planning some insane Top Gun move where he hits the brakes and they drive right by. They’re now only about fifty yards behind us.

  “Now?”

  “Nope. Relax, will ya? When I tell you, toss it straight in the air as hard as you can.” He checks the mirror. “Now!”

  I pull the pin and toss the grenade up in the air. I count in my head just as I did at Colby’s. One … I hope to God this works. Two … Three.

  I watch in the side mirror as the two grenades detonate within a half second of each other. We’re far enough away to avoid the effects, but the same can’t be said for the feds in the Suburban. The flash bangs went off right in front of their windshield.

  The SUV loses control and rides up an embankment on the right side of the road. It’s about to flip when the driver points it back toward the asphalt. I think he’ll make it back to the pavement when he slams into one of the trees lining the road.

  “Nice job, now what?”

  “The torrential downpour will keep the helicopters out of the air and make it hard for them to spot us, but the police are going to be crawling all over this neighborhood in a matter of minutes. We need to get out of this area and get rid of my truck.”

  “These are planned neighborhoods on the left and right, Louisiana. One wrong turn and we could end up not getting out. Most of them only have two entrances and exits at most.”

  These types of neighborhoods are meticulously laid out from inception and are constructed in large, undeveloped areas. Unlike most towns where residential areas evolve in a more random fashion, these planned layouts maximize every square foot of real estate. They can be labyrinths, and we’ll be pinned in if we choose the wrong one.

  “Uh-oh.”

  The red and blue flashing lights coming at us from a half mile up road mark the arrival of the local police to the chase. Without missing a beat, or bothering to give me a heads-up, Louisiana makes a hard left and stops.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Help me,” he orders, climbing out of the truck.

  Louisiana lowers the tailgate and climbs into the bed of the pickup. It’s filled with everything from garden tools to chains and rope. The sir
ens are growing closer, increasing my own anxiety as he searches for something.

  “We don’t have time for this.”

  “Keep your pants on. Here it is,” he responds as he hops over the side with a black … something. “Help me.”

  He unfastens the carrier and exposes a police-grade spike strip. I grab the end and stretch it across the road right behind the pickup. This guy has everything.

  “Nice!” I exclaim when we get back into the truck.

  “That’ll slow them down.”

  We drive off and are almost out of sight when the police turn into the street after us. They don’t make it far. I can hear their tires exploding as four cars hit the spike strip, ending the pursuit before it even starts. We’re far from being out of danger, but I breathe for the first time since we got out of the truck. I hope there is another way out of this neighborhood. A minute later, we hit another main road and he makes a right. Thank God.

  The air is filled with the unmistakable blare of sirens that sound like they’re everywhere. My nerves are completely shot. I’m on edge and the adrenaline flowing through me is making it hard to focus on anything. I have to try. The people who get caught are the ones who fail to stay three steps ahead.

  “That spike strip won’t keep them off of us for long,” I state. “Any idea where we can find new wheels?”

  “Yeah, a few. Where do you want to go after that?”

  “Back to the sleep center,” I say, after trying to think about it for a moment. “I need to talk to Tara.”

  “Bro, I’m not against seeing my girl, but do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “No, probably not, but the clock is ticking. We can’t run forever, and I can’t afford to be wrong about these memories. I need to understand what I’m seeing. She’s the only one that can help with that now.”

  I only hope she’ll be willing to help. She was pretty upset about being wrong about how this works. She got downright angry when I told her about my plan to confront Colby. I decided to do it anyway despite her objections. I’m not sure how well I will be received when I walk back in there.

  “You’re sure? I mean, the FBI might be onto that by now.”

  “It’s the risk we have to take. This is going to end and these dreams are the key to ending it on our terms.”

  “All right, bro, if that’s what you want, then back into the belly of the beast we go.”

  .

  ~ chapter 62 ~

  Eric “maryland” williams

  Agent Bruhte finally walks into the same conference room I was held in earlier with one of his henchmen in tow. He smells like smoke, his suit is covered in mud, and it looks like he’s been through hell.

  “What happened to you?” I can’t resist asking as he pulls up a chair.

  “I ran the Spartan Race.” I don’t appreciate the sarcasm.

  “I’ve been held here for over four hours. I thought you said I was free to go?”

  “You are.”

  “Then why was I hauled back in here after I got my car out of impound?”

  “I went to pay a visit to your boss, Colby Washington.”

  “Oh yeah? How is he?”

  “Dead.”

  I sit back in my chair and exhale in disbelief. First Garrett Turner, now him? My mind’s swimming. I don’t want to ask because I’m afraid of the answer, but I have to know.

  “Was it Boston?”

  “Why, do you think it was?”

  “I’m just hoping it wasn’t.”

  “You’re in luck then. Colby shot at us when we announced ourselves and entered the premises. We had to return fire.”

  “And Boston?”

  “He was involved in quite the firefight when we got there. He fled the scene through the woods after we arrived and managed to give us the slip when that other friend of yours showed up in his truck. The chase ended with my boss in the hospital with a concussion.”

  Going through the woods explains the muddy pants, but not the smoke. Bruhte’s story is light on the details, but it doesn’t seem like he’s in a talkative mood. Whatever Boston and Louisiana cooked up to avoid getting caught, I’m betting it was epic.

  “What does any of this have to do with me?”

  “Nothing at all, but I need your help. I have no idea why Colby Washington would shoot at us when we entered his house. I didn’t know him. Could it be possible he was the mole at the DIA?”

  “It’s the same answer as earlier. I don’t know.”

  “Don’t know or don’t care?”

  “I explained it to you already. I care. I was in that Hummer when we got attacked. It changed my life and the lives of my teammates. It cost two of them theirs,” I respond angrily. “So I would love to watch the guy who did that to us fry for it.”

  “So why aren’t you helping Boston?”

  “Because there are people trained to do it and I don’t harbor Boston’s suspicion of the system. I’d rather let them do their jobs and help when I can.”

  “Suspicion of the system?”

  “Boston doesn’t trust people to care enough about what goes on to do the job. He’s been claiming there was leak since the day we arrived back in country. Nobody listened to him. So we both applied for jobs at the Defense Intelligence Agency. He told Colby the day we were hired that he thought there was a leak. He didn’t listen to him either. So Boston started his own investigation and has been digging ever since. It wasn’t until the son of the vice-president was killed that the media took notice, and it was only because of the pressure they exert that anyone is lifting a finger now.”

  “That’s your belief?” From his voice, it doesn’t sound to me that Agent Bruhte disagrees with that opinion either.

  “It’s his.”

  “You served with him. You know him. What do you think he’ll do now?”

  “Colby’s dead. If Boston thinks he was the mole, he’ll turn himself in once he finds out.”

  “Then either Colby isn’t the mole or you’re wrong about your friend. Boston already knows that he’s dead and had an opportunity to surrender. Instead, he led us on a chase through suburban Maryland that landed my boss in the hospital.”

  I’m more than a little confused. For the next several minutes, Agent Bruhte tries to clear it up for me. He explains what happened in the house, the chase through the woods, what happened at the road, and how Louisiana and Boston managed to get away from them.

  I’m beginning to think Boston is a cat with nine lives. From our escape in Iraq to his just a few of hours ago, he’s Houdini when it comes to escaping death or capture. That luck will run out eventually, and now I’m happy I got away from him when I did.

  “So, any ideas?” Agent Bruhte asks.

  “Yeah, whatever happened in that house, Boston doesn’t think Colby’s the mole anymore. Now he’ll go back to trying to figure out who is.”

  “You don’t think he’s going to skip town?”

  “You have to understand Boston. He’s pushed to find the truth for so long that he doesn’t know how to stop. I couldn’t convince him, and even his fiancée Gina couldn’t. Now he’s obsessed with it because he thinks the memories he’s seeing will lead him to it. He won’t stop until he gets his answer. So no, he’s not leaving town.”

  “How will he do that? How will he try to find those answers?”

  “Doctor Winters. He’ll ask her to help with the dreams again. He’s going to want to see if this experience today triggers any new memories to help him figure it out.”

  “Where would he go with her to do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Any guesses?”

  I do, but they are only guesses. I have helped the FBI more than enough for one day and am content to let them find Boston on their own. As much as I don’t agree with his tactics, part of me is still rooting for him, even after all this.

  “Like I said, I’m content to let the experts figure that out. Is there anything further for me?”

  “No, y
ou can go,” Bruhte says, effectively dismissing me.

  “One more thing, Maryland,” he calls out as I reach the door of the conference room. He called me by my nickname. That’s a first.

  “If you think of anything that may help, give me a call,” he says, handing me a business card with his name and number on it. “Boston is the brightest blip on everyone’s radar now, and they will bring him in by any means necessary.”

  “And you won’t?” I ask, still not trusting Agent Bruhte’s motives. He was spying on us and did shoot at us not long ago, after all.

  “From the moment Garrett Turner reached out to me, I have felt something was wrong with the situation. I’ve been searching for that answer ever since. Now both Washington and Turner are dead. I don’t want to see Hollinger meet the same fate before I find that answer.”

  “That’s the first time I’ve heard you say that. Why the change of heart?”

  “Hollinger could have easily killed me in those woods behind Colby’s house and he didn’t. It would have made his escape a lot easier, and considering my short history with you guys, he could have easily justified it to himself. But he didn’t pull the trigger. He let me go. He’s not a killer, despite what everyone else wants to believe around here. The only way to get to the bottom of this mess is for Boston to stay alive.”

  .

  ~ chapter 63 ~

  eugene “boston” hollinger

  It’s just before nine p.m. when Louisiana pulls up to the glass building that houses the sleep center. The street is quiet, but not completely devoid of activity either. Fortunately, the car Louisiana stole from a shady rental company after ditching his beloved pickup truck on the way back from Colby’s isn’t likely to be reported any time soon.

  We had a close call today. We managed to escape being chased by the FBI and used a spike strip to stop a prolonged police chase before it really started. We switched vehicles just as the police dragnet closed in on us. Fifteen more minutes in the truck and they would have found us as we headed back towards Washington. Now, after all that, I’m about to take another risk. The FBI could be waiting for me inside.