The Overseer (19 page)

He focused his eyes through the darkness, scowling at the night. Devin didn’t pray with words—but he prayed that this stretch of highway wasn’t being patrolled, that there were no police to pull him over, to slow him down, to lose Hannah.

Grabbing her by the hair—dragging her across the dirt.

The future could always be changed. But it was never easy. And time was always running out.

The slick leather gearshift moved under the direct control of his hand, the mechanism gliding from one gear to the next. He signaled fast, changed lanes, pulled ahead of the last car in the pack, and saw the vehicle ahead of him.

A truck. Like a small moving truck of some kind.

He recognized the back doors—this was it. Behind those doors Hannah was waiting—trapped.

There were only a few options—try to run the truck off the road and risk Hannah being hurt in the back, or follow until the truck came to a stop.

Devin shifted gears and settled in behind the truck.

Hannah sat on a foam pad, back against the cold metal, trying to think. She reached for one of the blankets. Ignoring the smell of dirt and mildew, she wrapped the thick material around her shoulders.

The truck hit another bump, jostling the entire interior again, shaking up and down, from side to side.

She held the blanket close, the smell nearly overpowering. Hannah pulled the blanket away and sniffed the air—the odor of sweat, salty and bitter. The girls had been here—the three of them, at least—

Crammed into the space like canned fish, moving down the highway in the sweltering heat of the packed metal box.

More girls—others. Two Latino girls, older than the others, pulled from the truck at an earlier stop.

The three girls, taken to another place. Stripped to their underwear—pictures snapped of them.

Thrown back into the truck and taken to the gas station— pulled from the truck again and thrown into the van.

Hannah opened her eyes. Wherever she was being taken wasn’t where the girls were going. But maybe it was where they had been.

There was still a chance to save the girls.

But who was going to save her?

Devin watched the truck pull off the highway.

The middle of nowhere. A single structure under a bright light at the top of a pole. A ring of dead bulbs, several winking on and off, outlining the edges of a dim sign: Roadside Motel. Rooms available. Hourly rates.

The truck’s taillights rounded the back of the motel and came to a stop. Devin slowed his car and turned off the headlights, trying to navigate the car through the dark. He pulled the car to the side of the road and stepped out—hunching down as he moved toward the motel.

The driver must have been doing something in the cab because it took him several minutes to step out into the night. Boots hit the dirt—crunching dirt under his heels. The driver looked around. Devin ducked around the corner, trench coat swishing softly. His back pressed against the side of the motel wall as he tried to stay out of sight.

Devin listened to the sound of the driver walking toward a door, jingling keys and a clicking lock. He peered around the corner: the driver was gone, weak light glowing through the glass doors where darkness had been before.

There was a moment of waiting—to see if the driver was coming back soon—and Devin stepped out. He moved toward the truck as he glanced at the light that glowed from a back room beyond the front desk. He looked a little closer at the front desk and saw something he didn’t expect—

A handgun. Semiautomatic. He couldn’t determine the make or model through the poor light, but it sat there on the desk, waiting for someone.

Devin considered stepping in and taking the gun but glanced at the truck—his first priority was Hannah.

He moved toward the truck. His hands touched the doors, and he looked up and down: a long bar ran the length of the door, clamped in place at the base with a heavy-duty padlock.

He examined the mechanism, trying to determine if it was a lock he could defeat without the key—something he was fairly certain he could do, if he had a proper lock pick. That or bolt cutters. Either way, it was an obstacle he would have to deal with before he could even consider getting to her, and he didn’t have the tools on his person.

His attention swung back to the glass doors and the warm glow. He stepped toward them. After a few quick strides, he reached for the door handle—

Devin stopped. A silhouette of a man, from the light—

The driver.

They stopped. Held. Stared. Just for a moment—the driver’s attention flicking quickly to the side, looking directly at—

The gun.

There was a sensation of weightless that swelled in Devin for a moment—like the apex of a tall climb before a diving plunge.

The driver launched toward the gun. An ancient bell jingled as Devin threw the door open.

The driver grabbed the gun and spun toward Devin. Their bodies collided, slamming into the front desk—the service bell sounding off in the darkness as the counter rocked.

The front end of the gun was Devin’s concern. He slammed the driver’s arm down, absorbed the retaliating blow.

A gun blast—the glass door splattered with opaque cracks.

Devin reeled—a punch to the jaw. Twisting the driver’s arm, he hurled him into the wall—plaster caving. The gun hit the padlike carpet.

Devin pinned the driver at the chest, trying to hold him there. The driver fought—struggling, straining, then reaching down. The driver’s arm behind the small of his own back, suddenly snapped forward—Ka-Bar combat knife, old marine issue. The dark black blade faded into the darkness, serrated teeth only visible as a silhouette against the ambient light on the walls.

A slash at face height—Devin shoved away, preparing for the return.

Nimble fingers teased the handle of the combat knife, flicking it in quick tremors. The driver was an expert.

A slash at Devin’s throat, missing. Half a dozen slashing strokes came at him, Devin swatting them away with swift and skilled jabs. The footing shifted, moving through the front room like a violent dance.

A wrong step, Devin losing his footing—the knife slicing too close. He dropped his shoulders, shedding the trench coat from his back into his hands. The driver, mad with ferocity, swiped with the knife, pressing the advantage.

Devin swung the coat like a bullfighter, catching the charging beast, razor-sharp tip thrusting. Three flicking stabs, slicing through the coat, cutting it to pieces—sounds of ripping cloth.

They slammed into one another—hitting the wall, tumbling to the side—smashing through a shoddy wooden door—into a motel room.

A punch to Devin’s face and the driver was at him, holding the knife. Devin kicked him in the face and the Ka-Bar hit the floor. The bloody-faced driver recovered—attacking, grabbing at the slashed trench coat, ripping a long strip free.

Grappling. They rolled across the floor—struggling for advantage. A swift move and the driver was behind Devin, wrapping the coat scrap around Devin’s neck, throttling him.

Devin tried to stand—the driver’s weight pulled him down by the neck. A swift lurch and Devin slammed the driver into a mirror, smashing it.

They hit the floor again—the noose tightening around Devin’s throat. The driver’s knee in Devin’s back for leverage, pulling hard.

The blood pumped in Devin’s ears—a screaming like a teakettle getting higher pitched with every second. The makeshift garrote cut into Devin’s flesh, stinging painfully.

His bleary eyes searched the floor: across the carpet, the crumpled clothing, a spilled bag of potato chips—
the Ka-Bar
.

He grabbed the big knife with one hand, the taut remainder of the garrote with the other—slashing.

The driver tumbled back—hitting the floor, then stood and charged like a wild animal.

There had been gunshots—something bad was happening.

Hannah worked at the crack in the door, trying to find a way to lift the securing latch. Her fingers hurt from digging into the cold metal, trying to fight the door open.

Nothing was working. Nothing at all.

She couldn’t stay here. The engine had stopped—the truck was just sitting there. She could feel how much the girls who had been here before her had feared it. When the driver came for them, pulling them from the truck toward—

Her work became more furious as she let the panic touch her. Then she stopped, breathing deeply. She had to be calm—to work with her surroundings, not against them.

But there was something in her that wanted to fight. To scream. It all reminded her of when she had been kidnapped. Stuck in that basement for days on end in the frigid wastes of wherever it was they had dragged her to. But she couldn’t let that cloud her judgment. There was more than her mental wellbeing on the line.

Then she heard it.

The sound of the lock clicking on the outside of the doors— swinging open beyond the false wall. Someone reaching for the latch, metal working free.

Hannah looked around. There had to be something she could use as a weapon, right? Nothing. She took a place at the back wall, ready to make a running start at—

Too late. The doors were opening. They swung open, and she saw him standing there: a tall slender silhouette behind a bright wash of white light.

“Miss Rice?” Devin said.

And she exhaled with relief.

Devin motioned to her without speaking, and Hannah followed him into the motel.

“The place is clear,” Devin said definitively and efficiently. “We’re going to rest here for a few hours.” He looked at her commandingly. “I want you to get some sleep.”

Hannah looked around. “Where did the driver go?”

Devin pointed to the credenza—something sat on top of it, propped against the wall—a white sheet thrown over the form. She disregarded the object for a moment, then did a double take. Legs dangled from beneath the sheet, arms hanging limp to the sides.

“Is that…?” She looked at Devin.

He didn’t reply.

She pulled the sheet aside and saw the driver—a knife blade buried in his chest, the handle sticking out.

Sleeping after seeing that was going to be hard.

No matter how many dead bodies a person steps over in life, she thought, it still can keep you up at night.