husband. Which is really impressive considering how long since you’ve seen them.”
Hardie said nothing.
“Oh, don’t be coy about it. You’re still wearing the ring, and I know all about your wife, Kendra, and your son, Charlie Jr., who live at 255 Dana Street in Abington, Pennsylvania.”
A cold little ball formed in Hardie’s stomach. The address. God, she knew the address. How the hell did she know the address? How long had he been here—couldn’t be more than an hour and a half? And yet she knew the fucking address?
“Here’s the thing—and honestly, I’m done toying with you. Either we end this now or somebody will pay your wife and son a visit in the very immediate future. You can end this in a matter of seconds, or this can go on and on.”
This stranger knew the address, even though only two people in the world were supposed to know that address. What else did she know?
The woman pulled a syringe out of a small bag sitting next to her. They were so close, Hardie could just reach out and touch her. The sun was hot on his back.
She said, “Do you understand?”
Hardie nodded.
“You’re not going to make this difficult, are you?”
Hardie shook his head no.
“Show me your forearm.”
“What’s in that?”
“Does it really matter? I promise you, it’s painless. Think about your family.”
“I hate needles.”
“Don’t be a baby.”
She took the protective plastic cap off the syringe. Hardie made a fist with his left hand, pumped it a few times, then smashed it into her right eye. The lens of her sunglasses shattered. The force of the blow sent some of the plastic shards directly into her eye.
The good one.
She didn’t scream, to her credit. Instead, she sucked in a fortifying gulp of air and gritted her teeth and jabbed at Hardie with the syringe. But he anticipated the move and grabbed her wrist, freezing it mid-jab. Then Hardie punched her in the face again, knocking her earpiece loose. Hardie saw it bobbling there, half in, half out. He snatched it and tossed it down the hill. Now she screamed, a blast of sheer, angry red-hot rage, then turned and went scrambling, nearly naked, down the side of the hill. While she was distracted, Hardie grabbed her phone.
Hardie stood up. Maybe it was the knockout drugs, maybe it was the lack of oxygen to his brain, but he felt like the world had come to a screeching halt.
Kendra and Charlie.
Fuck.
Despite everything—the separation, the exile, the lack of communication, the precautions. They were in as much danger as they would have been if they had gone on living together, in their old row house—the one with all the bullet holes caulked over and repainted. All of the past three years had been for fucking nothing. The crazy topless killer bitch knew the address!
Not the address, thank God. Hardie didn’t even know it, and Deacon Clark had made the arrangements with the help of some buddies in WITSEC. They weren’t in witness protection; they’d “gone ghost,” which is what Deke and the rest of the FBI called it these days.
However, 255 Dana Street was Deacon Clark’s address—where Hardie sent all his checks and birthday cards and gifts. And if these creepy bastards could get to Clark, then it was only a matter of time before they would get to Kendra and Charlie. And that couldn’t happen.
Hardie staggered back up the hill toward the house.
11
Buddy, you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.
—Willem Dafoe, To Live and Die in L.A.
T HEY HAD the actress cornered.
She had nowhere to run. First floor—clear. Second floor—clear. Third floor—everything clear except the bedroom closet. Only place left she could be hiding. So they braced themselves and prepared for her to go totally bugfuck when they opened the door. O’Neal took one side, A.D. the other. A.D. put his hand on the knob, looked over at O’Neal. O’Neal gave it the old one, two… NOW.
A.D. opened the door. O’Neal aimed his Taser
Hardie said nothing.
“Oh, don’t be coy about it. You’re still wearing the ring, and I know all about your wife, Kendra, and your son, Charlie Jr., who live at 255 Dana Street in Abington, Pennsylvania.”
A cold little ball formed in Hardie’s stomach. The address. God, she knew the address. How the hell did she know the address? How long had he been here—couldn’t be more than an hour and a half? And yet she knew the fucking address?
“Here’s the thing—and honestly, I’m done toying with you. Either we end this now or somebody will pay your wife and son a visit in the very immediate future. You can end this in a matter of seconds, or this can go on and on.”
This stranger knew the address, even though only two people in the world were supposed to know that address. What else did she know?
The woman pulled a syringe out of a small bag sitting next to her. They were so close, Hardie could just reach out and touch her. The sun was hot on his back.
She said, “Do you understand?”
Hardie nodded.
“You’re not going to make this difficult, are you?”
Hardie shook his head no.
“Show me your forearm.”
“What’s in that?”
“Does it really matter? I promise you, it’s painless. Think about your family.”
“I hate needles.”
“Don’t be a baby.”
She took the protective plastic cap off the syringe. Hardie made a fist with his left hand, pumped it a few times, then smashed it into her right eye. The lens of her sunglasses shattered. The force of the blow sent some of the plastic shards directly into her eye.
The good one.
She didn’t scream, to her credit. Instead, she sucked in a fortifying gulp of air and gritted her teeth and jabbed at Hardie with the syringe. But he anticipated the move and grabbed her wrist, freezing it mid-jab. Then Hardie punched her in the face again, knocking her earpiece loose. Hardie saw it bobbling there, half in, half out. He snatched it and tossed it down the hill. Now she screamed, a blast of sheer, angry red-hot rage, then turned and went scrambling, nearly naked, down the side of the hill. While she was distracted, Hardie grabbed her phone.
Hardie stood up. Maybe it was the knockout drugs, maybe it was the lack of oxygen to his brain, but he felt like the world had come to a screeching halt.
Kendra and Charlie.
Fuck.
Despite everything—the separation, the exile, the lack of communication, the precautions. They were in as much danger as they would have been if they had gone on living together, in their old row house—the one with all the bullet holes caulked over and repainted. All of the past three years had been for fucking nothing. The crazy topless killer bitch knew the address!
Not the address, thank God. Hardie didn’t even know it, and Deacon Clark had made the arrangements with the help of some buddies in WITSEC. They weren’t in witness protection; they’d “gone ghost,” which is what Deke and the rest of the FBI called it these days.
However, 255 Dana Street was Deacon Clark’s address—where Hardie sent all his checks and birthday cards and gifts. And if these creepy bastards could get to Clark, then it was only a matter of time before they would get to Kendra and Charlie. And that couldn’t happen.
Hardie staggered back up the hill toward the house.
11
Buddy, you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.
—Willem Dafoe, To Live and Die in L.A.
T HEY HAD the actress cornered.
She had nowhere to run. First floor—clear. Second floor—clear. Third floor—everything clear except the bedroom closet. Only place left she could be hiding. So they braced themselves and prepared for her to go totally bugfuck when they opened the door. O’Neal took one side, A.D. the other. A.D. put his hand on the knob, looked over at O’Neal. O’Neal gave it the old one, two… NOW.
A.D. opened the door. O’Neal aimed his Taser
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