"We need to ditch this car," Sean said, thinking about the damage. "Rental company isn't going to be happy."
Reece chuckled.
Sean faced Adriana. "Would you call Wilbur and double check to see if that email was seen by anyone else? Maybe he found something he missed before."
"Sure," she said and started looking for the number to the museum.
"There's something else we need to consider, too," Sean continued.
"What's that?" Tommy asked.
"Up until last night, we didn't have a clue where we were going next. Coming here wasn't part of our plan. We hadn't told anyone about it."
"But we did tell Wilbur." Tommy's epiphany sent a cold silence through the car. The only sounds were the steady moan of the engine, the rumble of the tires, and the whistling wind through the bullet hole in the glass.
Sean reached over and touched Adriana's hand. "Hold off on making that call."
Tommy flashed a questioning glance in the rearview mirror. "You think Wilbur told them?"
Sean stared at the road ahead as he answered. "Right now, I think he's the only suspect, which means we don't know who we can trust."
"Just business as usual for us, then."
"We wouldn't have it any other way, would we?"
Tommy snorted. "I guess not."
Chapter 13
Jack stood in the middle of the road, staring at the empty lanes that curved behind the forest. His breathing hadn't increased much. The sprint after the Americans had been a short one. He was accustomed to far more grueling exercise.
He turned his head and evaluated the damage. The SUV that struck a tree billowed smoke out of the crumpled hood. No one moved inside, at least not that he could tell from his vantage point. The vehicle on its side also showed sparse signs of life, though he couldn't see into the SUV because he was facing the undercarriage.
Jack walked off the road, down a short slope to the smoking vehicle. He opened the driver side door and jumped back as the driver slumped over and fell onto the ground. His neck was twisted at a grotesque angle, broken on impact. Jack leaned over the body and checked the passenger side. The second guy was dead too, caught at the base of his neck by a bullet. His hands were covered in sticky red ooze from futilely trying to stop the bleeding.
Before he walked away, Jack rubbed his shirt on the door handle to take away the fingerprints. Then he stalked over to the SUV lying on its side. From this angle, he saw inside through the cracked windshield. The driver wasn't moving, but it looked like his passenger might still be alive.
When Jack reached the vehicle, he could see the passenger wriggling around, trying to free himself from the seatbelt. Jack walked casually around to the roof. The glass moonroof had ripped free during the SUV's series of acrobatic flips. Jack could see right through to the struggling man.
The guy had a three-inch gash on his head that streamed three trickles of blood down his face. Not a life-threatening injury, but certainly one that would require medical attention.
"You okay in there?" Jack asked. He leaned against the roof with his forearm like he had nothing better to do.
"Hey, help me out of here. I can't get to the seatbelt release button. It's jammed."
Jack had already noticed the problem. Now he saw another one. The man's leg was broken, twisted to the right from just below the knee. The guy had to be in shock to be so focused on getting out of the vehicle and not screaming in agony.
"He dead?" Jack motioned with one finger at the driver.
The passenger gave a reluctant nod. "Yeah, man. He's dead. Please, you gotta help me out of here." The desperation in the man's voice sounded pathetic to Jack. Two times in twenty-four hours he'd had to listen to the sounds of weak men begging to be spared.
"I can help you," Jack said.
"Thank you. Please, hurry. My leg's broken. I need to get to a hospital."
"Yeah, before I help you, though, I have to ask you a quick question."
"What? Just get me out of here, man!"
Jack cocked his head to the side. "Now, now. Patience. Being rude isn't going to make me help you any faster."
The passenger grunted, still reaching for the seatbelt release button. It was blocked by a twisted piece of metal jammed into the dash and running into the back seat.
Jack continued. "I am just curious about something. When you and the other truck approached, why did neither of you gunmen open fire at the target?"
"What? What are you talking about, Jack?"
Jack drew his weapon and checked the chamber. One round left. He pointed the gun at the man and paused a second. "I asked a simple question. The answer is equally as simple. Why didn't you shoot at the target."
"Are you crazy?"
"Don't make me use this bullet on you. We hired you four because you were supposed to be good at this sort of thing. And you went and made a mess of it. I just want to know, why you didn't take even a single shot at the target?"
The passenger grimaced. Either the pain from his broken leg was beginning to set in, or he realized the threat he faced was very real. "I don't know," he said. "I thought we were supposed to just box them in."
"Which you did… initially. That leads me to my next question. Why did this idiot and the other one think you all would lose a game of chicken against a smaller car?"
"I… I don't know, Jack. I wasn't driving. I don't know what was going through those guys' heads." He swallowed hard, and his pleas descended into groveling. "Please, Jack. I've answered your questions. Help me out of this thing."
"It's just that… if I saw a smaller car coming my way and the people inside started shooting, my initial instinct would be to shoot back. You have a gun in there, right?"
"Yes. We have the guns you gave us."
"Then again, I wonder why on earth you decided not to use them."
The passenger used the only excuse he could think of that wouldn't further enrage his superior. "Look, Jack, I don't know about the other guy, but I know I didn't want to risk missing the target and hitting you instead. I mean… you were out there in the middle of the road. If I opened fire, you could have been killed." The man swallowed hard again after he finished. He was definitely in shock. Extreme thirst was one of the symptoms. "Please. Help me."
Jack gave an emphatic nod. "Okay. I believe you. That makes sense. After all, I can't be dead, now can I?"
"No. No, you can't." The passenger's voice filled with relief.
"Except," Jack said, tapping his right cheek with an index finger, "that does bring up another issue."
"What? What issue? Come on, Jack. Get me out of here."
"Well, you see it's very simple. Mr. Holmes hired you four because he believed you were capable of handling the job. I have to admit, in spite of his misplaced belief, I really thought there was no way to screw this up, but you did."
"Just shut up and get me out of here, mate!"
Jack shook his head. "No, that won't do. You see, if I get you out, you'll have to go to a hospital. Well, we can't have that, now can we? I mean, doctors ask so many questions." He remembered using a similar line on the museum director the night before. "No, I think the best way to help you is to keep you permanently quiet."
"No! Jack, please—"
The gun blast cut him off. Jack straightened his neck and looked around. A sudden silence settled over the road. He took a deep breath of the fresh forest air and then started back toward the pickup truck.
He picked up his phone and called Holmes.
"What's happening?" the older man said.
"We have a problem."
After three seconds of quiet, Holmes responded. "Problems are what I pay you to solve."