Читать книгу Andrew Gross 3-Book Thriller Collection 1: The Dark Tide, Don’t Look Twice, Relentless - Andrew Gross, Andrew Gross - Страница 54

The man broke through the surface of the glistening turquoise water in the remote Caribbean cove.

No one around. Not even a name for this place, just a speck on the map. The only sounds were the caws of a handful of frigate birds as they tumbled out of the sky into the sea searching for prey. The man looked back at the perfect half circle of white sand beach, palm trees swaying in the languid breeze on the shore.

He could be anywhere. Anywhere in the world.

Why did he choose here?

Twenty yards away, his boat bobbed on the tranquil tide. What seemed like a lifetime ago, it occurred to him, he had told his wife he could spend the rest of his life in just such a place as this. A place without markets or indices. Without cell phones or TV. A place where no one looked for you.

And where there was no one to find you.

Every day that part of his life became a more distant part of his mind. The thought had a strange appeal to him.

The rest of his life.

He raised his face into the warm rays of the sun. His hair was cut short now, shaved in a way that might make his children roll their eyes, some old guy trying to appear cool. His body was fit and trim. He no longer wore glasses. His face was covered in a stubbly growth. He had a local’s tan.

And money.

Enough money to last forever. If he could manage it right. And a new name. Hanson. Steven Hanson. A name he had paid for. A name no one knew.

Not his wife, his kids.

Not those who might want to find him.

In this complicated world of computers and personal histories, he had simply gone, poof. Disappeared. One life ended—with remorse, regret, at the pain he knew he’d caused, the trust he’d broken. Still, he’d had to do it. It had been necessary. To save them. To save himself.

One life ended—and another sprang up.

When the moment had presented itself, he could not turn it down.

He hardly even thought of it now. The blast. One minute he had gone back from the front of the car to make a call, then flash! A black, rattling cloud with a core of orange heat. Like a furnace. The clothes burned off your back. Hurled against the wall. In a tangle of people screaming. Black smoke everywhere, the dark tide rushing over him. He was sure he was dead. He remembered thinking, through the haze, this way was best. It solved everything.

Just die.

When he came to, he looked at the ravaged train car. Every place he had been just a moment before was gone. Obliterated. The car in which he’d sat. The people around him, who were reading the paper, listening to their iPods. Gone. In a horrifying ocean of flame. He coughed up smoke. Got to get out of here, he thought. His brain was ringing. Numb. He staggered out, onto the platform. Horrible sights—blood everywhere, the smell of cordite and charred flesh. People moaning, calling out for help. What could he do? He had to get out, let Karen know he was alive.

Then it all became startlingly clear.

This was how. This was what had been presented to him.

He could die.

He stumbled over something. A body. Its face almost unrecognizable. In the chaos he knew he needed to be someone else. He felt around in the man’s trousers. In the smoke-filled darkness, the whole station black. He found it. He didn’t even look at the name. What did it matter? Then he began to run. His wits suddenly clearer than they’d ever been. This was how! Running, stumbling over the flow, not toward the entrance but to the other end of the tracks. Away from the flames. People from the rear cars were rushing there. The uptown entrances. Away from the flames. The one thing he had to do, resonating in his mind. Abel Raymond. He took a last look back at the smoldering car.

He could die.

“Mr. Hanson!” A voice suddenly brought him back, interrupting his dark memory. Leaning back in the water, Charles looked over at the boat. His Trinidadian captain was bending over the bow. “Mr. Hanson, w’ought to be pushing off about now. If we want to make it there by night.”

There. Wherever it was they were heading. Another dot on the map. With a bank. A rare-stone dealer. What did it matter?

“Right, I’ll be along in a moment,” he called back.

Treading water, he looked at the idyllic cove one last time.

Why had he come here? The memories only hurt him. The happy voices and recollections only filled him with regret and shame. He prayed she had found a new life, someone new to love her. And Sam and Alex … That was the only hope open to him now. We could spend the rest of our lives here, he had told her once.

The rest of our lives.

Charles Friedman swam toward the anchored boat, its name painted on the stern in gold script. The only attachment he allowed himself, the only reminder.

Emberglow.