Trust Me by Jeff Abbott Read Free Book Online Page A

parking in a slot closest to the street at Eric’s order. They had a view down the street. The sidewalks were less crowded; fewer pedestrians strolled to their evening’s entertainment. Luke saw an old couple ambling slowly, carrying grocery bags; a young woman hurrying past, chattering on a cell phone and gesturing wildly; an older woman dressed too young, venturing into the twilight with her painted, pained smile. Down the street Luke could see a small bar, a homeless shelter operated by an Episcopal charity, a liquor store, a clothing resale shop, a neon-signed Tex-Mex eatery. The storefronts were weathered and worn.
    ‘Now what?’ Luke asked.
    ‘We wait.’
    ‘For what?’ Was someone coming here to meet them? To collect Luke? This might be his one remaining chance to escape. But no way he could get clear of the car without Eric shooting or knifing him. ‘What are you going to do?’
    Eric glanced again at his watch, tugged nervously at his lip. ‘Everything will be okay. Trust me.’
    Twenty minutes passed; sundown completed its glory. The night threw its stars across the dark-purpled sky. Eric’s gun rested back in its second home, Luke’s ribs. Luke’s legs ached from sitting so long. Hunger rumbled his stomach, but he kept fighting off a fear-induced nausea. He’d already decided that if he puked he was aiming at Eric’s rotten face. Puke and run for his life. A mark of real heroics. He thought he was starting to lose his grip.
    He closed his eyes. He wondered if this sinking acceptance in his chest that the end was close was what his father felt like in the moments before he died, if Dad had realized the plane he was on was doomed.
    Luke’s hand found the medal under his shirt and clutched at it. He thought of the conversation he’d had with his father, his mom asleep in the sleeping bag, he and his dad sitting by the soft flicker of the campfire.
    ‘I want you to have this, son, keep it close to you always,’ his father had said. ‘Always. It will shield you from danger.’
    ‘Dad. Seriously? You’re not religious.’ His father had been raised Episcopalian but he wasn’t a churchgoer, except maybe at Easter and Christmas, when Luke’s mom insisted.
    ‘No atheists in foxholes, Luke,’ Warren Dantry had said.
    ‘We’re camping, this isn’t a foxhole,’ Luke said. He raised the medal to the firelight’s glow: a faceless angel, muscular wings, holding a sword and shield.
    ‘Saint Michael the archangel is an emblem of strength and determination, of order and reason overcoming chaos and violence. He’s special in that he figures in Christian, Jewish and Islamic traditions. He’s a hero for the world, good overcoming enormous evil.’
    ‘Evil. Like Darth Vader?’ He didn’t remember the story of what Saint Michael had done, what evil he had defeated.
    ‘Worse than Darth Vader,’ his father had said. ‘Saint Michael will keep you safe, Luke. If not now, then someday.’
    ‘Safe from what?’
    ‘From whatever darkness comes into your life. You might be called to fight one day, Luke. Think of Michael. Think of strength and know you can win.’
    ‘Brains are better than strength, Dad.’
    His dad smiled at him. ‘Yes. But together, they’re unbeatable.’
    ‘Thanks, Dad.’ Luke didn’t like jewelry of any sort, he thought this a goofy gift and most unlike his dad and he put the medal in his pocket. His father had said nothing more, poking at the fire with a stick.
    And a month later his father was dead, and Luke had worn the medal every day.
    ‘What are you doing?’ Eric’s voice rose.
    Luke opened his eyes. ‘Nothing.’
    Eric jabbed the gun hard into Luke’s side, pried his fingers from the medal, pulled it from Luke’s shirt. A flat circular medal, with an angel armed with a fiery sword. The angel’s wings were wide, strong, like an eagle’s.
    ‘What’s this?’ An edge came to Eric’s voice.
    ‘Saint Michael. The archangel. My dad gave it to me.’
    ‘You … you