BACKTRACKER by Milo Fowler (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📗

a single blow to the jaw."Sorry, Alan," he said, catching the disheveled man as he slumpedinto his arms. "Three days from now, we'll get you home. Until then, you've got tosit tight."

Muldoon dragged Alan to a chair and zip-tied him in place. Therewere consequences to chronic online gaming. You never knew when you might wakeup and find yourself in the clutches of collectors looking to take what youowed them in blood instead of credits. Not the case here, but that was besidethe point.

Alan's wife wouldn't be requesting Muldoon's help until two days from now. So Muldoon would have to wait untilsometime after that to take him home. If Alanwere reunited with his family too soon, then he wouldn't be gone long enoughfor Jean to visit Muldoon's office, and Muldoon never would go looking for herhusband in the first place. As a rule, Muldoon tried to avoid the possibilityof such inconsistent causal loops. They gave himheadaches.

When Alan came to, he wouldn't ask many questions. He'd be too shocked bythe whole experience. Just enough to keep him on the straight and narrow path,Muldoon hoped.

Half a dozen tries, but he'd finally managed to get Alan this far.The cops, overworked and underpaid, had presumed the man was dead after threedays missing. They'd been right. But the police had their limits. They couldn'ttravel into the past and find Alan moments before he threw his life away.

Muldoon was no hero. He had a business to run, rent to pay, and heexpected to be compensated for his efforts. Often times he was—when he timedthings out right. So he waited. Kept Alan fed and watered, alive and well. Outof sight. Then he arranged the tearful reunion.

As far as the cops and collectors knew, Alan Jeffries was dead.Muldoon would advise the Jeffries to keep it that way. Get the hell out of townand start over in some other Province with new identities. If all wentaccording to plan, they would live out the rest of their lives together, poorbut happy. There were worse endings to this story.

Muldoon hoped none of them ever came to pass.

July31

Raul's shorts and T-shirt were damp with sweat. He sat huddled ina corner of the dark closet, as far from the door as possible. Whenever itopened, he jumped, stifling a scream. He couldn't stop shaking.

They tossed him a candy bar once in a while, a bottle of water. Theydidn't let him out to go to the bathroom. He had to do that in a corner of thecloset. The smell made him sick, even though it was his own.

In the gloom, he couldn't tell what time it was. When the dooropened, the glare was always the same—too bright, like the lights in the gym at school. How manydays had passed since they grabbed him off the street? Two, maybe?

He'd been walking home after swim practice. The sun was still out.They pulled up in a van and dragged him inside before he could cry for help,before he knew what was really happening. He knew it was wrong, being carriedoff your feet by two strong men. Tossed onto your back, a gloved hand pressedhard over your mouth while others grabbed your feet and your hands and wrappedthem in tape. The side door slid shut with a slam, plunging the back of the vaninto darkness.

"Well, ain't he pretty," said one of them as the vanlurched from the curb with a screech of tires, accelerating away. "Catch of the day, huh?"

Another one chuckled, cursing with appreciation. "Topdollar, my man, top dollar."

They talked about him like he was something to be bought or sold.They told him not to cry and spoil his pretty little face.

"Five thousand for our little man, nothing less," theysaid, winking at him.

Raul's stomach rumbled now. Had they fed him today? It had been awhile since his last candy bar and water bottle.

They didn't sound happy outside, in that other room with the gymlights. They yelled at each other, cursing and calling each other awful names, hollering about "buyers"and "markets" and "merchandise." Raul crept toward the doorto hear better.

"So much for your contacts," spat one of them."Days now, and we've got nothing. Meanwhile our fresh little flower iswilting. Top dollar, my ass!"

"Lay off, man," said the other one. "They'll behere. Just wait."

"What have we been doing? An easy score, you said. Right.We'll be lucky to break even! That van, this hellhole—you said we'd come outahead, but we're worse off than when we started!"

"Trust me. It'll pay off."

"Cut and run, man. We've gotta burn everything, erase theDNA. That kid's gonna croak before we get a single credit out of this mess, andI'm not going down with the ship."

The door crashed open. Not the closet door—another one, slammingagainst the wall like somebody had kicked it in. Raul cringed but kept his earpressed against the closet door, listening intently. The men shouted andcursed, surprised. Gun metal clicked and clinked, but before a single shotcould go off, the sound of pulse rounds firing filled the room. Just like on the Link, those "copshows" as Raul's mother called them: three blasts, abrupt bass notes thatrumbled in Raul's chest as they found their marks.

The men released garbled cries, hitting the floor and shaking violently. Raul could see it all happen in his mind's eye,every detail down to the thuds of the men's weapons hitting the floor, releasedby their limp fingers after the seizures ended. They lay still. Silent. No longer in control of the situation.

Raul heard only his own breath. Maybe his heartbeat too, racing inhis ears if that was possible.

"Third time's the charm," muttered a voice Raul didn'trecognize as heavy footsteps headed toward the closet. A shadow fell across theline of white light beneath the door. More silence. Then a soft knock."It's okay, kid. You're all right now." The man paused. "Moveback from the door. Let's get you out of there."

Raul crawled backward, bringing up one arm to shield his face. Whowas this man with the pulse gun? A cop? They weren't allowed to use lethalrounds, so that made sense. The police