Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [86]
So even if he assumed that while the FBI didn’t know where he and Archer were now, it didn’t mean that Cahill couldn’t find them soon.
Which meant it was time to leave and go someplace else.
But where? Burt bit his nails and thought it through.
He could go anyplace. No one even knew he was involved in this mess. Archer, however, wasn’t going anywhere. Not anymore. He was a liability with a capital L. The sooner Burt got rid of him, the better things would be.
Burt closed his eyes and considered several scenarios. Once he’d made up his mind, he got off the bed and poked at Archer.
“Come on, man, it’s time to go. Wake up, Archie.”
“Go where?” Archer mumbled.
“Someplace else. We gotta get rid of the gun.” Burt began to gather his things. They wouldn’t be coming back tonight, or any night.
“Get your shit together, man. I want to leave now. I’m getting restless. I spent enough time working this all out for you. I’m done, and I’m moving on. We’ll get rid of the gun, then I’m going my way, you’re going yours.”
“But what about the last one? The lady FBI agent?” Archer, sleepy-eyed, sat up.
“What about her?” Burt kept his voice steady even though, for two cents, he’d have beaten Archer’s head in. Stupid fuck.
“I’m supposed to, you know . . .” Archer was awake now. “You said you’d help me.”
“Yeah, well, that was then. Before I knew how much trouble this whole thing was going to be.” Burt stuffed his belongings into a black-and-gray gym bag.
“You’re not gonna help me no more?”
“No, I’m not gonna help you no more.” Burt mimicked Archer’s whine. “You’re on your own. So get up, get your shit together, and we’re outta here.”
Archer began to do as he was told, whining the entire time.
“Why aren’t you gonna help me? If you throw the gun away, I won’t have anything to . . . to do that lady agent with.”
“You should have thought of that before you called her.” Burt spun around, his index finger pointed at Archer.
“Wh-what?” Archer went white. “Called who? I didn’t talk to no one—”
“Don’t make it worse by lying about it, asshole. You called her. The number is right there on the phone I gave you to call me with.” Burt got right into Archer’s face. He towered over him by more than half a foot.
Archer’s eyes went wild with fright.
“I didn’t talk to her, I didn’t talk to no one, I swear—”
“Only because she didn’t pick up, right? If she’d a picked up, what would you have said?” Burt grabbed Archer by the throat. “What were you going to say, huh? What were you going to tell her?”
“I . . . I . . .” Archer began to tremble all over.
“Were you going to tell her what you did, or what you were going to do? Is that it? You were going to call her and taunt her, hey, you’re next, FBI lady?”
“N-n-no. I mean yes. Yes. I mean, no . . .”
“Bullshit.” Burt threw Archer nearly across the room. “Get your stuff, and get it now. We are outta here. Now.”
Hands shaking, his head pounding with terror, Archer picked up his belongings and threw them into the brown paper bag he’d brought them in. Burt opened the door, and Archer went through it, headed toward the truck.
“You get in, and you don’t say a word, understand?” Burt growled.
“Yes. Yes. I understand.” Archer climbed into the passenger side of the pickup and watched Burt walk around the front toward the driver’s door. For a minute, Archer was tempted to lock the doors and lean on the horn until someone from one of the other rooms came out to see what the problem was. But he didn’t think of it fast enough, and before he could blink, Burt was in the cab, tossing his gym bag into the space behind the seats and jamming the key in the ignition.
“Where . . . where are we going?” Archer asked.
No response from the driver.
“I didn’t mean no harm. I wasn’t gonna tell her anything. Honest. I don’t know why I called her. I don’t know why. . . .”
No response.
“But I wasn’t gonna tell her about . .