Free Thirst No. 5 by Christopher Pike

the short barrel of my Glock. He’s out before he hits the ground.
    “Sweet Jesus,” Jim whispers behind me. “Who are you?”
    Putting my gun away, I turn and look up at Jim. “It’s not what you think. We’re not terrorists or anything evil. It’s true the government is after us, and you might even find us on the FBI’s list of wanted criminals. But all that’s going to get cleared up in the next few days. You’ll see, we’ll vanish from the list and you’ll realize we were innocent after all.” I pause. “Are you okay, Jim?”
    He’s turned his own distinct shade of gray, I’m afraid. I suppose my shooting would make any man feel less tall. “I believe you,” he mumbles. “I don’t know why but I do.”
    “Because I’m telling you the truth and you’re not easily fooled. You’ve been a good friend and a big help. If you’re too freaked out and want to leave us here, I’ll understand, no hard feelings. Drive on down to Miami and deliver those jeans. All I ask is that you don’t talk to the cops about us for the rest of the day.”
    Jim considers before shaking his head. “I’ll take you to where you need to go,” he says.
    “Are you sure? I can’t guarantee we won’t get stopped again.”
    Jim forces a smile. “If we do, Lara, I’m not worried about who’s going to come out on top. Climb in.”
    “Thank you. Give me a minute.”
    Moving fast, I locate the cop’s cameras and tapes and destroy the lot. Then I drag the police into the grass so they cannot be found off the bat. I put a hand on their bloody heads and suggest they stay unconscious for the next six hours. It doesn’t matter that they’re not awake to hear me. They’ll obey me, and we’ll be long gone before they can report to anyone, high or low, what Lara Wine did to them.

SEVEN
     
    N inety minutes later we sit in a restaurant in Chapel Hill, only five miles west of Clearglade and 134 Tree Leaf Lane—the address Brutran plucked from her database for Mrs. Sarah Goodwin, the granddaughter of Harrah and Ralph Levine.
    Outside, it’s dark; the night feels early for all of us. Traveling from the West Coast to the East has pushed us through three time zones. Brutran, Jolie, and Seymour are tired and hungry, or they were hungry. Seymour has just devoured four pieces of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Brutran and her daughter have shared a piece of swordfish and a bowl of rice. Even Matt and I have fed. Matt ate a hamburger and fries while I shared some of Seymour’s chicken.
    Jim dropped us off in Chapel Hill an hour ago. We’re holed up in the restaurant as much to think as to eat. None ofus can be sure we’ve thrown them off the scent. I’ve stretched out my hearing as far as possible. The best I can tell, no one is talking about us in the immediate area. But I fear the eyes in the sky, the network of earth-orbital satellites, more than the agents on the ground. For all we know their mechanical vision has followed us from the roadblock. A pity I can’t see what their cameras see.
    “The question remains,” Brutran says as we discuss our next move, “should we risk approaching the Goodwin house when we know our foe knows we’re in the area?”
    “I think we’ve lost them for the time being,” Matt says.
    “Your reasoning?” Brutran asks.
    Matt shrugs. “We’ve hardly moved in an hour. They should have come after us by now.”
    “There’s just as much chance they’re waiting for us to move,” Brutran says. “So they can learn our destination, what we’re looking for.”
    “We’re going to have to pay the Goodwins a visit at some point,” Seymour says. “How long do you want to wait?”
    “At least overnight,” Brutran says, glancing at me. “Sita?”
    I set down my cell. I’ve just called the Goodwins’ number again without any luck. “I’d agree to wait if I knew they were at home. The last thing I want to do is show our hand. But the fact they’re not answering worries me.”
    “I