Free The Survivor by Gregg Hurwitz

ticking across the lobby. Abara spun them through the revolving door, and a wave of noise and heat hit them. Bodies and news crews everywhere. In the middle of a small clearing stood a podium. Before Nate could get his bearings, he was ushered forward to the bouquet of microphones, a police captain stepping aside. Nate blinked and gazed out. Above all else there were lights—bright lights that hid the faces of his interlocutors. Questions sailed out of the white blaze.
    “When you took them on single-handedly, what were your thoughts?”
    Nate moistened his lips. “I was just reacting to what was in front of me. I guess it took me thirty-six years not to think for once.”
    “Did you have a mission plan in mind?”
    There was a particular chagrin, Nate realized, in being taken more seriously by others than he took himself. “Point and shoot?” he offered.
    A feminine voice from the back: “Were you scared?”
    “No, not really. I was angry.”
    “At what specifically?”
    “They killed three people. Kicked a woman in the face. Seemed on the verge of shooting a little girl.”
    Bass voice in the front row: “So you think they all deserved a death sentence?”
    Nate said, “I think if I hadn’t shot them, they would’ve killed more people.”
    “Yes, but still. There are laws.”
    Clearly, the reporter intended to goad him. Nate thought about how in the past he might’ve responded with something appropriate. He sorted through all the replies he’d ordinarily think to make, the placating gestures, the tempered assurances. But then that feeling returned, the sensation he’d encountered as he’d floated through the teller gate, bullets carving the air around his face. Liberation. And he replied, “You want laws? Here’s a law for you. Don’t fucking rob banks and kill innocent people.”
    A hush descended. A reporter reached over to her cameraman’s gear and clicked off the live feed. A firm hand hooked Nate’s waist, politely conveying him to the side, and then the police captain replaced him in front of the microphones. “I think that’s enough questions for the time being.”
    Biting off a smile with perfect white teeth, Abara led Nate off. Once they were clear of the crowd, they nodded good-bye, and Nate went to find his trusty, rusty Jeep Wrangler where he’d parked it an eternity ago this morning. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he realized that he felt neither embarrassment nor regret over his final reply at the podium. He had said exactly what he’d wanted to. Just as this morning he’d done precisely what he’d needed to. No fear. No capitulation. No paralyzing self-scrutiny. He had—literally—nothing left to lose. He pulled on his seat belt, set his hands on the wheel, and the thought hit him: What a trite goddamned shame that he had to be dying to learn how to live again.

 
    Chapter 9
    Plan B: Nate would drive home and kill himself. Handful of Vicodin, some alcohol, a languid drift into the sweet hereafter. Given the press conference, news of his fake hero stint would spread quickly, complicating matters, making him answer questions he’d rather not. It would be best to handle business before opening up the whole can of worms with Janie and Cielle, especially since he’d managed to keep everything from them for this long.
    After months with depression gnawing at his skull, he’d settled on a plan and had felt energized. Foot on the accelerator, a last burst of gas to take him over the cliff edge. He had to see it through now before he ran out of steam.
    To fortify himself for what was to come, Nate stopped off at a diner for another last meal. The middle-aged waitress had tired eyes, crayon marks on the hem of her uniform, and a pale band of skin around her ring finger. “Triple-scoop hot-fudge sundae?” she asked. “That’s it?”
    He smiled up at her. “That’s it.”
    He savored each bite and left her a $207 tip—all the money in his wallet. Where he was going, he