Instinct by Jason Hough (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

not with all these people around. But I sure hope there’re keys, damn it. The idea of roaring out of here in a growling red sports car, flipping Ang and all the rest of them the middle finger as I tear down the mountain, is tantalizing. But then I remember they have a helicopter, and rifles, and I wonder just how far I’d really get.

Someone’s in the hall outside, walking swiftly.

I pad to the door and stand behind it. They approach. I hold my breath again. But the footsteps move past without breaking speed. I let out my breath, just long enough to realize they’re only steps from discovering my escape.

Time to go.

I slip from the room. In the hall I find I’m four steps from Captain Tweaker, who stands with his back to me, staring at my door. He’s frozen in place, on the cusp of crying out an alarm.

Yet he hesitates, steps forward. Pushes my door open, not with his fingers but with the barrel of a pistol.

I pad up behind him and swing the pillowcase. There’s a dull thud, and as he crumples to the floor he lets out an involuntary sigh. His collapse is otherwise whisper quiet.

“Good thing you weigh almost nothing,” I mutter, dragging him into the room.

Out of habit I check for a pulse, finding it quickly. Strong and steady. A brief temptation comes over me to strangle him, but the cop in me can’t do it.

I take the gun and set it aside, then make quick work of binding his hands with the bedsheet. It’s not much, but it’s what I’ve got. The pillowcase weapon no longer needed, I remove two of the soap bars and, with the third still tucked inside, stuff it into his mouth, tying the fabric tight behind his neck. A passable gag that might buy me an extra minute when he wakes.

His pants and shoes are next. Good hiking boots and a pair of jeans. The boots are, surprisingly, too small for me, but the jeans fit okay as long as I leave the fly undone. Better than nothing.

The gun is a cheap Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter, the kind a homeowner buys at Wal-Mart to protect belongings no one would ever want to steal. I check the magazine, see the glint of brass. In the dim light I can make out at least three bullets, so I’ll assume that much and cross my fingers for more. If I’m lucky there’s a full ten plus one chambered. Now’s not the time to empty it and count.

I search his pockets and find nothing else. No keys, no wallet, no phone. He does have an earpiece, but when I remove it the thing all but falls apart in my hand. The casing is cracked, and a bit of circuitry is visible within. The smack I gave him must have clipped the device, too. I hold it up to my own ear for a few seconds anyway, but hear nothing. I decide to throw it in the toilet rather than take it with me.

Before leaving, I flip the mattress on top of him. Anything to muffle his cries of alarm when he comes to.

I creep back down the hall. There’s a lot of activity downstairs, but other than Tweaker I’m pretty sure no one else has come to the second floor. The nice guest quarters must be down there, somewhere.

With the smallest movement possible I take another look around the corner, down into the expansive living room. The fireplace is roaring now. Greg is out on the patio again, just visible from my vantage point. He’s standing at alert, a rifle in his hands now. Guarding the house.

In the living room itself, Mrs. Conaty sits in one of the leather chairs, her legs crossed and a glass of wine in one hand. She’s speaking with two men who sit across from her. Both wear expensive suits. One has dark hair and a thick mustache, face etched in a perpetual scowl, his skin visibly wrinkled even from here. The one referred to as Mr. Secretary? For the first time in my life I find myself wishing I paid more attention to politics.

The other man has a great mane of blond hair. His suit is fitted but worn casually. No tie, shirt open two buttons to reveal tanned, clear skin and several thick gold chains around his neck. His legs are spread slightly, and his arms are up on the back of the sofa. Absolute comfort, absolute confidence. He laughs and says something. Not quite loud enough to make out the words, but loud enough to hint at an accent. It’s not quite British. European? Whatever the case, it’s snooty. He reeks of money.

Behind the sofa are four more men, all standing rigid, hands clasped in front of them. Bodyguards, clearly. Belonging to the two men, or Conaty? I mull that and decide it doesn’t matter. They’ll kill me either way, of that I’m sure.

Ang walks in from the dining room area off to the side, carrying a bottle of wine. All eyes go to him.

I take the chance.

A dash across the walkway, past the stairs and into the hall beyond. Here I stop and press my back to the wall, forcing my pulse to return to normal, along with my rapid breaths. I strain my ears, but there’s no sign that anyone below saw or heard me. Quiet conversation continues. Someone says something that elicits a brief polite chuckle from Conaty.

The older man—I assume Mr. Secretary—responds with a note of annoyance, but at this distance and over the roaring fire, the words are hard to make out. All I get is “… results that are better than cold hard cash?”

Conaty’s response is smooth, controlled. I hear little of it, but a few words register. “… handful… maintain… live in constant doubt?”

This last is louder, the words edged and forceful.

Mr. Secretary does not reply. Cowed, impressed, or bored I’m not sure.

I move deeper into