Toward the Brink (Book 3) by Craig A. McDonough Page A

there.” Sam pointed.
    “Let me check.” Chess jumped up the steps and into the bus.
    “There ain’t no keys for it,” Sam called.
    “That won’t matter,” Mulhaven answered, confident Chess could hot-wire it.
    A minute or so later, the starter motor gave a screech as it resisted Chess’s attempts to kick the engine over. Chess wasn’t about to surrender and tried twice more.
    “Well, ain’t that just swell?” Sam turned and smiled when the bus coughed to life. “Guess I might just get out of here alive after all.”
    As Chess hollered from the driver’s seat that there was almost half a tank of gas, Mulhaven couldn’t help but consider what Sam had said. All of them, here and at Kath’s, were far from “out of here.” They still had to get out of Prince George, and then there were the dangers of the open road. Mulhaven didn’t know what to expect on this journey, but the cold ache in the pit of his stomach told him it wouldn’t be a joyous one. The island was their best bet for salvation—he could clearly see that—but he didn’t think everyone would make it.
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    H olmes’s escape took place while some were working outside and others were preparing meals or packing clothes. Holmes had manipulated the lock on the outside cellar doors, waited until the best time, and vanished without the others getting so much as a glimpse of him. Most surprising, or shocking, was the fate of Milton Etheridge. When his money had bought him everything he would ever need—and then some—Etheridge was a man in total control. In their bid to corner the world’s resources for themselves, he and his associates had opened a Pandora’s Box, created Frankenstein’s monster. Etheridge had believed, probably to the end that Holmes was his loyal servant. He was too old, too scared, and under the effects of too much scotch.
    Holmes had no use for Etheridge or his promises. His money and power had vanished and meant less to Holmes than a box of jerky, a freeze dried bag of fruit, and a few gallons of drinkable water. Like the Tall Man, whom Holmes had once regarded as one of his loyal employees, he was aware this was the new currency, and people—those who were left—would kill for it. Without Etheridge’s riches, few would stand for his abrasive manner and even fewer would stick their necks out for him. Etheridge would slow Holmes down even if Holmes had wanted to take him—which he didn’t. Before Holmes had made the decision to attempt an escape, he decided to end Etheridge’s existence right there in the cellar. Holmes may have been the spymaster, the one who pulled the strings, but in his earlier days he got his hands just as dirty as any mob hit man. He never forgot how, either, but Etheridge didn’t offer much resistance. As the old man dozed, Holmes came from behind, wrapped one forearm around the front of Etheridge’s neck, and placed the other hand at the back of his head. He jerked Etheridge backward while pushing his head forward to crush his windpipe. He held on for two minutes, which was all that was needed to extinguish Etheridge’s life.
    For one of the world’s richest and most powerful men, it wasn’t the end anyone would have expected: strangled in the cellar of an old farmhouse in Canada.
    “He’s on foot, so he couldn’t have gone far.”
    “I don’t care if the son of a bitch is just over those hills, we don’t have the time to waste on him. The others should be back soon, and we need to get some rest before our expedition,” the Tall Man replied to James as he looked at Milton Etheridge’s body.
    “Oh my God!” Kath screamed when she came into the cellar.
    “It’s okay, Kath, it’s okay. Nothing we can do now.” The Tall Man rushed over to comfort her. He gestured for James to take his sister back into the house as Elliot came in from outside.
    “Yeah, there’s some scuffed footprints that lead from here straight to the tree line. I assume he then made his way to the