Read Online The Truth of the Matter by Andrew Klavan - Free Book Online
Authors: Andrew Klavan
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pressed more tightly against the wall. I held my breath, straining to hear.
There was more conversation, dim, distant, wordless. I stood there, frustrated, unable to make out any of it.
Then an angry shout. For about two seconds, maybe three, the furious voice reached me clearly. It was a deep, hollow voice screaming in a language I didn’t understand. Arabic, it sounded like.
The moment I heard it, the moment I heard that voice, my head snapped back away from the wall. A thrill of fear flared inside me. The voice faded from my hearing as I staggered back a step from the wall. I stared at the space. My mouth had gone dry. My legs felt weak.
I remembered that voice! Somehow, from somewhere. I knew the man who was speaking. I tried to picture his face, tried to call up his name, but I couldn’t. It was just beyond the edge of my memory, a shadowy presence in the deeper darkness of the year I had forgotten.
Still—still—I knew him. I was sure of it. And I knew something else too: I knew he was a killer. Tough, vicious, wicked to the bone.
I could not recall his face or his name, but I knew this for certain: he was one of the Homelanders.
They were here.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Waylon
I stood there, frozen. I didn’t even breathe. A thousand thoughts flashed through my head in a second.
Waterman’s words: The Homelanders are close. Very close . . . It’s only a matter of time before they find this place and strike and try to kill us all .
Had they done it? Had they broken in? Had they gotten Waterman and his friends? Or had he escaped? Where was he?
I knew I had to do something, had to move. It was like forcing myself to break free from a block of ice. But I did it. I made myself step forward, step back to the wall again. I made myself press my ear against the wall.
Once again, I heard that voice—now that I recognized it, I could distinguish it even though I couldn’t hear the words. Again, the face of that vicious killer seemed to rise up out of the darkness of my memory— come close to the surface—then sink back down again into obscurity.
Then—startling—another shout—another voice—this one speaking English: “There’s no one else in here either!”
The killer answered him with a shouted curse.
The other man shouted in English again: “There must be another way out.”
Then a third man shouted: “Waylon! No one here either. Maybe they snuck him out before we showed up.”
The killer—obviously their leader—shouted out another stream of Arabic.
I felt suddenly hollow inside. Hollow and weak and unsteady. I knew it was me they were looking for. And I knew that name too. The killer’s name: Waylon. This was something I did remember clearly, something that had happened when I woke up strapped to that metal chair with the Homelander goons working me over.
There had been voices outside the door. There had been a man with an American name but a thick accent: Waylon. He had been coming from the Homelanders’ leader, a man who called himself Prince. He had given the order to my torturers:
The West boy is useless to us now. Kill him .
I understood why Waterman had put me inside the Panic Room. The Homelanders had been following him. They’d breached some of his files. They might know about this bunker. They might even have the entry codes. But he must’ve felt the Panic Room was still secure. He must’ve felt he could keep me safe here while I was helpless under the influence of the drug.
I listened. Outside in the main bunker, there was a pause, silence. I could feel them out there, on the other side of that wall. I could sense them looking for me, listening for me. I felt that if I made even the slightest noise, they would hear it. They would find me. They would kill me. Waylon would finally kill me, as he’d wanted to do all this time.
Then, Waylon spoke. He was standing right next to me, directly on the other side of the wall. His voice seemed almost at my ear and, even through the
There was more conversation, dim, distant, wordless. I stood there, frustrated, unable to make out any of it.
Then an angry shout. For about two seconds, maybe three, the furious voice reached me clearly. It was a deep, hollow voice screaming in a language I didn’t understand. Arabic, it sounded like.
The moment I heard it, the moment I heard that voice, my head snapped back away from the wall. A thrill of fear flared inside me. The voice faded from my hearing as I staggered back a step from the wall. I stared at the space. My mouth had gone dry. My legs felt weak.
I remembered that voice! Somehow, from somewhere. I knew the man who was speaking. I tried to picture his face, tried to call up his name, but I couldn’t. It was just beyond the edge of my memory, a shadowy presence in the deeper darkness of the year I had forgotten.
Still—still—I knew him. I was sure of it. And I knew something else too: I knew he was a killer. Tough, vicious, wicked to the bone.
I could not recall his face or his name, but I knew this for certain: he was one of the Homelanders.
They were here.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Waylon
I stood there, frozen. I didn’t even breathe. A thousand thoughts flashed through my head in a second.
Waterman’s words: The Homelanders are close. Very close . . . It’s only a matter of time before they find this place and strike and try to kill us all .
Had they done it? Had they broken in? Had they gotten Waterman and his friends? Or had he escaped? Where was he?
I knew I had to do something, had to move. It was like forcing myself to break free from a block of ice. But I did it. I made myself step forward, step back to the wall again. I made myself press my ear against the wall.
Once again, I heard that voice—now that I recognized it, I could distinguish it even though I couldn’t hear the words. Again, the face of that vicious killer seemed to rise up out of the darkness of my memory— come close to the surface—then sink back down again into obscurity.
Then—startling—another shout—another voice—this one speaking English: “There’s no one else in here either!”
The killer answered him with a shouted curse.
The other man shouted in English again: “There must be another way out.”
Then a third man shouted: “Waylon! No one here either. Maybe they snuck him out before we showed up.”
The killer—obviously their leader—shouted out another stream of Arabic.
I felt suddenly hollow inside. Hollow and weak and unsteady. I knew it was me they were looking for. And I knew that name too. The killer’s name: Waylon. This was something I did remember clearly, something that had happened when I woke up strapped to that metal chair with the Homelander goons working me over.
There had been voices outside the door. There had been a man with an American name but a thick accent: Waylon. He had been coming from the Homelanders’ leader, a man who called himself Prince. He had given the order to my torturers:
The West boy is useless to us now. Kill him .
I understood why Waterman had put me inside the Panic Room. The Homelanders had been following him. They’d breached some of his files. They might know about this bunker. They might even have the entry codes. But he must’ve felt the Panic Room was still secure. He must’ve felt he could keep me safe here while I was helpless under the influence of the drug.
I listened. Outside in the main bunker, there was a pause, silence. I could feel them out there, on the other side of that wall. I could sense them looking for me, listening for me. I felt that if I made even the slightest noise, they would hear it. They would find me. They would kill me. Waylon would finally kill me, as he’d wanted to do all this time.
Then, Waylon spoke. He was standing right next to me, directly on the other side of the wall. His voice seemed almost at my ear and, even through the
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