by Juno Rushdan
“I don’t have much time.” She had to go back inside. If she didn’t, Bravo was going to kill two people in cold blood. Lee Pomeroy and Ed Boswell weren’t innocent by any stretch of the imagination, but she wasn’t a vigilante. Sanborn didn’t have the right to be judge, jury, and executioner. She’d helped create this nightmare, put the bioweapons in Sanborn’s hands. Walking away wasn’t an option. She had a responsibility to end this before more lives were lost. “You were able to find us,” Ashley said, “because I didn’t remove the tracker from Ms. Westcott’s hip.”
Desperation flashed in his eyes and rose in his voice. “Is she alive?”
“Yes. Sanborn has her on a boat with Yosef Khan. He plans to rig it to explode with both of them onboard. He wants it to look like Khan was trying to flee the scene of the attack with his accomplice when the explosion happens.” Her watch vibrated on her wrist. “I have to go.”
“Where are they? Where’s Kit?”
“The dock.” Ashley backed away from him, toward the door, keeping her eyes on him. “Southeast corner of the lawn,” she said as he took off in a backward jog in the direction she indicated, his gun sight still focused on her. “Quarter of a mile down. Hurry.”
* * *
3:09 p.m. EDT
The gag bit into Kit’s mouth and the zip ties were so tight they cut off the circulation in her wrists and ankles.
Seated upright, she kept her knees pulled into her chest to make herself smaller, not wanting to draw Sanborn’s attention. The other captive, the man they called Khan, was in a different position on the boat, closer to the cockpit.
The speedboat rocked and bounced on the choppy open water. After dropping off his murderous minions on the dock, Sanborn had driven the boat away from shore.
From her low position, she couldn’t see how far out they were, but they’d only gone a minute or two before he cut the engine.
Kit’s frantic gaze scoured the boat for anything that could possibly save her. Sanborn and his goon were working with the only tools she’d spotted, and both had guns. A ring-shaped lifebuoy hung on the side, but with her hands bound behind her, it was useless.
The one who went by Echo came up the steps from the cabin below. “Everything is set. The engine is rigged per your specifications.”
Sanborn gave a thumbs-up from the rear of the boat, close to her as he meddled with the gas tank. “Inflate the raft and get the motor started.”
Echo nodded.
Sanborn went back to tinkering with the gas tank and caught her watching. “Curious?” he asked, his voice taunting. “Let’s just say the tanks aren’t made strictly out of molded polyethylene. Nothing will survive the explosion.”
She squeezed her eyes closed, regulated her breathing, and prayed for a miracle.
* * *
3:11 p.m. EDT
This wasn’t the time or place to be late, but Ashley was one minute off schedule. She prayed the drama with Castle played out in his favor.
Part of her was ready to finish her own drama with Bravo and hightail it back to her husband, but the scene unfolding in front of Ashley stole the rest of her focus.
Bravo and Charlie had lured Pomeroy and Senator Boswell to Section 10 off the west corridor with the bait of urgent landline phone calls for both. With the cell signals blocked in this technology-on-demand world, every attendee had fingers itching to swipe right, check an email, send a text.
The two had surely jumped at the chance to take a call.
Bravo opened the door to the insulated room. Sanborn had cut the ventilation system to the entire section so Z-1984 would be completely contained.
The older gentlemen strolled inside, chatting animatedly, unaware the space was meant to be their tomb. The door closed behind them. Through the huge plate-glass window, she watched Pomeroy and Boswell. Their conversation stopped as their gazes homed in on the bioweapon sitting on a stand in the corner, counting down. Both men froze.
Their expressions shifted in confusion, evolving into denial, blossoming into horrified desperation.
But with the door locked, there wasn’t anything they could do except wait to die.
With a smirk that made Ashley’s skin crawl, Bravo removed his wig and mustache.
Lee Pomeroy’s eyes flashed with fury. “Howe!” he yelled. “What are you doing?”
Soundproofing muted their terrified screams and furious cries, forcing her to read their lips. They banged on the shatter-resistant glass that divided the observation room from the chamber, picked up chairs, and flung them at the door.
It was horrible. A fifteen-car pileup happening right before her eyes.
The timer was set for five minutes. Only three left.
Before she could strategize how to take out both Bravo and Charlie as quickly as possible, Bravo did the unthinkable.
He turned toward Charlie with a pen in his hand. The cap slipped to the floor. Silver glinted in the light, a wink of violent intent.
Bravo’s hand swooped up and lodged the ice pick in Charlie’s ear. Then Bravo stabbed him a second time in the chest.
Ashley drew her Glock out of her holster, flipped the safety off, and aimed. Forget about giving that psycho a chance to attack her first. She’d waited seven years to make him pay for what he’d done to her in Germany, for the way he’d tortured her. She wasn’t going to wait a second longer and fired.
The report of the gun roared in the compact space, but Bravo was unaffected.
She squeezed again and again.
Two more shots rang out. Still nothing.
“I gave you the one with blanks,” Bravo said, his grin spreading.
Leaping forward, Ashley threw the gun, slamming it into his face with the full force of her body behind the blow.
He staggered back, dazed, nose busted and bleeding. She pulled her belt off and braced herself. Just as she predicted, he charged, swinging the ice pick.
Ashley caught his wrist with the belt and moved the sharp point of the steel shaft away from her. She smashed the heel of her free palm up into his broken nose.
He might not have screamed, but the certain agony of that blow left him at a disadvantage that she seized. She knocked the ice pick from his hand.
The shank clattered to the floor. But in the tussle, it was kicked and glided into a corner.
Howe rebounded, far too quickly. He landed a vicious punch to her gut that left her doubled over in pain. With a leg sweep, knocking her feet from under her, he brought her hard to the floor. He withdrew the gun from the holster on his hip.
If she didn’t move lightning-fast, he’d have her and those precious nanoseconds would cost her life. She whipped her legs around his calves in a scissor move and rotated with all her might, flipping herself facedown, and brought him to the floor.
Raising her heel, she thrust her foot into his face. Her kick was perfectly aimed. His head dropped back. She went for the gun still locked in his grasp. But he fought her with the strength of a madman. They rolled, both throwing jabs. Taking some and deflecting others.
She pried the gun free from his hand, but he wasn’t intent on letting her keep it. He delivered a powerful blow to her head that made her fingers open in reflex.
The gun rattled to the tile, sliding under the table.
He pounced on top of her, but Ashley sent the side of her hand sailing in a chop to his jugular. Gasping, he fell backward.
In a blink, she was on her feet. Moving, moving to the closest weapon—the ice pick. She seized it and jumped up.
Bravo had already reached the gun. He was rolling from under the table. She flipped the ice pick in her hand, holding it by the stainless-steel shaft.
As he spun toward her, prepping to take aim, she threw the ice pick. And hit her mark—Bravo’s throat.
Not a breath to spare to think. She ran to the door of the se
aled room and glanced at the timer. Nine seconds dropped to eight.
She wrangled out the security pass. Six seconds. Pressed it to the digital lock. Four seconds. The red light blinked. Why didn’t it work?
Two seconds. She turned the badge to the opposite side and went to try again, but—
The timer hit zero and the bioweapon deployed.
42
3:15 p.m.
Dread and desperation churned in Kit’s belly. She didn’t struggle as Sanborn hauled her a couple of feet inside the cabin. Feigning resignation seemed like the smartest play. Not that she had much of an alternative.
Khan was gagged and strapped to the steering wheel in the cockpit. She’d overheard the death squad mention they’d used a special material on Khan’s wrists and hands that wouldn’t leave a trace in the fire. It would look as if Khan had been steering the boat when the engine malfunctioned and exploded. Khan would be the scapegoat for Sanborn’s unholy handiwork along with Kit—the leader of the Outliers—as his accomplice.
Not only was Sanborn going to kill her but he was going to make the world believe that she and the Outliers had colluded with terrorists.
She shivered with a sudden burning anger, then stilled when she heard the low, rhythmic click, click, click.
A ticking resonated somewhere on the boat. She hadn’t noticed it outside, but in the quiet cabin, she picked up a faint ticking despite the drone from the inflatable raft’s motor.
“Where are the keys so I can lock these two inside the cabin?” Sanborn asked.
Echo lobbed the set of keys to him.
“I’m going to double-check the bomb below and then we’ll get going,” Sanborn said, pocketing the keys.
“I told you it’s good.”
In a hard, certain voice, Sanborn said, “I believe you, but I also can’t take the chance of the smallest mistake.”
“Suit yourself.” Echo climbed over the left side of the boat and dropped out of sight into the raft while Sanborn went below.
Kit had tossed around every outside-the-box, last-ditch-desperado idea she could think of to survive. There was one slim possibility, but she needed to be outside to try it. When Sanborn came back, he’d lock her in the cabin with Khan and then she’d have no hope of escape.
This was her only chance. Even if she failed, even if she died in the process, she had to try. It was now or never.
Kit had used her Ehlers-Danlos syndrome for party tricks but never imagined her joint hypermobility might actually one day save her life. She made herself as small as possible, wiggling her wrists under her butt, one shoulder shimmy at a time.
Once her hands reached her hamstrings, she leaned forward, dropped both shoulders away from her ears, and stuck her feet through the tight gap, bringing her hands in front of her. She wrenched the bitter-tasting gag from her mouth.
With her ankles zip-tied, she inchwormed her way out of the cabin onto the deck. The propranolol she’d taken earlier was doing its job. Popping another would’ve been ideal, but she couldn’t risk the delay of going to her bag, and without having had any Nitrostat, she didn’t know how much exertion she could handle.
Kit gripped the bulwark and tugged herself up. Hoping the rumble of the motor on the raft was loud enough to mask her splash into the water, she let herself tip overboard.
The cold water was a shock to her system and a whimper slipped from her throat. The salt stung all the little scrapes on her body.
In a matter of minutes, perhaps seconds, Sanborn would notice that she was gone. The only thing she could do was put distance between her and the boat. Be the biggest pain in the ass for him. With a bomb ticking away and the tight schedule he had to keep, maybe he wouldn’t have the time to bother with her.
It was wishful thinking, but going out fighting was all she had.
Kit thrashed against the current, struggling to tread water. She had never been an Olympic swimmer and to say that her tied wrists and ankles complicated her predicament was an extreme understatement.
Her original far-fetched plan had entailed taking the buoy to help her stay afloat and trying to get out of the blast radius. But Sanborn had ruined her idea with his intention to trap her on the boat, leaving her with this desperate measure that was far less practical and far more grueling than she’d envisioned.
Every time she pushed herself forward, undulating the way mermaids swam, she’d gain some distance. Then her head went under. She struggled back to the surface, swallowed a little seawater, taking it into her lungs. Cough and repeat.
This was how someone slowly drowned.
Thrusting her arms and legs for downward pressure, she raised herself high enough to get her mouth above the water. The process was tedious and painstaking.
Her heart pounded against her rib cage.
She’d put a few feet between her and the boat, but it came at a steep price.
An agonizing sensation threaded in her chest, tightening through her lungs. Her airways shrank. It was like trying to breathe through the miniscule hole in a coffee stirrer.
Her chest seized hard and panic rose in her throat.
* * *
Sanborn had been checking the bomb, examining the wiring, ensuring no loose connections—this was his pièce de résistance and would cement everything as a series of terrorist attacks orchestrated by Khan—when he heard the faint splash on the starboard side. He took one guess as to the source.
No doubt it was Ms. Westcott. A woman of many, many irritating talents.
How she continued to be a thorn in his side was an enigma. But he’d rectify the situation soon enough. There was nowhere for her to hide.
Meanwhile, she wasn’t going to distract him. Nothing and no one would rush him through this critical step.
The fail-safe was in place—cut the green wire to neutralize the primary bomb and it’d trigger a smaller, secondary one to blow. He noted the countdown—sixteen minutes—and set the timer on his watch to coincide. More than sufficient to get to the rendezvous point and flee the area with time to spare. He activated the backup detonator, put it in his pocket, and turned off the jammer onboard to prevent the wireless electronic signal from being blocked.
Now, in the improbable event the timer failed, he could still detonate the bomb remotely.
No glitches. No mistakes.
On his way up to the deck, he grabbed the telescoping pole that had a hook on the end from the wall. Each step he took, he cursed Katherine Westcott’s name, cursed her involvement with Castle, cursed her ability to slither into his protégé’s head. He cursed her very existence.
Topside, he spotted her.
She was flailing, taking in more seawater than air by the looks of it. If time had been of no consequence, he would’ve enjoyed watching her drown. A slow, agonizing death was nothing less than she deserved.
But Sanborn was acutely aware of every second ticking by.
He removed his suit jacket, tossing it to an oblivious Echo on the other side of the boat, and rolled up his shirt sleeves.
She’d only made it ten feet, hardly worth the effort she was putting in flopping about, but if her goal had been to nettle him, on that score, she’d succeeded.
Reaching over the side, he snagged the hook of the pole between her wrists and pulled her back to the boat. He hauled her onto the deck, doing his best not to get his shoes wet and allow her to be any more of an inconvenience. She was heavier than expected for someone so small.
Sanborn dragged her into the cabin with no regard for her comfort and slung her against the wall. Her face was ghost-white. She clutched her chest, sputtering and gasping like she couldn’t catch her breath.
“Medicine,” she said in a low, strained voice that was barely audible.
Ah yes. She had a faulty heart.
Westcott pointed to something on the floor. He glanced at her
bag that was within his reach and turned back to her, relishing the anguished look on her face.
With any luck, she’d have an excruciating coronary that’d last until the boat blew.
Sanborn snatched her bag, went to the cabin door, and locked her inside. His one regret was that he wouldn’t see her die, but knowing that the wretched woman was suffering down to her final moment brought more satisfaction than ending it quickly for her with a bullet.
* * *
Castle raced uphill across the wide lawn, running the fastest quarter mile of his life. His reflexes were still dulled but adrenaline had him moving.
He couldn’t wrap his head around it all. The many years of loyalty, friendship, mentorship, and Sanborn’s sacrifices for the Gray Box, for his people—place those on the scales against all the dark, devious shit he’d done. The good outweighed the rest.
Didn’t it?
There had to be an explanation. Some misunderstanding.
Reaching the dock, he ducked behind a row of hedges as an inflatable motorized raft pulled up. In the distance, a larger vessel bobbed on the water.
Sanborn and another man dressed as a prison guard climbed out of the raft, tying it off to a post, and walked down the dock.
Castle would rather go up against a squad of jihadis than Sanborn. He was a living legend, the man you never wanted as an enemy. Castle had heard the stories about him—former special forces, a fearless, ferocious meat-eater, the shrewdest Black Ops Whisperer ever. Unfortunately, Castle was learning firsthand how true it all was, but what filled his mouth with an ugly, bitter taste was that just a few hours ago, Sanborn had been the person he’d respected and admired most in the world.
There was no sign of Kit in the raft. It was Castle’s best guess that she was on the boat with Khan like Ashley had described, but only Sanborn would be able to tell him for certain.
This was as good a time as any to strike first, while both men had their guns holstered and Castle had the advantage of surprise.
He took aim at one of the men who’d invaded his home and helped abduct Kit. Steadying his hand, Castle lined up the gun sight and pulled the trigger. A single shot to the head and he dropped.