The Jock and the Geek (Gone Geek Book 3)

by Sidney Bristol

  “Do you think she’s okay?” Oliver got in and buckled up.

  “I hope so.” Davis glanced away.

  Sophia strolled down the shopping mall. Usually she enjoyed a bit of shopping, but not today.

  Someone should have rung her by now. There should be progress.

  The silence was unsettling. Nothing was going to plan, was it? That was clearly too much to ask for.

  Her phone vibrated and she almost jumped.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. She’d orchestrated far more complex maneuvers than the kidnapping of an official’s daughter before. Why was this different?

  Who was calling her now?

  She frowned at the unknown number.

  There were several people who had this phone as their contact, but she had a bad feeling about this one. Really bad.

  Sophia glanced back down the street. A meter maid was writing tickets.

  “Hello?” She turned and kept walking.

  “Sophia?”

  “Who is this?” The voice wasn’t completely unfamiliar, but she didn’t know it. Not well enough to place on sound alone.

  “I know what you did, Sophia, and I won’t let you get away with this.”

  “Who are you? I think you have the wrong number.” Her stomach knotted up. She knew that voice, because she’d listened to him on repeat, grinding her teeth at the bumps in the road.

  That little devil.

  How had Oliver pegged her for this?

  There was nothing to connect to her. She’d been careful.

  “You know who I am.”

  Sirens were a constant note in the background of DC. She rarely noticed them…except now they seemed to be singing her name.

  Sophia swallowed and increased her pace.

  “I’d stop if I were you, Sophia. Tell me where Sam is. Now.”

  “I don’t know who you are, or how you got this number—”

  “If you really believed that, you’d have hung up by now. Here’s the thing, Sophia, you underestimated the pawns in this little game of yours. I don’t lose, Sophia, you understand me? Checkmate.”

  The police cruiser screeched to a stop in front of her.

  Sophia’s heel slipped on the ice. She caught herself on a railing, her phone clutched to her chest.

  How…?

  16.

  Samantha wiggled her wrists a bit more. Was it her imagination, or was there some give in her bonds? She had to keep trying, even if it was all in her head. It was all about keeping morale up. In tough climates, when shit was hitting the fan, she always had to find a high note. Something good to spin. This time, it was the idea that she could get free.

  She needed to focus on that, and not the slam of the door.

  Something had happened. She didn’t know what, but the way Mr. Death had stormed out, grabbed the handle, and shut it, she knew it was bad. And then the yelling had commenced, and it wasn’t her this time. The two men were fighting about something.

  Her throat constricted and for a moment she couldn’t move, couldn’t think.

  God, she’d been kidnapped.

  Kidnapped!

  Her!

  This was…it wasn’t right. It wasn’t sane. Why her? Because of a vote? Because someone wanted their way?

  What kind of person came to the logical conclusion that kidnapping her was the best course of action? In Sam’s brief career, she couldn’t imagine a situation that could be rectified this way. It wasn’t how the American system worked. Whoever was behind this, she hoped they were caught. And brought to justice. The American way. With the full weight of the law and a timely sentence.

  That was the system she believed in. The ideals she supported. Not this nightmare.

  But what if they did it? What if they killed her?

  The way that man had looked at her… Sam knew if he had his way, death would be a blessing compared to the pain he would cause her. Men like him were the reason the justice system existed.

  Her stomach clenched, and she tasted bile on the back of her throat.

  She knew the reality of the world. Her nose was rubbed in it on a daily basis, thanks to popular media coverage. The horror stories, the people who clamored for change because of the wrongs done to their family. Their loved ones.

  That could become Sam’s immediate future.

  She sucked down a deep breath, and then another one.

  Fear was fine. It kept her going, but she couldn’t allow it to cripple her. If she stopped fighting, if she stopped trying to figure out a way to get free, then she’d die. Those were the stark facts. There was no way they’d just let her go after this. TV had taught her that and her training had reinforced it.

  She knew the statistics. She’d had to recite them to reporters. There’d been a thing a few weeks before she’d been sacked. A string of barricaded person’s in her boss’ home state. She’d had to dig up facts, research kidnappings, and it was now stuck in her head on a never ending loop she couldn’t turn off if she tried.

  Roughly sixty percent of kidnapped individuals were returned within the first twenty-four hours. The remaining forty percent had less happy results. And as the hours drew on, the longer she was here, the smaller her window for rescue got.

  Those were the cold, hard facts. In a way they comforted her. Numbers, truths, they were time proven theories she could cling to.

  Sixty percent of kidnapped persons were returned because law enforcement was just that good. And what was more? She had the secret-fucking-service on her side. She was a special case and she knew it. But they’d have to know to look for her first, and that was the unknown. The one indeterminable factor that meant the world of difference to her.

  How long had it been already? She’d gone for a walk midmorning. Jeopardy was on earlier before they’d flipped the TV off. So it was—what? Five or six o’clock? Eight hours into her first twenty-four window.

  Her chances of coming out of this alive would lessen every twelve hours, which meant—she needed to do everything she could to be found. To leave a trail. To get help. Because she wanted to see Oliver again. She wanted to make things right with her dad and her mom. She needed to hug her sisters. This couldn’t be her end.

  Oliver paced the waiting area. The cops had left him here with no indication of what was going on. They weren’t talking to Timothy, either.

  Helen sat in one of the waiting chairs, back straight, eyes locked on the wall, a tissue in her hand. Lily and his boss were on their way. But what good would it do them?

  Sam wasn’t here.

  Sophia wasn’t talking.

  She’d pled diplomatic immunity and now the whole thing would be mired in red tape, who had the bigger jurisdiction bullshit.

  “Oliver, sit, please.” Helen patted the chair next to him.

  He grimaced and perched on the edge of the padded seat.

  “It’s my fault,” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter who is at fault. Right now we just need to get her back.”

  Oliver’s phone buzzed, but it was the PR manager. Again.

  He muttered curses under his breath. Unbelievable. And yet, he’d known it was coming.

  “They’re gagging everything.” Oliver had expected that.

  The news would go crazy if Sam turned up kidnapped. It could push whoever was holding her to do something drastic. And that meant risking Sam.

  Oliver agreed, but damn it, this was his Sam they were talking about. He wanted an alert pushed to all devices. Her face plastered on the news. A full blown manhunt.

  The messager icon blossomed on the side of his screen.

  It was one of Sam’s Monster-Go friends reaching out to him. The network of game users was shockingly useful. It was thanks to them and their quick actions that they’d been able to connect the whole thing to Sophia in the first place. As of now, their best leads all came from MoGo users. Except it’d all led to nothing.

  Sure, they had a vehicle and a license plate. But the kidnappers had abandoned the vehicle afte
r going a couple miles from where Sam was taken. Where they went, and in what, after that was a mystery. So far no one had been able to track down a shot of the exchange.

  Got a sec?

  The guy’s handle identified him as Khum, but his avatar was the red team’s iconic firebird mascot. Oliver had traded a few messages with him in the beginning, but hadn’t heard from him in a few hours.

  Yeah. Find anything new?

  Oliver leaned forward, everything focused on the guy’s reply.

  Maybe.

  Been scanning images uploaded to the game server.

  Oliver frowned. He hadn’t realized that was possible. He’d assumed that the pictures remained on the device. If they were being uploaded… That was not public knowledge. If MoGo users knew their captured photographs were property of the parent company, there’d be outrage.

  He wanted to ask so many questions, but Khum was still typing. Oliver knew the game required a lot of permissions. Was it possible they’d all missed something potentially huge? Was it some sort of security risk?

  Four pics. From the area cops found the van.

  Oliver jerked at that line.

  How’d you know that?

  Police scanner.

  Oliver still didn’t like the answer. Who was this guy? Why was he listening to police scanners and hacking the game’s servers? It didn’t stop Oliver from clicking the images to enlarge them. Sam took priority over any questions he had.

  An old, beat up SUV. Nothing special in the first or second picture, but in the third… There was a bit of fabric caught in the door. It looked an awful lot like the light jacket she’d had hanging in the entry way at her house.

  These are from the burbs.

  Two more pictures.

  The same vehicle.

  Tracked it as far as a way station. If I were you, I’d find out who owned that truck last.

  Khum sent a set of coordinates quite a ways out of DC.

  It was far enough that getting there would take a bit, and yet close enough to be readily available to someone in the city.

  How had this guy worked so fast?

  Who are you?

  He had to at least ask.

  No one important. Just a ghost.

  Why are you helping?

  Sam’s a nice girl. Bad things shouldn’t happen to good people. G2G.

  Oliver sent several more messages, but Khum, whoever he was, wasn’t answering.

  What did Oliver do with this information? He had a vehicle and a set of coordinates. That didn’t do him a lot of good. Did it?

  The guy on the other end of the chat could be one of the bad guys trying to lure him out. Or he could work for any one of the alphabet soup agencies headquartered out of DC.

  Oliver pushed to his feet and walked a few paces away.

  Anyone could look up a license plate number. Google told him that much.

  Why the hell not?

  He plugged in the license plate number of the secondary vehicle. The contact information meant nothing to Oliver, but maybe the cops would do something with it?

  It was worth a try.

  Sam’s wrist burned and her shoulder throbbed from a new kind of pain—but she was getting somewhere. The thing binding her wrists had slipped.

  Hope.

  It tasted like pizza, beer and Oliver.

  Just a bit more…

  Come on. Come on. Come on…

  Rip.

  She froze, holding her breath.

  Fabric?

  Dare she hope she could be free?

  Her wrists were still tied, but there was give. Some extra space. That she could work with.

  Sam remained still for several precious seconds, positive one of her captors would come to investigate that noise. Find her free. And then…

  No. She had to stop thinking about the and then part.

  The door didn’t open.

  No one came to investigate the noise.

  She needed to take this opportunity. While those two were fighting, while they were busy deciding what their next move was, she had to get out of here.

  Sam lifted her bottom off the sofa by bracing her feet on the floor and her shoulders on the back of the sofa. She inched her bound wrists under her.

  Not quite…

  She grunted and wiggled her hips. Her elbows protested. She wasn’t meant to bend this way, but if she wanted to live she had to.

  A little more contorting and—there!

  She got her legs through the cage of her arms, stepping and straightening.

  Now, what the heck was she tied up with?

  The red and white fabric was the kind of bandana-handkerchief that could be purchased in a hundred different stores in all fifty states. To think, a little fabric was the only thing standing between her and freedom.

  What the hell were they thinking?

  She used her teeth, biting the edge of the fabric and pulling until she got a better grip on it. Every second she spent fighting against her bonds chafed.

  She was almost there.

  Footsteps thumped on the floor in the other room. Back and forth. Back and forth. Their voices were lower. She hadn’t heard a shout in a while, but that didn’t mean anything.

  She was so close.

  Almost there.

  A little bit more…

  She was free!

  A board squeaked, so very close to the door.

  She jammed her hands behind her, clasping her fingers around her wrist.

  No, please, no…

  She held her breath and waited.

  A tear rolled down her cheek.

  Her arms shook.

  The footsteps retreated, away from the door.

  They weren’t coming for her. Not yet. This was her chance. Maybe her only one. She had to make of it what she could.

  Sam shoved the bandana into her pocket and yanked at the duct tape around her ankles, all the while keeping one eye on the thin line of light from the other room.

  They could come out for any reason.

  To check on her.

  To get something.

  To run an errand.

  To kill her.

  She had to get out of here.

  She stood on wobbly legs, her head swimming. Her body screamed half a dozen needs at her, but she couldn’t see to those if she wasn’t free. That was the first order of business. Getting the hell out of here. Then—she could pee, cry, eat, laugh, hell, she could dance naked under the stars for all she cared at this point, so long as she was free.

  One step, pause.

  Did they hear her?

  Nothing.

  Two steps, pause.

  Were they waiting to pounce at the last second?

  Still nothing.

  The door was right there.

  She reached for it, freedom just beyond that wall.

  17.

  “But I have information that puts her here.” Oliver jabbed at the spot on the map.

  Whoever this Khum guy was, his info checked out. Simply posting the screenshots, in not only the red team groups but many of the local Monster-Go ones, had people throwing out more images the ghost guy had given them.

  “They can’t have gone that far.” The officer shook his head. So far he’d staunchly refused to believe any of the evidence linked to the game. Yes, it was nuts, but the proof was there. Why was that so hard to believe?

  “Chances are they’re still in a ten-block radius.” Davis, he head of Timothy Grant’s Secret Service detail, gestured to a circle they’d drawn on a map projected on the wall.

  Oliver shoved a hand through his hair. He understood what everyone was saying, why Davis’ theory made sense. But Oliver had physical evidence—photographs—that said otherwise.

  “What about Sophia? Is she saying anything?” Oliver wanted a shot at her himself, but it wouldn’t do any good.

  “The French attaché is waiting for representation.” The officer glared at him.

  “All right. Fine.”

&n
bsp; “Mr. Falcón,” Davis gestured at the door, “will you please wait—”

  “Yeah. Yeah.”

  Oliver pushed the door open and let himself out into the area that was now serving as their personal circle of hell. Timothy held Helen’s hand while Lily paced the room, phone to her ear.

  He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t sit here with them and wait things out. Not when the cops were refusing to look into things. Oliver had tried to fall in line with the cops and do what they asked, but that was stopping now.

  If they wouldn’t go look for her, then he would.

  What was the worst that could happen?

  If he got there and nothing was amiss, then he hadn’t wasted anyone’s time.

  But if he got there and Sam was there… He’d call nine-one-one and maybe—maybe—they’d get a good resolution to all of this.

  “I’m going to run out. Want anything?” Oliver thumbed at the door.

  Timothy shook his head and the ladies seemed to have not heard him, which was fine. Oliver wasn’t really going to get food. It was just an excuse to get out the door.

  He jogged out to his car and plugged in the GPS coordinates for the last spot someone had captured an image of the second vehicle. If luck was on his side, this was the truck they’d used to get her to wherever they were holding her.

  He hit the road, hoping they weren’t too late.

  He’d never stopped loving her.

  Samantha covered her mouth with her hand and squeezed her eyes shut. Shadows passed between her and the darkened windows. She didn’t dare make a sound. Not a single peep.

  “Anything?” That was the voice she recognized, the man who’d sat in front of her and all but told her she was dead. He was Death.

  “No.” The second man she didn’t recognize. He was a shadow. The voice vaguely familiar, but not enough to place. He’d been practically silent when she was in the room earlier. “She’s got to be here somewhere.”

  “Come on, let’s start at the bottom and go up. She can’t have gotten far.” Death led the way to the stairs.