Variable Onset

by Layla Reyne

  The vest. Wired with explosives.

  A door slammed inside the barn across the yard from where Carter sat. He looked up before he could stop himself. The barn, where he’d been held by Ryan. The light had shifted and all he could see inside the open barn doors were shadows and darkness. Had he put Barry and Trudy back in the basement? With Larry too? Had that been the door that banged? Ryan stepped out of the shadows, and Carter lowered his head, eyes closed, hoping the chancellor hadn’t noticed.

  No such luck. “I know you’re awake, Special Agent Warren.”

  He kept his lids lowered, peeking through his lashes, as he tensed his lower body for a fight. His bare feet weren’t tied. He could kick out at the very least.

  Ryan read the tension and stopped just out of range. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Your arm is broken, you probably have a concussion, and you’re strapped into an explosive vest. You move too suddenly, you get dizzy and fall over, and you might go boom.”

  Carter opened his eyes the rest of the way. Ryan crouched just beyond his feet, a syringe in one hand, the pistol in the other. “Parting gift from Larry,” he said, gesturing with the latter.

  “What did you do with him?”

  “Did you know he and your partner share a fear in common?” He tilted his head back and right, toward the barn, and Carter’s gaze followed. Smoke was starting to pour through the open doors. And backlighting the shadows, an eerie orange glow grew.

  Fire. No.

  “What will Lincoln think,” Ryan said, “if you can’t do your job and save them from fire? Will he ever trust you to have his back when he needs you? Or when his family needs you?”

  He could prove himself. If he could just get free. He tested the bindings, carefully, keeping one eye on Ryan, the other on the vest. He had to rescue Larry, Barry, and Trudy. Stop Dr. Fear. Then Lincoln could trust him, maybe even love—

  “You said it yourself in my house,” Ryan carried on. “And why would he, when he doesn’t even know you? When you don’t know you?”

  Lincoln’s words from the other night came back to him, the soft smile and look he gave Carter on his way to bed. “He likes me now. He said so.”

  “Does he still, now that he knows you got it wrong?” A weight came down on his ankle, and on his heart. Fears compounding, hope dwindling, darkness encroaching. “That you got everything wrong. Maybe he got his feelings about you wrong too.”

  Reality was the darkest truth of all. “I screwed up,” Carter confessed.

  “That’s right.” A prick between his toes. “Now it’s time for you to face your fears.”

  Darkness—fear—took him.

  Chapter Twenty

  Lincoln could not believe he was here again. Hands and forehead pressed to the church wall, forcing down the sickness that kept surging up his throat. Except this time he only had himself to blame. This was his brilliant—or stupid—plan. He’d told Jeremiah to tell Susanne, who, as Lincoln had intended, had told the entire fucking town, judging by the packed pews out there, that he’d be playing at tonight’s service.

  Playing and singing. Facing his fear in the hope of drawing Dr. Fear out. And the hope that Carter would be with him. Following Carter’s plan and giving Ryan a target.

  Them.

  “Dad, you need to breathe.” Elena’s voice was calm and steady through the earpiece. “Inhale and exhale.”

  He tried to inhale...and managed a wheeze.

  “You can’t sing if that’s all the air you’re taking in.”

  He tried again and managed a deeper breath.

  “Better,” Elena said. She coached him through three more breaths before asking, “Why are you even playing?”

  He rotated and rested back against the wall, then had to readjust owing to the holster clipped at the back of his waistband, underneath his sport coat. “For Carter.”

  “Oh-ho!”

  She sounded so much like her mother and aunt. He would never hear the end of this, even if they never heard the full story. But he couldn’t do this without hearing her voice first. “It’s case related,” he said.

  “How—”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Why’d you call me then?”

  “Just needed to hear your voice.”

  A sharp inhale on her end of the line. “Dad, is everything okay?”

  “It will be.” He forced casual brightness into his voice. “Just wrapping things up here.” He hated lying to her, but he needed the lie as much for himself as she did.

  “When are you going to be home?” she asked.

  “Should be there by Friday night.”

  “Ooh, you can go to the tourney with me on Saturday!”

  “Count on it.”

  He couldn’t wait to see her again, give her a hug, and be that awful parent who got too into their kid’s games. Maybe it would be enough to fill the emptiness that had already started to creep in, the absence he anticipated. This case was almost over. They knew who the bad guy was; they just had to catch him now. And when they did—Lincoln twirled the braided silver band around his finger—what would happen to Mr. and Mr. Polk? Would they go into the box with the rings, never to be brought out again? He’d go back to being Professor Lincoln Monroe and Carter would go back to being Special Agent Undercover. Lincoln didn’t think he’d found enough yet to convince Carter to settle, if that was what Carter even wanted, after the fight they had yesterday. “Dad?”

  He shook himself out of the spiral. “Sorry, just trying to decide what to play. Any suggestions?”

  “You’re in a church, do you have an option? If so, ‘Freebird.’”

  “I should have never let you see that movie.” And he absolutely did not want this to go the way of The Kingsmen, no matter how cool that scene was on film.

  “‘Who Will Save Your Soul?’” Elena suggested.

  “I’m so glad we taught you about good music.”

  “Or some Taylor Swift.”

  They’d taught her too much about sarcasm too. “Hanging up now.”

  “Love you, Dad.”

  “Love you too, sweetie.”

  He pocketed the phone and picked up his Martin, strumming—and missing—a few notes of the Jewel song. Not that one then.

  “You don’t look so good,” Jo said, as she crossed the vestibule to him.

  “Better than I was five minutes ago.” He continued to strum the guitar as he spoke, getting his fingers loose and falling into a rhythm. They gravitated toward one of his favorites—Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.”

  “We get word from O’Shea?”

  She checked the phone in her hand. “Nothing yet.”

  “Do you think we can trust Larry?”

  With the chief’s help, they’d examined more of the pictures, more of the town’s land records, and narrowed down the possible locations where Ryan could be holding Carter, Trudy, and Barry. With Jo coordinating APD officers and O’Shea his agents, they’d found fresh tire tracks matching Ryan’s SUV at an old farm near the Petticoat property. Larry had suggested he make the approach. One last-ditch effort to defuse the situation.

  “I’ve worked for him for years,” Jo said. “He’s loyal to a fault. That’s how he got into this mess. But I believe him when he says he’s trying to get out of it. He’s trying to get his friend out of it too. That’s what he’s been trying to do all along.”

  Jo’s phone rang, startling them both. “Mark. Hey, ba—” She held the phone away from her ear and clicked speaker. Utter chaos reigned on the other end—sirens, shouts, and the blast of firehoses. “What’s going on?” Jo asked, voice raised.

  Every second O’Shea didn’t respond, another boulder of dread formed in Lincoln’s stomach, was carried up his throat on a wave of bile. He strummed faster, hoping the tune would give him some comfort.

&
nbsp; “I’m here,” O’Shea said after a minute that felt like twenty. “He torched the barn.”

  “Fire. That’s my fear,” Lincoln said. “Not Carter’s.”

  “Carter’s not here.”

  Lincoln missed the next note, his shoulder falling against the wall, holding him up when his legs refused to do so. “What?”

  “He put Larry in a basement with Barry and Trudy. He meant to kill them.”

  “Claustrophobia. Trapped by the fire and the crumbling structure.”

  “Meant to?” Jo said. “They got out?”

  “Through the underground passage Larry told us about. It was only recently dug. Ryan didn’t know about it. Larry got them out.”

  “Everyone except Carter?” Lincoln said.

  “The chief thinks he’s with Ryan. He never put Carter in the basement, and there are two fresh sets of footsteps down to the dock.”

  “The dock?”

  “Looks like he took a boat across the lake to Barry’s place. Barry’s GMC is on the move.”

  “GPS?” Jo said. “Location?”

  “Five minutes out from the church.” It was showtime, and Lincoln had never felt sicker. Never felt like there was this much on the line. All those recitals, everything that was supposed to be his future, none of them had felt like this. Because until today, he’d never before played for the future he wanted.

  * * *

  Maybe it was the movie reference Elena had put in his head. Or maybe it was every rom-com Gabby and Trina had ever forced him to watch. Or maybe it was all the action flicks he’d binged over the years. But Lincoln had assumed Ryan would throw open the main doors of the church and shove his hostage—Carter—down the aisle toward the chancel where Lincoln played.

  That visual, that certainty, had been enough to power Lincoln’s steps onto the stage, his ass onto the stool, his guitar into position as he’d adjusted the microphone. Even expecting it, Lincoln was prepared to lose what little was left of his shit when it happened. To fumble the notes and lyrics he’d begun to play, to stumble off the stage, and to bungle the tactical plan Jo and Drake had devised.

  Except it didn’t happen that way. Instead, the door on the other side of the chancel opened, and Ryan emerged from the Robe Room, alone. Sharply dressed in a three-piece suit, the only difference between the Ryan McCullough in front of Lincoln and the one he’d met last week was the scruff that shadowed his jaw.

  Gray.

  Mumblings from the congregation crested like a wave, lapping at the altar, but Lincoln registered it only vaguely, his attention on Ryan and the child’s chalkboard he held angled toward Lincoln.

  Keep playing, it read. Your partner’s life depends on it.

  In his other hand, Ryan held a phone, the recording app running. Lincoln wanted to work it out in his mind—what was Ryan doing?—but seventy-five percent of his brain was occupied with continuing to play and sing, as directed, and the other twenty-five percent was occupied with internal screams of Where the fuck is Carter?

  He found out two seconds after he played and sang the last note of “Hallelujah.” Ryan pressed stop on the recording, then motioned toward the Robe Room door. Carter emerged out of the shadows, bruised and beaten, nose broken and bloody, arms tied behind his back and chin lowered, and most terrifying of all, a vest wired with explosives strapped around his chest.

  Screams and shouts went up from the congregation, loud enough to hear over the blood pounding in Lincoln’s ears. But Lincoln’s overriding thought was that stage-fright-induced nausea had nothing to do with the present roller coaster his insides were on. He wanted to run to Carter, wanted to throw up, wanted to close his eyes and pretend this was all a bad dream. Wanted to hurl his guitar at Ryan, draw his Glock, and put an end to Dr. Fear. The trigger app on Ryan’s phone screen stopped him from doing any of those things. Two glowing green lights matched the two glowing green lights on Carter’s vest.

  Active.

  “Don’t!” Ryan shouted at the congregation. “None of you move!”

  Lincoln spared a glance their direction and terror spiked anew. For the townsfolk trapped here, and for Jo and Drake’s team who had moved into the aisles, weapons drawn. “Don’t!” Lincoln parroted, as he slid off his stool. “He’s got a trigger device.”

  Ryan’s gaze swung back to him. “You stay right there.”

  Lincoln adjusted the guitar so it hung at his side, out of the way of his hands and his gun. He raised his hands, aiming to calm Ryan, and bent his knees, dipping slightly, aiming to get his partner’s attention. “Carter, you in there?”

  Tortured green eyes lifted to his, full of doubt and self-recrimination. “I screwed up, L.”

  “No you didn’t. You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

  “That’s right, he is,” Ryan said. “Because he wasn’t good enough. He said it himself, when he was talking to Larry in my house. I have it recorded.”

  Carter averted his gaze, lowered his chin, and curled in on himself, as much as the vest would allow.

  “You’re wrong,” Lincoln declared.

  “Prove it.”

  “Let them go,” Lincoln said with a tilt of his head toward the congregation. “You may be trapped here, in this cycle, in this town, in this life, but they don’t need to be.”

  Surprise flashed in Ryan’s eyes, then hardened. “They’ll escape when I do.” Lincoln’s stomach sank, then sank further with Ryan’s next words. “And they need to be here, if you’re going to conquer your fear.” He held up the phone. “Play it again, the exact same, and the first of these two triggers deactivates.”

  “And the second?” Lincoln asked.

  “You’ll find out when you deactivate the first.”

  “I’ve already played it once. They don’t need to be here.” His fingers itched for his weapon again. He didn’t intend this. He’d thought they’d be able to escape, that Ryan’s focus would be on him and Carter. Not on the people who’d welcomed them into their town. He could end this with a shot, except would it really end? He had no idea what Ryan had programmed that vest to do. The fear for the lives of those around him clogged Lincoln’s throat. “This isn’t about them,” he forced out. “Let them go, please.”

  “Play!” Ryan demanded.

  He lifted his hands again, not wanting to do anything to jeopardize the lives of his partner or the townsfolk further. He stepped back, repositioned himself on the stool, and swung his guitar up, resting it on his thigh. He needed the extra steadiness, afraid the tremors coursing through him would knock off a note otherwise.

  But with each note of “Hallelujah” he replayed, each word he sang again, he lost himself in the song. And in Carter’s eyes, which had lifted and locked with his. An audience of one. That’s what Carter had said, that’s all Lincoln needed to do. Play and sing for Carter, the man he trusted with his life and his fears. The tremors ceased, and he finished the song four minutes later, not a note out of place.

  Lincoln breathed out, Carter with him. One light blinked out. He glanced over at Ryan. “What next?”

  “Nothing.” Dr. Fear smiled, and there was no joy in it, for him, for Lincoln, for Carter, or for the church full of people. “He already failed. There’s nothing you can do.”

  * * *

  Carter summoned his wrecked voice and spoke. “I disagree.” Then spun and rammed his forehead into the chancellor’s face, aiming for his nose and mouth, determined to punish the man for putting that hopeless look on Lincoln’s face, that hopeless “Carter!” in his voice.

  Bone crunched and blood splattered Carter’s face. Direct hit. Ryan staggered backward, dropped the phone, and brought his hands up to his nose, tipping forward.

  Carter hiked up his knee, another direct hit to the face, then swung forward the rest of his leg, a third hit with his foot to Ryan’s middle. The chancellor bent farther forward,
trying to protect his injured middle. Even with his hands tied behind his back, Carter was able to swing his leg in a sweeping arch, delivering a roundhouse kick to Ryan’s head. Lights out for Dr. Fear, the unconscious man toppling over.

  Unfortunately for Carter, his momentum, combined with his lack of balance and lack of energy to summon it back—having already expended everything he had to drag himself out from under the fog of whatever sedative Ryan had pumped him full of—sent him toppling after Ryan. He was saved from face planting by a pair of strong, familiar arms wrapping around him from behind. Lincoln hauled him the opposite direction, the two of them landing in a heap of tangled limbs, Carter howling as pain shot up his broken right arm.

  And hot on the heels of pain was fear, blasting through the small comfort of being in Lincoln’s arms again. “The vest! Watch the vest!” He scrambled out of Lincoln’s embrace and backed up against the wooden pulpit. “Get everyone out of here!” he shouted.

  “I’ve got the phone,” Jo said from where she stood at the bottom of the stage steps. “There’s a clock.” She held it up. Three minutes and counting down. “We can try to unlock it. Stop it.”

  “You can’t! Just get out of here!” Carter yelled. “Get everyone out of here!”

  He caught the worried gazes of the townsfolk he’d one day hoped to call friends. Susanne, Jennifer, Lydia stood together in their row, Jeremiah in a different one, and others he’d met in town over the past week, all of them wide-eyed and scared, still processing what they’d witnessed. They didn’t have time for that; not yet. “Please,” he begged. “Just go!”

  Susanne got on board fast and the rest of the town fell in line, following Drake’s and Jo’s orders and hustling out the main doors.