by Vicki Hinze
“No idea. You’ve avoided the press, public gatherings … Has the media caught wind of your reasons for being in New Orleans?”
“No.” She’d had a close call with a reporter from the Times-Picayune, but no direct hits. She’d grown adept at avoiding television cameras and reporters long ago.
“No public records filed?”
“Only the beach house deed.”
“That leads to me, not you, and it’s in another state.” He sighed. “I have no idea how they located your current home. But don’t delay down there. They’re one step away. Vanish.”
In ordinary circumstances, it would be unfortunate to be skilled at vanishing, but in this case, her having a great deal of experience at it was a blessing. “I’ll wrap up here in a few hours and then go.”
“A few hours? That’s risky.”
“Yes, but necessary.” If NINA knew she was here, they wouldn’t have been at her home this afternoon talking to her neighbors. And since she didn’t know her neighbors and they didn’t know her, she should be safe for a few more hours. That would be long enough. The kids here needed the center. She couldn’t raise their hopes and then dash them by leaving without doing anything.
“Invoke your power of attorney. I’ll contact you again in six months—sooner, if I can—and when I do, I want to hear that this center is up and running.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Our usual financial arrangement?”
Her life, the dire straits of the kids here, and the man was concerned about money? He had plenty and was still fixated on amassing more. “Our usual arrangement is fine.”
“Very well. I’ll decline the offer for the beach house,” he said, caving on that issue. “And I’ll pay the taxes and insurance.”
“Tell the buyers we won’t entertain future offers too.” This was their third attempt in the three months since Aunt Beth passed away, and she did not need the fear of a fourth offer dangling like a dark cloud on the horizon.
Not knowing their motivations sparked worry. Every time these mysterious people made an offer, it triggered more, and she stayed knotted up like a pretzel for days. Now she discovered her pursuers, who might or might not be connected, had an entire organization behind them, and it was hunting her down. That made these anonymous buyers a lot less intimidating.
“I’ll tell them. Though it’s never wise to close the door on future opportunities.”
“If I’m wrong, it won’t be the first time or the last. I’ll live with it.”
“Very well.” He clipped his tone. “I’ll handle the matter first thing in the morning.”
“On this NINA group,” she said, determined to try one last time to learn more. “I know it’s safer for me not to know how you found out about them, but have you placed yourself in jeopardy? I need to know that much.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
That didn’t give her much leeway to insist on disclosure. “Just in case, you’d better tell me all you can.”
“No. I won’t take deliberate action that pushes you further into the fire.”
“But—”
“No,” he insisted, then softened enough to add, “Let’s just say that sometimes people are the exact opposite of who they appear to be.”
Which told her nothing. Who was the exact opposite of who they appeared to be? “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Fine.” No sense arguing. He wouldn’t budge. “Thank you for everything.” His warning could take her out of the line of fire. At least she knew they had found her home and were closing in on her. “Take care. I’ll call when I can.”
“Be smart about it, and do stay alive. You know how I detest having to rearrange my schedule.”
Boy, did he. And for him, this comment was intensely personal. So much so that a lump formed in her throat. “I’ll do my best not to cause you any inconvenience.”
She would; she always had. But would her best be good enough to keep her alive?
“I found her.” A gravel-voiced man reported in via phone. “Interception is complete.”
“Excellent.” He stepped outside and permitted the long-held tension to drain from his body. He’d been expecting this call for weeks. “Where is she now?”
“Don’t worry. She hasn’t checked out of her hotel. She’s scouting sites for the new center.”
More good news. He glanced at his watch—7:15. “So you’ve enacted the plan? With the red Jag?” That car was crucial for two reasons. One, to signal their men, and the other to signal a key player who didn’t yet realize he was a key player. The car would serve notice he couldn’t miss.
“Yes sir. The plan is active, the Jag is in place, and our men are in position. All I need is your authorization, and I’ll cut them loose.” He paused and then added, “It should all be over before you catch the nine o’clock news.”
He’d seen this moment in his mind’s eye a million times, and he’d studied at least that many possibilities, seeking a different final solution. But all the seeking and sifting had changed nothing. In the end, the same simple truth remained. Pit anything—money, power, or blood—against survival and survival won.
“Two twenty-two,” he said, relaying the code.
“Code master?”
His mouth went dry and his tongue stuck to his teeth. He sipped from a crystal glass that cost more than most made in a week and then whispered on a hushed breath the word he had yearned and dreaded to speak. The word that opened craters of fear in those unfortunate enough to understand its meaning: “NINA.”
2
Glad to have the conversation with her financial advisor behind her, even if it had carried devastating news, she tipped her phone against her chin to flip it closed and snagged her nail on the steering wheel. The phone flew from her hand, tumbled across the passenger’s seat, and then crashed on the floorboard with a sickening thud. “Perfect.”
She started to bend to retrieve it, but the light flashed yellow and went straight to red. She hit the brakes hard, stopped not a second too soon—the nose of her car was in the intersection—and then looked around. Isolated. For once grateful for that, she shifted into reverse, backed up, and then put the car in first gear.
A blue tarp flapped in the breeze on a nearby roof. The desolation and weariness of the city, still ravaged from the hurricane, was just heartbreaking. She let herself lose focus, lifted her gaze upward and left. Lord, bless them.
She checked the dashboard clock—8:20, less an hour. This was central, not eastern time. It was 7:20, muggy, and still gloomy. Hotel security’s safety tip sheet warned her not to venture out alone in this area during the day, much less at night. But how else could she be certain where the new children’s center would best serve the community’s greatest needs?
Tires squealed. A warning sounded in her mind, and she darted a look back toward the sound. Nothing moved, but she had a bad feeling. She tried but couldn’t shake it. Maybe she should have paid attention to security and at least waited until morning to ride through, but she’d wanted to finish up. If she got on the road by 6:00, she could make it home—no. No, she couldn’t make it home before dark. Home was gone now. She had to vanish again.
It was so unfair. She’d just gotten settled. She’d done nothing wrong, and yet she was paying a harsh penalty—one that left her with an enormous problem. If NINA was this multinational terrorist group, then where on earth could she hide to get out of its reach?
Tires squealed again and screeched. Someone shouted in the distance.
Lifting her gaze to her rearview, she searched for the source, but only parked cars lined the dark street. An uneasy shiver crept up her back. Nothing was out there, but something was wrong.
Danger. Danger. Danger!
Her pulse rate quickened and urgency flooded her. “That’s it. You’re going back to the hotel right now.” She half-considered running the red light, but even push
ed by her instincts, she didn’t do it.
Stretching, she snagged her phone from the passenger’s side floorboard. Just grasping it helped her to calm down. If she needed help, she could get it. Scanning the street, she breathed easier. All was still. Silent. Nothing to worry about. Everything was just fine.
NINA and nerves—that’s what had her hyperalert and jumpy. For the past week, she had seen too many people hurting, too many struggling to make do. She’d talked to too many moms praying for someone—any-one—to provide what they couldn’t: a safe place for their kids to play. The father who had lost his six-year-old son less than a week ago crossed her mind.
Killed in crossfire.
Her eyes stung, and a lump rose from her chest and stuck in her throat.
She wanted to help them all.
She would do all she could.
Empathizing with them had depleted her reserves. She was physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. Every nerve in her body had been stretched tight for a week and, bone raw, her body was rebelling. It needed a break it wasn’t going to get.
So did the people here, and they wouldn’t get one either, unless she provided them with one. She’d suffered a week. They’d suffered the years since Hurricane Katrina flooded the city, and still no real, permanent relief was in sight.
She swiped at her eyes. Once this project got going, parents would be less worried, the kids would be playing safe, and then she—
Her windshield shattered.
She covered her head, protected her eyes. What was happening? She couldn’t see anything beyond the spider-web cracks.
A dozen masked men dressed in black with something neon blue on their wrists swarmed her car. They circled it, hurled guttural comments at her. Gang slang. Kicked the fenders, the doors. Then they began to chant, “Get out … Get out … Get out … ”
She had to do something, but what? If she moved the car, she’d run over someone, and she certainly wasn’t getting out of it.
“Take her down, man,” one of them shouted near the rear fender. “He wants her dead.”
A new chant began. “Kill her … Kill her … Kill her … ”
She couldn’t move, couldn’t think.
A dark sedan whipped around the corner, its headlights sweeping twin beams across the street, across her car. It paused half a block behind her as if taking stock, then sped up as if determined to mow down her attackers.
The gang members scattered like rats.
She should thank the person in the sedan, yet she didn’t dare to not put distance between herself and the gang. They could return as fast as they’d left, and there was no mistake—their attack on her hadn’t been random.
Someone had ordered them to murder her.
She stomped the gas.
The Jag shot off and ate up the pavement. A good mile away, she could hold on to the wheel without the shaking of her hands tearing them loose from it. Ahead, a traffic light turned red.
It’s okay. You can deal with this. You’ve dealt with worse.
She braked to a stop, double-checked her door locks, and prayed she’d get back to the hotel before her courage or her nerves gave out. Her chances were at best iffy.
Something sailed through her battered windshield. The wind whistled as it flew past her. A large rock thudded against the passenger’s seat.
Outside, a man shouted to someone unseen. “Did it hit her?”
The gang? No, they were on foot. She craned her neck. It was the dark sedan that had rescued her from the gang. Now its driver was after her?
He deliberately busted her windshield. Two groups? Primary and backup attacks? One intentional attack and one random? Or maybe the sedan driver had been on his own and after her all along.
“She ain’t hurt,” he shouted from just outside her driver’s window, then flattened his hand and beat on the glass. “Open the door.”
Danger!
She stomped the accelerator. Missed and hit the brakes, tried again. The car bolted. She jerked. Her foot slipped.
A white truck slid into the intersection in front of her, then skidded to a stop. She was going to hit him. No way to avoid it. Bracing for impact, she slammed on the brakes. Her tires squealed, the car fishtailed and screeched to a stop, just inches from the truck. She’d almost T-boned him.
He glared at her from the truck. Deliberate. Deliberate. No accident; this was all deliberate.
God, please. Please, help me.
The man who’d beaten on her window appeared beside her again. “Open the door. There’s nowhere for you to go.”
No way was she opening that door. No way. She opened her phone instead, dialed 911. No bars. How could there be no bars? There had to be service here. She shook the phone, punched in the numbers again.
Nothing.
Nothing!
Do something. Help yourself. You’re on your own.
She looked out her rear window. The dark sedan blocked her. She slammed the car into reverse anyway, punched the gas, hoping to shove it aside and somehow escape.
Metal crunched against metal, grated and scraped, but the car didn’t move. She tried again. Thick smoke obscured her vision of the rear, the car filled with the stench of burning tires, but she couldn’t break free.
The driver scrambled out of his truck, left his door open. He stormed toward her, pouring something from a small brown bottle onto a white cloth in his hand. “What are you waiting for? Kick out her window.”
The truth settled in. The two men were working together. This wasn’t a crime of opportunity. Like the gang, these two had targeted her …
NINA. The incident three years ago raced through her mind. She had run out of town in the middle of the night, not even pausing to pack her things. But these events couldn’t be connected. These men were strangers. Three years and she’d had to run and start over four times, but she had avoided the men she knew. And she hadn’t been back there—not once.
“NINA’s found you.”
But there was nothing to lead them here. Even her advisor only knew the city she was in and her cell number, and it changed every few weeks.
So why is this happening? If not for NINA, then why did these strangers choose you?
The Jag? Maybe they just wanted the car. What else could it be?
The first man kept pounding on her window. She couldn’t see his face, hidden beneath a hooded sweatshirt. It was mid-October but far too hot and humid a night for a sweatshirt. He had to be sweltering.
Deliberate. Dangerous. Targeted.
“I said kick in the window,” the truck driver said.
“Gimme a crowbar and I will.” The glass didn’t muffle his voice, and his accent sounded more like Mississippi than New Orleans, thick with a twang she had often found endearing. But it didn’t strike her as endearing now.
Turning, he stared at her through the glass. “We can do this easy or rough.” He was a huge man, big and brawny with broad shoulders and a deep, booming voice. “But we are gonna do it, K—”
The second man shouted, cutting him off. “It’s Susan.”
“But—”
“No buts,” the truck driver insisted. “Mistakes carry costs. You want to risk forgetting that again?”
“It ain’t likely I will, but I get your point.” His twang more pronounced, he jerked at her door’s handle. “Unlock it, Susan.” It clicked and clicked. “Now!”
Susan?
Glass shattered, sprayed over her shoulder, pricked her skin. Guarding her eyes, she looked back at a gaping hole in the rear passenger’s window. A beefy arm reached inside. Her heart thudded against her ribs and then seemed to stop.
Shaking, she grappled with her phone, finally got it open, then dialed 911. It still didn’t work. Damaged.
No. Not now. Please, not now. She shoved his hand away from the lock, then dialed again.
Nothing.
He reached again. She went for his sleeve. Missed. The lock click magnified inside her head. The passenger d
oor flew open, rocked back on its hinges, and the truck driver charged into the car, choked her, then crammed the white cloth over her nose and mouth.
She fumbled the phone and fought him.
The stench of chemicals filled her nose. She fought harder and harder, trying every defensive measure she knew and then anything at all. But nothing worked; she couldn’t break free.
The second man came at her from the backseat and knocked her in the head. Seeing stars, she felt pain shoot through her skull, down her spine. She held her breath, gouged at his eyes, but failed to make contact.
Fighting for her life, she sank her nails into his flesh, clawed deep ruts into his arms. He howled and cursed, but he didn’t turn her loose.
Her lungs threatened to explode. The truck driver landed a solid punch to her stomach. She gasped and her arms seemed like lead. Her mouth turned dust-dry, cottony, and her clear thoughts slid behind a misty veil.
She struggled to grasp them, determined to stay conscious and untangle the crackled snippets firing through her mind. But even as she fought, she lost ground. Her strength ebbed and slipped away.
I’m going to die. Right here on this street, I’m going to die.
Her head swam, spots flashed before her eyes. And the truth sank like a stone into her bones. They’d won.
The chemicals took control. She couldn’t move, struggle, or fight. But there was one thing she could do, and she gave herself over to it fully.
She prayed.
3
Saturday, October 10
Crickets chirped.
The sound split the silence with a bold, high-pitched hum. Something buzzed near her ear. A mosquito. She reached up to swat it, and intense pain shafted through her arm, her neck, and exploded in her head.
And then she remembered.
The carjackers. The sweatshirt man beating at her window, the truck driver choking her, forcing her to breathe in chemicals. Her chest seized, setting off a series of deep-muscle spasms that stole her breath.