There was nowhere to run and no way to stop the escalator from depositing her on the second-floor landing, delivering her into the arms of the man waiting there.
But she still had one option open. Pandemonium.
She took a deep breath and prepared to scream like her life depended on it.
Because it probably did.
21
“Megan Emerson?” said the man below her on the landing, backing away five yards from the bottom of the escalator so as not to crowd her. Both his casual use of her name and his partial retreat surprised her, and she bit off her bloodcurdling scream just an instant before it began.
“I’m Boyd Solomon,” continued the man rapidly as she stepped off the escalator. He glanced around to be certain no one was within earshot. “With the FBI.” He held open his wallet in front of her.
Megan shot a glance up the escalator behind her. Sure enough, the man’s partners were on their way down.
“IDs are easy to fake,” she said bluntly.
“We were sent by General Justin Girdler,” said Solomon. “Please come with us. You’re in serious danger.”
Megan wasn’t sure what to expect, but this wasn’t it. Would the general really give out her name?
The other two men joined them on the landing and held out their wallets. They introduced themselves as agents Dave Bergum and Dom Olinda. Megan took this chance to walk several steps to the right of the escalator to be closer to a cluster of customers who could sound an alarm if she screamed or appeared to be in distress. At least she hoped.
“You have the wrong person,” she said under her breath. “I don’t know any generals.”
Solomon smiled. “The general told us you’d say that,” he replied smoothly, also in hushed tones, his blue eyes a contrast to his swarthy features. “He apologizes for sending us, but said he had no choice. There are mercenaries after you, and they’re closing in.”
Megan couldn’t help but glance around the store nervously as he said this.
“The general sent us to protect you. And to take you to a safe house forty miles east of here. He said a man would be waiting for you there. He wouldn’t tell us the man’s name, only that he had to be moved from Eos.” Solomon shrugged. “Whatever that means.”
Megan stared hard at each of the three men in turn, trying to bore into their souls, wishing she could read minds for once instead of only being able to block Nick from reading hers. Were they on the level?
“We have orders to be your bodyguards until we reach your . . . associate,” added Solomon, meeting her intense stare with a relaxed confidence.
For the first time in minutes, Megan’s pounding heart began to slow from the breakneck pace it had been maintaining. She glanced at her phone, still in her right hand, but Nick had not replied. Impossible. She had used her direct line into his brain. No way he would ignore her message. Not this one.
“Hold on,” she said, quickly typing U there? into her phone and hitting send. “What does this general of yours do?” she asked.
“He’s the head of Black Ops,” replied Solomon immediately, while Bergum and Olinda continued to remain silent. Solomon smiled. “And these are fake IDs,” he acknowledged. “We’re not FBI. We’re with Black Ops also.”
For some reason this admission settled Megan down, convincing her that these men were on the level. “Is the man I’ll be meeting okay? Is he in any danger?”
“He’s perfectly fine,” said Solomon. “The general got to him in time.” He paused. “Not to make too fine a point of it, but we are exposed here. We need to get moving.”
Megan nodded, and they began marching off at a casual pace, her three bodyguards forming a phalanx around her.
Minutes later they made it to the parking lot and a black SUV with tinted windows. Really? Megan was tempted to point out just how cliché this vehicle really was, but managed to suppress the temptation.
“Keep your head down,” instructed Agent Solomon, sliding into the back seat beside her.
Megan glanced once again at her phone but Nick had still failed to respond. This was more troubling to her than she could say. No matter how distracted he became, he had never gone this long without responding, and this wasn’t just a playful text but a full-on panicked one. Something was wrong.
“I’ve been texting Ni—my friend,” said Megan, slumping down into her seat. “And he hasn’t responded.”
“I’m sure he ditched his phone so it couldn’t be used to trace him,” offered Solomon helpfully.
Megan knew he was wrong but remained expressionless. It would take a beheading for Nick Hall to get rid of his phone.
“Which reminds me,” continued Solomon. “You’ll have to ditch your phone also. Give it to me. I’ll wipe it before I toss it.”
Megan nodded reluctantly. She knew if the general were here, he would have her do the same. For the past four or five years, all phones automatically backed up their data and settings to the cloud for safekeeping, so she could restore it all when she bought a new phone. Still, the device was like an old friend.
She deleted all of her texts and then handed the phone to Solomon. “You’re sure the man you’re taking me to is unharmed?” she said. “And fully conscious?”
“Yes,” said Solomon. “You’ll be with him in less than an hour.”
Agent Olinda pulled the SUV out of the parking lot and began driving. The ride was smooth and quiet, despite the fact that Olinda routinely exceeded the speed limit.
Megan turned toward Agent Solomon as the SUV hurtled up a freeway on-ramp. “Tell me more about the men after us,” she said.
“You know as much as I do,” he replied. “General Girdler told us where to find you and ordered us to protect you. With our lives, if necessary. He said a team of mercs were gunning for you and wouldn’t be far behind. That’s all I know.”
“Where are we going?”
“The safe house is in Chino. The general will meet you and your friend there and give you a full briefing.”
Megan considered. She had had so much free time on the Eos she had made it a point to study maps of Huntington Beach and surroundings online, looking for interesting places to visit. Chino was a center of agriculture and dairy farming. A small community that was the opposite of the dense, glamorous, high rent surroundings of Huntington Beach. Its sparse population would be a blessing for Nick. Hopefully, this emergency would convince the general to accelerate their time table for moving to New Zealand.
They drove in silence most of the way. Once they began heading north on the 57, Megan began asking Solomon the distance to their destination every ten minutes.
“How far away now?” she asked for a third time.
Solomon’s face darkened, like a dad whose kids were driving him crazy, and Megan was surprised he didn’t shout, “We’ll get there when we get there.” Instead, he visibly forced himself to relax and said, “About eight miles.”
Megan brightened. “Call up the distance on your phone,” she said. “I’d like to know exactly.”
Solomon turned to her with the look of a man whose patience was more than wearing thin. “Why? Why does that matter?” he spat out.
“It’s one of my quirks,” said Megan with a shrug. “One of the things General Girdler loves about me,” she added pointedly.
Solomon grunted but turned to his phone and began sliding his fingers over the screen. “Six point eight miles exactly. Satisfied?”
“Very,” said Megan, who turned away from Solomon and began keeping careful track of their progress on the SUV’s odometer. When they were exactly six miles from the safe house she reached out for Hall with all her strength but did not get a reply.
She continued this exercise every five blocks for the next two miles, with the same result.
They were now four miles out, which was well within their telepathic range. No response to texts or telepathic calls. Megan felt her heart begin to pound into her chest once again. “Have you had any communications fro
m the safe house recently?” she asked Solomon. “Is my friend still waiting for me? Still okay?”
“Yes!” shouted Solomon emphatically, glaring at her as though he now understood why others would want to kill her. “I got a text from a colleague after we left the mall. Your friend has been told you’re on the way and is eager to see you.”
Megan nodded. This response cemented her certainty. She had no idea what was waiting for her at her destination. But she knew one thing for sure.
It was not Nick Hall.
22
Megan’s mind raced as the SUV hurtled over the freeway. She was surrounded by three armed men in a moving vehicle. Not exactly an advantageous position.
She needed to change this. And quickly.
An image of Olinda and Bergum waiting uncomfortably outside of the women’s bathroom popped into her head, giving her an idea. Men could be such babies at times.
“Aw, crap!” she barked suddenly, startling her three traveling companions. “We need to stop,” she added with a mixture of frustration and dismay. “Take the next exit.”
“What?” said Solomon. “Are you fucking crazy?”
“Look,” said Megan. “I’m not happy about it either. But my period just restarted—with a vengeance. If I don’t change this tampon immediately we’re going to have a flood in here.”
She had thought of faking a stomach issue, but since she hadn’t complained up to this point, she decided against it. Diarrhea was something these men could relate to. They would know there was little likelihood of such an emergency out of the blue. So while the emergency she was making up now had never happened in her life, she was counting on them not to know this, and to be too uncomfortable about it to ask any questions.
All three men looked squeamish, turning into babies once again. For some reason, menstruation was a topic that even the most hardened of men would do almost anything to avoid. But she had to work fast. The next exit was approaching in a hurry.
“I know we’re close to the safe house,” said Megan. “But take the next exit! Now!” she insisted. “You’re big, strapping men. I’m sure you can protect me for an extra five minutes. Or do you want me to change my tampon while we’re driving?”
“Pull off!” ordered Solomon, making a face.
Olinda veered to the right, managing to change lanes just in time to catch the off ramp.
Megan forced herself to stay calm and think. Now what? Getting out of the SUV was her first priority, but it would take a minor miracle for her to manage an escape.
She frowned deeply as she scanned the area in front of the SUV. Bad luck. Freeway exits often led to a store, or at least a busy restaurant where she would have had additional options. This one led to nothing but a two-pump gas station, with a small convenience store attached.
They pulled into the station and up to one of the pumps. Solomon exited the vehicle and held the door open for Megan. “Make it quick,” he said to her. “Agent Bergum will escort you,” he added.
Megan searched the surroundings but there was nothing that seemed useful. No running car to race off in, and the station was completely deserted other than one attendant in the convenience store. She thought of calling out to him for help, but this would almost certainly fail and would probably get him killed.
Bergum walked her to the restroom door and stood beside it while she entered. The room consisted of a single stall and sink, and a window high up on the back wall. Megan stood on the toilet seat to look down through the window, but even if she managed to get through it in one piece, which would take some doing, Solomon and Olinda would be able to see her easily from where they were parked.
Shit! she thought. Her subterfuge had worked beautifully, allowing her to extricate herself from the SUV, but her luck was nearing its end.
Who were these men, anyway? The fact that they knew about Nick, the Eos, and the general was extremely alarming. Was Nick dead? Did this explain his lack of response to her texts?
Just contemplating this took her breath away, as though she had been hit in the gut. She shook her head vigorously, refusing to believe it. No one was more resourceful than Nick. He had to be alive. To think anything else was too debilitating.
And of course he was alive, she reasoned. Not only was he too resourceful to kill, but too valuable.
Which is why she was alive, she suddenly realized. To be used as leverage against Nick. After all, if they wanted her dead, they could have killed her in the SUV at any time.
Knowing they needed her alive gave her additional options. She could try to fight them without fear of losing her life.
She looked around the small room for a weapon, but found none. There was a bottle filled with liquid soap near the sink, fairly heavy, but not nearly heavy enough.
And then she considered the toilet, the shark of the design world. The one in the station was exactly like those found in homes. No matter how rapidly improvements were made in electronics and other technology, no matter how often every design, from the lowly soda can to the mightiest jet fighter, had continued to evolve through time, the basic toilet design had remained unchanged. Like the shark, it was perfectly evolved to fulfill its purpose.
Yes, many toilets now had sensors, and she had read of toilets in Japan that did everything but put on laser light shows, but the basic flush mechanism remained the same. A porcelain tank filled with water. And a bob that would shut off incoming water once the tank had been refilled after a flush.
And covering this tank, a rectangular ceramic slab.
A heavy ceramic slab. And one that was removable in case the bob failed to work properly.
Megan took a deep breath and decided this was her only hope. She carefully removed the white ceramic cover from the tank and carried it the few yards to the door. It was really heavy. Wow. Porcelain was like lead, and she only weighed a hundred and twenty pounds herself. But while it was heavier and more unwieldy than she would have liked, it was still a godsend.
She set the edge of the smooth white slab down carefully on the tiled floor, picked up the full bottle of liquid soap, and readied herself.
“Here goes nothing,” she whispered, almost to distract herself from the insane attempt she was about to make. She threw the bottle of soap as hard as she could at the window a few yards away. As she had hoped, the plastic missile was heavy enough to crash through, making a shattered-glass sound that was unmistakable.
Even before the bottle had landed outside, Megan managed to hoist the porcelain slab to head-height, waiting.
She didn’t have to wait long.
Reacting almost instantly to the sound of shattered glass, Bergum threw his shoulder into the door, breaking the flimsy lock and rushing inside to investigate.
Megan swung the unwieldy slab at Bergum’s head with all of her might.
And missed!
The man’s reflexes were extraordinary. He ducked the oncoming blow with athletic fluidity. Megan had positioned herself perfectly, out of his sight as he raced into the bathroom, but instead of connecting with his head the ceramic weight tore clumsily through the air into the now open door behind him. The force of the impact caused Megan to drop the heavy slab, and it slammed into the tile floor with a loud, echoing sound, breaking into a half-dozen jagged pieces.
Bergum recovered immediately and slammed her into a wall. He pulled a plastic zip-strip from his pants and zipped it around her wrists, which he forced together with a brutal efficiency. Then he spun her around and pressed a large, sweaty hand over her mouth, just as she was about to scream.
Bergum shoved her out of the bathroom roughly—the struggles of such a petite woman barely registering on him—but after a single step he found himself staring straight into the sights of a handgun, pointed at his head.
“Freeze!” shouted the attendant, his gun hand remaining steady.
Bergum stopped in his tracks and stared into the attendant’s eyes, assessing the situation, calculating his odds of turning the tables. But after o
nly a few seconds he remembered the role he was playing. “I’m with the FBI,” he said with exaggerated calm. “If you let me reach into my back pocket, I can show you my ID.”
Even as the attendant was considering this, Solomon and Olinda yanked open the outer door, their weapons trained on the man.
The attendant swallowed hard and lowered his gun. “You really Feds?” he asked warily.
Solomon took out his wallet and showed him his fake ID. “Yes. Sorry about the commotion. And don’t let this little thing fool you,” he added, gesturing toward Megan. “She’s wanted in eight states. And she’s a lot more deadly than she looks.”
“You understand why I drew on your partner, right?” said the attendant. “She broke my window. And he broke through the door. Looked like he was assaulting her.”
“Perfectly understandable,” said Solomon soothingly. “Sorry again for the trouble. We’ll get out of your hair now.”
The attendant watched them carefully as they made their way to the SUV and then drove off.
Bergum, now sitting beside Megan instead of Solomon, finally released his hand from her mouth. She sucked in huge lungfuls of air hungrily.
Solomon shifted in the passenger’s seat so he could face her. He frowned deeply, and shook his head. “Oh well,” he said. “We did try to do this the easy way.” A thoughtful look crossed his face. “We were so close to our destination. What tipped you off?”
“Who are you, and what do you want?” demanded Megan, ignoring the question.
Solomon smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other,” he assured her. “Plenty of time.”
23
Nick Hall was on the edge of consciousness, in the dreamlike state between sleep and wakefulness. His thoughts drifted aimlessly from a movie he had recently seen, to the bloodshed at the Oscars, to a coral reef he had studied as a marine biologist, before finally settling onto Megan Emerson.
When he got to Megan he became fully awake, although he had yet to open his eyes and he was still quite groggy. Despite the lumbering slowness of his thoughts, he realized he had had the same recurring dream once again, even during this short nap. The dream that was his ultimate nightmare.
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