by Irene Hannon
By the time he finished the call, Mark was back. “That saves us knocking on one door—which I assume is the next step.”
“Yeah. I’m going to ask County for some manpower to help us with the door-to-door stuff. Did that guy offer anything?” Lance slid his phone onto his belt.
“An ETA for Christy. He saw her car pull in at 6:45 while he was getting his mail.”
“Did he see it leave?”
“No.”
“We need to find out if anyone else did. I also want to get into Terzic’s apartment with one of our computer techs. There’s a chance he didn’t deactivate the GPS unit he put on Christy’s car. Why would he, if he thought no one knew what he was up to?”
“I don’t think he’d be that sloppy—but it’s worth a shot. Why don’t I call for the cop backup here and get another agent on site to coordinate the door-to-door while you check in with Steve?”
The reactive squad supervisor.
His boss.
Right.
He owed him an update.
Man, getting used to the whole chain-of-command rigmarole was a bear. The authority to act on his own initiative had been one of the best parts of being in The Unit.
“My next call.” He pulled his phone back out.
“You might want to get him working on warrants too. We’ve got exigent circumstances on our side for tracking Christy’s GPS and a warrantless entry at Terzic’s, but we at least need to get the paperwork in process.”
“Right.” He knew that—but red tape rankled . . . and he had a feeling it always would after the freedom of Delta. “I’ll make my calls while I head over to Terzic’s. I’ll also see if our office can track someone down who will let us in at the apartment. You want to hang around here and brief the local cops until we have another agent on site?”
“Yeah. I’ll join you as soon as I can. If you aren’t already in, I have a pick gun in the car.”
Lance arched an eyebrow. “You carry a pick gun?”
“You’d be surprised how often it comes in handy—even on SWAT missions. It may be more dramatic to kick down a door or shoot out a lock, but it’s a lot safer to use a pick.”
Smart thinking.
Working on a SWAT team under the former HRT operator’s leadership could be interesting . . . if he ever wanted to consider it.
“Okay. I’ll see you at Terzic’s.” Lance took off at a jog for his car, already dialing Steve’s number.
If fate was kind, one of Christy’s neighbors had seen some helpful detail—or the GPS unit on her car was still working.
But given their track record so far with this case, the odds of getting a break weren’t comforting.
Another shiver convulsed Christy as she curled into a ball in the frigid trunk, her shakes fed by equal parts fear and cold.
Where was her abductor?
The car had stopped . . . how long ago? Ten minutes? Half an hour? Impossible to tell. Each second felt like an eternity.
But he’d been gone a while.
Why was he waiting to open the trunk?
She shifted her position, trying to relieve the ache in her stomach. There was a reason for the delay. This guy was meticulous. He had an agenda—and a timetable. He’d be back to finish her off as soon as that item came up on his checklist. If he’d simply wanted her dead, he could have accomplished that in the driveway with a simple knife thrust.
Given the elaborate lengths he’d gone to with her parents and Ginny, he’d surely thought up some creative way for her to die—and it wasn’t going to be quick and easy. If she was the payoff, the finale, he’d probably saved the—
She tensed.
Outside sounds were muffled, but that faint snapping of twigs could—
All at once, a key was inserted in the lock on the trunk.
A heartbeat later, the lid swung up.
Instantly, a bright light blinded her.
She turned her head aside, but he grabbed her face in a vise-like grip and forced it back, toward the searing beam.
“Look at me.”
She slitted her eyes, but the light was too bright.
“I said look at me!” His grip tightened, the pressure crushing her cheekbones.
A tear leaked out of her eye.
He released her face, and the light became a bit less intense. “Tears? Excellent. I like to see you cry—and you did it very well at all the funerals. I think Ginny’s service was the best. The first one, anyway.”
The man’s cold, amused words sucked the life out of her tears, replacing them with terror.
He’d been there, at all the funerals? Watching the people he’d killed be buried, gloating over her pain?
Sick, sick, sick.
Fighting back a wave of nausea, she forced herself to squint into the light until a murky shape emerged out of the darkness. Her abductor appeared to be of medium height. And lean, despite the insulated outerwear he wore. She already knew he was strong. His face was too shadowed to see clearly, even if he hadn’t been wearing a ski mask . . . but what was that on his head?
A miner’s helmet?
He altered his position slightly. The light moved with him, reducing the glare long enough for her to confirm the source of illumination.
Ingenious.
The helmet left his hands free and kept her in the dark—literally.
This guy was every bit as smart as they’d feared.
“You aren’t going to cry after all? Disappointing . . . but I can wait. There’ll be more tears later. Lots more.”
His accent was faint but detectable if you were listening for it.
Meaning this was the guy who’d killed her sister. The one the prostitute had told Lance about.
But was it Neven?
He leaned closer, and she shrank back, trying to tuck herself into a crevice in the trunk, out of his reach.
It didn’t work. He grabbed her leg, pulled her forward, and hoisted her out, setting her on the ground in one fast, fluid motion.
The world tilted, and his hand shot out to steady her. “No fainting, Christy. I need you upright until after the performance.”
She blinked.
Performance?
What on earth was he talking about?
“Start walking. That way.” He pointed behind her.
She twisted her neck. They were in a small clearing in the middle of the woods, surrounded by darkness.
Where was she supposed to walk?
“Move.”
Something hard rammed her between the shoulder blades, and she stumbled forward. Turned back.
The barrel of a pistol was aimed at her heart.
And while she’d never seen one in real life, that appendage on the end looked like a silencer.
Her lungs deflated.
“I’m not going to shoot you . . . if you follow my instructions. That’s very important, Christy. People who don’t follow my instructions make me angry. I do things that aren’t very nice when I’m angry.”
Like run people off cliffs. Burn down houses. Throw bodies in the river.
She swiveled back and started walking, praying her shaky legs would continue to support her.
Don’t make him mad, Christy. Buy time. Look for an opportunity to outsmart him. The longer you can stall, the better the chance you’ll live to see morning.
She kept looping those instructions through her mind as she lurched over the frozen, uneven terrain and into the woods, walking as slowly as she dared. Every second she bought herself could matter in the end.
Though her masked abductor was silent behind her—as if he was accustomed to moving noiselessly through the forest—his malevolent presence was almost palpable. Somehow she sensed this was a man who was used to tracking his prey undetected. A hunter, perhaps.
But on this trip, he wasn’t after animals.
He was after her.
And unless she figured out a way to outwit him fast, he was going to bag his ultimate trophy before this night was over.
That was one plus to being part of a large, collaborative organization. He might be used to handling his own details as a Delta Force operator, but the FBI support staff was great at getting ducks in a row so he could do his job.
Lance displayed his badge as the man introduced himself. “You know I need to get into Nathan Turner’s apartment.”
“Yes. Your people called.” The man held up a key and pointed to a door that faced the open-air breezeway between two buildings. “That’s it. The woman I spoke with said a warrant was in progress?”
“Yes.” Or it would be soon, based on his conversation with Steve. “But we’re dealing with a life-and-death situation here. We don’t need to wait for the paperwork to show up.”
“That’s what the woman said.”
The man led the way down the breezeway, fitted the key in the lock, and pushed the door open.
“Thanks.” Lance entered and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “I’m expecting two more agents. They’ll be here shortly.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for them.”
As the man pulled the door shut behind him, Lance flicked on the overhead light, positioned himself in the middle of the living room, and did a quick 360. The carpet had seen better days, the woodwork was chipped, the furnishings were low-end. But the place was clean and tidy.
It was also impersonal. There was nothing in this room that offered any deep insights into the occupants. Nor did it contain any electronics other than a TV.
He bypassed the kitchen, stopping on the threshold only long enough to scan the countertops for a computer.
Again, nothing.
He passed the door to the hall bathroom. Paused and flicked on the light in the bedroom on the right. Took a quick inventory.
A bundle of ripped bedclothes on the floor. Several ceiling tiles askew, an overturned chair beneath one tile that exposed a pipe. Pink quilt crumpled on the bed. Framed black-and-white photo on the nightstand of a long-ago bride and groom.
This was the room where Mevlida had died.
Terzic’s computer wouldn’t be here.
He continued to the last door on the left. Felt around for a light switch. Flipped it on.
Pay dirt.
A laptop rested on top of a desk in the far corner.
Lance crossed the room in four long strides—and came face-to-face with the photo of Christy that Mevlida had described. Terzic must have stashed it before calling the cops after she killed herself, then restored it to the center of the bulletin board above the computer once they left—complete with the knife through the heart.
His own heart stuttered as he stared at it.
Mevlida’s worry hadn’t been misplaced.
Evil intent permeated this room.
Reining in his terror, he opened the laptop and booted it up. He was no computer genius, but he knew a few basics about the inner workings of a lot of different pieces of electronic equipment. It was possible he could locate a GPS feed while he waited for the tech specialist.
Because he knew one thing with deadly clarity.
They were running out of time.
25
Turn right.”
Christy peered ahead into the woods. Her abductor had doused the light on his miner’s helmet, and the path—if there was one—was pitch black.
She pushed through some brambles. Stumbled. Went down on one knee.
That earned her another prod in the back.
“Keep going. We’re almost there.”
Not the news she wanted to hear.
Struggling to keep her balance, she hauled herself to her feet and continued. As far as she could tell, they were in the middle of nowhere. No lights peeked through the trees suggesting a house in the distance, and no sounds save the occasional eerie hoot of an owl broke the stillness.
Even if she had the use of her voice, there was a strong possibility no one was close enough to hear her screams.
So what options did that leave her, short of the unlikely chance she could overpower her abductor?
None—or at least none that had presented themselves yet.
But one might at any moment. There was still hope.
She had to keep believing that.
The terrain began to slope down, and she picked her way through the barren winter underbrush, edging around the drifts of snow that hadn’t melted during the brief thaw after the last storm, trying without much success to avoid the sharp branches that clawed at her calves through the thin leggings she reserved for indoor skating.
After a couple dozen yards, the terrain leveled again and she emerged into a small clearing just as the moon peeked out from behind the clouds.
No, scratch that. It wasn’t a clearing.
The open area in the hollow was a frozen lake, forty or fifty feet in diameter.
“Over there.” At the fringe of her peripheral vision, the hand with the silenced gun waved to her right.
She twisted that direction. Two folding chairs were set up at the edge of the lake. The carrying case for her skates rested beside one of them—along with her gym bag.
Her gym bag!
Yes!
Unless he’d removed it, her phone was close at hand—and by now, Lance would be searching for her. Since he was the one who’d told her to activate the GPS, the FBI would be watching for a signal.
Wouldn’t they?
She quashed down the sudden pang of doubt. Of course they would. Lance was the kind of guy who covered all the bases.
Now all she had to do was find a way to turn on the phone. Even a brief signal could have a huge impact on the outcome of this night.
“Sit in the chair that’s farthest away.”
She had thirty feet to come up with a plan as they skirted the edge of the frozen lake toward their destination. Twenty seconds if she dragged out the trip as long as she dared.
Think, Christy! Think!
Five seconds later, an idea began to take shape in her mind. It wasn’t great, and it might not work, but it was the best her stressed-out brain could come up with in the short window she had.
Clenching her icy fingers, she waited until she was a few feet away from the chair. Then she allowed her steps to falter. After staggering the remaining distance to the chair, she sank down and leaned forward.
Neven—or whoever he was—turned on the light attached to his helmet and aimed it at her face. “What’s wrong?”
Inhaling loud and hard through her nose, she rolled her eyes as far back as she could and swayed in her chair.
“Hey!” He grabbed her shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?”
She toed the gym bag and nodded toward it frantically. In the blinding light, she couldn’t see his features. But he sounded alarmed—just as she’d hoped. He’d come too far to let her collapse during the closing act of his grand plan . . . if he could help it.
Please, God, let him buy this charade!
A few seconds passed. She increased the pace of her breathing—but if he didn’t respond soon, she was going to hyperventilate and pass out for real.
All at once, he reached down, ripped the duct tape off her mouth, and got in her face, the searing light bright and hot. She lowered her eyelids halfway. “You make one sound, you’re dead. Got it?”
She gave a weak nod.
“Now tell me what’s wrong.”
“Asthma.” She gasped out the word and toed her gym bag again. “Medicine.”
He snatched up the bag, backed away, and began to root through it. “Where?”
This wasn’t working.
She needed the bag in her hands.
She gave him a panicked look—no acting required—and breathed more harshly through her mouth, pretending she couldn’t speak.
Please . . . let him think I’m too desperate for air to be thinking about an escape plan! And please let him not know that if I really had asthma, I’d have an inhaler, not pills.
He hesitated—then pulled out a knife and cut the binding on her wrists.
Thank you, God!
She plunged her hands in the bag, giving the performance of her life as she rooted frantically through the contents until her fingers closed over the phone.
Yes!
With one hand she felt for the on button and pressed hard. With the other she grasped the two Zyrtec she always carried in an inside pocket in case her mild allergies flared up and grabbed her bottle of water.
Her abductor watched while she put the tablets on her tongue and took a long gulp. She continued to wheeze as he repositioned his chair a few feet away, extinguished the light, and sat. His gaze—and the barrel of the gun—never wavered from her. But on the plus side, he apparently didn’t know enough about asthma to realize pills were no substitute for an inhaler.
“You’ve got ten minutes to recover. Then we start.”
Start what?
She didn’t ask.
Yet as she looked across the darkness that separated them, toward the face hidden behind the ski mask, she knew the end was approaching.
At least the SOS had been sent.
Now she could only pray someone was listening.
“We picked up a signal from the cell and we have a location.”
As the news from the tech agent came over the line, Lance groped in his pocket for a pen. “Where?”
“Middle of nowhere, as far as I can tell. Near Cedar Hill.”
He ran the St. Louis suburbs through his mind. The name didn’t match any of them.
“Where is that?”
“About forty minutes south of the city. Less if you burn rubber. The signal is coming from just southeast of the LaBarque Creek Conservation Area.”
“Is it moving?”
“No.”
“Keep watching. Give me the exact location.” He jotted it down as the man relayed the information.
“That last is a county two-laner,” the man concluded. “Since it won’t get you to the exact location, there must be a private road leading off from there—or else she trekked through the countryside.”
Mark appeared in the doorway of Terzic’s bedroom, followed by the FBI computer expert. He motioned them both in.