Am I blind?
The alarming thought zinged between neurons in her brain, accelerated through her nervous system, and sparked a surge of adrenaline. Her heart rate skyrocketed, halving the interval and doubling the ferocity of the throbbing pressure inside her skull.
She strained to listen, but could only hear the thundering of her own blood.
At least my hands aren’t bound, she thought. That’s a good sign.
Tactile exploration revealed that she was lying on an air mattress with an unzipped sleeping bag draped over her.
Her battle vest was gone.
She fumbled for her sidearm.
Gone.
Her tactical knife.
Gone.
Abby rolled onto her right side, and a breath-stealing pain tore through her back. Sweat coated her face as she hunted for the ceramic blade, her weapon of last resort. Then she remembered that Captain Andrews had it.
No weapons—shit!
Her fingers traced the elastic bandages that girdled her ribs, and a hazy memory fluttered back. She had been shot.
Then what? How did I get here? And where am I?
Rocklike, uneven walls hemmed in the stagnant air, dank and earthy, barely sixty degrees.
I’m underground, she thought, reclining back into a supine position. Is this some kind of solitary confinement chamber? Are they going to torture me?
Thudding sounds escalated, only this time it was footsteps advancing toward her. Through closed eyelids, she sensed the beam of a flashlight drifting over her face. The brightness incited a biting pain, one that rebounded like a pinball trapped within her skull, but she managed to maintain her neutral expression.
At least I’m not blind, she told herself.
“Lance Corporal Webber.” It was a male voice, a Midwestern accent simmering with venom. “Wake up! I’ve got questions for you.”
He took four awkward-sounding paces. Shuffling alternated with a heavy footfall as if he were limping; then with a grunt, he eased himself onto the floor beside her.
“I think you’re faking unconsciousness.” He paused, his index finger strumming her lower lip like a guitar string. “Hell, I’d probably do the same in your position. Avoid the discomfort of interrogation, buy some time for the cavalry to swoop in and rescue you. Problem is, they think you’re dead.”
He leaned closer until Abby could feel his repugnant breath grazing her cheek, could taste the body odor.
“But I digress. I need to know if you’re truly unconscious or just a clever bitch, so I’ve devised a little test. Now, don’t worry your pretty little head. This needle is sterile.”
44
Stone Reservoir, Idaho
“YOU CAN’T SHOOT HIM over a few tires!” Sybil shouted.
Time slowed into a sequence of haunting impressions—the peacekeeper’s barbaric expression, Izzy mumbling the Lord’s Prayer, a blur of denim streaking between them.
The skillet swung upward.
Boiling oil seemed to hang in the air.
There was a slapping sound, followed by a split-second sizzle as it plastered the peacekeeper’s face. An agonizing caterwaul echoed over the reservoir, and Nancy reared back for a follow-up attack. The skillet hurtled forward like a baseball bat, driving the gun from his hand, then it crashed against his skull with a crunching, metallic thud. He crumpled to the ground. Nancy leapt atop him, bludgeoning him with the cast iron until he stopped crying out. Chest heaving for breath, face as red as her hair, Nancy wiped the blood spatter from her cheeks and climbed to her feet.
Sybil felt a paradoxical blend of repulsion and admiration. “That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen,” she said, chiding herself for not being strong like her dad. And Izzy. And Nancy. “You saved his life.”
Izzy was sitting on his knees, trembling uncontrollably as if his little body had short-circuited.
Sybil ran to him, knelt down, and wrapped her arms around him. “You’re so brave, Izzy. I would’ve wet my pants.”
Nancy’s gaze was frantically sweeping the perimeter. “You two have to get out of here.”
“Come to Salt Lake City with us,” Sybil said.
Their red-haired protector removed two magazines from the peacekeeper’s battle vest then used her foot to roll him onto his side. She examined his rifle, chambered a round, and said, “No, I’m done running away. This is my home. And I just inherited the means to evict my house guests.”
“But eventually they’ll catch you and ...” Sybil’s voice broke.
“Don’t fret about me. Once I take care of them, I plan to sow some seeds of rebellion.”
“That sounds heroic,” Sybil said. “Maybe we can help you.”
Nancy offered a smile laden with gratitude and a gentle reprimand. “No, this is my fight. But you make sure to write it all down in that journal of yours. Make sure everyone knows Nancy Hart is a honey of a patriot!”
“I will. I promise.”
“Good. Now get outta here!”
Sybil and Izzy jogged toward the water’s edge where Star was grazing. At the halfway point, Izzy glanced back at Nancy, hesitated, then bolted toward her. His arms locked around her waist in a thankful hug; then without a word, he dashed ahead of Sybil and propelled himself atop Star.
They rode in introspective silence until crossing the Utah border, each processing a hodgepodge of emotions beyond their years.
“Are you ever gonna talk again?” Sybil asked.
Izzy gave a dismissive snort. “Sure ... I was just trying to figure some stuff out.”
“Like?”
“Like ... How did the peacekeepers find out that I jacked up those trucks? And how did that guy know I was at the reservoir?”
45
District Eight, Colorado
THIS PSYCHO IS ABOUT to prick me with a needle. How am I going to keep from flinching?
He gripped Abby’s left wrist, fingers loitering, applying firm pressure, yet causing no discomfort. “Baseline pulse is eighty. Little high for being comatose.”
Shit! she thought. He’s gonna use my heartbeat against me.
He raised her left hand, buoyed it above her face, and unexpectedly let go. Abby allowed it to smash lifelessly into her nose, and another spike of pain carved through her head.
“Whoops,” he snickered, isolating her index finger. “Whoa, you could really use a manicure.”
The needle went in with a quick jab, beneath the nail bed.
Abby’s hand hung limp like a hunk of meat, her facial expression unchanged. Inside her heavy combat boots, however, her toes were curling; and she’d made the mistake of holding her breath.
She battled to restore the rhythm of her respiration as he checked her pulse.
He harrumphed as if disappointed. “We’re a lot alike, you and I. You’re fighting for your country. And so am I. We both know our way around a rifle ... And yours is badass. I’ve never seen a rapid-engagement assault rifle that can convert to bolt-action precision at the flick of a switch ... Got it right here.”
Abby heard the butt stock tap against the rocky floor, and she considered lunging for it, but there were so many unknowns. How many weapons did he have? How many more terrorists were nearby? Hell, for all she knew, he could be holding a knife in front of her throat, waiting for her to impale herself.
“Yup, this is the rifle you shot me with,” he said bitterly, “and since turnabout is fair play, I’m gonna shoot you with your own gun.”
She heard the familiar, metallic scratching sound of a magazine being slapped into position. He cycled the bolt to chamber a round, then she felt the cold barrel against the bridge of her nose.
If he was really gonna kill me, I’d be dead by now, she told herself. He wants to torture information out of me. And for that, he needs me alive ... And conscious.
Abby focused on maintaining her heart rate and breathing. Mentally, she envisioned being back at Sugar Lake, sunning herself on a chaise lounge, thousands of miles from this hellhole.
/>
The soft click of a dry fire shattered the illusion. It jetted through her veins, and Abby barely stifled a gasp of relief.
Thank God, I didn’t make a desperate play for an unloaded weapon.
He withdrew the rifle, this time pressing his fingers to her neck. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He struggled to his feet, and the glow of the flashlight dimmed as he shuffled across the room. “I’ll be right back, Sleeping Beauty. And we’ll get started on that manicure ... I forgot my needle-nose pliers.”
46
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
SOMEONE HAD DELIBERATELY placed Abby’s satellite phone and headset in that barn to convince the TEradS she was dead. For Bradley, that led to two possibilities. She had been captured, and the terrorists didn’t want their interrogation hindered by rescue missions; or she had escaped, and they wanted to find her before the TEradS did. In either case, Bradley had to get to her—at any cost.
He strode toward the Humvee, body stiff from being bound to his bed frame, jaw sore from the gag, his mind rehashing his plan. Take Ryan by surprise, render him unconscious, steal the vehicle, and race to Colorado. Two rifles would already be inside the Humvee, and hidden amongst his clothes, he had packed a few extra magazines.
The heavy rucksack dangled from his shoulder, and he shifted the coat hanger bearing his dress blues to his left hand in order to salute Captain Andrews.
Giving a wary nod, Ryan opened the rear door. Bradley wedged his bag on the floor behind the passenger’s seat and laid his uniform carefully across the seats, atop Ryan’s.
“You want me to drive, sir?”
“Nice try.”
Bradley flopped into the passenger’s seat then grimaced. “You’re joking right?” he asked, referring to the flex-cuffs Ryan was holding.
“Nope.”
Smirking, Bradley surrendered his hands. “You’d better hope we don’t get ambushed.”
“Right now, you’re a bigger threat than the terrorists,” he said fastening the cuffs. “Now the feet.”
“Really?” He watched Ryan wrap layers of duct tape around his ankles, knowing it was a declaration of concern over his mental stability and a show of respect for his skill as a warrior.
“And I have plenty of tape left if you start talking stupid.”
As they drove through the gate, Bradley leaned his head back and closed his eyes, exhausted yet unable to sleep. His mind couldn’t stop churning the facts. For the first time, terrorists had sanitized the scene of a firefight, removing more than a dozen corpses. Why? To conceal that they had infiltrated UW forces?
Maybe, Bradley thought. Poor Abby, she couldn’t have registered the threat until they started shooting at her.
All the evidence ushered him to the same conclusion. Whether captured or on the run, Abby needed help; and he was stuck here, in this Humvee, headed in the wrong direction, to attend a funeral for a woman he had never met.
He glanced from his shackles to Ryan, assessing the probability of knocking him out with an elbow, stealing the vehicle, and making it to Colorado without getting caught.
“I know how much you loved Abby,” Ryan said, looking askance at him. “But ask yourself, would she want you to throw away your career? Or would she want you to help nail these bastards?”
Vengeance was high on Bradley’s wish list, but not a priority until after he rescued Abby. He stared straight ahead at the deuce and a half transporting the coffin, grateful it wasn’t his wife, sad for the unknown woman who had suffered so inhumanely. Then it hit him. The same people who had mutilated Jane Doe were after Abby.
They could be torturing her right now.
The thought scraped his nerve endings raw, like a piercing toothache throughout his body.
“A psych evaluation, a court-martial, jail time—none of it will bring Abby back.”
You’re wrong, Bradley thought, teeth gnashing to avoid blurting the words. Going AWOL and hightailing it to Colorado damn well could bring her back, and that would be worth any price—his career, his freedom, even his life.
“Are you really that pissed off about the shackles that you’re not talking to me?”
Bradley smiled and raised his bound hands. “Hell no. I take this as a supreme compliment. You’re afraid of me. Scared shitless!”
Ryan gave a throaty laugh. “Sounds like my ball-busting buddy is back.”
He hesitated, contemplating whether an elbow to the groin would get him to Colorado, then decided that his best chance was to win back Ryan’s trust.
“I’m sorry for disobeying orders and putting you in a bad spot,” Bradley said, dismissing a ripple of guilt. Lies, theft, violence—he would do whatever it takes. “You’re my friend and commanding officer; you deserved better.”
Ryan’s head jerked toward Bradley, his intense brown eyes probing for hints of insincerity. “I need to hear you say it, Sergeant Webber. Who is inside that flag-draped casket?”
47
District Eight, Colorado
AS SOON AS THE FOUL-smelling man left, Abby wobbled onto her feet. Light-headed and queasy, she was beyond thirsty; her mouth felt like she’d been chewing sawdust. How much time had elapsed since the firefight?
She shambled along the wall, navigating through total darkness with her hands, scouting for the doorway her tormentor had passed through.
I have to find a weapon or a way out, she thought, before he starts tearing off fingernails with those pliers.
A rough-cut opening spilled into another dark chamber, most likely a corridor based on the sluggish current of musty air. Abby inched forward, trekking into the breeze, and noted the jagged consistency of the walls and floor. They were too regular to be a natural cave; this had to be an abandoned mine.
The shaft bent forty-five degrees left, and Abby saw a patch of light pouring into the passageway. She halted, debating what to do. Retreat could buy time, but ultimately lead to detached fingernails and more excruciating forms of torture. Moving forward could jump-start the torture, but offered a miniscule possibility of escape.
Into the light, she told herself. A slim chance is better than no chance.
Closing within twenty feet, Abby heard muffled voices, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. She edged closer and peeked around the corner. The brightness was like a dagger ravaging her aching head, a mere nuisance compared to needle-nose pliers.
Three people were huddled around a folding card table, the space illuminated by two car headlights and a bank of batteries.
“I’m concerned that she hasn’t regained consciousness.” The voice, silky and confident with an undertone of compassion, belonged to an Asian woman wearing medical scrubs. “She could have swelling or bleeding on the brain. She needs a hospital.”
“Gwen, you know that can’t happen,” a second female replied, her voice husky and authoritative. She sat ramrod straight; and despite the combat fatigues and boots, she was strikingly pretty.
“Franny’s right. We’re not handing her over. We need her ...”
Recognition shivered through Abby. The manicurist from hell had a mop of curly brown hair and hard, angular features that hinted at his inner cruel streak.
“... And that bitch owes me. She freaking shot me.”
“Speaking of which, Ty. Did you take your antibiotics?” Gwen asked.
He shrugged away the question.
Franny’s icy eyes narrowed. “I took a huge risk sneaking into the district, not to mention that I practically kidnapped Gwen—”
“And I committed a crime, stealing those drugs from the hospital,” Gwen told him, index finger wagging. “You take them!”
“I don’t want your freaking Chi-com meds,” he snarled. “I don’t trust them and frankly, I don’t trust you, Gwen!”
“Ty, the bullet wound will get infected. You’ll die,” Franny stated bluntly. “Take the damn meds. I can’t launch this attack unless you’re healthy.”
“Fuck
you, Major Frances Marion, ma’am!” he shouted. “This isn’t the Army. And I don’t take your orders!”
“Fine. Die of your own stupidity.”
“Franny, go get Webber. It’s time to get some answers.”
“Fuck you, Mister Timothy Tygren. This isn’t Tygren Mining, and I’m no longer your employee.”
Abby’s mind was spinning. Who the hell are these people? And what are they plotting to attack?
Gwen was likely a nurse or maybe a doctor; Ty was Franny’s former boss and a purebred asshole; and Franny was likely ex-Army. Could she be the Terror Fox? A traitor with American military training like Captain Andrews suspected?
“We’re just wasting time. I’m gonna wake up Webber—”
Gwen cut him off. “What part of head trauma don’t you understand, Ty?”
“Oh, come on,” he said, arms flailing upward with disgust. “She was wearing a freaking bulletproof helmet and body armor.”
“That doesn’t negate the concussion or the bruised ribs,” Franny told him. “They might even be broken.”
“Webber’s a Sniper. You saw the way she mowed down those UW troops. She’s exactly what we need for this attack to be successful.”
“She’s active duty military, Ty. She won’t take orders from us.”
“So what are you gonna do?” he asked condescendingly. “Just let her go? They’re turning these mountains upside down searching for her. If she walks out of here, they’ll kill her.”
Abby felt hopelessly confused. Was it the knock to the head? Or were there two terrorists cells feuding over territory like drug gangs? One side dressing like UW troops versus ... these three? It just didn’t compute.
“When she comes to, I’ll explain the situation,” Franny said. “And Webber will have to decide.”
Ty folded his arms across his chest, pouting like a fifty-year-old toddler.
“I know it would be great to recruit a TEradS Sniper to our cause,” Franny continued. “But injuries aside, Webber has no idea who the enemy is.”
“They ambushed her team and shot her. Twice! If that doesn’t convince her, what will?”
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