by Pamela Clare
“Roger that.”
* * *
LAURA SAT AT her desk, listening with no small degree of satisfaction to the shouting coming from Tom’s office. She’d told Tom how Alex had behaved when he’d come over for lunch and demanded to know if Tom thought Alex’s actions were consistent with good journalistic ethics. It hadn’t been a rhetorical question. She’d been genuinely interested to hear Tom’s answer. She knew he was an aggressive journalist, but she’d always considered him to be an ethical one.
She’d been pleased when he’d apologized for Alex’s actions—and then shouted, “Carmichael, get in here!”
He’d made Alex apologize.
She’d walked out with a smile on her face.
She’d been working on her VA story since then, hoping to wrap it up well before deadline. She’d called and left a message on Ted Hollis’s cell phone about Joaquin and the photo situation, but Hollis hadn’t called back yet. She read through what she’d written so far and made a few tweaks to the nut graph, summarizing the findings that would be in the article. She was about to go get another cup of coffee when her phone rang.
“Hi, Laura.” It was Ted Hollis. “I’m sorry I acted that way. I guess I should have trusted the photographer, but I thought you’d be coming and . . . I just don’t like dealing with strangers.”
She tried to reason with him. “I’m a stranger, and you trusted me.”
“I guess you don’t feel like a stranger. I feel like I know you.”
“I can understand that.” People often thought they knew people they saw on TV or read about in the newspapers. “Joaquin is a friend of mine. He’s very good at his job. I know you’ll like him once you meet him. Can I send him out?”
“Oh . . . I don’t . . . I don’t know about that. Let me think about it.”
Under most circumstances, Laura would simply cut the photograph from the story package. But she knew readers would want a face to connect with his story.
She looked at her clock and saw it was already ten thirty. Javier would be here at noon, and then Laura would be otherwise occupied—for a little while. That would leave her only a couple of hours of writing time before deadline, but she’d already made solid progress. If she could find Joaquin and meet him at Hollis’s place, she could get the photo squared away and be back in time to meet Javier.
“If it makes you feel better, I’ll meet Joaquin there. Would that work?”
“Oh, well, I guess that’s better.”
She reached for a pen and pad of paper. “What’s your address?”
He gave her his street number.
“Would eleven be good? That’s a half hour from now.”
“That’s fine. I don’t have anything else to do.”
Laura called Joaquin, who said he thought he could just fit it in before heading up into the mountains with Sophie. She offered to text him the directions she’d downloaded, but he said he didn’t need them.
“I’ll punch them into my GPS.”
“Perfect. See you in thirty.”
Laura e-mailed the directions to her smartphone and headed out.
* * *
JAVIER WAITED IMPATIENTLY on the line while Miles worked.
“Infrared LEDs—this could be a problem. I don’t know if the program can extrapolate a height or weight when it can’t get a lock on the top of his head. Oh, look, he brought an M110. Nice weapon.” More clicking. “Okay, got a great shot of him. Hang on.”
Javier paced the short length of Laura’s office, the uneasy feeling that had been building inside him growing stronger. The FBI believed it had closed this case, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that he’d seen Edwards in action, Javier would have bought it. But he had seen Edwards, and the lumbering image in his mind was nothing like the shooter in the footage.
“Yeah . . . This isn’t going to work. The software doesn’t know what to make of his head. I’m getting nothing but an error message. Sorry, man.”
¡Que mierda!
“No problem. I understand. You’ll still get that steak dinner. And the Glenfiddich.”
“Happy to help. Sorry I couldn’t do more. Interesting to watch a left-handed sniper, though. You don’t see too many of those.”
Left-handed sniper.
Javier’s stomach dropped to the floor, his heart giving a hard kick.
Why hadn’t he noticed that before?
¡Puñeta!
“I think you just gave me what I need. Thanks, man.” Without explaining, he disconnected the call and dialed McBride, hurrying for his gear.
“Hey, Corbray, what’s up?”
“It wasn’t Edwards. The sniper wasn’t Edwards. The shooter was left-handed. Edwards fired at me using his right.”
“Are you sure?”
“Look at the footage. Also, I ruled out the possibility of Edwards being behind Laura’s abduction. He was lying in the hospital in a coma at the time.”
“There went that theory. I’ll pass this along to the police. I’m on my way to the cop shop now anyway. Hunter called to say that Edwards’s social worker showed up insisting that Edwards couldn’t have done any of the things the FBI claims he did. She says he had trouble tying his shoes and struggled to live independently.”
How had Petras and his crew not ascertained that key fact?
Javier knew why.
They’d found exactly what they’d expected to find at Edwards’s apartment and hadn’t bothered to look deeper. Just as they’d done with Ali Al Zahrani.
Javier held the phone to his ear with his shoulder, loading a spare magazine with anti-personnel rounds. “Edwards may have been involved in this, but the man we’re looking for is able-bodied and fit. It can’t be a coincidence that Edwards had a beef against Laura. That has to mean something. Are we sure the alibis for his two surviving buddies are airtight?”
“I’ll get on the phone with Miami and Detroit now.”
“I’m catching a cab to the newspaper. I’ll stay with Laura until we can figure this shit out. Whoever he is, he’s still out there, and that means she’s still in danger.”
Javier ended the call, then dialed Laura’s cell.
No answer.
He left a message. “Laura, stay at the newspaper. Don’t go anywhere. Stay away from the windows. The man in the footage is not Edwards. I say again, stay at the paper. I’m on my way.”
He checked his Walther PPS and secured it in his shoulder holster. The fit wasn’t perfect, but since he didn’t have his SIG, it was going to have to do. Then he grabbed the spare key that Laura had left him, picked up the CD, and headed down to the street.
* * *
LAURA LET THE call go to voice mail, the traffic on I-25 demanding her full attention. Holly had a theory that Denver’s infamous Mousetrap was actually a psychology experiment gone awry, and this morning, Laura thought Holly might be right. There certainly seemed to be enough road rage going around.
“Hey!” She braked to avoid colliding with a car that had just cut across three lanes of traffic, heading for the I-70 exit. “Idiot.”
Twenty minutes later, she found herself staring at an expanse of undeveloped land. Surrounded by a barbed-wire fence, it had probably once been pastureland. Now it was simply vacant, its scant cover of grass dry and brown. Realizing she must have made a wrong turn, she read through the directions once again, only to find that she’d followed them precisely. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time that her browser’s maps app had been incorrect.
She stopped the car and saw that the call she’d missed had come from Javier, who had left a voice mail. Afraid she was going to be late to her meeting with Mr. Hollis, she dialed Joaquin first, hoping he’d had better luck with his GPS. His phone had just begun to ring when she heard the sound of an approaching engine. Thinking it might be him, she looked up—and saw a black van hurtling directly to
ward her.
There was no time to react, no time to be afraid. The van hit her head-on with bone-crunching force, knocking the breath from her lungs, as something hit her hard in the face—the air bag.
Stunned, she struggled to regain her breath, reaching for her cell phone, which had flown out of her hand and lay on the passenger-side floor along with the contents of her purse, including her loaded SIG.
Then a man jumped from the van.
In his hand was a rifle.
CHAPTER
29
JAVIER REACHED THE newspaper to find that Laura wasn’t there. With a knot of dread in his chest, he tried to reach her on her cell again.
No answer.
He looked out across a busy newsroom. “I need to know where Laura is.”
No one seemed to be sure.
Sophie looked over at him, still typing. “She left about a half hour ago. I think she went to meet Joaquin for a photo shoot with one of the soldiers for her VA story. Try reaching her on her cell.”
He felt his teeth grind with the effort not to shout. “I need to find Laura now. Her life is in danger, and she’s not answering her cell.”
That had their attention.
Javier was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. He instinctively fell back on that. “Sophie, call Joaquin. Find out whether Laura is with him and where they were supposed to meet.”
Sophie nodded.
Javier walked over to the desk he assumed was Laura’s—the one with balloons—and looked for a notepad that might have an address or phone number. There were several manila folders, pages of transcribed interviews, handwritten notes and spreadsheets, but no address. He roused her computer from sleep and found what he was looking for—a maps application showing an address and directions. “Is this hooked up to a printer?”
“It should come out there.” A red-haired man pointed to a bank of laser printers on the other side of the room.
Javier clicked Print and retrieved the page from the printer, half-listening to Sophie, who was speaking with Joaquin now.
A big man with curly gray hair stepped out from behind a closed office door labeled “Editor.” Laura’s boss.
“What’s going on out—”
Javier met his gaze, held up a finger for silence, then looked over at Sophie, who’d just ended the call. “Sophie?”
“Joaquin says she went to meet with a veteran named Ted Hollis, but he can’t find the address she gave him. His GPS says it doesn’t exist. He admitted he hasn’t updated for a while. He’s tried calling Laura, too. No answer.”
Javier didn’t like this.
Wherever she was, Laura was alone.
He needed to get to her now. “I need to borrow a vehicle.”
“Someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?” the editor asked.
Sophie answered, her face pale. “Laura may be missing.”
Alex stood, tossed Javier a set of keys. “Take mine. It’s a black Chevy Tahoe. I gassed up this morning. There’s body armor and an AR-15 and two loaded thirty-round mags in the back.”
Javier wasn’t even going to ask why Alex carried all that shit. An asshole like him probably needed it for self-defense. He caught the keys. “Thanks.”
He was on his way downstairs when McBride called.
“You with Laura?”
“No. She’s not here. She left a half hour ago, and she’s not answering her cell.”
“Son of a bitch!” McBride brought him quickly up to date—and the news wasn’t good. “I pulled up the files on the other men involved in the shakedown scheme and called our Miami and Detroit offices. While I was on the phone, Edwards’s social worker caught sight of the files and pointed to one of the men—Theodore Kimball.”
“He’s the one who was declared dead.”
“Right, but his remains were never recovered. The social worker swears she saw him at Edwards’s place a few weeks back. He said he was Edwards’s old army buddy. She says he introduced himself as Ted, but didn’t give a last name.”
¡Puñeta! Fuck!
Javier’s heart gave a single hard knock, fear flooding his veins like adrenaline. “The man Laura was supposed to meet is named Ted Hollis. I’ll bet my ass that’s him. I’ve got the address, and I’m on my way there now in a borrowed vehicle.”
Javier gave McBride the address and directions.
“That’s north of Denver in an undeveloped area of Adams County,” McBride said. “Hang for a minute, and I’ll pick you up in my car.”
“I can’t wait. If he’s got her, Laura doesn’t have much time.”
As he ended the call, the thought jabbed at him, a splinter in his mind.
She might already be dead.
* * *
“WAKE UP, LAURA. Rise and shine. It’s time to die.”
At first, Laura thought she was dreaming, but dreams didn’t come with throbbing headaches. She struggled to open her eyes, panic threading sluggishly through her veins. The voice was familiar. But something wasn’t right.
Someone pulled her hair, forced her head up, and gave her head a little shake, pain making her scalp tingle and temples throb. “Open your eyes.”
A man’s blurred face swam into view, blue sky and steel beams above him.
Where was she?
She’d been on her way to meet Joaquin. She’d gotten lost. There had been open fields and then . . .
The black van.
It had struck her car, and a man with a rifle had come for her. Ether. He’d drugged her and dragged her away.
She’d been abducted again.
Blind terror surged through her, her heart slamming painfully in her chest, her eyes coming open. But she must still have been drugged. Nothing she saw made sense.
She was sitting tied to a chair in a room that had no ceiling, a building without a roof, nothing above her but steel girders and sky. In front of her was a partial wall with openings in the shapes of a wide door and windows that looked out onto a lake.
Was it some kind of partially constructed building?
A hand slapped her cheek, the pain sharp.
“There you are. Come on. Snap out of it.”
Ted Hollis.
She recognized his voice now.
He loomed over her dressed in olive-colored workman’s coveralls, blue nitrile gloves on his hands, and a baseball hat on his head with little lights sewn into the bill.
Infrared LEDs. The sniper.
Ted Hollis was the sniper.
Her pulse thrummed against her eardrums, fear making her sick to her stomach. Or maybe that was another side effect of the drug.
He reached for her face. “I guess I can take this off. There’s no one out here to hear you scream anyway, except for me, of course, and I enjoy that.”
He tore something from her mouth, pain making her gasp.
A piece of duct tape.
She swallowed, her mouth dry, whether from the ether or terror, she didn’t know. “Wh-where have you taken me?”
He smiled. “Don’t you recognize me, Laura?”
“Mr. Holl—”
“No, that’s just an alias.” He smiled, clearly satisfied with himself. “I’m Theodore Kimball, one of the soldiers whose lives you destroyed.”
Her mind raced, trying to put the pieces together. Wasn’t one of Edwards’s coconspirators named Theodore Kimball?
Yes.
So Ted Hollis was Theodore Kimball.
She fought her fear. She’d been through this before, and this time she was not going to let it break her. If this was her last hour on earth, she would live it as much on her own terms as she was able, no matter what he did to her. He wanted the satisfaction of seeing her afraid, the control of hearing her plead for her life, the thrill of seeing her buckle under his cruelty. Well, she wo
uldn’t give it to him.
And with that decision, she felt herself relax, her mind clearing.
“I understand now why you didn’t want Joaquin to take your photo.” It was perfectly clear in hindsight. “You were afraid I’d recognize you. There was no reason to worry. You have a forgettable face.”
“You may have forgotten my face, but I haven’t forgotten yours.” He took her chin roughly in his hand. “All these years of living off the grid, pretending to be dead—I thought about you every day.”
She jerked her chin away. “It’s a good thing you’ve had so much practice being dead, because by tonight you’ll be dead for real.”
He backhanded her, the blow leaving her dazed, the taste of blood filling her mouth. “Don’t threaten me, Laura. I’ve been a dozen steps ahead of the cops this entire time. They still haven’t figured out half the shit I’ve done to cover my tracks.”
“Like framing poor Ali Al Zahrani?” The startled look on his face told her she’d been right about that. “They know. They just haven’t made it public yet.”
He glared at her. “You’re lying.
“I was the one who figured it out. Those searches all took place when Ali was at work. He couldn’t have been responsible for them.”
There was a spark of alarm in Kimball’s eyes, but he quickly hid it behind a grin. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. I haven’t yet told you what I plan to do with you. Aren’t you curious?”
Another attempt on his part to regain control.
“Let me guess. You want to kill me. Is that supposed to be a surprise? You’ve been trying—and failing—for weeks now.”
“Oh, much longer than that.”
A shiver slid down her spine at the tone of his voice.
“You and I are going to have a little conversation. After that, I’m going to kill you and set this house on fire. All of this is wired to blow at a touch of a button.” He held up a device with a gray button in its center and gestured toward gasoline cans she hadn’t noticed before. There were dozens of them, including one on each side of her chair. “Out the windows behind you, I have an unobstructed view of the only road into this development, so if the cops do show up, I’ll have to push the button early and let you burn alive. Either way, by the time help arrives, you’ll be incinerated.”