by Irene Hannon
"I think this qualifies. Though I wouldn't call it hardship duty."
A soft flush suffused her cheeks. "I'd welcome the company. Now let's have that pizza"
As Rachel disappeared through the swinging doors to her kitchen, Nick contemplated the appealing Mediterranean scene on her dining room wall. He wished he could transport her to a place like that for the duration, somewhere safe and far away, where no one would need to watch her back.
Since that wasn't possible, he would do his best, as he'd promised. And in reality, there was very little chance Rachel faced imminent danger.
Yet Nick was uneasy at some deep, intuitive level.
He tried to attribute his edginess to his growing feelings for the woman who'd walked into his office-and his life-three weeks ago, clutching a tattered Raggedy Ann doll. Given how he felt about her, it was logical that any whiff of danger would put him on red alert.
But he sensed the source of his apprehension was more sinister in nature. That it had less to do with his feelings for Rachel and more to do with some peril lurking close by.
It wasn't a new feeling for Nick. He'd had hunches before. And he'd learned to trust his instincts. Though this one was vague, it was strong. And he didn't intend to ignore it.
Meaning Rachel was about to acquire a shadow.
"Hey, Allen. What are you doing at work on Saturday?"
Allen Harris looked up from the academic journal he was reading. Warren Peterson stood in his office door, bulging satchel in hand. "I should ask you that question. You never come in on the weekend'
The man shrugged and stuck his free hand in his pocket. "I got behind while I was out of town. I needed to grade some papers, and it's quieter here than at home. Caitlin had a sleepover last night for her tenth birthday, and the house is chaos. Picture this: a dozen pre-pubescent girls, the yapping puppy Joan agreed to watch for her sister, and that high-volume noise the girls call music. Joan took pity on me and shooed me out the door"
One corner of Allen's mouth quirked up, but a touch of melancholy tinged his voice. "She's one in a million, Warren"
"Don't I know it. I'll never understand what she saw in me. And talk about patience. She doesn't even get mad when I forget our anniversary, the way most wives would. Oh, that reminds me:" He set the briefcase down with a thump. "I ran into your ex in St. Louis"
That was a surprise. Allen had assumed Debra was still in Chicago. But he didn't really care where she was. Unlike Warren, he hadn't been lucky in love. His marriage had been a disaster from the beginning. He'd give ten years of his life if he could erase the three he'd been Debra's husband.
"She lives there now," Warren offered when Allen didn't respond. "Had a cute little baby in the backseat of her car. Said she was watching her for a friend"
"We don't stay in touch, Warren. How was the conference?"
"Sorry." The man flushed and bent to pick up the briefcase. "Sensitive subject, I guess. Never was good on picking up nuances. The conference was okay. A couple of interesting papers were presented. Want me to pass along the material I picked up?"
"Yes. Thanks:"
With a nod, the other man ambled off.
Swiveling toward the window, Allen stared at the lifeless winter scene. The trees were bare, the sky gray, the grass dead. It was pretty much how he'd felt after Debra entered his life and sent it spiraling out of control.
He'd called himself every kind of fool over the past few years. Told himself he should have seen through her from the beginning. But she'd been good. Very good. And very focused. She'd gone after what she'd wanted with single-minded determination, and despite his PhD, his academic honors, and his high IQ, he'd fallen for her subterfuge hook, line, and sinker.
Yet he'd had no reason to suspect her feelings for him were less than genuine. She'd flattered him with her attention from the day they'd vied for the single table remaining at a popular lunch spot and ended up agreeing to share it. He hadn't called her afterward; she'd called him. And for a thirty-eight-year-old introverted chemistry professor, that kind of attention from a lovely woman was heady. While he'd always wanted a wife and family, shyness had hindered his pursuit of that dream. Debra had made it easy. She'd charmed and teased him into marriage.
But her focus had shifted once they'd wed. In her relentless pursuit of pregnancy, he'd begun to feel more like a means to an end than a husband and partner. Their relationship went from romantic to utilitarian with a swiftness that left him reeling.
He'd tried to talk to Debra about it. Words, however, had never been his strong suit. As time passed, as she miscarried once, then twice, she'd grown frantic. He'd done his best to convince her to seek help for her emotional issues. He'd believed in the for-better/for-worse vows they'd taken. Believed he should stick by his wife despite her problems.
Except her problems hadn't exactly been run-of-the-mill. And they'd overwhelmed him, especially after the third failed pregnancy had left her barren. He'd found himself sinking with her, unable to cope, stressed to the point that his doctor prescribed Valium. His professional life had begun to suffer. He hadn't been able to sleep at night. He'd even begun to worry about his physical safety.
That was when he'd known he had to get out.
It had been a matter of survival.
In the end, much as he'd dreaded the added turmoil a breakup would cause, he'd felt as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders the day the divorce decree arrived in the mail. He'd walked out of Debra's life and never looked back. Nor did he think about her, unless prompted.
Like a few minutes ago.
And even that brief discussion had elevated his pulse.
Leaning his head against the back of his leather chair, Allen did some of the breathing exercises he'd learned in the meditation class he'd taken last fall. They were better at restoring calm than any of the tranquilizing medication he'd weaned himself off of. As was the reminder that Debra was gone. Her problems, whatever they might be these days, were no longer his.
Thank God.
With a flourish, Rachel finished the rendition of her final signature piece, "Our Love Is Here to Stay," acknowledged the smattering of applause from the patrons who'd lingered over their tea and pastries, and closed her music. She was eager to get home and call Nick, as she'd promised. That conversation would be a lovely end to a lovely weekend.
True to his word, he'd stuck close for the past two days. They'd had lunch together on Saturday, lingering in the cafe well into the afternoon as they discussed the dining room mural sketches she'd prepared for his consideration. From there they'd taken in a movie, followed by a late dinner of Chinese takeout, shared at her house.
This morning she'd gone to services with him. Again, she'd found the experience uplifting, and the minister's sermon on the sixty-first psalm had offered unexpected comfort.
Nick had planned to drop her off at tea, run a few errands, and come by for her afterward, but at the last minute Mark had paged him. The SWAT team was being called out to assist with the arrest of a high-risk suspect-and he was on it, as she'd discovered this morning. Apparently it was an ancillary duty for a select group of agents on the reactive squad. That news hadn't left her feeling warm and fuzzy. Nor had the term "high risk" Risk to whom-the suspect or the SWAT team?
He'd been evasive when she'd asked that question, his concern more for the risk to her than to himself. But she'd assured him she'd be extra careful. She'd promised to park close to the hotel entrance, go straight home, and call him on his BlackBerry as soon as she arrived.
In truth, she wasn't very worried as she retrieved her coat from the employee lounge and slipped it on. The newest Scene article hadn't incited any more contact from crazies. They must all have called after the first story. The media had been pretty quiet too. A couple of calls from local outlets, including a radio talk show, but she'd let them roll to her answering machine and hadn't returned them. Nick's concern was touching, but she was beginning to think it was the proverbial tempest
in a teapot.
Tucking her music in the crook of her arm, she pulled on her gloves and headed toward the lobby.
"Bundle up, Rachel:" The tall, portly doorman smiled and pulled the door open for her. "Last check, the temperature was fifteen. You don't want to know the wind chill:"
"Thanks for the warning, Henry" She turned up the collar of her coat. "What's the forecast?"
"Temperature is supposed to drop into the single digits after midnight:"
"Then I think I'll head home and snuggle up by the fire with a good book:"
"Sounds like a plan. See you next week:"
A gust of icy wind whipped past as Rachel stepped outside, and she burrowed deeper into the collar of her coat. As far as she was concerned, spring couldn't come too soon. She picked up her pace, anxious to crank up the heater and get home.
She was mere steps away from her car when a voice stopped her.
"Rachel Sutton?"
Turning, Rachel glanced at the person who had addressed her. From the vocal quality and build, she was sure it was a woman. But it was impossible to confirm that visually. The figure was dressed in a long, shapeless gray coat. A wool hat, pulled low, hid the hair. Oversized sunglasses obscured the upper half of the face, and a purple tweed muffler concealed the bottom half.
It was the sunglasses that set off alarm bells in Rachel's brain. The day was overcast, and what little light remained was waning. No protection from the sun's glare was needed.
She edged toward her car. "Can I help you with something?"
"I recognized you from the picture in St. Louis Scene:"
Oh, great. Another psychic groupie. The woman was probably harmless, but Rachel gave the parking lot a surreptitious sweep. Just in case. Unfortunately, the cold seemed to have driven everyone indoors. Where she wanted to be. The sooner the better.
"I'm sorry, I need to go:"
As she started to back away, the woman moved close.
Too close.
In-your-face close.
Before Rachel could jerk back, the woman grabbed her arm. Rachel gasped and lost her grip on her folder. It fell to the pavement, spewing music in all directions.
The woman cursed in her ear, and Rachel felt a jab in her side. Even through the layers of wool, she could tell the object was hard. And blunt.
"This is a gun. I'll use it unless you do exactly what I say. Pick up the music. And trust me ... one false move and you'll die on this parking lot"
This can't be happening.
As that thought ripped through Rachel's mind, a prod in her side refuted it.
"Pick up the music" A sharper jab.
Moving on autopilot, Rachel bent. Tried to grab the loose sheets. But her gloved hands fumbled the task. Nor did the trembling in her fingers help.
"Hurry!"
The woman sounded more agitated now. Rachel snatched up the music as fast as she could, fearing her assailant would become frustrated by her clumsy efforts and pull the trigger.
When she grabbed the last sheet, the woman moved beside her, her hands in her pockets. "Stand up"
Rising, Rachel hoped her shaky legs would support her. "What do you want?"
"Start walking. Over there." The woman nodded toward a side street, as if she hadn't heard Rachel's question.
Rachel tried to assess the situation, to come up with a plan of action, but the woman didn't give her a chance to unscramble her panicked thoughts.
"Move. Now" She closed the distance between them and shoved Rachel.
Stumbling, Rachel managed to put one foot in front of the other. Was the woman a psychic freak, looking for a private entree to the third dimension? A religious nut who thought psychic phenomena were an affront to the Almighty? Or had Nick's concerns been realized after all?
Was this woman Megan's kidnapper?
It didn't much matter at this point, though. What mattered was that she wasn't rational. And she was wielding a gun. Rachel didn't doubt for a minute she would use it.
But the gun was in her pocket. And a quick glance over her shoulder as they approached the end of the parking lot told Rachel the woman was distracted. Nervous. Her head was twisting back and forth as she checked out the surroundings.
Rachel scanned the area too, hoping to spot someone who might be able to come to her assistance if she called for help. No one, however, had ventured out on this bitter day. Every sensible person on the quiet residential street adjacent to the hotel was hibernating.
"Head for the black car." The woman gestured toward a latemodel sedan parked at the end of the dead-end street, backed close to a wall of shrubbery that shielded the high-end neighborhood from curious eyes.
As they drew alongside the car, Rachel heard a jingle of keys, followed by the click of the trunk release.
"Move to the back"
A sick feeling of dread swept over her, and her step faltered. In the few seconds since she'd spotted the car, she'd decided that if the woman was going to force her to drive somewhere, she'd wait until they got into traffic and ram another car. It wasn't much of a plan, but at least other people would be around. And in the shock of acceleration and impact, she might be able to wrestle the gun away from the woman.
But her assailant had other ideas.
She was going to put her in the trunk.
No way, Rachel decided. Once she was in there, she wouldn't have a chance. If she was going to die, she'd prefer to do it here. In the daylight. Putting up a fight.
As if reading her mind, the woman grabbed her free arm and twisted it behind her back, ignoring Rachel's gasp of pain. "Don't think about trying anything."
Once more, Rachel felt the blunt jab in her back. Propelled by a shove, she stumbled forward. They passed the back door. The trunk appeared. A tarp covered the bottom.
The spot where she was supposed to lie.
Rachel didn't care if the woman shot her on the spot. She wasn't getting into that trunk.
Wrenching her arm free, she spun around.
And lost her balance in the dress heels she always wore for her tea gig.
That brief moment of instability was her downfall. As the woman shoved her back against the car, Rachel groped for a handhold. Anything that would help steady her.
But as she struggled to regain her balance, she was powerless to do anything but watch the woman lift her hand. Twist. Swing toward her.
The barrel of the gun smashed against her temple.
Once.
Twice.
She staggered back.
And the world went black.
Nick checked his watch. Again.
Five o'clock.
Rachel should have called by now.
Resting one shoulder against the peeling wallpaper in the vacant first floor apartment, Nick turned his back on the other nine black-clothed men in the room. There wasn't much privacy in the SWAT team staging area, but it would have to do. He pulled out his BlackBerry and dialed her home number.
After four rings, the answering machine kicked in.
He tried her cell phone.
Same result.
Sliding the device back onto his belt, he considered his options. No way was he getting out of this duty. The guy holed up in the tenement across the street had murdered three women in as many states, and the FBI had been trying to find him for weeks. A full crew was on hand. The local police had formed an outer perimeter, while FBI agents had taken close-in positions. Snipers were in place. A negotiator was standing by. The SWAT team was suiting up. This thing was going down tonight.
Unfortunately, Nick didn't expect the arrest to happen anytime soon. They knew the guy was in the building, thanks to a tip from a reputable source, but no one had emerged from the apartment in four hours. Clearing out the adjacent units without alerting the suspect to the presence of law enforcement had taken time. Now they were using technical investigative means, including mikes, to find out if there was anyone else in the apartment who could become a hostage. If so, they'd try to make contact wi
th the subject and perhaps negotiate. The whole operation was being directed from the tactical operations center that had been set up nearby.
It was going to be a long night.
"Okay, listen up"
At Mark's command, the SWAT team members closed in on him. Nick joined the circle.
"I just talked to Steve at the TOC. It's been confirmed that there's a woman in the apartment with the subject. Blueprints of the building have been secured and are on their way over. As soon as we have them we'll put together an ops plan before the negotiator places a call and tries to talk the guy out. Any questions?" When no one responded, he continued. "Okay. Be sure you're all in full body armor and use your earpieces. Nick, I need to talk to you:" He motioned the other man to join him.
The summons surprised Nick, and he followed Mark to an adjacent empty room.
Propping his fists on his hips, Mark pinned him with an intent look. "What's up?"
Nick frowned. "What do you mean?"
"You're not with us 100 percent. This is a dangerous operation. I need full focus"
At Mark's comment, Nick's neck grew warm. He should have known Mark would pick up on his distraction. Since the former HRT member had joined the reactive squad in St. Louis and taken over leadership of the SWAT team, he'd beefed up the already rigorous training, cutting no one any slack. And his easygoing manner vanished on call-outs. As he'd told them, in the HRT he'd faced many situations where a life could be snuffed out because of a moment's lapse in concentration. As a result, he demanded focus and discipline from his team. Nick respected that-and his perceptiveness.
"I'm worried about Rachel:"
"Why?"
In a few brief sentences, Nick explained the situation. When he finished, twin furrows creased Mark's brow.
"Any chance she could have forgotten to call?"
"No"
"Okay. I'll ask Steve to have the local police run by her place, see if she's home. I'll also ask him to have one of our people contact the hotel. Find out if anyone saw her leave. Anything else you can think of?"
