Troubleshooters 02 The Defiant Hero

by Suzanne Brockmann

  She reached over and turned on the light.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

  It was John Nilsson.

  He glanced once at Razeen, then turned his attention back to Meg, taking in her messed hair and long-smudged makeup, her rumpled clothes, her gun.

  Held with a shaking hand.

  Meg used her other hand to support it, aiming directly for John’s chest. Please, God, don’t let her shoot him by accident.

  He looked as bad as she did—no, he looked worse. His eyes were rimmed with red, his chin covered with stubble.

  “God damn it,” he said. “What were you thinking? I was so goddamn sure I was going to find you dead. Give me the gun.”

  He took a step toward her.

  “Don’t come closer!”

  He stopped. Glanced again at Razeen. “Do you know who this is?” He was really angry. She’d never seen him angry before, she realized. Not like this. “This is Osman Razeen, a Kazbekistani terrorist leader. You don’t get to be a terrorist leader, Meg, by playing nice. If you give him even half a chance, he’ll slit your throat.”

  “I know who he is.” She couldn’t keep her voice from shaking. “I’m trading him to the Extremists for my daughter and grandmother.”

  “So you did lie to me. You fucking looked me in the eye and lied. The Extremists want the ambassador dead. Help me save Amy. I can’t do this on my own. Achub fi.” Save me. He shook his head, his voice getting even louder. “Jesus! I went out on a limb for you, Meg. On my good name and honor, I convinced both my CO and the FBI that you were telling the truth, that you were in trouble and wanted and needed our help.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Fuck sorry!” he shouted. He was actually shouting at her. He was livid. “Sorry doesn’t cut it when the bullshit you’ve been shoveling is way up past your head. You were just using us. You were using me. You know, Meg, when it comes to getting fucked by you, I would have preferred finishing what we started three years ago.”

  Meg flinched at the harshness of his words, but she knew she deserved that. She deserved everything he was saying, and all of his anger, too.

  He was breathing hard, and he drew in a deep breath, letting it out in a rush of air. He looked as exhausted as she’d felt when she’d stopped to sleep, six hours ago. “God damn you.”

  “God doesn’t have to,” Meg whispered.

  Some of his anger melted from his face, leaving behind . . . sorrow? “Come back with me, Meg. Please. Let the FBI find Amy.”

  “I can’t.” He was inching closer. She couldn’t actually see him move, but somehow he was getting closer. “Stop it, John! Stay back.”

  There was a sudden sharp crack, and Meg turned to see Razeen launch himself off the bed, directly at her.

  He was awake.

  It was a rather inane thought since of course he was awake—the man was in motion, in midair.

  As the world went into slo-mo, the details were suddenly crisp and clear, but her ability to react was nonexistent. She was frozen in place.

  The splintered wood from the bedframe exploded out. Razeen’s eyes were open and focused intently on her gun, his lips back in a snarl. He hit her hard, his shoulder against her right arm, and the gun went flying in a burst of pain.

  He smelled like perspiration and urine and the garlic chicken he’d had for dinner, courtesy of the FBI safe hotel. His body was heavy against hers, pushing her back against the bed. He scrambled off of her, wrists still cuffed together, going after the gun.

  She could see it, gleaming faintly, under the cheap motel desk that was attached to the wall. If Razeen got there first . . . “John!”

  He was already there, already grabbing Razeen by the jacket, flinging him back to the other side of the room. But Razeen had grabbed the desk chair, taking it with him, turning and brandishing it now as a weapon.

  Shrieking, Meg dove for the gun as Razeen swung—not at John, but at her. As her fingers closed around the cool metal of the handle, she braced herself. This was going to hurt.

  She heard the sound of breaking wood, and turned to see that John had stepped directly between Meg and the chair. He’d caught the brunt of the blow on his shoulder and back, his arm held up to protect his head. It could have killed him. Couldn’t it have? A blow like that to the head?

  She was screaming again, trying to get the gun up and aimed at Razeen, praying that John wasn’t hurt. Please God, please God . . .

  But Razeen was left defenseless, holding a useless bit of wood, and, as Meg watched, John lit into him. Two quick punches and one hard elbow to the back of the man’s head, and Razeen dropped to the floor.

  John turned back to Meg, breathing hard. “Are you all right?”

  He was bleeding. A piece of the chair had cut him—he had a gash on his right arm, by his wrist. He glanced once at it, then ignored it.

  “Oh, my God, the last thing I wanted was to put you in danger, too!” She couldn’t catch her breath. Perfect—now she was hyperventilating. She scrambled out from under the desk, gun in one hand, the other over her mouth and nose. “Stay back! I’m not kidding, John! I think you better just leave.”

  “Meg. Jesus. I’m not going to leave. Not without you.” There were splinters of wood in his hair. “What if I hadn’t been here? What if I hadn’t found you? You’d probably be dead right now.”

  How had John found her . . . ? Realization dawned and was joined by a rush of panic. “Oh my God, the FBI’s got this motel surrounded, don’t they?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, rolled both his shoulder and his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. If they were out there, I’d be talking to you through a bullhorn. They’d never let me come in here like this.”

  Meg moved to the window, peeked out through the curtain. The parking lot was nearly as deserted as it had been when she’d pulled in at noon. There was one other car out there—one with Maryland plates. It had to be John’s. Was it possible the FBI was there, but completely hidden?

  She looked at John. “How did you find me?”

  “That’s not important.”

  “Yes, it is. If it wasn’t through the FBI—”

  “I just . . . found you, Meg. I can find you. I’m good at finding you, all right? Too good, sometimes. Shit.”

  Why wouldn’t he tell her? He had to have used the FBI to track her. That had to be it. She was going to walk out that motel room door—either with or without John Nilsson, and within seconds she’d be down on her face in the gravel parking lot. Her guns would be gone, and Osman Razeen would be taken into custody.

  And Amy and Eve would die.

  Meg aimed her gun at Razeen’s head. “I think the FBI’s out there. So now I have no choice. Thanks a lot, John. Now I’ve got to kill him.” Her voice shook, her hand shook, her very soul was shaken. But if it were a choice between Razeen and Amy . . .

  She looked at Razeen’s dark hair, imagined it matted with blood. All it would take was for her to tighten her finger on this trigger.

  And this man’s life would be gone. Oh, God . . .

  “Wait,” John said. “Wait. Meg. Okay.”

  She hadn’t managed to convince herself that she could actually do this, but apparently she’d convinced John.

  “WildCard—Kenny Karmody, remember him?” he continued, talking low and fast, as if he were afraid if he spoke too loudly, she’d be startled and pull that trigger. “He just developed this new tracking system, and Sam Starrett was helping him beta test. You remember them, right?”

  She nodded. Starrett and Karmody. They’d been with John in K-stan, with Abdelaziz.

  “It was purely by chance, but Sam dropped one of the test tracking devices into your jacket pocket. I’m the only one who followed you here. I swear to you, Meg. The FBI doesn’t even know about WildCard’s system.”

  She lowered the gun. “I’m supposed to believe you came all this way all by yourself?”

  He looked at the gun, looked at her, and she knew he was going to try to t
ake it away from her. She aimed at Razeen again.

  “Sit down,” she ordered John. “Right there on the floor. Right now.”

  He sat. “Your turn, now. Lower the gun.”

  She did.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Jesus.” He took a deep breath, let it all out. “WildCard was supposed to come with me, but he couldn’t get away. Sam was on duty. I didn’t want to wait for either of them. Meg, you’ve got to believe me about this. The FBI’s not out there. I’m the only one who knows where you are. You’re not in danger, there’s no reason for you to kill Razeen. Let’s get that established here, okay?”

  Meg looked at her jacket. It was where she’d left it this morning, on the foot of the bed she’d slept in. She reached for it now, reached into the pocket and . . .

  Found a curious, round piece of metal, about the size of a watch battery. It was slightly warm to the touch.

  “That’s it,” John said. “That’s the tracking device. It worked really well. I think WildCard’s about to make a fortune with this thing. Wouldn’t that be a kick? WildCard a millionaire?”

  She dropped it onto the desk, picked up one of her boots from the floor, and crushed it.

  Meg could see from John’s eyes that he knew what that meant. She wasn’t going back with him. And he wasn’t going to be able to follow her any farther.

  “Meg, please,” he said. “If you don’t come back with me, you’re probably going to die.”

  “How can you ask me to quit?” she said, just as quietly. “I’ve come this far. . . .”

  “I don’t want you to die.”

  “I don’t want my daughter to die.”

  “Meg,” John said gently, “you’ve got to know that she’s probably already—”

  “Don’t say it!”

  “Dead.”

  No. She wouldn’t believe it. She’d pretend he didn’t say it. She had to get back on the road. And even though Razeen was still unconscious, she had to force-feed him more sleeping pills and make sure he stayed unconscious, this time all the way to Orlando.

  But first she had to figure out what to do with John. She peeked out the window again. His car was a midsized model. It would be a little uncomfortable, but it would have to do. “Give me the keys to your car.”

  He took them from his pocket. “Meg . . .”

  She let him talk, but she didn’t listen. Instead she thought of Amy. Amy who wasn’t dead. Who couldn’t be dead. Whom she wouldn’t allow to be dead, god damn it.

  She thought of Amy as she made John empty three sleeping pills into a glass of water, as he carefully poured the mixture down Razeen’s throat.

  It occurred to her as he did that that she probably shouldn’t let John touch Razeen—in case he had more of those tracking devices. She didn’t want him planting one on either of them.

  So instead of having John load Razeen into the back of her car, she left the unconscious terrorist on the floor of the room. Still focusing on Amy, she led John at gunpoint across the deserted parking lot. It was starting to rain, a cold, relentless drizzle that mirrored her emotions perfectly. She thought of Amy as she used John’s keys to open the trunk of his car. She thought of Amy as she ordered him inside that trunk.

  “I’m sorry,” she said as she locked him in, then threw his keys way out into the woods.

  It started to pour, and she hurried back into the motel room. A quick trip to the bathroom, and then she’d wrestle Razeen into the car and be back on the road.

  Eve had to go to the bathroom.

  It had come down to a toss-up between what would upset their captors more—asking to use the facilities, or wetting their pants.

  She’d considered simply asking to be allowed to go outside to relieve themselves, but she was afraid once outside, it would be easier simply to take them into the swamp and kill them, rather than bringing them back inside.

  She’d had ten more butterscotch candies left.

  She’d offered one to the Bear, even though that would be one less candy she could give to Amy. “We need to use a bathroom.”

  He’d looked at the candy, looked at her, then had silently turned and gone upstairs.

  Eve gave one of the candies to Amy and put the last ones back in her pocket as she listened to the sudden sharp voices from upstairs. The Bear had gone to talk to the woman.

  She’d held tightly to Amy. Please God, if you’re real, if you’re up there, now would be the perfect time for that helicopter of SEALs to appear over the house. They’d be sliding down on ropes and . . .

  The upstairs door opened, and the Bear came back down the stairs. He was a big man with big feet, and she’d come to recognize the sound of his footsteps.

  He came into the room, cut the ropes around their ankles, and gestured for them to follow. His face was grim, and for a moment, Eve didn’t know if they were going to the bathroom or out into the swamp. This man liked them, she was almost positive that he did. Wouldn’t it be the ultimate irony, a double tragedy, if he’d been the one ordered to kill them? And he would do it, too. He’d have to, or the others would kill him.

  But they went to the stairs instead of out into the swamp.

  He wouldn’t take them upstairs if he was going to kill them.

  Thank God, they were going to live another day.

  Amy went quickly up, but Eve took her time despite her need to reach the loo immediately. She slowly pulled herself up by the banister, taking one step at a time, well aware that the man who’d nearly pushed her up the stairs to the house had pulled himself away from the TV in the kitchen to watch.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m going as fast as I can.”

  “Not that one,” Bear said sharply as Amy started for a bathroom that was near the top of the stairs. “Your using that would make it unclean. There’s another here, in the back.”

  That’s why they’d come all the way upstairs. There was a small lavatory off the kitchen that the men all used. One for the men, one for the woman, and one for the infidels. Good thing there were three bathrooms in the house, or she and Amy probably would have been taken into the swamp and killed.

  The thought was chilling.

  Eve shuffled down the hall after Amy and the Bear. Amy had stopped short in the doorway to a room.

  It was crusted with dirt, the formerly white tile dingy and gray—brown in some places. But it had a toilet, disgusting as it was.

  And a window. There was a window on the far side of the tub.

  “Thank you,” Eve told the Bear. She took Amy’s hand and pulled the girl inside, shutting the door behind them.

  Amy was eyeing the toilet. There was no seat, no paper.

  But they’d both been camping. It was hardly worse than some of the latrines they’d used. Eve went first, and after she washed up, she left the water running in the sink. Holding her finger to her lips, she looked at Amy, then stepped into the bathtub to take a closer look at the window.

  It was old, with a wooden frame and a torn screen. It had been painted shut, but that paint was blistered and peeling, the wood rotting from the humidity.

  Eve pushed at it gently, to see if it would open.

  It gave, but just a little. With Amy’s help, she could surely haul it open, but it would make an enormous amount of noise.

  And once it was opened, then what? They were on the second floor. Sprout wings and fly to the ground?

  Eve wet her fingers again in the sink and rubbed at the grime in one corner of the window so she could peek outside.

  The very back of the house—the kitchen—was a single-story addition to the original structure. It extended out beyond this bathroom, its roof providing a place to stand after exiting through the window. Still, that roof was pretty steep. Although there was some kind of back porch down at the end. If they could make it that far, they could use the railing to climb down and . . .

  If they could make it that far.

  She couldn’t even figure out a way to get the window open without everyone
in the house knowing about it.

  Eve climbed out of the tub, checking to make sure she’d left no footprints behind. There was a torn plastic shower curtain half hanging from a bar, and she pulled it mostly closed. That would hide the window from the Bear’s view when they opened the door.

  The trip downstairs was as slow and labored as it had been going up. But finally they were back in their room. As Eve lowered herself carefully back onto the floor, the Bear didn’t bother to tie their ankles together again. No doubt he was thinking that her bad hip kept them tethered. Good.