Her eyes narrow. “Who are you? I don’t remember you being part of my catering crew.”
I shrug off the apron and hang it on the knob. “I’m not. I’m just a fill-in for tonight.” Leaving the kitchen, I call over my shoulder, “Sorry about the champagne.”
As I slip out the front door with the other guests, my ears perk at snatches of conversation from the brightly painted women.
“Poor man. First his wife. Now his son. It’s a wonder he was able to celebrate at all tonight after what happened today in the Square.”
“Such a shame. He receives death threats all the time. I bet it was another one. Or maybe a bomb threat.”
And my favorite one.
“Did you get a look at that Zane Ryder? He is delicious. I’d love to take a bite out of him. Too bad he’s marrying that robot.”
I struggle to suppress a smile. For some odd reason, it gives me great pleasure to hear Arian referred to as a robot.
***
I hear the car before I see it. A black Land Rover with dark tinted windows.
The door opens, and strong arms grab me from behind and pull me in the back. I don’t have time to scream. I barely have time to breathe.
My heart pounds loudly in my ears when Radcliffe gives me a wicked grin.
“Well, Miss Preston, seems like we had a minor mishap tonight.”
“I don’t suppose you know anything about that,” I accuse.
He smirks. “What are you implying, Miss Preston?”
I glare at him. For a moment, I wish I were taller, bigger, and stronger so I could wipe the smirk off his face. “Look, I did what you asked me to do. I snuck into the party—”
“But you did not deliver. Harlow Ryder is still alive. Am I correct?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then it appears your job isn’t finished. Not yet.” His beady eyes bore into mine as if he is the vulture and I am the prey. The two goons from the other day twist their heads from the front seat and sneer.
He clicks on a comscreen. “And to prove it to you…”
An image of my sister, asleep in her bed, her honey-colored hair fanning around her head like angel wings, comes on the screen.
My teeth grind against each other as I glare at Radcliffe. “If you hurt her, I swear—”
“Now, now, Miss Preston. Your sister is safe. For now. And as long as you do what you’re supposed to, she and your mother will remain unharmed.” He leans toward me, his lips curling into a sneer. “However, if you don’t complete your assignment… Well, I can’t make any promises about their safety.”
“My mother is sick,” I choke out. “She needs to be cared for. Please, just let her go and I’ll do anything.”
“Sure. I’ll let your mother go when Harlow Ryder is dead. End of discussion.” He stares at me, challenging me to refute him.
“Since you failed,” he continues, “we’ll have to try a different tactic.”
I hate the way he says we, implying we are working together for a common cause. And I don’t like the look he’s giving me. Like I’m disposable. A liability. Once this is over, they have no reason to keep me around. To keep my mom or me alive.
From a compartment, Radcliffe pulls out a needle the size of a horse tranquilizer.
Fear surges through me, turning my insides to ice. I try to swallow, but there isn’t enough spit in my mouth to wet anything, like I’ve swallowed a handful of cotton balls. I eye the door handle, wondering if I can escape.
“This tracker will keep a tab on your whereabouts.” Radcliffe grabs my arm. Even though I want to fight him, I don’t. He has my mother so he will always have the upper hand. I am merely his puppet. “Try not to scream, okay?” He flashes me a twisted smile.
The inside of my forearm is exposed. I turn away so I can’t see it, but I feel the cool tip of the needle press against my skin. Pressure builds at that spot until it breaks through, and pain shoots up my arm. I bite my tongue to keep from crying out and suck down the irony taste of blood. Something hard and cold slides into place under my skin before the needle is removed. The pressure is gone, but the discomfort remains.
“Now, I’ll have eyes on you always,” Radcliffe says.
The very thought creeps me out.
Radcliffe pulls another vial of poison from his pocket and hands it to me before reaching over and pushing the door open. I hurl myself out before he can change his mind, and then sprint down the street to where my mother’s car sits. I want to scream. I want to hit something. I want to run forever.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Heart thrumming against my ribs, I bang open the door to my trailer.
“Is Emily okay?” I burst out.
“She’s fine. Just fine.” Mrs. Locke smiles from her perch on a kitchen chair and shuffles to her feet. Emily is sitting at the table eating crackers. I choke back a sob and gather her in my arms, breathing in the scent of her. She smells sweet like strawberries, and her blonde curls tickle my nose.
“Oh, thank God,” I murmur into her ringlets.
“She woke up just a few minutes ago. Had a bad dream or something. I thought the crackers would calm her.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Mrs. Locke.”
The old woman smiles. “Anytime, dear. Anytime.”
I help Mrs. Locke out the door and watch as she walks across the yard to her own trailer. When I’m certain she’s made it inside and locked the door, I turn back to Emily.
“Time for bed, Em.”
Once Emily is back in bed and her pink comforter is tucked under her chin, I sink onto the couch in the living room. I finger the spot where Radcliffe inserted the tracker in my arm. It’s still a little sore.
Scanning the inside of our trailer, I weigh my options. I didn’t deliver Harlow Ryder as a dead man, and now, it’s only a matter of time before Radcliffe makes good on his promise. Emily’s safe for now, but for how long? One thing is certain—I can’t just sit around and wait for Radcliffe to cart her away too. Hell no. If he wants to fight, I’ll bring the ring to him.
***
The next morning, the sun is barely high in the sky before I drop Emily off at Mrs. Locke’s trailer. Straddling my bike, I dial Chaz’s number, hardly daring to breathe until he answers.
“Sienna—”
I cut him off. “Chaz. A military colonel kidnapped my mother. I need to know where he might be holding her. Can you help me?”
Chaz’s eyes widen, and his face moves up and down as he makes his way to a computer. “That might be difficult, Sienna. Their site is extremely secure, and I don’t think they—”
“Just try. Please. His name is Radcliffe. George Radcliffe.”
Chaz is quiet for a few minutes. Concentration lines his face as his fingers rapidly click the keyboard keys. “I think I have something.” He glances at me. “I infiltrated the government site, and it looks like Radcliffe and his men are holed up in an underground bunker.”
“Do you know where it is?”
Chaz frowns, and I hear his fingers flying over the keys again. “This infrared satellite image shows this as the only bunker in the area, so it has to be the one.”
“Send it to me.”
Chaz hesitates. “You’re not gonna do anything stupid, are you?”
“Like what?”
“Like get yourself killed?”
“I’ll try not to. Now, please, send me those coordinates.”
The moment my Lynk buzzes, I thank Chaz, pocket the device, and rev the engine.
On the open road, my hair whips against my cheeks, stinging my skin. The heat presses down on me, the sun glaring from a cloudless sky.
All I know from the map Chaz sent is that the bunker is deep in the desert, beyond civilization.
After riding for a while, my Lynk beeps, indicating I’ve hit the coordinates. I slow my bike to a stop. If they’re tracking me, they’ll know I’m here.
Glancing around, I scan the horizon. All I see are brown mountains, orange dirt,
and sparse desert plants of cacti, Joshua trees, and the spiky mound of leaves of the banana yucca. There is no sign of a building, no sign of people, and certainly no sign of a government bunker.
As I turn to my right, something catches my eye. At first, I think I’m hallucinating, that the desert heat is producing a mirage of some sort.
A gray concrete building, not much larger than an outhouse, rises from the ground. I blink a few times, but sure enough, it’s there. Once it’s completed its ascent above ground, two armed men step from the doorway.
The men are young, not much older than I am. They must be hot in their dark pants and gray T-shirts. Their hands cradle large guns that they raise in warning as I hop off my bike and walk toward them. I suddenly wish I owned a gun, to make it fair.
“Stop right there,” they call out.
Stopping, I lift my hands in surrender. They walk toward me, their guns trained on my chest.
“Who are you?” the one with curly dark hair demands, his face hard.
I lower my hands. “You have my mother. I want her back.”
Curly scowls. “Who’s your mother?”
“Vivian Preston.”
He stares at me with narrowed eyes. When he doesn’t say anything, I continue. “You know, bright red hair. Green eyes. She looks like me, except older.”
Curly throws a glance at his buddy, the guy with a deep scar above his eyebrow. “Ever seen a woman like that?” Curly calls to him.
“Nope. Only person I’ve seen with that description is standing right here in front of us.”
My temper flares. Before I can stop myself, I scream out, “You have her; I know you do!”
I hear the click of their guns, and I force myself to get control. It does me no good to get shot while trying to rescue my mother.
“Let me speak to your leader. Radcliffe, isn’t it?”
The two men stare at me as if I’ve just escaped the loony bin.
“Miss, I have no idea who you’re referring to.” Curly laughs, shaking his head. He gives me a look of pity. “Where did you come from? Alpine House? Wayfair Springs?”
My face flushes in embarrassment. He’s naming mental hospitals.
“Your leader, Radcliffe, kidnapped my mother.” I lower my voice in an attempt to sound threatening. “I want her back. Now.”
Curly shakes his head again and grabs his radio from his belt. He walks a few feet away, speaking low into the transmitter. The man with the scar keeps his gun trained on me but glances over his shoulder every few seconds to see when Curly will return. After a few moments, Curly replaces the radio and rejoins us.
“He’s on his way,” he says.
As I wait, my mind screams. I swear, if Radcliffe has hurt one hair on my mother’s head…
The man who exits the gray building and walks across the desert sand is not the man I expect. This man is not Radcliffe. In fact, he’s barely a man at all.
Not more than twenty-one, the man walking toward me is well built, with broad shoulders and a trim waist. As he nears us, smiling, I recognize the face that is too attractive to be an assassin. With deep-set eyes, a strong jaw, and a dimpled smile, Trey Winchester is not who I expect to see.
“That’s not Radcliffe.”
“No, it’s not,” Curly says. “But you asked to see our leader, and here he is.”
Trey has a slight swagger to his walk, which can only be explained by an excess of confidence.
“Sienna…” He smiles. “Did you decide to join the Fringe?”
My head spins in confusion. “The Fringe? I don’t understand—” I glance around. “Is this the Fringe Compound?”
“Yes. What did you expect?” Trey’s eyebrows furrow, and he glances at his companions, who shrug their shoulders.
I shake my head. “The government bunker. Chaz was supposed to—” Then it hits me. “That lying little punk.”
Trey laughs. “What did he do?”
“He gave me the coordinates to the Fringe Compound instead of the government bunker.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but when I find out, he’ll be limping for a month,” I say, seething.
Trey cocks his head to the side. “Why are you trying to locate the bunker?”
“That military colonel, Radcliffe, abducted my mother. I think they might be holding her there.” Something Curly said earlier claws its way to the front of my mind. “You’re the leader of the Fringe?”
Trey nods and squares his shoulders, probably an unconscious gesture. “My father was Bryant Winchester, former leader of the Fringe Organization. When he died two years ago, I took his place.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that when you got me out of the government facility?”
Trey glances nervously at his fellow Fringe companions, and Curly’s eyebrows rise in interest. Trey grabs my elbow and steers me away from the other two boys.
“In case Radcliffe got to you again,” Trey says. “I didn’t want you to carry the weight of knowing the leader of the Fringe. This Radcliffe guy would have my head if he ever caught me. And he probably would do the same to you if he knew you were associated with me.”
“That’s why you were upset when they took your fingerprints?”
“Exactly. The Enforcers and other government officials have been trying to track our location for years. Once he realizes how close he was to the leader of the Fringe… Well, let’s just say he’s probably kicking himself now.”
Another thought pops into my mind. “Wait. How did Chaz know the location of your Compound?”
Trey grins, showing off his chin dimple. “Because he’s part of the Fringe.”
My mouth falls open. “Come again?”
“You didn’t know that, did you?” He laughs. “Yeah, Chaz is one of us.”
Now I’m really going to kill Chaz for keeping that from me. Why didn’t he tell me?
“I recruited him a couple of years ago when I found out about his mad computer skills,” Trey says, his eyes glazing over in admiration. “He’s phenomenal.”
“So, the night of the Match 360 break-in—”
Trey nods. “Yep, I knew he was helping you. He’s the one who suggested you for the job.”
Now it’s all starting to make sense. Wow, I never pictured Chaz as a liar, but it turns out, he’s fairly convincing. In fact, he’s almost as good as I am. Almost.
My mind shifts to my mother and the scumbag who took her. “Do you have any idea where this government bunker is located?”
He slowly shakes his head. “I don’t. But if you need help—”
“Thanks,” I say quickly, “but I prefer to work alone.” I also don’t want to be responsible for the takedown of the leader of the Fringe.
Trey moves closer. “Well, if you change your mind, you’re welcome to join us. We could always use another extractor.” He smiles. “I think you’d be good at it.”
Extractor?
“Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m Fringe material,” I say. “But thanks.”
Climbing on my bike, I rev the engine. All three men stare at my Harley with lustful eyes, like they’re mesmerized by a picture of a scantily clad woman. I roll my eyes, but of course, they don’t notice. They are too busy eyeing her sleek, chrome frame and smooth handlebars. She is a beauty. Even I can admit that.
Once I’m a good distance from the Compound, I pull off the road where the obnoxious weeds choke the grass and any other living thing that tries to grow. I feel like those blades of grass, being choked out by circumstances beyond my control.
I have to find Mom. If she’s hurt because of me, I’ll never forgive myself.
I hear a noise behind me and turn in time to see a black SUV barreling in my direction. Revving the engine, I take off through the weeds and into the desert landscape. On a bike, I have the advantage. I can easily maneuver past underbrush, cactus plants, and oversized rocks, but for a car, that should prove to be more difficult.
My heart pounds in my ears as my b
ike speeds over the sand. I should be losing them, but when I check over my shoulder, they are only feet behind me. The windshield is too dark to see inside, but I recognize the vehicle. The one I was forced into. The one that took my mother. I’m certain if I could see inside the car, I would see the two goons in the front seat and thick-necked Radcliffe in the back.
I steer the bike around a grouping of large rocks, dirt hitting my leg as my tire catches the loose earth. I glance behind me again. Thankfully, they’ve pulled back a little. Confidence surges, but when I turn back around, a large Joshua tree looms in front of me. I swerve too quickly, and then I’m sliding. Losing control. The bike tips sideways and the searing heat of the exhaust pipe scorches my leg through my pants. I don’t even have time to scream. I’m knocked to the ground, my right leg trapped beneath the hot bike as we skid twenty feet across the sparse grass and grainy sand.
I lay there, the sun blinding my eyes, creating a giant ring of white in the sky. Pain radiates from my head to my toes, and I close my eyes until I sense the presence of someone else. He casts a shadow over me, a small respite from the sweltering heat.
Instead of the harsh voice of Radcliffe, I hear the nasally voice of one of his goons.
“Whoa, that was a purty big crash,” he drawls.
“Is she conscious?” the other goon asks.
Both of them crowd out the sun. When I peer into the sky, all I see are two dark shapes hovering over me.
Pressure builds on my legs, and then sweet release follows as the bike is lifted. I fear my leg may be broken, and I don’t even want to think about the searing pain radiating up my calf. It’s the opposite leg from the laser-gun burn, which means I can now boast about matching scars.
Groaning in pain, I struggle to sit, but darkness crowds my vision, and everything goes black.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The moment my body hits the concrete floor, my eyes fling open. There’s a grating sound, like something metal moving along a track, and then a door chinks closed. As my eyes adjust to the dimly lit space, I realize I’m in a small cell, and one of Radcliffe’s men is leering at me from the other side of the bars.
Catalyst Page 8
