Before It's Too Late

by Sara Driscoll

  “Thanks. Appreciate that. Jennings out.”

  Meg picked up her tools and the roll of barbed wire and carried them down two more sections of fence to the next break. She deposited everything in the grass as the pickup rolled to a stop behind her. She turned just as the door slammed and Webb circled around the hood of the truck, carrying a basket. “This is from your mom.”

  “Is there water in there? I’m parched.”

  Webb set the basket down, turned up one of the wicker flaps, and pulled out a chilled bottle of water, frosted with condensation.

  “You’re amazing.” Meg grabbed the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and downed half of it in one continuous series of swallows. “It’s hot as hell out here. I needed that.”

  “She sent food too. Nothing too heavy, but something to keep you going.”

  “She’s amazing too.”

  “You okay?”

  “Got lots of the fence repaired. But no sign of anything or anyone suspicious.”

  She froze as her earpiece crackled to life. “Perimeter Three to comm. I’ve got a black sedan coming up Cold Spring Road.”

  Meg knew from the way Webb stiffened that he must have acquired an earpiece, as she had suggested. “You got that?”

  “Yeah. That’s not the vehicle we expected.”

  A chill snaked down Meg’s spine. “He doesn’t need the van. He’s not expecting to take me anywhere. This could be his own car.”

  The set of Webb’s rock-hard jaw spoke of his tension more eloquently than words. “He’s got to get to you first. Any other way up here besides that road?”

  “Not by car. But we don’t even know if that’s him. There aren’t many who live up the mountain here, but we aren’t the only ones. Jennings to Perimeter Three. Can you get eyes on a plate? A number or state?”

  “Negative. Too far off, but we’ll try. Stay sharp, everyone. Perimeter Three out.”

  Meg calmly bent and reached into the basket and pulled out a fat sandwich on a roll. “Want to split it with me?”

  He stared at her wide-eyed, as if not sure how she could eat at a time like this. “No. I want this guy to show up.”

  “You know you can’t be here when he does.” She took a big bite of the sandwich.

  “Yeah, I know. Eat your sandwich. I’ll scram. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  Meg took a second to chew and swallow. “Thanks for coming all the way out here. The energy boost will be just in time. I’ll eat, then get back into position. He’s got to find me first, so it could be another twenty or thirty minutes. If that’s even him.”

  She could see the conflict in his eyes, his desire to stay, to tell her one more time to be careful. But it had all been said already, and he knew she had to be out here on her own to draw the unsub out. Webb stepped back. “See you back at the house.”

  “You absolutely will.”

  She watched as he got back into the truck. He gave her one last, long look, and then drove off down the track, circling the pastures on his way back to the house.

  Meg quickly ate her sandwich, drained the bottle of water, and then finished up with a fat slice of her mother’s legendary banana bread. She removed one more bottle of water from the basket and then repacked it and set it against a fence post away from where she was working.

  “Okay, you bastard,” she murmured. “Bring it on.”

  She went back to work, but every sense was heightened—the barbed wire seemed sharper, the sun glared more brilliantly, and the warble of a bluebird, hidden in the trees thirty feet away, a vibrant exclamation of joy. She flinched when another voice boomed in her ear. Had it been that loud, only minutes before?

  “Perimeter One to comm. We’re pretty sure this is our guy and not someone who lives up here. He just parked the car, has exited the vehicle, and is coming through the trees onto the property. We have eyes on him, about five foot eleven, two-ten, baseball cap, and sunglasses. The license plate is unreadable from a distance. It’s smeared with mud, possibly on purpose.”

  “Jennings to Perimeter One. Give me his current location.”

  “He’s parked off to the side of the road, near the driveway to 2658 Cold Spring Road. And he’s walking due south through the woods.”

  Right toward me.

  Excellent.

  “Jennings, stay sharp.” Coleson’s voice this time. “He’s coming right into your area. A little east of it, but if he’s got his eyes open, he’ll find you.”

  “Roger that. Jennings out.”

  Here we go.

  She took off her right glove, freeing her hand for either her gun or her knife. She dropped the glove in the grass, took another long swig of water, and then knelt down again and started repairing yet another section of fencing, carefully keeping her bare hand away from the barbs.

  All is quiet.

  Loop the wire to tie off the broken section, repeat with the other side.

  Install the fence stretcher.

  Too quiet.

  Use the pliers to tap in new staples where the wire has been pulled from the fence post while the wire is still pulled tight. Cut a new wire section.

  Close your eyes and listen for anything moving behind you.

  Nothing.

  Bury the fencing pliers in the grass for the next use. Tie off the new section with fresh wire, winding all ends securely. Remove the stretcher. Test the new connection.

  The blow came from behind, knocking her hat off and sending her spinning into the newly repaired fence, the weight of pure rage and fury at her back driving her into the razor-sharp barbs.

  CHAPTER 26

  Kill Zone: A kill zone is a defensive fortification surrounded by barbed wire or natural barriers that is completely blanketed by defensive fire. Enemy troops are funneled or lured into the kill zone and either killed or captured.

  Thursday, June 1, 12:26 PM

  Cold Spring Haven Animal Rescue

  Cold Spring Hollow, Virginia

  Meg managed at the last second to get one gloved hand up in front of her face so her cheek was driven into worn leather instead of razor sharp steel. But the barbs bit deep into her other hand, wringing a cry of pain from her.

  The voice exploded in her ear. “He’s got her. All agents move in! Go! Go!”

  The wire bowed beneath the combined weight of their bodies, bending into the field before snapping back. Using the tensile strength of the wire to her advantage, Meg blocked out the pain and pushed off from it with both hands, throwing herself backward into the grass on top of her attacker. They hit the ground hard, and Meg struggled to get away, but her attacker had one arm around her neck and the other wrapped around her right wrist. She yanked against the hold, all while trying to roll him off balance; but as she shifted her weight to the left in a roll, he took advantage of the space between their bodies to jerk her right hand up toward the middle of her back.

  Meg screamed as her shoulder dislocated, nearly blacking out from the pain, but somehow managing to hold on. He released her now-limp arm and she continued her roll off him to the left, while frantically shaking off her heavy left glove, letting it fly off into the grass. She gagged as the arm still around her throat cut off what little air she had after the blinding pain of the shoulder injury.

  Strangulation is still suffocation.

  His final victim.

  Her field of vision started to fill with black and green patches as her oxygen level dropped dangerously low.

  She threw all her weight into one last attempt to roll off him, to change her position so her windpipe would fall into the crook of his elbow, releasing some of the killing pressure. The jerky movement shifted her sideways slightly, but he rolled with her, maintaining his hold.

  As she struggled, she put out her left hand to catch herself in the grass. But instead of grass, her hand fell onto something solid, knocking it sideways, and her fingers closed over the grips of the fencing pliers. Without a thought, she grabbed them tight and, pulling back to swing with all her
remaining strength, she buried the wickedly sharp pry claw into the flesh of his upper thigh.

  This time, it was his turn to scream in agony and the arm around her neck abruptly released. She rolled away, scrambling to her feet, gasping with the effort of pulling air through her bruised throat and into her lungs. By the time she looked up, the man was also on his feet, the pliers swinging free in his left hand, the pry claw dark and wet with blood.

  “Bitch,” he spat.

  She only had the briefest moment to take him in, but a slide show of images shot through her mind in that second.

  The silent boy standing behind Marty, staring at her with narrowed eyes.

  Coming around the corner of the house to find him crouched over a spider, systematically pulling legs from the wriggling body.

  Standing on the other side of the open doorway from him, Marty flat against the wall, out of sight, only feet away. “He’s not here, Derek. Are you sure he didn’t go down to the park?”

  Watching the man follow his German shepherd through the long grass, the dog’s head down searching for the scent trail. The harsh jerk of the leash as he tried to get the dog’s attention. The cold look in the handler’s eyes at the end of the unsuccessful trial.

  “Why, Derek?”

  The man’s eyebrows curved upward in surprise. “So you do recognize me? I wasn’t sure you would. You didn’t seem to, the last time I saw you.”

  “I didn’t then. But I know exactly who you are now.” As she talked, Meg tried to get her right arm to move. Both the large knife and her gun were on her left side for right-handed access. She could get her fingers to wiggle, but large arm movements were not possible without blinding pain. She couldn’t use her right arm with any force, assuming she could even get a knife into her right hand. She definitely wouldn’t be able to aim her gun.

  She knew then that he’d done it on purpose. This was a man who could induce an hours-long pneumothorax. Dislocating a shoulder was a snap for anyone with medical training. But the crippling results could be catastrophic. When he tried again to strangle her with his bare hands, she wouldn’t be able to fight him off.

  The key was going to be the knife in her boot, pressed against the outside of her right ankle within easy reach of her now-useless right hand. But it was also within reach of her left hand if she had about two full seconds to crouch down, reach over, and grab it. She was going to have to make that time. The agents out there were coming, but she’d planned on having the ability to fight hand-to-hand with Garber to buy herself time. He’d gotten the better of her there, but she was not out of the running.

  “Smart, not stupid.” Webb’s voice suddenly rang in her head.

  “I know exactly who you are,” she repeated. “And I even know why.”

  He held the fencing pliers up, examining them with a detached air. “Really?” His cold blue gaze snapped from the bloody pliers to her face. “Why?”

  “Because you want the glory. You want to be the guy who rides in, wearing a white hat to save the day. You want to be important. Instead, you clean up the dead and the unwanted. You’re unimportant and forgettable to anyone who crosses your path.”

  The rage with which he flung the pliers away told her more about his state of mind than actual words. Not thinking clearly. He just threw away a proven weapon. She scanned his body, seeing a lump under his sweatshirt that could be a gun in a holster. But he’s not using it. Is he keeping his hands free to wrap around my throat at any moment?

  “You know nothing about me,” he spat.

  “But I do, Derek, I do. I had a great conversation with Marty last night about you. Always did love Marty. So smart, so successful. Oh, and the funny thing? Cara was with me at the time. She was really thrilled to hear how great Marty is doing. That must be hard for you, knowing how you always paled in comparison to him.”

  His eyes narrowed to slits, but the hatred still radiated clearly. “Impossible. She died. I know she did.” Triumph glowed in his eyes. “I killed her.”

  “You’d like to think that. Unfortunately for you, the FBI has a reporter for the Washington Post in its pocket. They print what we tell them to, because that’s the kind of power we have. Oh, by the way, Julie Moore also survived. You failed, Derek, in so many ways. Wait! Let me count them.” She raised her left hand and started numbering off names on thumb and fingers. “Michelle, Cat, Karen, Julie, Cara.” She met his eyes and extended one additional finger. “Might as well add ‘Meg’ to that list, since you’ve failed here too.” She tipped her chin high and ran the fingers of her left hand over the smooth, unblemished skin of her throat. “Marty would be mortified. How does it feel to be the family failure agai—”

  With a roar, Garber leapt for her, but she was ready. As he lunged, she rolled low, pulling her injured arm close to her body. The roll took Garber down, tripping him just as he was reaching for her upper body, which was suddenly not there. Swallowing a groan of pain, she rolled over the grass, her left hand scrabbling at her pants leg and finally getting beneath, her fingers closing over the hilt of the knife. She’d just pulled it free, when he came at her again.

  He threw himself on top of her, his hands closing over her throat with crushing pressure. This time, though, she was ready for him. A swift knee between his legs had him gasping and she rolled him. As he settled beneath her, she brought the knife up, the edge of it pressed to the soft skin under his jaw. He froze, his eyes going wide with a combination of surprise, rage, and fear.

  “I suggest you let go,” she rasped. “Or I’ll end you right here.”

  His hands loosened to fall to the grass on either side of his shoulders.

  “And don’t even try going for your gun. Or maybe you should? It’ll be just the excuse I need.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw two men sprinting for her from out of the trees: Webb and McCord.

  This was her last ten seconds alone with the man who made her life hell for far too long. The knife pressed harder into Garber’s flesh and he gasped, his face going bloodless.

  This is the man who tried to kill my sister. Who threatened my parents. One “slip” of the hand and I could end it all right now.

  “Meg, put down the knife.”

  She raised half-wild eyes to Webb. He was crouched beside her, one hand partially extended toward her.

  “Hold still. I’m going to reach over to take your gun.” Webb slipped his hand under her shirt, pulling out her service weapon. He trained the weapon on Garber’s head. “Don’t move, or I won’t hesitate to shoot, you piece of shit.” He didn’t take his eyes off the man under Meg’s knife, but he gentled his voice and directed his words back to the woman holding the weapon. “We’ve got him. Let the system deal with him now. He’ll never be granted bail. He’ll never see the light of day again.”

  The hand holding the knife trembled for a second as competing definitions of “justice” warred in Meg’s head. Finally logic and training won out over raw emotion. Keeping her eyes locked on the gun in Webb’s hand, she pulled the knife away.

  “Let me take that.” McCord reached in from the other side and slipped the knife from her fingers. “Give me your hand. Let me help you up.” He held out his hand, palm up, for her.

  She slapped her left hand into his and let him tug her to her feet and off Garber. “Check him. I think he’s carrying on the right side.”

  Webb reached under the shirt with his free hand and pulled out a small handgun. He passed it over to McCord. “He never bothered to use this?”

  “No, he wanted to literally kill me with his bare hands. Asphyxiation was always his thing.” She lifted her left hand to lightly prod her throat and winced.

  “Have you got cuffs?” Webb asked Meg.

  Meg wordlessly turned and flipped up her shirt so McCord could pull out the cuffs from the small leather pouch at the small of her back. Webb and McCord turned Garber over, cuffed him, and left Garber lying facedown in the grass. Neither seemed to care much if they were a little rough
with him.

  With a shout, two agents broke from the trees, running flat out, straight for them.

  “How did you get here first?” Meg asked Webb and McCord.

  “We don’t have orders to follow.” Webb didn’t look even remotely repentant. “After I got back to the house with the truck, McCord and I decided we’d head back here on foot so we could be closer. Your dad slipped us a pair of binoculars and sent us off with directions on how to stay hidden. We both had earpieces so we knew where he was coming in and could make sure we didn’t inadvertently intercept him early. Your FBI boys were only looking for something in motion outside the property, not inside, so, in the end, we could be closer than they were because they were telling us where not to be. We watched him break from the trees and go for you and were on the move before the FBI order was given.”

  The two agents ran up, panting, and took control of the site and the suspect. In the distance, a large dust cloud announced the arrival of at least one vehicle.

  Meg stepped back to move farther out of their way, and a small moan broke inadvertently from her lips, drawing Webb’s clinical gaze.

  “Come here.” He led her about twenty feet away, into the small amount of shade along the forest line at midday. Slipping fingers under her chin, he gently tipped her head up before running his fingertips over her throat. “That’s going to be colorful tomorrow.” He ran careful hands over her shoulder. “This is the more immediate problem. I’m sure you already know it’s dislocated.”

  “The blinding pain and uselessness kind of gave it away. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was putting me out of commission from the first moment.”

  “Bastard didn’t want to use the gun he had, unless he had no choice, because he was fixated on watching the life leave your eyes while he strangled you to death with his own hands. But he knew he’d never be able to fight you and win if you were able to use your combat skills. So he used the medical training he had to cripple you. Let me fix that shoulder for you.”