“My friends will know I didn’t kill myself! You’re crazy! They won’t rest until they get the truth.”
“Your friends can make all the noise they want. You checked into the motel under your own name with your own credit card, records showing you bought a huge stash of pills back in Washington, DC, will be uncovered. You tried to build a new life for yourself in Portland, but sadly that didn’t work out. You decided to end it once and for all. The autopsy will show a lethal dosage of a commonly prescribed antidepressant in your system. No signs of violence. Oh, and there will be some very sad—very, very sad entries in your journal and in your computer. No, my dear. No one will question this and if they do, we can buy the coroner, any PI they hire, any investigative journalist. We have more money than God.”
Smug and composed, he leaned forward once again to talk to his thug.
Isabel tried to think against the rising panic. He couldn’t possibly get away with this! Could he? But then, he’d gotten away with the Massacre. He’d hidden in plain sight. The worst terrorist attack on US soil since 9/11 and no one had a clue who had orchestrated it.
Three trillion dollars had been drained from the economy, which was enough to buy off every single government bureaucrat in the chain. Of course Joe and his friends couldn’t be bought, not for anything. Nick couldn’t be bought off. And the way they spoke of him, neither could their cop friend, Bud Morrison, be bought. But it wouldn’t be the first time someone was murdered and the murderer got away free.
They’d raise a fuss and maybe some journalist or blogger would mention her.
But in the meantime, she’d be dead.
A suicide.
But—for it to be a plausible suicide by ingesting pills, the body had to show no signs of violence. If there were signs of violence on her body, even the most corrupt cop would have to investigate.
Violence like—
She banged her head against the van wall, once, twice. She changed the angle and banged her head hard against a bolt and felt skin tear. It hurt but being dead was worse. She beat her head, her shoulder against the wall, tearing at the soft fabric holding her wrists together, twisting them so that her hands started turning blue from lack of circulation.
She kicked her ankle, hard, against the bench they were sitting on. So hard blood showed through her pant leg. She kicked again.
“Hey!” Hector looked astonished. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Ankles, head, hands. She banged her shoulder against the van wall, over and over again, raking her hands over a nail, writhing, kicking. She was in a frenzy now. If they were going to kill her then by God no one was going to think she’d killed herself. No way.
She launched herself at Hector, biting him, scratching his face. There’d be his DNA under her fingernails. Talk that one away, you son of a bitch!
He understood, and tried to keep her away with his gloved hands but Isabel was having none of it. The point was not getting away. She knew she’d never escape, she could only foil his plans.
This was the man who had killed her family. The most wonderful people in the world and he’d killed them for money! Blood was running over her face from a cut in her forehead. She swiped at it and smeared it on Hector, smeared it on the van’s bench.
He was backing away from her but there was no room to avoid her. A low inhuman growl escaped her throat as she beat her bound fists against him, getting in close and unstoppable.
Screams of rage came from her throat now as she kicked, swung her fists, turned her fingers into claws, bit away a chunk of his cheek.
Blood. She tasted his blood and it drove her insane. He should bleed and he should die!
They tumbled around the back of the van as it turned corners fast, sometimes sliding on the icy roads. That was fine, that was great. The more bruises the better. She lunged forward and her elbow caught the driver on the side of the head.
“Hey!” The driver turned, eyes wide and white in the darkness. Isabel turned on him, too. He was perfectly willing to kill her and she was perfectly willing to hurt him. She shoved one foot in Blake’s face and grabbed the driver’s arm.
“You crazy, lady?” His voice was high-pitched, scared. She was right behind him, he couldn’t see her in the rearview mirror, so he was driving with his head on a swivel, watching the road and trying to see the crazy lady behind him. “The fuck? We’re on a fucking bridge, you want us to go over?”
Yes! A voice roared in her head. Explain that to the police!
She launched herself so that she was facedown on the passenger seat, Blake pulling at her legs, the driver trying to punch her but she was unpunchable. She was Isabel the unpunchable, the unstoppable, full of rage, out for revenge.
The overhead streetlights of the bridge lit the driver’s face then left it in darkness and each time it light up he looked more desperate, more wild. His one-handed punches had no effect. She could feel the van sliding on the street and with one last lunge—this one’s for you, Mom and Dad, Teddy and Rob and Jack—she pulled the steering wheel as hard as she could to the right and felt something crunch against the fender and then they were sailing, flying out into the night.
Hector and the driver screamed and Isabel savored their fear, but not for long because the van hit the surface of the river and started sinking.
* * *
The old jalopy pulled away before Joe could even get the door closed.
The car was filled with gear. The homeless guy dumped a small monitor and IR binocs in Joe’s lap. There were handguns and four Maglites in the footwell.
“Watch the screen,” he said.
Joe looked but couldn’t figure out what he was seeing. The man—Jack Delvaux—gave a disgusted noise. “I can’t believe my sister picked such a moron. Look at it, goddamned you! Blake had access to a small EMP generator, it’s the only thing that makes sense. We had intel that the Chinese had come up with something like this only we’d never seen it. But I had a hardened tracker embedded in a plastic that is indistinguishable from human skin and I slapped it onto Blake’s neck. It’s functional. Check that green dot.”
Joe looked down and sure enough, a green dot was running along the river.
“They won’t know we can follow them.” Jack looked briefly over his shoulder. “You two, you’re shooters, right?”
Metal and Jacko nodded. Metal aimed a thumb at Jacko. “He’s the best shot we’ve got. But I’m a medic, too. If anything happens to Isabel, I’m there.”
If anything happens to Isabel. Code for Isabel being shot to death, knifed to death, strangled... A pulse of fear so strong it bathed his body in sweat went through Joe’s system.
Jack shifted his eyes without moving his head. “You. Joe. Former navy SEAL. Keep your fucking head in the fucking game. That’s my sister and we’re bringing her back. Alive.”
“Yeah.” His voice was so hoarse he could hardly talk.
“Believe it. See it, live it.”
Jacko punched Joe’s shoulder from the backseat. Hard. “Yo. I can’t believe you’re letting a CIA punk give you a pep talk. ‘Smatter with you?”
“Help me on this, Joe,” Jack said, watching the road ahead. “I can’t do this without your help and the help of your friends.”
And just like that, Joe’s head was back in the game. Isabel was in danger and she needed him to be coolheaded. She needed him to be an operator, she didn’t need this sweating terrified man. He blew out a breath and checked the monitor.