Even when he managed to pick it up, it took him several minutes to convince himself that the thin, flexible lockpick was real.
Sarah opened her eyes and drew a deep breath.
“Well?” Brodie asked.
Her right hand was clenched shut in her lap. Sarah held it out palm up and slowly uncurled the fingers. It was empty. Not ten minutes before, it had held a small tool designed to pick a lock.
“Son of a bitch,” Brodie said quietly.
Sarah slowed the Jeep as she neared the old church. It was very old, constructed of stone and timbers that had weathered brutal Atlantic storms for probably a hundred years or more. Yet the cross atop the steeple was still straight, even if most of the windows were gone and vegetation had encroached on the building.
It looked deserted, an appearance Sarah knew was deceptive. There were no other buildings close by, though piles of stones here and there indicated where there might have been other structures once, and a forest of tall trees reared on one side of the property so that the church stood facing the woods with its back to the sea.
Isolated by miles from the nearest habitation, it was a perfect spot for clandestine activities; a bomb could go off here and the widely scattered neighbors in the surrounding countryside would probably not even notice.
It looked bleak. And lonely. And with every sense Sarah could lay claim to, it reeked of decay.
Shadows.
She could feel them all around the place, feel their attention, their eyes on her. Feel them like the certain knowledge of something twisted and dark hiding among the rocks. And terror crawled over her flesh like the cold touch of a dead hand.
She actually stopped the Jeep and sat there for several minutes gripping the wheel. Trying to breathe evenly, to get control of her fear. Being here physically felt radically different from being here in spirit had felt, the threat to her more direct and far more deadly.
All her instincts were urging her to run, to get away. If it had been anybody but Tucker inside, she thought she would have.
Sarah drew a deep breath and, steadily, sent the Jeep forward once again. No matter what, she couldn’t allow any of them to touch her. Or Tucker. Even Brodie conceded that if they could get Tucker out of there and escape themselves, the other side would back off at least for the moment, but if Duran even guessed what Sarah was capable of, she and Tucker were dead.
The raw memory of Cait’s blood staining her hands was proof enough of an enemy that wouldn’t hesitate to kill.
She guided the Jeep to a level place near the church where a parking area might once have been and cut the engine. She got out, trying not to look too conscious of being watched. Not that it really mattered. They had to assume she knew it was a trap, particularly since she had been bluntly invited to come after Tucker. If they were as good as Brodie said they were, they would be looking past her even now, searching for the others they had to assume would be following.
It was a classical tactical move, Brodie had told her. She went in, seemingly alone, and when the enemy closed in behind her to seal the entrance of the trap, her backup would close in behind them—catching them in their own snare.
Of course, they would expect the tactic. So they were going to get it.
Sarah opened the hatch to get out the kerosene lamp she’d brought with her, then brushed her cold hands down her thighs one at a time, took a deep breath, and concentrated on enclosing her mind with the strongest walls she could build. Then she walked steadily into the church.
There was nothing easy about picking a door lock in pitch darkness, even with a lockpick. In fact, it was difficult as hell, especially with chilled, nearly numb fingers. Tucker had the feeling it was taking him too damned long to do it, but he gritted his teeth and kept working on it.
He was conscious of Sarah on the edge of his awareness, a spot of warmth he wanted to pull around him like a blanket, but kept his attention fiercely on what he was trying to do. He had no clear idea what Sarah had been through since he had left their bed at the hotel, but that brief glimpse into her mind told him that it had been rough for her, and he wasn’t about to add to her burdens.
So he had to get his ass out of this room before somebody came back here to check on him, and he had to make damned sure none of those bastards got their hands on him.
Simple enough.
But the reality made the odds against those simple goals rather high. He was still fighting his way out of the drug-induced haze, for one thing, so concentrating or even thinking clearly was a problem. He was also stiff from lying immobile for such a long time, and strength was only slowly returning to his muscles.
Dexterity was also a problem; he dropped the lockpick twice and had to feel around on the cold stone floor for it. It occurred to him that if he lost the thing he’d really be up a creek, so he tried to be more careful.
He didn’t realize what a strain the physical and mental effort was until the door finally opened and he had to hang on to the knob and just breathe for a few minutes.
It was as dark outside the room as in, though he could faintly discern a glow maybe two shades lighter than the darkness way down the corridor that stretched out straight ahead. The temptation to move toward the light was strong, but Tucker remembered his instructions and, after he’d closed and relocked the door behind him, turned right and plunged into more darkness instead.
He found the storage room on the left just where Sarah had said it would be, and for the first time wondered how on earth she knew that. Of course, she seemed to know a hell of a lot about many things, more with every day that passed, but he still wondered.
Life with Sarah was going to be very interesting.
He slipped into the room, his senses flaring out in an attempt to get some idea of what was in here with him, and closed the door softly behind him only when he was reasonably sure he was alone. From the door, he began moving very slowly along the wall clockwise. It was distinctly unsettling to be feeling his way around in pitch darkness, but it was better than just standing or sitting and waiting with no idea of what was around him.
He found out quickly enough that most of what was around him was boxes and trunks, and numerous piles of rotting furniture and apparently scrap wood.
The furniture was easy enough to identify by touch, and it cost him only one splinter and a bruise on his shin. It was much harder to make himself reach into trunks and boxes when he couldn’t see what he was about to touch, but he steeled himself and did it.
He had no intention of making things harder for Sarah, but he was also not used to feeling helpless—and he’d been helpless too long. If he could find anything that might help him get himself and Sarah out of here in one piece, then he intended to find it.
Most of the stuff in the boxes and trunks was unidentifiable; a couple of sharp, metallic edges made him glad his tetanus boosters were up to date, and he once encountered some squishy stuff he didn’t even want to think about, but mostly it seemed to be household objects and the like that might once have been packed away down here as charity contributions no one had been able to use.
Tucker agreed that most of the stuff was useless, to him anyway, and he was feeling very frustrated when he pried open a smaller box, earning himself another splinter and a jab from an undoubtedly rusty nail, and this time found bottles. Several of them.
It took him only a moment or two to realize what he’d found, and when he did, he knew he had two-thirds of a dandy weapon. If he could only find the other, necessary, third.