her last position. I’m staying with the target.”
The sun sank fast behind the surrounding buildings. Darkness was just as much their enemy as the kidnappers. Once the fireworks began, it would be hard keeping the woman in sight. They had to stay alert and not lose the target in the crowd, even while restrained to the meandering pace set by the woman pushing the stroller.
Wouldn’t she be in a hurry to leave?
The money headed toward the middle of the activities, the center of a field of picnic blankets, lawn chairs and kids with glow-in-the-dark necklaces. Steve had his agents in place, but the large perimeter stretched their coverage. Their target was cut off completely by a man-made lake on the southeast side of the field. The kidnappers had chosen an ideal time and place to run their game.
“Where the heck is she going?”
“I’ve got nothing,” George answered. “The monorail blocks my view of the other side of the lake. Who builds a lake in the middle of a business district anyway?”
“Apparently the city of Las Colinas,” Winstrop mumbled.
“Cut the chatter,” Steve commanded. “Keep your eyes open. Our area is overextended, and you guys know the Irving cops and highway patrol already have their hands full monitoring the crowd. Anyone see Stubblefield?” Blast it. Her first assignment after moving back to his team, and she wasn’t following protocol. Terrific.
He needed to sort the facts and disconnect from the team’s challenges. Thomas Brant Jr., son of the computer mogul, age twenty-nine months, had been snatched July 3 from his mother’s arms just outside their Dallas home. One computer-generated note—free of fingerprints or any other identifying marks—left next to her unconscious body and broken arm. Intentionally broken by the monster abducting her son.
One million. Large bills. Unmarked.
Packed in small bag in kid’s stroller.
Cover with blue blanket.
Williams Square, Irving Fireworks, 8:00 p.m.
No payment and he gets the same as the mother.
Their only lead was to follow the money.
Three adults and two children blocked Steve’s view of the target. She stood five feet from the lake. He stood fifteen feet behind her, within his reach, but the sky was completely dark.
Time was up.
“Any word on Stubblefield?” Everyone rose or stopped walking as the national anthem began. Some placed their hands over their hearts, and some sang their pride off-key, especially the guy in front of him. Pushing his respect aside, he concentrated on the target. He could see the white of her knuckles from her tight grip on the guide bar of the stroller.
“I’m here,” Stubblefield said, out of breath. “I’m trailing a suspicious teenager and lost radio contact.”
“I no longer have a lock on the target,” George interrupted. “Too many civilians in the way.”
Steve inventoried his target—small frame, hair stuffed under a floppy hat, a drawstring bag looped over both shoulders, flip-flops, and a red, white and blue oversize shirt that hung to the edge of her tight, blue jean shorts.
Flip-flops?
Why would someone prepared to grab the money and run wear flip-flops?
The first rocket exploded. The hushed awe now shattered by the pops, sizzles and crackles of fireworks. Steve didn’t let the noise distract him. He stared at the woman’s slender ankles and bright red toenails. They moved.
Closer to the lake.
“She’s going in the water!” he shouted to his team.
Shoving through two cowboys, he snatched the stroller. Frightened blue eyes turned to him. Familiar eyes.
It couldn’t be…
A prick burned his forearm. He heard “I’m sorry” from a voice he remembered only too well. Her hands grabbed at his belt before he realized his knees had buckled and he crashed into her body. The ground meeting his shoulder didn’t cause him pain, which was odd. There should have been a jolt.
Had he been shot?
A blurry image waved off the concerned men. The world swirled around him, lit by the white and silver rockets exploding over his head. Her hands shifted from his chest to the bag of money, where she unrolled…a hose? No, a breathing tube. She replaced the bag on her back as quickly as the shoes came off her feet.
“George.” He struggled with words, unable to force his mouth or hands to move.
“He just collapsed,” she told the men around her. Then she forced something into his hand. “I’m really sorry, Steve. Here’s the antidote. The paralysis is only temporary.”
Damn, it was his Jane. What was she doing here?
“I’ll guide the paramedics here,” she said, but he knew she wouldn’t.
Dr. Jane Palmer, chemist, genius, ex-lover. Not exactly who he thought he’d be tracking tonight.
Barely able to turn his head, he caught sight of her sliding into the lake. No one paid any attention. The men were still shaking him, attempting to get a response. He couldn’t move his pinkie, let alone follow. Jane disappeared in the water as the two guys trying to help him drew a crowd.
He struggled to keep his eyelids open. The guys shook him harder, as his team screamed “man down” and called for an ambulance. George shouted that the target was underwater and someone needed to follow her.
“Get out of the way!” Windstrom reached him first. The grass swished near Steve’s ear before a friendly hand landed on his chest. “Woods? Can you hear me? Lanning, where are the EMTs? He’s barely breathing.”
“Where’s he shot?”
“I can’t find a wound.” He pried Steve’s fingers away from whatever Jane had placed in his fist. “Wait a minute. It’s a note addressed to Zaphod? God, it’s instructions to administer an antidote. There’s a hypo here. Should I do it? George?”
Zaphod?
Steve heard the voices. Everything in his brain seemed to work, but he couldn’t focus past the blur in his eyes or force his mouth to move.
He wasn’t about to die until he figured out why and how Jane was involved in this kidnapping.
THANK GOD SHE COULD FIGURE out the breathing apparatus. If she had more than four minutes to make the underwater swim, Jane would question the motives of the universe. Question why the one man she prayed would rescue her, lay paralyzed from her drug 9RW6.
Special Agent Steve Woods. It had been almost four years.
She capped the flood of emotions that would block her from thinking clearly. She couldn’t breathe from the pony tank and cry at the same time anyway. She kicked harder. Suppressed anger and frustration made her stronger with every stroke.
Rory
