so compliant?
“Gonna fuck you up,” Carter whispered to Sara. He edged into the van on his ass, dragging his stiff leg across the floor.
The driver’s side door shut. Michelle put on her seat belt. She turned on the ignition. She put both hands on the wheel. She stared straight ahead, waiting to be told what to do next.
Why?
“I just need another coupla three seconds.” Dash had managed to open the fuel door to the BMW. He pulled an emergency road flare out of his pocket. He struck the top, which was like a giant match head. Burning white sparks shot out like a sparkler.
He told Sara, “You might want to hurry.”
Sara got into the back of the van. The last thing she saw before she closed the sliding door was Dash jamming the burning flare into the mouth of the gas tank.
He jumped into the front seat. “Go.”
Michelle hit the gas. The van lurched. They took a sharp turn around the building.
Gasoline burned, but only the fumes could cause an explosion. Dash had timed it right. They were fifty yards away when the shock of the blast reached the van.
If the police found the BMW, all the forensics would be burned away.
The blood on the steering wheel. The blood on the seats. The delivery man’s body.
All gone.
“Shit,” Carter muttered. “Shit-shit-shit.” The knife had shifted despite his best efforts. He was cupping his groin. He glanced over at Sara, a helpless look in his eyes.
She looked away.
Dash called, “We good, brothers?”
“Yeah,” Vale mumbled.
“Hell, yeah,” Carter said, though his voice was hoarse.
Sara listened to the steady drone of the wheels on the road. She reached into her empty pocket. She used her thumb to methodically clean beneath her fingernails.
She had scratched Vale’s back when he fell down, gouging out rows of his skin.
At the site of the car accident, she had touched Merle’s head wound and rubbed her fingers clean on her shorts. She had run her palm across Dash’s wounded shoulder. She had transferred Hurley’s blood from the back seat of the Malibu. She would put her hand in the pool of blood seeping out of Carter’s leg when they eventually dragged her out of the van.
Sara knew the statistics. They were taking her to a second location. Statistically, her chances of survival had been cut to roughly 12 percent.
She was not going to end up like Michelle Spivey—alive, but not alive.
Whatever it took, she was going to make these men kill her. Her only job between now and then was to take a piece of them down with her.
Sara wanted her family to have closure. She wanted Will to get vengeance.
Her own sweat was on her shorts by virtue of the fact that she was wearing them. Vale’s skin cells were in the pocket. Merle’s blood would transfer from her hand. Dash’s blood. Eventually Carter’s.
Their DNA would conclusively link all four men to Sara when her body was found.
Sunday, August 4, 2:01 p.m.
“Where are they taking her?” Will grabbed Hank by the shirt and gave him a violent shake. “Tell me where, God dammit!”
Hank stared up from the bloody pulp of his face. His teeth were broken. His nose was bent to the side. His jaw was crooked.
Will scooped up the revolver from the sidewalk. He cocked the hammer. He took aim.
“Don’t shoot him!” Cathy screamed.
Will felt the same jolt of recognition. Sara’s voice, but not her voice.
“She’s gone!” Cathy gripped the shotgun with both hands, shaking with grief. “You let them steal my daughter!”
His eyes started to water. He had to squint against the sunlight.
“You did this!” Cathy stared straight at him. Straight into him. “My son-in-law would’ve never let this happen.”
Will felt her words harder than any blow he’d ever taken. He uncocked the hammer on the gun. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He forced the part of his brain that understood Cathy was right to shut down.
A siren whooped. An Atlanta police cruiser screeched to a stop ten yards away.
Will tossed the revolver onto the sidewalk. His hands went into the air. He told Cathy, “Put down the—”
“Put it down!” the cop screamed. He rested his gun on the open door of his cruiser. “Now!”
Slowly, Cathy placed the shotgun at her feet.
She raised her hands.
“I’m GBI.” Will worked to keep his tone even. “This is one of the bombers. He had a team. They abducted a wo—”
“Where’s your ID?”
“I don’t have my wallet. My badge number is 398. A woman was—” Will had to stop. Vomit had rushed up his throat. He spit it out. “A woman was abducted. Silver BMW. License plate—” Will couldn’t remember the number. His brain felt like a balloon that was trying to float away. “BMW X5 hybrid. There are four more men. Three.”
Fuck.
Will had to close his eyes to stop the world from spinning. Three men? Four? Merle’s dead body was between him and the cop. Hank had been beaten senseless.
Will said, “Three men. Call it in. BMW X5. A wo— two women abducted.”
“The radios are jammed.” The cop hesitated. He wanted to believe Will. “Phones are down. I can’t—”
Will didn’t have time for this shit.
He picked up Hank and threw him against the hood of the cruiser. He wrenched together Hank’s wrists and pinned them together with one hand. He kicked out his legs. He patted down the man’s pockets. Android phone. Folded money. Some coins. Driver’s license and an insurance card.
Will matched the photo on the license to Hank’s face. He watched the tiny letters of the name jump like fleas across the white background. He handed over both to the cop. “I don’t have my glasses.”
“Hurley,” the cop read. “Robert Jacob Hurley.”
“Hurley.” Will saw the bullet
