Chapter Twenty-Six

Nicole had expected Agent Driscoll from San Antonio, but it wasn’t just him. No fewer than three federal agents were crowded into the conference room with Brady, Owen, and Adam, and everyone stood huddled around the giant whiteboard where photographs from Aubrey’s case had been put on display.

“How can you be sure?” Brady was asking Driscoll as Nicole followed Emmet into the room. “He’s wearing shades.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Driscoll said.

“Our program can penetrate disguises,” another agent put in.

This guy was young, thin, and wore wire-rimmed glasses. Nicole had never seen him before.

“The program analyzes numerous features—some of which are impossible to cover, even with plastic surgery.” The agent pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and then pointed to a photograph taped to the whiteboard. “For example, the distance between nostrils. The placement of the ears on the side of the head. Features that are nearly impossible to alter. The program comes up with a score—a probability, if you will—and assigns it to the image.”

Nicole moved closer to the whiteboard, where someone had taped up several new photographs. She recognized a still image from the video that Liam Shaunessy had recorded on his phone. Technicians had zoomed in on the man getting out of Aubrey’s car and enhanced the picture so that the distant image looked remarkably clear.

“And this one is a high probability?” Brady asked, sounding skeptical as usual.

“Very high,” a third agent responded.

The third guy was older—probably midforties—and wore a navy windbreaker with FBI printed on the back in yellow block letters.

“We have virtually no doubt that this man is John Krueger,” he added.

“Our CSI confirms that,” Nicole said.

Everyone turned around to look at her.

“She recovered some DNA from inside the car,” she told them. “It comes back to John Krueger of Boulder, Colorado. The hit came in this morning.”

“Previously of Boulder, Colorado,” Driscoll said. “We don’t think he’s there anymore. We’ve been trying to locate him for months.”

“Why?” Emmet asked.

Driscoll glanced at the other agent, and Nicole could tell they were about to get some kind of evasive answer.

“He’s wanted in connection with something we’re investigating,” the guy in the windbreaker said.

“And you are?” Nicole asked.

“Special Agent Raddick.”

“I’m Detective Lawson. Good to meet you. What exactly is it you’re investigating?”

“I’m afraid we can’t—”

“We think he works for Malcom McVoy,” Driscoll said, earning a glare from Raddick. But Driscoll didn’t seem to care, and Nicole’s opinion of Brady’s friend immediately shot up. “Agent Raddick is with our D.C. office. He flew down this morning after John Krueger’s name came up through our facial recognition program.”

Quiet settled over the room as Nicole and everyone else absorbed the gravity of this development. This federal agent had gotten on a plane from Washington? What in the world was this about?

“And what is it McVoy does, precisely?” Brady folded his arms over his chest. “We hear his company works for the Defense Department?”

“We can’t get into details.” Raddick shot a look at Driscoll. “His work for DoD is highly sensitive.”

“Obviously, the concern is that some of his business dealings may be illegal,” Driscoll said.

“And his estranged wife knows about it,” Nicole stated. “That’s why she’s a target?”

Raddick nodded. “Possibly. We’ve been trying to locate her, hoping maybe she can tell us what she knows.”

“Well, she’s missing,” Emmet said. “We think someone grabbed her just outside her workplace this morning. Her car is still there, but she isn’t.”

“When was this?” Raddick asked.

“Twenty minutes ago,” Emmet said. “She was last seen by a co-worker inside the building. But now she’s gone.”

Driscoll cursed. Raddick pulled out his phone and started making a call.

Brady stepped over to Nicole. “You’re sure she’s gone?”

“She’s gone,” Owen said. “Alex has been trying to reach her all morning, and she’s not answering. He circled by his law office again, just in case, but no luck.”

“I have her phone number,” Nicole said. “We should do an emergency ping, see if we can locate her.”

“Do we know that she has her phone with her?” Brady asked.

“No,” Nicole said. “I mean, if she’s been kidnapped, then she probably doesn’t. But it can’t hurt to try.”

Everything was blackest black.

Even with her eyes open, Cassandra couldn’t see a thing, so she kept them closed as she tried to calm her nerves. But her usual deep breathing exercises were difficult with a strip of duct tape covering her mouth.

Don’t panic. Think!

She’d been in the back of the trunk for a while now—at least half an hour—which meant he’d definitely driven off the island. With every minute that ticked by, her panic expanded. Her heart drummed frantically, and her skin was slick with sweat.

Would Alex be looking for her by now? What about his brother, the police detective? She hoped they were searching, but even if they were, would their search extend beyond the island?

The car hit a bump, and Cassandra bit her tongue. Her heart rate spiked as she absorbed what was happening.

Malcom was going to kill her.

It was a reality, as real as the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. As soon as they got wherever they were going, it was only a matter of time.

Unlessshe could somehow come up with a plan.

A plan.

Something she could carry out from the trunk of a car, with her hands bound with zip ties and a strip of tape over her mouth.

Think.

She swished the blood with her tongue. She couldn’t spit it, so she swallowed it down, along with a hot lump of terror lodged inside her throat.

Think, think, think. You don’t have much time.

Alex would be looking for her. Calling her. Her backpack was in the front seat of the car with Malcom.

At least she thought it was. Unless he’d ditched it somewhere?

Malcom had grabbed the phone from her hand and tossed it into the dumpster behind the yoga studio. But that was her backup burner phone, the one she had kept in her locker. The phone Alex knew about was in the inside pocket of the backpack. Was the ringer on? Her thoughts were muddled, and she couldn’t remember. If it was, Malcom would have heard it by now and probably gotten rid of that phone, too.

She sucked a breath through her nose and could have sworn she smelled his cologne again. She’d smelled it in her apartment, too, but convinced herself it was her overactive imagination. So many times over the past few months, she had thought she felt his presence, and so many times she chalked it up to paranoia. But now she knew at least some of those times she hadn’t been paranoid at all—she’d been perceptive. Her subconscious brain had been picking up on danger and trying to warn her, like an animal at a watering hole sensing a predator.

Why hadn’t she listened to her instincts?

The vibrations changed pitch, and her pulse spiked again. The car was slowing. She pressed her ear to the scratchy carpet, straining to hear. The road seemed different now. Were they exiting a freeway?

They came to a stop, and she held her breath. Then they rolled forward, and she pictured him moving through an intersection.

Where is he taking me?

Tears burned her eyes, but she willed them away. What would crying do? She had to think.

The dark trunk space smelled like warm rubber. From the spare tire, probably. Was there anything else back here that she could use as a weapon? The trunk had been empty when he’d shoved her into it. And anyway, her hands were bound. She strained against the zip ties once again, but the plastic bit into her wrists. She clenched her teeth and kept pulling, tearing her skin. If she was going to die today, at least she could leave some blood behind, something for the police to find.

Oh God oh God oh God.Blood seeped from her wrists, and panic started to overtake her.

Alex was right.

She should have done something sooner. At her first inkling that something was wrong, she should have gone to the police and spilled the entire story about Malcom and his business and the phone calls she’d overheard in the middle of the night.

And her suspicions about Isabel’s death.

But she hadn’t gone to the police. She’d been too afraid. And now it was too late. What was done was done.

I’m sorry, Lucas.

Tears seeped from her eyes as she thought of her brother’s face. She thought of his crooked front tooth and warm brown eyes. She hadn’t spoken to him in almost seven months now, not even on the phone. It was the longest she’d ever gone, and a slimy ball formed in her stomach as she thought about abandoning him forever, leaving him alone in the world.

No.

She wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t give up. She gritted her teeth and strained against the zip ties until tears streamed down her cheeks.

The car slowed and then made a turn. Where were they going? So much time had elapsed. And with every minute that went by, they got farther and farther away from anyone who might be trying to find her.

She should have listened to Alex.

And even before that, she should have listened to her gut.

She should have known that no matter what she did, no matter how far she ran or where she hid, Malcom would find her and bring her back. Because he couldn’t let go. He could never let go. He was all about control.

The car slowed again and swung a left, and Cassandra’s stomach roiled. Bile filled her throat, and she swallowed it down. If she threw up now, she’d probably choke on her own vomit.

Beneath her ear, the sound of the road changed pitch. It was bumpier here, like uneven pavement. Or some crappy dirt road in the middle of nowhere. They jostled along over ruts and ridges.

Where on earth was he taking her?

She pressed her feet against the side of the car. At least she had her feet free. Maybe she could kick him in the face when he opened the trunk. It might be tantamount to suicide if he had a gun pointed at her. But she had to do something.

She needed to move her body so that she was facing out and get her legs in position to kick something. She struggled to roll onto her back, but her knees were crammed against her chest. She bent her legs back awkwardly and managed to roll toward the back of the car.

A faint glow caught her attention.

A fluorescent release pull. If she could get her hands on it, maybe she could open the trunk and jump out at a stop. Or at least get someone’s attention.

Suddenly the car turned sharply, then slammed to a halt.

Cassandra held her breath. She listened. Sweat trickled between her breasts as she tried desperately to come up with a plan.

The car shifted as the driver got out. The door slammed.

Heart pounding, Cassandra bit her tongue and waited.

Nicole emerged from the restroom to find the bullpen nearly empty.

“Where’d everyone go?” she asked the officer sitting at his computer. “Neil?”

“Huh?”

She crutched over to his cubicle, glancing at the conference room that, minutes ago, had been filled with cops. Now the door was open, and the room was empty.

“Brady and the feds and everyone else,” she said. “Where are they?”

“Uh...” He glanced over his shoulder. “I think they left? Emmet headed out the back with Owen.”

Nicole hurried down the hallway, her stomach sinking with every step. No way. They wouldn’t dare leave her behind.

Would they?

Fury swelled inside her as she pushed open the door and stared out at the employee parking lot.

A Lost Beach police car was turning out of the lot, followed by an unmarked gray sedan that probably belonged to the feds.

“No freaking way.” She pulled her phone from her pocket.

“Nicole!”

She turned, and Emmet was waving her over to a police unit on the corner.

She loped over to join him. He’d waited for her. She felt so grateful she wanted to kiss him.

He rounded the front of the car and opened the door. “Come on, we’re late.”

“Thanks for waiting.”

He shot her a look as she lowered herself inside. “Would you ever speak to me again if I hadn’t?”

He stashed her crutches in the back and then jogged around and got behind the wheel.

“So, what the hell happened?” she asked. “Where is everyone going?”

“The FBI pinged her cell phone.”

“And?”

“It bounced off a cell tower about forty miles north of here, just east of Highway 77.”

“She’s in a car with him.”

Emmet darted a glance at her as he whipped out of the parking lot. “Or her phone is in a car with him. She could be anywhere.”

“Let’s just hope she’s alive.”

The light was blinding.

Cassandra squinted into the sun as Malcom reached into the trunk.

“Let’s go,” he said, dragging her out by her bound arms. She stumbled against him as her feet hit the dirt. Then he wrenched her around.

She yelped with pain, but the sound was muffled against the duct tape. Where were they? He’d parked beside a corrugated metal wall topped with razor wire. Piles of old tires lined the base.

Cassandra looked around frantically. They seemed to be in the middle of a barren wasteland. The road nearby was made of dirt, not pavement, and there wasn’t a car or a building anywhere—just empty brown fields as far as she could see.

She darted a look at Malcom as he slammed the trunk. She made another sound—Where are we?—but it came out like a muted plea.

Ignoring her, he yanked open the back door of the car and dragged out a hard-sided case.

Cassandra’s stomach sank. She recognized the dull gray case instantly. Malcom pulled it to the patch of dirt in front of her and laid it on its side at her feet.

He crouched down and glanced at her. “You know what this is?”

She just watched him, heart racing, as he entered a passcode into a digital keypad. The case lid popped open with a quiet click that sent a rush of dread through her.

He glanced up at her, and a sinister smile spread slowly across his face.

Cassandra’s heart galloped. Her throat felt tight. She stared down into the icy blue eyes that she’d once thought were sexy, seductive, even loving.

But her husband wasn’t capable of love.

Well, he was. Self-love. It was the only kind he knew.

A gust whipped up, turning her clammy skin to ice, and she stifled a shudder. She couldn’t appear weak in front of him. That would only make it worse.

He reached into the case and pulled out a black drone. The quadcopter was surprisingly small, no bigger than a football, and he held it in the palm of his hand.

“Brand-new,” he said. “Only the best for my wife.”

She made a muffled sound. She needed the tape gone if she was going to have any hope of reasoning with him.

He stood up. His smile widened as he reached over and tugged the corner of the duct tape.

“Don’t scream, babe.”

He gave the tape a yank, and her face felt like it had been seared off. Tears sprang into her eyes, and she staggered backward.

“You were saying something?” He tossed the tape to the ground.

She tried to move her lips, but they didn’t seem to work. She ran her tongue over them and tasted glue.

“This plan...” she croaked. “It’s never going to work, Malcom.”

“Ah, but you don’t know the plan.” He smiled again, and the giddy look in his eyes chilled her to her core. “And it will work because you’ve already laid the groundwork for me by making arrangements to leave town. Thank you, by the way.”

The drone in his hand came to life with a buzz. It lifted into the air, and he tipped his head back to watch.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” He used a remote control to make it do a series of wide circles over their heads.

While he was distracted, she darted her gaze around. Where were they? Someplace isolated, obviously. She glanced back at the corrugated metal wall. The winter sun glinted off the coils of razor wire along the top. A few yards away was a rusted gate with one of those electronic keypads mounted on a pole beside it. Over the drone’s hum, she heard the faint noise of some sort of heavy machine off in the distance.

“Don’t you want to see?”

She turned to Malcom. His state-of-the-art device hovered over them, but he wasn’t admiring it anymore. His attention was on an iPad now.

Swallowing the sour taste in her mouth, she stepped over. On the tablet’s screen was a video feed showing an aerial view of the silver car and the tops of their heads.

The drone gained altitude, and she looked up to watch it sail to the other side of the wall. She glanced at the tablet, and her stomach took a nosedive.

The screen showed a hideous labyrinth of... junk, apparently. Smashed cars. Rusted appliances. Piles of rebar.

She jerked her gaze to his. “What is this?”

“Watch.”

He stepped closer, shoving the tablet in front of her, and the scent of his cologne made her want to retch.

The drone dipped lower, making her dizzy as it zoomed over rows and rows of auto carcasses, old refrigerators, rusted tractor wheels. It came to a clearing in the dirt, and then a yellow backhoe appeared on the screen. Someone in a white hard hat was operating the machine, and her heart gave a lurch. Was this someone who could help her?

“Do you like it?”

She looked up at Malcom. “Like what?”

He nodded at the screen, and the camera dipped lower. She watched the big yellow claw reach down and scoop a mound of dirt.

“What...?” Her voice trailed off as understanding dawned.

“For you, Catherine. Your final resting place.”