Chapter 27

27

YORK

E verything had happened so quickly. The explosion. Quillon shouting at me to stay down, protecting me with his body. Shots being fired. Hands dragging Quillon off me. I tried to hold on to him, but his hand was ripped from my grip, and then I was by myself. Where were the FBI agents? Where was everyone else?

Rough hands yanked me up from the car floor, and a black bag was pulled over my head. A bag? Could I even breathe? I trashed and kicked to get free, but a pair of ironclad arms wrapped around my torso, pinning mine to my sides. Wild fear filled me as I struggled against the assailant's hold, but it was like trying to wrestle a statue.

A sharp prick at my neck sent a jolt of alarm through me. Oh, shit. The world tilted, my vision blurring as if someone had smudged the edges of reality. I tried to hold on to consciousness, but my thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind.

Quillon. Oh my god, Quillon…

Darkness swallowed me whole.

The next thing I knew, unyielding metal poked in my hip, and coldness seeped through my clothes. I woke up with jarring abruptness. My hands were bound tightly behind my back, the ropes cutting into my wrists, and my ankles were similarly secured. The cloth around my head cut off every light. Where was I?

We were moving. A car. An engine growled, and the vibrations beneath me told me we were traveling at a considerable speed. Not a car. A van. The sound was different from a car. Roomier, with more echo.

My head throbbed, probably a result of whatever sedative they'd administered. At least I was still alive. They wanted me alive. I had to cling to that thought, or I'd get a panic attack. I had to remain calm.

Was Quillon okay? I hadn't seen what they'd done to him, but he would've had to have been unconscious, considering how they'd dragged him out of the car. If he hadn't been, he would've fought them tooth and nail. Please let him be okay.

He'd had a premonition. He hadn't said so in so many words, but he'd been on edge the whole time. And now his worst fear had come true. He had to be worried sick about me, just as I was in a near-panic state at the worry about him being hurt. His moss-green eyes flashed in my mind, always so alert, so alive with purpose. I couldn't bear the thought of those eyes losing their spark.

The van hit a pothole, and I winced as pain shot through my shoulder where it had collided with the unforgiving floor. Fear clawed at my insides, but I shoved it down. Being scared was a luxury I couldn't afford—not now. There was a way out of this; there had to be. I had to stay focused. I knew what they wanted, and I was also aware I wouldn't last long under torture. My only hope was to escape…or for Quillon to rescue me.

With every jostle and turn of the van, I concentrated on the sounds outside, desperate for any clue where they were taking me. Two distinct male voices came from the front, but they weren't speaking English. It sounded harsh, with rolling R s, short consonants, and no nasal sounds. Russian. Coulson had been right, then. Fuck.

We were on a highway, judging by our speed and the almost soothing rhythm of passing cars. The van swerved to the right—an exit—and my body rolled over, jostling my shoulder against something hard. Ow.

The sounds changed. Less traffic. A train passing, its horn unmistakable. We drove over the railroads. I bounced around, winced. Fewer background noises now.

How long had we been driving? How much time had passed while I'd been unconscious? It could be anywhere between minutes and hours. But surely they wouldn't risk driving for too long, would they?

The deep blast of a ship's horn blared. We were near a harbor. Seattle?

The van came to an abrupt halt, jolting me forward, and doors were flung open. With a loud clang, the sliding door opened. The men hauled me out, my feet scraping over the ground as they dragged me out. No light penetrated my blindfold. Was it still dark? It had to be.

"No sound," one of the men said. "Or we hurt you."

Subtle, it was not, but the message came across loud and clear. They wouldn't kill me, that much I knew. If that had been their goal, they could've taken me out at the house. No, they wanted me alive so they could make me spill my secrets. But I still feared their threats of pain.

I was lifted off the ground and dropped onto something hard.

"Ow!"

"Quiet."

My fingertips touched cold metal, but before I could explore any further, another sharp prick in my neck made the world tilt on its axis. Fuck. I fought against the encroaching darkness, every cell in my body screaming defiance.

Quillon…

I'm so sorry, Quillon.

Consciousness clawed its way back, dragging me through layers of groggy disorientation. My head throbbed in time with the rhythmic rocking cradling my body—a gentle sway that belied the panic gnawing at my insides. Only my arms were still bound, but in front of me, not behind my back. My legs had been untied, and my blindfold was off. Not that it did me any good. As I blinked open heavy lids, I was met with an oppressive darkness.

The second the stench of diesel fuel drafted into my nose, the truth hit. A boat. They'd taken me onto a boat. I was trapped in a windowless cabin, the constant hum of engines singing a monotonous lullaby.

Adrenaline surged, lending strength to muscles still lethargic from sedation.

"Come on, come on," I whispered, refusing to succumb to the rising tide of claustrophobia. Focus. Sucking in measured breaths through clenched teeth, I forced my brain to concentrate. There had to be variables I didn't see, elements to exploit.

"Control what you can control," I recited the mantra that had guided me through countless solitary nights of research. It grounded me, clearing the fog of fear.

I rose on shaky legs, steadying myself against the wall. Time to take inventory. I clumsily patted down my clothes with my bound hands, finding pockets emptied of anything useful. No phone, no wallet, no watch.

I shuffled around the room, searching for something—anything—that could aid in my escape. But the room yielded nothing but smooth surfaces and a door that didn't budge under my weight. Crap.

Okay, so I might not be able to escape now, but the ship had to dock eventually. And when it did, I'd have to be ready.

When the boat's engine ground to a halt, I'd lost all sense of time. Had it been a few hours or much longer? It had felt like an eternity, the dark cabin around me more like a coffin than a room. I strained my ears, listening for any clues as to where we were, but I couldn't make out anything.

The door swung open, flooding the small space with blinding daylight. Before I could so much as blink against the brightness, rough hands grabbed me, yanking me off the floor. My two captors didn't say a word, communicating through force as they shoved me forward. The second I noticed the crate, I started fighting, flinging my arms and digging my heels.

But the two men only laughed as they manhandled me into the crate. My elbow slammed against the edge, and white-hot pain seared through me, leaving me breathless. It was enough for them to push me far down and close the lid, the echo of it slamming shut behind me reverberating through my bones.

I couldn't do anything but brace myself against the walls as the crate lurched, then moved. The world outside was reduced to muffled sounds and the occasional jostle that sent shivers of unease down my spine and, from time to time, shoots of pain. The crate was offloaded from the ship and carried into a vehicle—another van, if I had to take a guess. This time, they weren't letting me out.

Time trickled by as we drove to yet another destination. By my estimate, we'd driven about an hour when we slowed down and turned onto a gravel path that crunched under the wheels. We bumped along for what felt like an eternity until, finally, the vehicle came to a stop.

During the ride, I'd had to endure the synthetic smell of oil and rubber, but as they opened the doors and carried the crate out, another scent permeated—the unmistakable odor of manure. And was that a cow mooing?

We were on a farm. I had no idea where, but farms were usually secluded. That meant fewer people to notice something odd, like a crate being carried out of a van. They walked a short while before they put me down, and the lid was taken off. I rose, but my muscles were cramped from being in a tight space for that long, and I would've fallen if one of the guys hadn't grabbed me.

"Thank you," I said automatically, and he looked at me comically. "Sorry, force of habit."

He mumbled something and the one word I could make out was amerikantsy , so he'd probably commented on me being a stupid American. Whatever.

They helped me out of the crate, untied my hands, and handed me a bottle of water and a paper bag. "Breakfast," the guy said.

Breakfast. Did that mean it was morning? When they had snatched me, it had been around eleven p.m., so how much time had passed?

Where was I? Some kind of barn.

Before I could ask or say anything, the men walked out and slammed the door shut. A bolt slid into place, locking me in. I blew out a breath.

Okay, time to take inventory. How did I feel? I had a faint headache, which was no surprise, considering the situation I was in, and my elbow hurt like a mother from where I'd banged it on the crate, but other than that, I was fine. Tired with achy muscles but otherwise fine. That was good.

My stomach growled, so I lowered myself onto the floor and checked the bag. Two bagels. I'd take it. I munched on a dry bagel and washed it down with sips of water. If they'd transported me on a ship and then by van, I had to assume I was at the location where they were planning to hold me, at least for a while. A set location meant routines, and routines were opportunities to figure out weaknesses and blind spots.

Once I had finished the bagel, I pushed myself up. They'd locked me into a barn where the smell of musty hay and manure lingered. It was a simple rectangular structure with a half-loft that had likely once held hay. The barn was empty, except for a stack of hay bales in one corner. In another corner, a crude shed had been built, maybe ten by eight feet. A storage shed for tools, maybe? The door was locked, but the wood and the lock didn't look sturdy. I would love to see what was inside. Was there any way I could get in?

I surveyed the walls, tracing the rough-hewn planks and searching for loose boards or hidden openings. Nothing. No, the door was my best bet, but to break it open, I needed leverage. I'd already checked the barn for tools, but I did it again. Nothing.

Wait, maybe in the loft? An old, rickety wooden ladder hung from two pegs on the wall, and with effort, I took it off and positioned it against the edge of the loft. I carefully climbed up and pushed two hay bales out of the way. Bingo. They might've checked the barn to make sure it was empty, but they'd forgotten about the hay loft, and now I had a pitchfork and two rusty chains to work with. Excellent.

And even better, at the top of the hay loft was a small window, likely meant for ventilation rather than view. I should be able to fit through if I managed to find a way to get up there, but then what?

I hid the pitchfork and chains under the hay bales, climbed back down, put the ladder back, made sure the floor didn't show any evidence of my activities, and sat down to eat the other bagel…and plot my way out.