Far Gone (36 page)

Andrea stepped over. She dropped into a crouch beside him and tried to look relaxed, despite the adrenaline rushing through her body.

“Taken down by a girl, Shay. What will people think?” She dug into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out the bullet she’d been carrying. She held it out in her palm. “Think you left something in my room.”

A predatory gleam came into his eyes. “I watched you in the shower.”

“Yeah? See anything you like?”

“I should have put a bullet between your tits when I had the chance.”

She leaned closer, taunting him, daring him to brag. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. Despite the cool defiance, she could smell the fear coming off his skin.

There was more going on here. This wasn’t over.

“Where’s the truck, Shay?”

He stared at her.

“Do yourself a favor, and tell us where it is.”

White-hot hatred simmered in his eyes. She saw the burning need to boast, to prove that although he was on the ground and handcuffed, he was still smarter than everyone.

Come on, Shay. Give in to the urge.

Tires skidded behind her, breaking the spell. She glanced over her shoulder to see an FBI sedan and a trio of DPS cars pulling up.

She looked at Hardin again. He made a wet hawking sound and spit on her shoes.

♦

The governor’s estate was mayhem. Patrol cars, DPS units, and even a few sheriff’s cruisers were parked haphazardly along the perimeter. Several red ladder trucks blocked the side streets, and troopers were hustling around with barricades, evacuating civilians and forming a perimeter around the perceived danger zone.

“Tell me if you see an armored vehicle,” Jon ordered. “Our bomb unit should be here by now.”

They reached a manned barricade. He waved his ID at a DPS officer as they jogged to the northeast corner of the governor’s estate.

Andrea scanned the area for a possible truck bomb. She stopped short as she saw a group of schoolkids being hustled from the Capitol.

“Holy Christ,” she murmured. They’d probably been on a field trip, and now they were in the epicenter of a terrorist attack. She spied their buses . . . one, two, three in a line, probably more than a hundred kids. Her heart squeezed as she glanced around, desperately looking for a white cargo truck.

“See anything?” Jon demanded.

“Two white vans behind the mansion.”

“Caterers. We checked them.”

She darted her gaze around, searching for all the white vans she’d listed off earlier.

“There!” She grabbed his arm. “The alley! That wasn’t there before.”

Jon unholstered his weapon, and Andrea did the same as they jogged toward the truck, picking up speed as they cataloged the same suspicious details: parked in the alley, no taillights, no driver visible nearby.

“Jon, this is it. Has to be.” Her nerves jumped as they reached the truck.

Staying low, Jon ducked around to the driver’s side and crept up to the window. Andrea did the same on the passenger’s side, staring at the side mirror as she approached the door. She peered into the cab. Empty. She touched the hood. Still warm.

On the other side of the truck, Jon swore loudly.

“What?” She rushed around.

“My phone’s not getting a signal.”

A sharp whistle, and she glanced up to see a German shepherd charging toward them, towing a man in SWAT gear behind him.

“FBI Bomb Squad!” the man shouted. “Step away from that vehicle!”

Jon held up his ID. “We think this is it.”

The German shepherd gave two sharp barks and planted itself at the back tire, brown eyes intent, ears pointed skyward. The dog stared with laserlike focus, as if nothing else in the universe existed except this dirty white truck.

The handler said a few words into the radio clipped to his shoulder.

“This your case?” he asked Jon, dropping down to look at the undercarriage.

“That’s right.”

“I understand this perp likes cell-phone detonators.”

“He also likes timers,” Andrea said, thinking of Carmen Pena.

“We’re jamming all cell-phone signals within a ten-block radius.”

“But what if it’s on a timer?” Andrea asked. “Can you jam that, too?”

The grim look on the man’s face told her the answer was no. Andrea glanced around, heart pounding. Troopers with bullhorns were hustling people from the Capitol lawn. Kids were still boarding buses.

“Andrea, you need to leave. Now.”

She looked at Jon. “Are you freaking kidding me?”

“
Both
of you need to evacuate,” the bomb technician said firmly. “Our team is on the way—”

“Shh!” Andrea held her hand up. “You hear that?”

A chorus of sirens whined around them. Beneath it all came a dull
thump
.

“Listen!” She walked around the truck and leaned her head against the side.

Thud.

Andrea looked at Jon. “God, is there . . . a
person
in there?”

His jaw dropped. “Holy shit. Elizabeth.”

“Who?”

“Our missing agent.”

She clutched her hand to her throat, horrified. “You think she’s
in
there?”

“You people
must
evacuate,” the bomb tech said, but both Andrea and Jon ignored him as they rushed to check the cargo door. It was secured with a heavy padlock.

Jon took off for the nearest fire truck.

“Ma’am, I insist that you move back—”

“Quiet!” She pressed her ear to the truck again and heard a series of sounds now—
thump, thump, thump
—like someone trying to signal. “Someone’s definitely in there.”

Jon rushed back with a long red ax.

“Sir! Step
back
from the vehicle. You
must
evacuate.”

“We’ve got an agent in there.”

He lifted the ax above his head, and the bomb tech caught his arm.

“Wait! We need to check if it’s wired.”

He pulled a cordless drill from the pocket of his cargo pants as two more black-clad bomb techs hustled over. They dropped bags onto the sidewalk and communicated in clipped phrases as they swiftly unpacked gear.

“Andrea,” Jon said.

“Forget it.”

“At least get behind that barricade.”

His eyes pleaded with her, but she ignored him as the technician drilled a hole in the truck’s side. Someone passed him a fiber-optic camera, which he threaded through the hole like a snake.

Jon’s face was taut with tension as he gripped the ax and waited.

A bomb tech bent over a small computer screen, reading the grainy camera image. “No trip wires. We’re good.”

“Everyone back.” Jon heaved the ax over his head. He swung it down. Chunks of metal flew. The bomb techs shoved up the door to reveal a cluster of white drums arranged like bowling pins.

Jon hitched himself onto the truck bed as Andrea peered inside. She smelled gasoline and something else she couldn’t identify. Squinting into the darkness, she spied a pair of women’s shoes peeking out from behind a drum.

“Here!” She hefted herself onto the platform. The woman was bound with cord and had a strip of duct tape over her mouth.

“We need a medic!” Jon yelled.

“Don’t move those drums!” The bomb tech rushed over to help Jon pull her out, and Andrea jumped down as they lowered her to the ground.

“Is she conscious?” the tech demanded. “Ask her what she knows about this det device.”

Andrea crouched next to her. She had bruises on her face, and one of her eyes was swollen shut, like a hundred battered women Andrea had seen over the years. She nudged Jon aside, hoping she’d respond better to a female voice.

“Elizabeth, are you with us? I’m sorry, but this is going to hurt, okay? Just for a sec, though.”

Andrea peeled back the corner of the tape and gave it a sharp yank. The woman yelped with pain, which Andrea took as a good sign.

“Elizabeth, did you see the detonation device?” Andrea asked. “Was it a cell phone? A timer?”

She looked too dazed to answer. Or maybe she didn’t know. Jon had a pocket knife out and was working on the cord at her wrists. The look on his face was calm determination as he cut loose the bindings.

Time seemed to slow down, and Andrea became hyperaware of everything—the howl of sirens, the sharp smell of gasoline, the warm weight of the woman slumped against her. The world was suddenly sharper, brighter, louder, and a surreal mix of joy and terror flooded her all at once.
Jon.
She should have told him. Why hadn’t she told him?

His gaze locked on hers, and her heart seized up. If this was it, she wanted him to be the last thing she saw.

A loud whoop from inside the truck.

A bomb tech stepped to the door and gave a thumbs-up.

“We’re all clear!”

chapter thirty-one

IN A MATTER OF HOURS,
the FBI’s Austin location went from being a sleepy satellite office to the headquarters of one of the largest manhunts in Bureau history. Agents in suits and SWAT gear lined the hallways, checking phones and jonesing for the orders that would send them in pursuit of the missing suspects. Shay Hardin was in custody, but his co-conspirators were still at large.

Meanwhile, Senator Kirby was in the hospital being treated for shrapnel wounds, the governor was all over the news, and reporters were giving breathless updates from the site of what had almost been a mass disaster.

Andrea squeezed through the throng of agents. Most were twice her size. All were armed to the teeth. After spending the past six hours being debriefed and cross-examined by men with big guns and even bigger egos, she felt whipped—a clear case of testosterone overload. She needed to get home.

She pushed through the building’s side door and halted on the steps.

Media vans lined the street, their antennae reaching high into the night sky. Riot police manned barricades between the reporters and the parking lot. News crews crowded the sidewalk, setting up klieg lights and jostling for camera angles.

“Damn, this place is a zoo.”

At the voice, she glanced over her shoulder to see Torres pushing through the door. He stopped beside her and slapped her back.

“Good work earlier,” he said.

“Thanks.”

A surge of warmth flooded through her. When was the last time she’d heard anything like praise from a fellow cop?

Jon emerged from the building, phone pressed to his ear. He scanned the crowd and frowned when he spotted her. He ended the call and tucked his phone away.

“Thought you’d be home by now,” he said. No praise there. He was still angry that she hadn’t followed orders and evacuated.

“Hey, I’m in the car,” Torres told him. “Later, Andrea.”

Jon gazed down at her. “You don’t look good.”

“Really? Because I feel good. Nothing like six hours in a metal chair being interrogated by MIBs.”

He glanced past her at the growing crowd of reporters. “Looks like someone chummed the waters.”

“Who?”

“Someone in the governor’s office.” His jaw tightened. “They heard we’re moving the prisoner, so now they’re lining up for a front-row seat.”

“Do they even realize who he is?”

“You mean Philly? Yeah, I think they put it together.”

He stepped closer and stared down at her. A few hours ago, she’d looked into those eyes and thought his face would be the last thing she ever saw. Now she looked at him and felt vulnerable, so vulnerable her chest ached. She wanted to fall into him and cling to him, but she’d done that already. She’d let her guard down and trusted him, and he’d betrayed her without blinking an eye. She couldn’t let it happen again.

His phone buzzed. He pulled it out and checked the number, and she knew what he was going to say before he opened his mouth. “I have to go.”

“I know.”

“We have a briefing,” he said. “It’s important.”

“I know.”

“Listen, I’ll call you later.”

“No need. I’m fine.”

He looked impatient. “You’re not fine.
We’re
not fine. But I can’t leave right now.” His phone buzzed again, and he glanced down and cursed.

“Better get that.”

“Andrea—”

She turned and left.

♦

Elizabeth sat in her car, watching the door. Her stomach refused to settle. The entire drive in, she’d felt nauseated, and at one point she’d even pulled over and thought she’d get sick. But the moment had passed, and she was back on her way again.

She glanced in the mirror and felt a fresh flood of apprehension. Makeup concealed the bruises mostly, but nothing besides time could fix her swollen eyelid and the line of sutures marching across her forehead like ants. According to the intern who’d stitched her up, it would be at least three weeks before she looked like herself again. She didn’t have three weeks. She had a job to do. And as afraid as she’d been of coming in this morning, she was even more terrified of staying home for days and days and losing the heart to come back at all.

Today was a workday like any other. She was going to treat it that way so she could get through it, one hour at a time.

She pushed open the door and gathered her purse. She walked briskly across the parking garage and filed in with all the other agents carrying computer bags and travel cups. She felt people’s startled looks as they noticed her face and her sling and realized who she was. She kept her chin up as she stepped onto the elevator and rode to her floor.

The doors parted, and she headed across the bullpen, resisting the urge to duck into the bathroom and get sick. A hush fell over the room. Phone chatter quieted. She’d almost reached her desk when she decided to veer for the coffeepot. People were going to stare no matter what, so she might as well give them a chance to have a good look and get it over with.

She filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee she didn’t want.

“Elizabeth?”

Jon North. She hadn’t expected to see him first. She felt a sudden gush of emotions and had to look down.

“Hi. What’s up?” She clumsily tore open a creamer and dumped the contents into her cup.