In Harm's Way (Heroes of Quantico Series, Book 3) (31 page)

Choking back a sob, Rachel gripped the back of the car and
pulled herself to her feet. Before she grasped what was happening, the woman jerked her arms forward and snapped on
a pair of handcuffs.

Bile once again rose in Rachel's throat as she stared at her
restrained wrists.

Without the use of her hands, she had little hope of defending herself.

"Move. That way." The woman gestured with the gun, slammed
the lid of the trunk down, and picked up a tote bag at her feet.

Rachel peered into the night, attempting to focus. Without
her glasses, everything was fuzzy. And the bump on her temple
wasn't helping. No artificial light broke the darkness, but the
three-quarter moon in the clear winter sky illuminated what
appeared to be dense woods on either side of a narrow road
that was delineated by two gravel tire tracks.

This isolated place was as bad as the river bluff. Rachel's panic
escalated.

"I'm not planning to kill you, if you cooperate" The woman
waved the gun in her face, and Rachel recoiled. "That way." She
gestured again toward the woods.

God, what should I do?

The silent, desperate cry came from deep in Rachel's heart.
Lifting her hands toward her chin, she folded them and bowed
her head.

"What are you doing?" A note of suspicion changed the tenor
of the woman's voice. "Are you praying?"

"Yes"

"That's a waste of time. God doesn't listen:"

"How do you know?" Rachel raised her head.

"I used to pray. A long time ago. It never made any difference."

She sounded more lucid now. And she spoke as if she believed
in God. Maybe that was a good sign.

"I have a friend who thinks it does. He says it helps him make
decisions'

"I make my own decisions. I don't need God"

"Maybe he could help you make better decisions. You know
God doesn't want us to hurt each other"

The woman's expression grew distant again. "I never hurt
people. I wouldn't do that. Now move. Down that path:" She
gestured with the gun toward the woods.

Rachel didn't see that she had much choice. Whatever brief,
rational moment the woman had conjured up was gone. The
best she could do was follow her abductor's instructions, buy
herself as much time as possible, and try to figure out some
way to escape.

Once they left the rutted road, the terrain became more uneven. The heels of her pumps found every hole in the rough
ground, and brambles and bare tree limbs snagged at her coat
on the overgrown path.

Leave a clue behind.

The words flashed through her mind, like a message. Yes.
Good idea. Someone would come looking for her eventually.
Lots of someones, if Nick had anything to say about it. She had
to leave them some kind of clue to work with.

Tugging off her gloves, she wadded them into a ball and
lurched to one side of the trail. Falling to her hands and knees,
she shoved them under some leaves.

"What's wrong? Get up"

She felt the gun in her back. Heart pounding, she grabbed a
tree trunk and pulled herself to her feet. "I slipped:' She started
walking again.

"It's those shoes. Take them off."

She kept walking. Away from the spot she'd dropped the
gloves. "But the ground is rocky."

"We don't have far to go. Take them off."

Bending, Rachel slipped them from her feet.

"Leave them on the ground"

Rachel dropped them.

"Move forward a few feet"

Once she complied, the woman bent, retrieved the shoes,
and stuffed them into the tote. "Go on"

Sharp rocks and the stubble of dead, ice-encrusted foliage
cut into the soles of her feet as she stumbled forward on the
frozen ground.

"Stop"

At the sharp command a couple of dozen yards later, Rachel halted and peered ahead. She thought she detected a small
structure in a clearing ahead, but without her glasses, it was
impossible to tell for sure.

For a full thirty seconds, they stood in silence. A gust of
frigid wind cut through Rachel, and she began to shake even
harder. She wasn't dressed for the cold. Her tea attire of slim
black skirt and long-sleeved white silk blouse was designed for
indoor wear, not winter nighttime hiking. Nor was her dress
coat warm enough to provide much protection from sustained
cold. And her shredded hose left her bare legs exposed. Rachel
could never remember being so cold.

Or so afraid.

"Okay. Go ahead. Toward the shed"

Rachel took a few tentative steps into the clearing. They'd
arrived at their destination. Her time was running out. She had
to take some kind of action.

"Stand over-"

Before the woman could finish her sentence, there was a sudden crashing in the brush. They turned in unison. A deer
emerged from the woods, as startled by their presence as they
were by his.

This was her chance, Rachel realized, her adrenaline surging.
Probably her only one.

Lifting her arms, she lunged toward her abductor and shoved
as hard as she could. The woman fell. The gun flew out of her
hand. Rachel dived for it.

Just as her hands closed around the barrel, the woman rolled
toward her. Flipped her over. Gripped her neck. Squeezed.

Rachel tried to shake her off, tried to suck in air, but the
earlier blow to her head and the intense cold had robbed her
of strength. As she thrashed, the woman's fingers tightened on
her neck. Waves of blackness began to wash over her, and her
struggle grew more feeble.

Her final thought before she lost consciousness was of Nick
... and the promising future they would never have a chance
to explore.

Allen Harris settled into the easy chair by the fireplace in his
small bungalow and opened the front section of the Tribune.
The leisurely perusal of the paper was one of the weekend rituals he most enjoyed. It capped a Sunday that always included
church, brunch at his favorite restaurant, and a few hours of
woodworking in his basement workshop. After he finished the
paper, he would prepare a simple dinner. A turkey or ham and
cheese sandwich with chips.

Some might call his routine boring. He found it soothing. These
days, he took comfort in-and appreciated-predictability.

The O'Neil kidnapping was in the headlines again, he noted,
scanning the front page. Sad case. And the FBI didn't seem to be making much progress, according to the article. The only real
piece of news was that the child's Raggedy Ann doll had been
discovered in St. Louis, leading to speculation the baby might be
in that area. According to an article in a St. Louis paper, quoted
in the Tribune, a psychic was involved. The baby's mother had
even visited her.

Allen shook his head. When people were desperate, they'd
try anything.

The notion of desperate people brought Debra to mind. She'd
wanted a baby more than anything in the world. Far more than
she'd wanted a husband, as he'd soon discovered.

But he didn't want to think about his ex-wife. It was too
painful. That was why he'd cut off the conversation yesterday
with Warren and blocked out all thoughts of her once his colleague left.

Yet something in their exchange had struck him as odd. He
frowned, replaying Warren's comments. A remark about a baby,
that was it. His colleague had said Debra had a baby with her. That
his ex-wife had said she was watching the child for a friend.

Except Debra had never had any friends in Chicago. Not
one, though she'd lived in the city her whole life. Only later had
he understood that was the reason she'd insisted they forego a
formal wedding and elope. She'd had no one to invite besides
her father, and she'd been estranged from him for years.

He had no idea how long she'd been in St. Louis, but it couldn't
have been more than a few months. They'd only divorced a little
over a year ago. Given her history, it seemed improbable she'd
have formed a friendship already. Especially one strong enough
that a mother would trust Debra to take her infant somewhere
in the car. Alone.

As Allen stared at the O'Neil story in the Tribune, a single
word suddenly flashed through his mind.

Desperation.

Dear God ... was it possible she'd ... ?

No. He cut off that train of thought. What a ridiculous notion.
Debra wouldn't resort to kidnapping.

Yet desperate people did desperate things. The use of the
psychic in this case by otherwise rational people was clear evidence of that.

And Debra had been desperate. He thought of her wild-eyed
hysterics after her final pregnancy had ended in disaster. Recalled the way she'd pummeled him with her fists in the hospital
room after he broke the news. The nurses had had to restrain
and sedate her.

When he'd taken her home, it had gotten worse. Hour after
hour she'd cuddled a doll in the empty nursery, crooning to it.
He'd forced her to get psychiatric help, almost physically dragging her to the appointments, and medication had helped-when
she took it. But their already fragile marriage had shattered.

More than anything, her indifferent response to his announcement that he wanted a divorce had hurt. She couldn't have cared
less that he was leaving. He was dispensable now that he couldn't
help her get what she most wanted.

A baby.

He remembered her parting comment the day he'd moved
out. She'd glared at him across the room, her eyes flashing,
defiant.

"I will get my baby, Allen. With or without you'

But kidnapping-was she even capable of pulling off such
a thing?

Maybe, he conceded. She might be a loner, but she functioned fine in her career. And she was smart. She could plan.
Only when it came to the issue of children was she obsessive.
And delusional.

Still, it was a real leap to connect her to the O'Neil kidnapping
based simply on what Warren had seen.

Yet something didn't feel right.

Stymied, Allen shoved his fingers through his hair and sighed.
He couldn't very well go to the authorities with a feeling. Although that psychic woman had, after she'd found the child's
doll. And they'd listened to her.

But there was a very good chance his suspicions were groundless. He'd trusted his instincts about Debra once, and look where
that had led him. He had no confidence this "feeling" about a
connection between her and the kidnapping had any merit. He
was probably getting himself worked up for no reason.

Better to let this rest. Debra had enough problems already. The
last thing she needed was the FBI showing up at her door.

Setting aside the front page, Allen picked up the sports section. And pushed thoughts of his ex-wife and all her issues back
into a remote corner of his mind.

Where they belonged.

At six o'clock, after a brief conversation, Mark slid his BlackBerry back onto his belt and moved to the center of the dingy
apartment. "Okay, guys. It's a wrap. The negotiator talked the
subject out. Let's pack up and head home"

There was an almost palpable release of tension in the room.
Taut postures relaxed and serious demeanors eased. Most SWAT
team call-outs ended this way. But there were always exceptions,
and the team approached every deployment with the assumption
it would be one of those exceptions. Adrenaline pumped until the
situation ended with either a negotiated or tactical resolution.

As the team members began loading up gear, Mark motioned
to Nick and moved into the adjacent room again.

The SWAT team leader's grim expression sent Nick's pulse
off the scale as he joined him.

"Steve just gave me an update on Rachel. The police checked
out the house. No one was home, and the garage was empty.
Our guys talked to the people at the hotel. The doorman saw
her leave at four-fifteen. They ran her plates and checked the
lot. Her car's still there. We've issued a BOLO alert"

Nick's gut twisted and a muscle in his jaw clenched. "What
about security video from the parking lot?"