The Protector (39 page)

Winston’s claws scrabbled on the fiberglass flooring as he fought her hold.
   

“Get him away!” ordered the stranger, sounding panicked. He glanced briefly at the blood appearing on his forearm then pointed with the knife at the bedroom behind her.
“Both of you.
In there, now,” he said, in peculiar-sounding English.
  

She was quick to obey him. Menacing the dog’s nose with his bloody knife, the terrorist pursued them.
Eryn
tried snatching up her purse as they passed the restroom, but with the knife so close to Winston’s nose, she opted for retreat.

No sooner had they entered the dark recesses of the back room than the terrorist slammed the door in her face and locked it from the outside.

Get help.
The words seemed to come from a part of her brain that remained untouched by the drama.

Eryn
cast her gaze about. Beams of sunlight skimmed through the cracks at the edges of the blinds. In lieu of a bedroom, she found herself in a space crammed with consoles, computers, and monitors. Hence, the lock on the outside of the door, keeping out unauthorized persons.
  

Spying a phone on the far wall, she lunged for it, only to hang it up again in despair when she heard no dial tone. The cell she’d taken from the vineyard had been confiscated yesterday. Even if she had her purse with her, she’d have no way of getting help.
 

A throaty rumble and a sudden vibration under her feet robbed her of logical thought. In the distance, she heard the wail of an approaching siren, but her relief was short-lived, for the RV lurched suddenly into movement. She stumbled, falling into one of the seats bolted to the floor.

Numbness seeped into her bloodstream, desensitizing her to the situation at hand, but also silencing the reasonable voice inside her head. She felt detached, like this was happening to someone else, only she knew it wasn’t.

Her mind looped away to the haunting dreams of her nightmares. Was this real or was she dreaming? She’d been abducted by the terrorist who’d killed
Itzak
. The man had plunged a knife into
Caine
without hesitation, just because he could. There wasn’t a doubt that he would kill her just as heartlessly.
 

As the RV gained speed and swerved out of the motel parking lot, the sound of the siren grew more and more faint. Her hope diminished with it. The police had failed to intercept the RV. Nor would Ike be coming to her rescue, not if the FBI was arresting him. All she had was Winston, who leaned heavily against her legs, panting as if he’d gone for a long run. She was utterly alone.

Tears of terror clouded her vision. Her throat felt tight as she tried to swallow the lump that threatened to choke her. “God, help me,” she croaked.

**

There was only one way to stop the Pontiac before it lured them farther from
Eryn
.

Ike tugged on the zipper that kept the Jeep’s canopy secured. It flapped loudly in the chilly breeze. Then with a ripping sound, it pulled away from the zipper and sailed out of sight.
 

The frigid air stung Ike’s eyes and numbed his ears. Drawing his Python from the holster under his arm, he negotiated another sharp turn with his left hand while releasing the safety with his right. All four tires squealed. When he finally hit a straightaway, he strained upward in his seat, aiming over the windshield at the Pontiac’s right rear tire.

Crack!
One discharge from his double-action revolver shattered the Pontiac’s taillight.
Crack!
The second round punctured the rear tire.

With a shriek of rubber on slick asphalt, the Pontiac slid into an embankment at over fifty miles an hour. Ike saw what was coming next and winced. Sparks flew into the air as the vehicle careened into the guard rail. It bounced off it and wobbled wildly to the other side of the road where it plowed headlong into a wall of blasted granite.
Crash!

Slowing to avoid the spray of metal and glass, Ike swerved onto the opposite shoulder and set the parking brake. With his gun still drawn, he leaped from the Jeep and sprinted toward the crumpled vehicle.

The driver’s side of the car was stove in. Anyone in the front seat had to be dead. With his gun still drawn, he took a peek and saw a disfigured body covered in blood that gleamed wetly in the rosy light of dawn. The airbag had failed to deploy.

Ike dropped his gun and turned away. Christ, he hadn’t meant for that to happen. He’d have preferred for the terrorist to rot in jail.
 

With a bitter taste in his mouth, he noted the Taurus pulling up behind his Jeep, catching the accident and his lone figure in the full glare of its high beams. “Freeze!” shouted a voice.
“FBI.
Drop the weapon and back away from the vehicle. Put your hands on your head!”

Fuck it.
Ike let the Python clatter onto the roadway, where a river of oil had begun to ooze downhill. “Set some flares,” he cautioned, “before we cause another accident.” Backing away from his weapon, he laced his hands together on top of his head and struck a docile pose.

“I’ll get them,” said a second voice.

“You.”
The first agent approached him warily, gun pointed at Ike’s chest. His hair looked tussled, and his glasses sat askew on his narrow nose. He warily snatched up Ike’s weapon then peeked into the crushed car. “What the hell did you do? Jesus.” He averted his gaze.
  

“He was tampering with your RV.” Ike assessed the man automatically. “Call your leader. Warn him about the RV. Tell him not to start it.”

The tussled agent just stared at him, then looked to his partner, who jogged up to him, handing him two lit flares.
 

“Isaac Calhoun?” It was the agent he’d shot at. The man stuck out a hand unexpectedly. “Jackson Maddox.”

Noting that he’d omitted his title of special agent, Ike accepted the man’s firm handshake.
 

“Maddox,” said the first man. “Look who the driver is.” He held up a flare so his partner could see inside.
 

Jackson winced and looked away. “Shahbaz Wahidi.” He flicked Ike a grim look. “We could have used him alive.”

“Didn’t mean to kill him,” said Ike, experiencing very little remorse. “He was pulling away from us. We need to get back to
Eryn
.” In that exact moment, he detected the wail of sirens coming from both directions.

“You can stand at ease,” Jackson said, betraying his military background. “Just don’t try anything.”

Ike lowered his arms. “Call your other man,” he urged again. “Tell him not to start the RV. “
 

“I heard you,” the agent said, reaching for his phone. “Don’t worry. The LE was on their way when we left.”
 

That’s because I fucking called them, Ike thought with exasperation. Anxiety made his blood pressure rise. He hated feeling helpless.

Instead of reaching for his phone, Jackson pulled out a set of handcuffs. “Sorry, but I was told to bring you in,” he said with a grimace.
  

“Just make the fucking call.” Ike didn’t care what happened to him. It was
Eryn
who was vulnerable right now.

Chapter Eighteen

“
Caine’s
still not answering,”
Ringo
stated, as they flew down the winding highway back to Elkton Motel.
 

Jackson flicked a nervous glance in the rearview mirror. Isaac Calhoun sat in the middle of the seat behind him with his hands cuffed behind his back, his green stare fixed on Jackson through the mirror. They had called their supervisor two times already at Calhoun’s urging. The tendons in the man’s neck were standing out, his jaw muscles jumping.

“Maybe he can’t get cell reception,” Jackson suggested in an attempt to dispel the man’s palpable concern.

Or maybe Wahidi wasn’t alone in targeting
Eryn
.

The unspoken possibility was etched all over the former SEAL’s taut face, making Jackson nervous as hell. It was all he could do to concentrate on getting them down into the valley without swerving off a cliff. His phone rang unexpectedly, making him heave a private sigh of relief. That had to be
Caine
.

But he didn’t recognize the number. “Special Agent Maddox,” he clipped, slowing on a particularly tight turn. All four tires squealed.

“Yes, this is Hugh, the paramedic.”

“What have you got?” Before they’d left the crash site, Jackson had tasked one of the paramedics to type Wahidi’s blood in the hopes that it matched the blood on the holly bushes, left by Mustafa Masoud’s killer, the same man who’d likely killed four others, including Pedro the Landscaper and
Itzak
Dharker.

“The victim’s blood type is A-negative,” the man announced.

Jackson swallowed against a suddenly parched throat. “Thank you.” He dropped his phone into his lap. “A-negative,” he croaked to
Ringo
.

“Oh, shit,”
Ringo
exclaimed.
 

Shit was right. The killer’s blood type was O-positive.

“Wahidi didn’t kill our asset,”
Ringo
stated aloud.
    

Jackson tightened his grip on the steering wheel and gunned the accelerator. “Call
Caine
,” he pleaded, avoiding eye contact with the man glaring into his rearview mirror. “Put him on speaker phone. I’ll tell him.”

In the tense silence now in the car,
Caine’s
phone rang and rang. A rumbling voice not belonging to
Caine
finally answered. “This is Sheriff Olsen.”

“Sheriff?”
Jackson flicked the phone in Ringo’s hand a puzzled glance. “This is Special Agent Maddox,” he said, speaking up in order to be heard. “I was calling for my supervisor.”
 

“He can’t take calls at the moment.” The Sheriff sounded like he’d been chewing on gravel.
 

“Why? What happened?” Jackson asked.

“You’ll have to see it to believe it.”

Goosebumps sprouted all over his body. “Is Miss McClellan there?” He prayed for an affirmative.
  

“Negative,” said the Sheriff.

A glance in the mirror showed Calhoun looking as wound up as a pissed-off rattlesnake.

Jackson wet his lips. “Where’s the RV?” he asked.
 

“Don’t see the RV anywhere.
Just a body
sittin
’ in a pool of blood next to copper wire and a puddle of gasoline.”

“Fuck!” Jackson exclaimed.

“We’ll be right there.”
Ringo
said for him, severing the call.

Jackson left twin strips of rubber on the last tight turn. Holding down the horn, he overtook a slower car and swooped into the Shenandoah Valley on the final straightaway. One more mile and they’d be back at the motel.

“We fucked up, didn’t we?” Calhoun’s voice struck them like the tip of a whip.

At least, the man had included himself in the subject of the sentence. “Yes, we did,” Jackson admitted.

**