The Protector (40 page)

Where is he taking me?
Eryn
struggled to raise the blinds at the back of the RV.

As her initial shock began to wane, it had occurred to her that she could signal for help through the large rear windows. Surely other drivers would see her and call the police. But once the blinds were raised, the expansive windows revealed nothing but an empty road behind them. It was too early in the morning for commuters to be going to work. Nor would they later because it was Sunday, she realized, stricken by a yawning sense of isolation.

Her gaze fell to the myriad monitors and computers jammed into the tight space. She sought every power button she could find, booting up instruments she couldn’t name let alone operate. Who knew, maybe one of them would signal her location.

Abruptly, the RV slowed, turning onto a road that climbed to higher elevations. Forest hemmed it in on both sides. The engine roared to battle the grade. With a stab of poignancy,
Eryn
thought of Ike’s mountain and wondered if she would step foot in his cabin again, ever sleep in his bed, in his arms.

How could I ever forget you?
She never wanted to forget.

Shivering with fear and grief, she nonetheless noticed that the powerful engine had begun to sputter. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she watched out the back window, waiting to see what would happen next.
 

The motor coach was losing momentum. Minute by minute, its speed declined, until it rolled to a crawl, then stopped altogether in the middle of the road.

Eryn’s
heart seemed to stop, as well. As long as the terrorist had been driving, she’d been safe. But she could hear him now, engaging the parking brake, moving down the length of the RV. He paused in the galley, his stealthy movements terrifying. What the hell was he doing, fixing himself a sandwich?

It was Ike’s voice inside her head that seemed to growl this question. She would have given anything,
anything
to have him there in person. Her respite was coming to an end. All too soon, the terrorist would unlock the door and...

She refused to picture what might follow. If she didn’t think of something, she would have to fight for her life with her bare hands. Ike had tried to prepare her for this moment. But could anyone truly ever be prepared?

Closing her eyes, taking a deep breath, she tried to remember everything Ike had taught her. All that came back to her was:
Stop and feel, and you’ll end up dead.

**

Sitting handcuffed in the rear seat of the Taurus, Ike could see enough of the body being bagged to tell that the blond FBI agent’s neck had been slit wide open.

As firefighters went to lay foam on the spilled gasoline, Jackson patted down his pockets, failed to find what he was looking for, and strode back to the car. His swarthy complexion had taken on a yellowish hue. Flicking Ike a wary glance, he reached through the driver’s window, found his cell phone, and walked a few yards from the car to make a lengthy phone call.

Ike’s temples throbbed. There wasn’t any time for lollygagging. The terrorist had taken
Eryn
away in the RV. They had to fucking find her,
now!
 

Finally, Jackson’s call ended.

“Take these cuffs off me,” Ike demanded, recapturing the agent’s attention.

Jackson sent him a distracted look, reached into his pocket, and tossed a set of keys onto the rear seat. He then called
Ringo
over.

As Ike groped for the keys, awkwardly inserting them into the handcuffs, he could hear Maddox telling
Ringo
that their field office was trying to ping the phone aboard the RV, but with only one cell tower within a five-mile radius, the signal couldn’t be triangulated.

“It’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack,”
Ringo
muttered, jamming his hands into his pockets.
 

“Hostage Rescue’s been alerted,” Maddox added. “It’ll take
them
thirty minutes to get a chopper out here.”

“We’re not waiting thirty minutes.” Ike shoved out of the back seat. Fueled by a desperate, nerve-fraying need to take action, he studied the spot where the RV used to be parked. The rank smell of gasoline was in no-way relieved by the foam now billowing across the lot.

Remembering Wahidi under the chassis, Ike realized the leak had been made by him. And given the length of copper wire still lying on the ground, he must have been trying to rig the RV to explode upon ignition. His gaze went to the dark stain zipping out of the compound onto Highway 33.

The gasoline leak was dissolving the asphalt, creating tar.
Well, I’ll be damned.
Heart thumping, he swiveled, stalking back to Jackson and
Ringo
. “We don’t need to ping the phone,” he said, pointing at the stain on the road. “The RV left a visible trail.”

For a full second, Jackson didn’t seem to grasp what he was saying, but then his gaze slid up the highway, and he bolted for the driver’s seat. “Let’s go!”
  

Ike slapped a hand on the lid of the trunk. “Open up first,” he demanded, wanting the weapons and rucksack that had been taken from him.

Jackson hesitated.

“Just
do
it!” he raged. “Hostage Rescue isn’t going to get here in time. I’m the next best thing you’ve got, Maddox.”

Jackson glanced at
Ringo
, who sent him a short nod,
then
he released the trunk from inside the car. Ike grabbed up his gear and dove into the back seat. “Go,” he growled.

The Taurus rocketed from the parking lot.

Cold, hard determination usurped Ike’s earlier agitation. He refused to consider that
Eryn
could be dead right now, killed in the most horrifying manner possible. God forbid. He’d die inside if he were too late. He would absolutely die. The only acceptable outcome was locating the RV and apprehending the terrorist.
 

“Drive faster.” The verdant pastures mocked him with their expansive apathy.

“Pedal’s to the floor,” Jackson answered, glancing in the rearview mirror. “They can’t have gone more than ten miles, not with the tank leaking like that.”

They zipped off Highway 33, following the stain in the asphalt as it arced onto a smaller, winding road, one that climbed toward the height of Green Mountain.
 

Ike’s thoughts went back to the last time he’d hunted terrorists. He’d been forced to watch his fellow teammates fight for their lives and get picked off, one at a time. He’d thought there couldn’t be anything more awful. But there was. His men were warriors, trained to fight. Every one of them had taken several combatants’ lives before succumbing to his wounds. But
Eryn
was no warrior. And even with the training he’d given her, she was no match for a man.
 

“Who is this guy?” he demanded, wanting more information. “What kind of profile do you have on him?”

Jackson and
Ringo
shared a sheepish look.

“We don’t know who he is,”
Ringo
confessed. “If he’s the one who bombed the safe house, then he’s blown up one civilian and slit the throats of five men already, counting
Caine
.” His voice had become as rough as sandpaper.

“I served in Iraq,” Jackson added. “I knew this guy was a fanatic when I saw his handiwork. I don’t think he’s a national.”

A desert-like breeze blew through Ike’s mind. “Then you don’t mind if I kill him,” he said, his tone impassive, his heart devoid of any emotion but justice.

Ringo
gave a nervous laugh. Jackson darted Ike a warning look. “
I
don’t mind,” he said with conviction, “but the FBI needs to question him to make certain there aren’t any others.”

Ike nodded and went to check his ammunition. He considered their best approach once they came upon the RV. Anything to keep from envisioning what
Eryn
had to be going through. Don’t go there, he ordered himself.
Don’t
fucking feel. But when it came to possibly losing the woman you loved, that was easier said than done.
 

**

With a
click
that made
Eryn
jump, the door to the rear room swung open. A rope sailed through the air, landing at her feet.
 

“Tie up the dog or I will kill him,” the terrorist demand, slamming the door shut again.
 

Eryn
eyed the rope as she would a snake. Then she looked at Winston, noting his bared fangs, his bristling coat. She could hear Ike’s voice urging her to let the dog attack. Winston was her only weapon. Ike had trained him well, and the terrorist was clearly wary of him.
 

Only, she couldn’t. She couldn’t let her loyal Shepherd mix get stabbed because of her. Tears of frustration and fear gushed from her eyes as she bent over and picked up the rope.

Pulling her dog closer, she attached it to the sturdy ring on his collar, praying both the knot and the collar would hold. Then she
looped
the other end of the rope around the base of the second bolted chair, knotting it as securely as she knew how.

“Five seconds,” warned the terrorist through the door, “or I’ll shoot him dead.”
 

“It’s done,” she called in a small voice.

The door opened an inch. As he peeked inside, Winston rushed at him, snarling. The rope pulled taut, catching him back. As the muzzle of a gun appeared,
Eryn
leapt in front of her dog, defending him. “Please don’t do this.” In a voice that quaked with fear, she tried negotiating. “I’m not your enemy. I’ve never meant you any harm.”

The man’s soft chuckle, brimming with bitterness, made her fall silent. “You are the daughter of my enemy,” he replied. Seeing that the rope restrained the dog, he opened the door wider. “Your father killed my son. Did you know that?”
 

“No.” She saw him differently, then, as a father tormented by grief. But then she remembered
Itzak
, whom this man had killed.
Itzak
had also had a father.
And so had
Caine
.
“I’m sorry about your son,” she said, praying that if she kept him talking, she might convince him to abort his plans. “What was his name?”

“
Osman
.
He was a Taliban chieftain, a warrior. Come.” He crooked a finger at her. “Come out, or I’ll shoot your dog first and then you.”
 

She would rather be shot than to have her head cut off, wouldn’t she? And yet, seeing him release the safety, she found herself obeying him, too much a coward to accept a bullet so willingly.

As she edged closer, he seized her, pulling her out the door swiftly. Winston flew into a rage, but the rope caught him back, and then the door shut between them, muffling his distress.

Feeling the gun prod her back,
Eryn
let herself
be
propelled toward the galley where she could see that the terrorist had set up a laptop and a webcam on the table. A chill seeped through her veins, turning her blood to ice.
 

“Sit.” He forced her onto the bench in front of the equipment. She was startled to see her pale reflection jump onto the screen. “Look! More than thirty thousand Muslims have logged on to watch your execution,” he said, with delight.
 
“Yours shall be the first of many, as my students take back the cradle of Islam from our enemy invaders.”

Depositing the gun inside the open briefcase on the opposite counter, he transferred his grip to her hair. The blade with which he’d killed
Caine
reappeared, flashing before her eyes as he pressed it to her throat.