Thin Ice (30 page)

Don't make him
mad, Christy. Buy time. Look for an opportunity to outsmart
him. The longer you can stall, the better the chance
you'll live to see morning.

She kept looping those instructions through her mind as she lurched over the frozen, uneven terrain and into the woods, walking as slowly as she dared. Every second she bought herself could matter in the end.

Though her masked abductor was silent behind her—as if he was accustomed to moving noiselessly through the forest—his malevolent presence was almost palpable. Somehow she sensed this was a man who was used to tracking his prey undetected. A hunter, perhaps.

But on this trip, he wasn't after animals.

He was after her.

And unless she figured out a way to outwit him fast, he was going to bag his ultimate trophy before this night was over.

The apartment manager was waiting when Lance arrived at Terzic's address.

That was one plus to being part of a large, collaborative organization. He might be used to handling his own details as a Delta Force operator, but the FBI support staff was great at getting ducks in a row so he could do his job.

Lance displayed his badge as the man introduced himself. “You know I need to get into Nathan Turner's apartment.”

“Yes. Your people called.” The man held up a key and pointed to a door that faced the open-air breezeway between two buildings. “That's it. The woman I spoke with said a warrant was in progress?”

“Yes.” Or it would be soon, based on his conversation with Steve. “But we're dealing with a life-and-death situation here. We don't need to wait for the paperwork to show up.”

“That's what the woman said.”

The man led the way down the breezeway, fitted the key in the lock, and pushed the door open.

“Thanks.” Lance entered and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “I'm expecting two more agents. They'll be here shortly.”

“I'll keep an eye out for them.”

As the man pulled the door shut behind him, Lance flicked on the overhead light, positioned himself in the middle of the living room, and did a quick 360. The carpet had seen better days, the woodwork was chipped, the furnishings were low-end. But the place was clean and tidy.

It was also impersonal. There was nothing in this room that offered any deep insights into the occupants. Nor did it contain any electronics other than a TV.

He bypassed the kitchen, stopping on the threshold only long enough to scan the countertops for a computer.

Again, nothing.

He passed the door to the hall bathroom. Paused and flicked on the light in the bedroom on the right. Took a quick inventory.

A bundle of ripped bedclothes on the floor. Several ceiling tiles askew, an overturned chair beneath one tile that exposed a pipe. Pink quilt crumpled on the bed. Framed black-and-white photo on the nightstand of a long-ago bride and groom.

This was the room where Mevlida had died.

Terzic's computer wouldn't be here.

He continued to the last door on the left. Felt around for a light switch. Flipped it on.

Pay dirt.

A laptop rested on top of a desk in the far corner.

Lance crossed the room in four long strides—and came face-to-face with the photo of Christy that Mevlida had described. Terzic must have stashed it before calling the cops after she killed herself, then restored it to the center of the bulletin board above the computer once they left—complete with the knife through the heart.

His own heart stuttered as he stared at it.

Mevlida's worry hadn't been misplaced.

Evil intent permeated this room.

Reining in his terror, he opened the laptop and booted it up. He was no computer genius, but he knew a few basics about the inner workings of a lot of different pieces of electronic equipment. It was possible he could locate a GPS feed while he waited for the tech specialist.

Because he knew one thing with deadly clarity.

They were running out of time.

T
urn right.”

Christy peered ahead into the woods. Her abductor had doused the light on his miner's helmet, and the path—if there was one—was pitch black.

She pushed through some brambles. Stumbled. Went down on one knee.

That earned her another prod in the back.

“Keep going. We're almost there.”

Not the news she wanted to hear.

Struggling to keep her balance, she hauled herself to her feet and continued. As far as she could tell, they were in the middle of nowhere. No lights peeked through the trees suggesting a house in the distance, and no sounds save the occasional eerie hoot of an owl broke the stillness.

Even if she had the use of her voice, there was a strong possibility no one was close enough to hear her screams.

So what options did that leave her, short of the unlikely chance she could overpower her abductor?

None—or at least none that had presented themselves yet.

But one might at any moment. There was still hope.

She had to keep believing that.

The terrain began to slope down, and she picked her way through the barren winter underbrush, edging around the drifts of snow that hadn't melted during the brief thaw after the last storm, trying without much success to avoid the sharp branches that clawed at her calves through the thin leggings she reserved for indoor skating.

After a couple dozen yards, the terrain leveled again and she emerged into a small clearing just as the moon peeked out from behind the clouds.

No, scratch that. It wasn't a clearing.

The open area in the hollow was a frozen lake, forty or fifty feet in diameter.

“Over there.” At the fringe of her peripheral vision, the hand with the silenced gun waved to her right.

She twisted that direction. Two folding chairs were set up at the edge of the lake. The carrying case for her skates rested beside one of them—along with her gym bag.

Her gym bag!

Yes!

Unless he'd removed it, her phone was close at hand—and by now, Lance would be searching for her. Since he was the one who'd told her to activate the GPS, the FBI would be watching for a signal.

Wouldn't they?

She quashed down the sudden pang of doubt. Of course they would. Lance was the kind of guy who covered all the bases.

Now all she had to do was find a way to turn on the phone. Even a brief signal could have a huge impact on the outcome of this night.

“Sit in the chair that's farthest away.”

She had thirty feet to come up with a plan as they skirted
the edge of the frozen lake toward their destination. Twenty seconds if she dragged out the trip as long as she dared.

Think, Christy! Think
!

Five seconds later, an idea began to take shape in her mind. It wasn't great, and it might not work, but it was the best her stressed-out brain could come up with in the short window she had.

Clenching her icy fingers, she waited until she was a few feet away from the chair. Then she allowed her steps to falter. After staggering the remaining distance to the chair, she sank down and leaned forward.

Neven—or whoever he was—turned on the light attached to his helmet and aimed it at her face. “What's wrong?”

Inhaling loud and hard through her nose, she rolled her eyes as far back as she could and swayed in her chair.

“Hey!” He grabbed her shoulder. “What's wrong with you?”

She toed the gym bag and nodded toward it frantically. In the blinding light, she couldn't see his features. But he sounded alarmed—just as she'd hoped. He'd come too far to let her collapse during the closing act of his grand plan . . . if he could help it.

Please, God, let him buy this charade!

A few seconds passed. She increased the pace of her breathing—but if he didn't respond soon, she was going to hyperventilate and pass out for real.

All at once, he reached down, ripped the duct tape off her mouth, and got in her face, the searing light bright and hot. She lowered her eyelids halfway. “You make one sound, you're dead. Got it?”

She gave a weak nod.

“Now tell me what's wrong.”

“Asthma.” She gasped out the word and toed her gym bag again. “Medicine.”

He snatched up the bag, backed away, and began to root through it. “Where?”

This wasn't working.

She needed the bag in
her
hands.

She gave him a panicked look—no acting required—and breathed more harshly through her mouth, pretending she couldn't speak.

Please . . . let him think
I'm too desperate for air to be thinking about
an escape plan! And please let him not know that
if I really had asthma, I'd have an inhaler
, not pills.

He hesitated—then pulled out a knife and cut the binding on her wrists.

Thank you, God!

She plunged her hands in the bag, giving the performance of her life as she rooted frantically through the contents until her fingers closed over the phone.

Yes!

With one hand she felt for the on button and pressed hard. With the other she grasped the two Zyrtec she always carried in an inside pocket in case her mild allergies flared up and grabbed her bottle of water.

Her abductor watched while she put the tablets on her tongue and took a long gulp. She continued to wheeze as he repositioned his chair a few feet away, extinguished the light, and sat. His gaze—and the barrel of the gun—never wavered from her. But on the plus side, he apparently didn't know enough about asthma to realize pills were no substitute for an inhaler.

“You've got ten minutes to recover. Then we start.”

Start what?

She didn't ask.

Yet as she looked across the darkness that separated them, toward the face hidden behind the ski mask, she knew the end was approaching.

At least the SOS had been sent.

Now she could only pray someone was listening.

“We picked up a signal from the cell and we have a location.”

As the news from the tech agent came over the line, Lance groped in his pocket for a pen. “Where?”

“Middle of nowhere, as far as I can tell. Near Cedar Hill.”

He ran the St. Louis suburbs through his mind. The name didn't match any of them.

“Where is that?”

“About forty minutes south of the city. Less if you burn rubber. The signal is coming from just southeast of the LaBarque Creek Conservation Area.”

“Is it moving?”

“No.”

“Keep watching. Give me the exact location.” He jotted it down as the man relayed the information.

“That last is a county two-laner,” the man concluded. “Since it won't get you to the exact location, there must be a private road leading off from there—or else she trekked through the countryside.”

Mark appeared in the doorway of Terzic's bedroom, followed by the FBI computer expert. He motioned them both in.

“Keep tracking her phone. Home in on my cell too. You can guide us in once we get there. Also, find the owner of the property. I need to talk to him or her ASAP. Email me and Mark Sanders a topographic map as well and see if you can determine whether there are any houses nearby. Call me immediately if the location changes.”

He rose from his spot in front of Terzic's laptop and filled in the new arrivals. “I still need you to check out his computer.” He signaled the expert to take his place in front of the screen.
“If the GPS on her car is transmitting, that would be great—but I'm not holding my breath. I mostly need you to find out whether this computer has been tracking it.”

“That shouldn't take long to verify.” The guy went to work.

“Let's move.” Lance motioned Mark to follow him out.

“We can make Cedar Hill in thirty minutes from here.” Voice clipped, Mark pulled out his phone as they exited Terzic's apartment. “Let's take my Suburban. I've got my SWAT gear in the back. I also want my sniper and spotter onsite ASAP, and the rest of the team as fast as they can get there. You drive while I get all that rolling and talk to Steve.”

Lance stifled a surge of irritation as they jogged toward the SUV. This was his case, and he should be in charge until the higher-ups arrived.

On the other hand, Mark had a lot more FBI and SWAT team experience than he did.

Keep your mouth shut, McGregor. Let the
man run the show. This is about saving Christy's
life, not protecting your ego.

Mark finished the first call as they arrived at the SUV and grabbed Lance's arm. “I know what you're thinking—and for the record, I'm not taking over your case. But I've been through this drill a few more times than you have, and there's a life hanging in the balance. We don't want to take any chances.”

“Already processed and accepted.”

Mark scrutinized him. Gave a curt—and what appeared to be approving—nod. “Let's go.”

Lance slid behind the wheel. “Should we get the local police or sheriff's department to set up a loose perimeter in case our guy starts traveling?”

“Not advisable in this situation.” Mark punched some numbers into his phone. “I don't know the players in that area, and if they did anything to tip this guy off, he could go ballistic. We'll be there in half an hour—almost as fast as they could
get people into position.” He pressed the phone to his ear, continuing their conversation while he waited for the call to go through. “Take I-270 to Gravois and head south. That'll get us within a few miles of our target.”

Lance put the SUV in gear and raced for the highway. If him acting as driver would expedite this operation, he'd rise to the occasion—and get them there even faster than Mark expected.

Maybe too fast, based on his colleague's grab for the dash as he took the entrance ramp onto I-270 at speeds far exceeding the posted limit.

To the man's credit, though, he didn't comment—or miss a beat in his phone exchange.

Lance floored it once they were on the highway, weaving around the traffic as he tuned into the one-sided conversation. Mark gave clipped directions to the SWAT team members, then briefed Steve. No words were wasted. His summary of the situation was concise, his assessment of the situation spot on, his logistics and tactical discussion reasoned and thorough.

This guy knew his stuff—and that was a huge plus. Events could unfold fast once they got on the scene. Terzic had only a brief window until Christy was missed. If she wasn't at work tomorrow, an alarm would be raised. He needed this to be over tonight so he could go about his normal business in the morning, the picture of innocence and concern as the news spread at the rec center.

Besides, once a search was underway, the guy was too smart to risk detection by stashing Christy somewhere alive and making a return visit.

Before this night was over, she'd be dead and disposed of.

And where better to take care of both than in the middle of the woods?

While Mark continued to deal with the logistics, Lance pressed harder on the accelerator—all the while praying that
whatever Terzic had in store for Christy, he'd play it out late into the night.

As for Christy, if she'd managed to turn on her phone, she'd also be doing her best to buy them some time to arrive, assess the situation—and initiate a rescue effort.

And they'd need every second she could eke out.

“Your ten minutes are up.”

Christy's heart skipped a beat as she watched the man seated a few feet from her. He hadn't moved a muscle since she'd taken the pills. Just sat and observed her from behind his mask.

A cold wind whistled past, and she rubbed her arms, her teeth chattering in the subfreezing temperatures.

Stall! Stall! Stall!

“I need some more water.”

He hesitated, then gestured to the bottle protruding from her gym bag. “Help yourself.”