The Prey

CHAPTER 26

John didn’t know how long he’d been out, but a group of SWAT members were reviving him with water.

He sat up quickly, his ears ringing. Tess. He looked around and saw her lying more than twenty feet from him. He tried to stand and swore as his stomach threatened to rebel.

“Whoa, Mr. Flynn,” a member of the team said. “You were out for a good five minutes.”

“Tess.”

“She’s fine. Possible concussion, and it looks like she broke her arm in the fall, but she’ll be fine. An ambulance is on the way.”

Rowan. Slowly John stood, gathered his wits, and spotted Roger, who lay several feet away, awake. He approached him. “Rowan.”

“We lost them.” Roger’s face twisted in pain, both physical and emotional.

“What?” No, dammit, they couldn’t have lost her! He had ached to go after her, but couldn’t. He hadn’t had a choice.

Tess would be dead right now.

But Rowan could be dead. From what he’d seen and heard about Bobby MacIntosh, her death would be slow and painful. Some twisted sort of retribution.

John’s fists clenched.

“In the chaos after the explosion, only one team followed. They got a license plate, ran it, tailed them. Lost them momentarily when he got off the freeway, then found the car ditched.”

“Idiots!” John ran a hand through his hair, dirt raining down on him. He didn’t care about his filth; he needed to find Rowan.

One of the SWAT team members approached. “Director Collins, you need to lie still.”

Collins winced as the cop inspected him.

“What’s wrong?” John asked.

“Possible broken vertebrae,” the cop said.

“And Quinn Peterson?” John asked.

“Nasty-looking head wound, but he should be fine. Our medics are with him now.”

John would never forget the last three minutes before the explosion.

Not being able to follow Rowan killed him inside. His stomach felt ill, hollow. He was lost-the thought of Rowan in the hands of Bobby MacIntosh made him want to hit someone.

Or kill someone. Namely, the bastard who’d taken her.

He remembered it now. Out of the corner of his eye, John had watched Rowan jog away with a glance at her watch. She’d give them the full three minutes. If it didn’t take that long to dismantle this device on Tess, then he could follow her.

Quinn Peterson had gone over to look at the explosives on the truck.

“Peterson! Leave them alone, unless you know how to dismantle them,” John had called, his voice strained as he unscrewed the final panel.

“No,” he’d said, voice as tense as John felt. “Just wanted to verify the explosives.”

Good idea. John continued to work on Tess’s bomb, relieved that the failsafe was standard. Ninety seconds. Then they’d run.

Only he planned to run after Rowan.

A few seconds later, Peterson swore loudly. “He has an arsenal of explosives in here! It’s set on a remote detonator only.”

“No time delay?” John asked.

“None.”

“He never was going to give us the ten minutes,” Tess said, trying to control her sobs. “I told you. Please, John.”

“Shush. I’m almost done. Then run as fast as you can.”

Two minutes left. John asked Collins to count down every ten seconds. Each interval seemed to go by so slowly he wondered if time had somehow stood still, locking him in this hell of risking Tess’s life and fearing Rowan would be shot on sight.

“Ten.”

Snip. Five more wires to go. What order? Right, right. Standard. Snip. Four more wires. Separate. Unscrew the switch. Snip. Three more wires.

“Twenty.”

Rowan, please be careful. Stay far back. As soon as the three minutes are up, get away. He’s going to blow it. No matter what, he’s going to blow it and you need to run fast. I know you can do it, John willed.

“Thirty.”

Snip. Snip. One more to go, but this was tricky. If he cut the wrong one-no, he knew. It had to be the white one. It was connected-shit, double-check. White, beige, black. Black? No, definitely white. Connected there. Don’t snip too close to the switch.

“Forty.” Collins called to Peterson. “Quinn! Get back here.”

John braced himself. Snip.

Nothing.

“Got it,” he said, under his breath. He quickly helped Tess out of the rigged vest and gently dropped it to the ground.

“Fifty,” Collins said.

“Peterson!” John yelled. “We’re clear. Run.” He grabbed Tess. They had one minute, ten seconds, and John sensed Bobby MacIntosh wouldn’t give them a second more.

Two hundred yards? No, they wouldn’t make two football fields. He hoped a hundred would get them in the clear.

The explosion shook the earth and threw Tess away from him. John felt his feet leave the ground and he was flying. Then everything went black.

He now cleared his mind of the nightmare they’d just lived through and checked his watch, which was surprisingly undamaged. It wasn’t even seven.

“I’m going to find Rowan,” he said.

“Flynn, be careful. Every available team is looking for her.” Roger Collins then talked into his transmitter. “Agent Thorne, are you available?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How’s Francie? Is she-” Roger swallowed, glanced at John.

“The vest saved her life. She’s being looked at by medics and will need minor surgery, but she’ll pull through.”

“Thank God.” Roger drew in a breath. “Thorne, bring a car out here and pick Flynn up. Help him any way you can.”

“ETA two minutes. Out.”

“Thanks,” John said, and meant it.

“Find her. Before Bobby-before he kills her.”

“I will.”

But he had no idea where to start.

Father Peter O’Brien landed at Burbank Airport after eight that night, having traveled more than ten hours. He hadn’t had much opportunity to sleep. On the leg from Boston to Chicago, he sat next to a ninety-year-old widow who asked him to pray the Rosary with her-all twenty decades. Each ten prayers, he asked for Rowan’s safety and Bobby’s soul.

In Chicago they were delayed three hours because of a security problem. He ate in a café in the airport and was subjected to the ridicule of a young couple who found his Church lacking in many ways. On the connecting flight he sat next to a woman diagnosed with stage-three breast cancer and was humbled by her strength of character and quiet confidence that God would use her doctors to make her well. She wasn’t Catholic, but her faith was strong and gave Peter hope.

It was a long trip, and he dozed maybe forty minutes before landing in Burbank. He attempted to contact Roger Collins in Chicago to tell him of the delay, but without success. Once he’d landed, he tried Roger again. Still no answer.

Roger had made it clear that if Peter couldn’t reach him, something had gone wrong.

He took out the note he’d jotted down after his conversation with the assistant FBI director last night.

John Flynn, 818-555-0708.

Flynn was protecting Rowan. But since Roger couldn’t be reached, Peter feared Rowan was in danger.

He dialed the number. After the third ring he became more worried; then someone picked up the phone.

“Flynn.”

“John, it’s Peter O’Brien.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m at the Burbank Airport. Roger was supposed to pick me up, but I can’t reach him.”

There was a pause. “Roger’s in the hospital with a broken back. Why are you here?”

Peter crossed himself. “Roger felt I might be helpful in negotiating with Bobby if it came down to that. Bobby doesn’t know I’m alive.”

“He has Rowan.”

“Dear God,” Peter said, grabbing the side of the phone booth. “Where?”

“Hell if I know. I’m heading down to FBI headquarters now, but I’ll swing by and pick you up. I think Roger may be right. Throw MacIntosh off balance. If we can find him. Meet me outside of the terminal.”

Black. Cold. Very, very cold.

Rowan tried to open her eyes but they felt weighted down with wet sand. Even the smallest effort resulted in a massive headache. She tried to take a deep breath, but her chest was constricted. Her numb fingers and toes began to tingle as she tried to move, and the tingle turned to pain.

It was then that she realized she was trussed up like a pig, her arms and legs pulled behind her and tied together. No wonder she ached.

It smelled like vomit. Very likely, she thought, as she remembered the sting of being shot with the tranquilizer dart. Heavy-duty narcotics could make anyone sick. At first she thought the cold was an aftereffect of the tranquilizer, but the floor was cold. The faint hum of an air conditioner ran behind the walls. Someone had turned it on full blast. She involuntarily shivered.

Her mouth was dry and foul tasting, her body racked with pain as she slowly wriggled, trying to loosen the binds. As sensation returned to her fingers, she felt nylon rope. The more she tugged, the tighter the rope became, so she stopped moving.

At least she was alive. Alive and thinking.

Bobby.

When she’d first seen him holding the shotgun, she’d frozen. This was her brother, whom she hadn’t seen in over twenty years. He looked completely different. She doubted she’d have recognized him on the street. He was forty-one now, a man. His hair was short, cropped. His face fuller, his body broader. He even seemed taller, which wasn’t unusual. Many boys grew well into their late teens and early twenties.

But it was him.

Then he’d pressed a button and her entire life blew up.

John had to be dead. There was no way he could have gotten away so fast. She’d felt the explosion nearly a quarter-mile away.

The guilt hit her first, then a deep, physical sadness that started in her chest and spread out, making her feel more tired, her limbs heavier, her heart weaker.

She hadn’t told John she loved him. But she did.

And he went to his grave not knowing how important he’d become to her in such a short time. How she didn’t want to say goodbye, that he was now an irrevocable part of her life. Her soul.

Bobby had stolen John from her. Her future, however tentative, was shattered without a thought by the one person who knew how to destroy mercilessly.

She choked out an uncontrolled sob, grief causing her to shake, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. What did she have to live for? The memories of everyone Bobby had killed? Her mother? Her sisters? Michael and Tess?

John.

I love you, Rowan.

Another sob escaped her throat, but turned into a moan. Her cheek rested on a hardwood floor. She listened, waiting for Bobby to come and kill her. She had nothing left to live for. But all she heard was the dull, static noise of the waves crashing against the beach below.

Waves. Ocean. The familiar rhythm was soothing. They were on the coast. She breathed deeply, ignoring the stabbing pain in her chest. The house smelled musty, stale. Closed up. The artificial Lysol smell of unused house.

As the tranquilizer wore off, her eyelids became lighter and she managed to open them. Pitch black. She could see nothing. But it felt like she was in a large room with high ceilings. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw a faint change in the shades of black. Curtains, drawn over windows. That was the direction of the ocean.

Unused house. The house next door? Could he have been in the vacant house next door to her rental all this time? The property management company aired it out once a week, but other than that, no one would have been around.

If he had been living next door, he’d know the shift changes of the FBI agents. Michael. John. Recognize everyone who visited her. Know how to get to Tess.

He’d been watching her.

He’d seen how his actions affected her. He’d been playing his game, using her. He relished it. The control, the power. How long? Had he been to her cabin in Colorado? Followed her to Malibu? Been to the studio to watch her work?

Had he broken into her house and gone through her clothes? Her computer? Her papers? How close had he been without her knowing it? He’d been in her house to steal the advance copy of her book. When? While she slept? While she was working? While she ran?

The emptiness in her soul slowly filled with red rage, so hot it began to physically warm her. Bobby had been in control all this time. She’d been a pawn, reacting to every one of his moves on the chessboard he’d created. Bobby had won each and every move, except the attack on that brave prostitute in Dallas. Now, he was taking his final turn.

She would stop him.

She had to find a way to take him down with her. He wasn’t going to kill her outright. If he were, he’d have done so already. He would have killed her with a bullet in the back instead of drugging her. Because of that, because of his propensity to play with her mind, she had a chance.

Her survival meant nothing to her anymore. But her death would mean something if she dragged Bobby down to hell with her.

Footsteps on hardwood. Stairs. He was coming upstairs toward her. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Closer, heavier. Pause. Rattle. He was behind her. A lock turned and she strained to face him, but couldn’t. The door creaked.

Her heart beat so loudly it drowned out her thoughts. She broke out in a sweat despite the too-cold air conditioning.

Lights blazed and she squeezed her eyes shut, but not before pain shot through her head at the sudden brightness.

“Hello, Lily. I know you’re awake.”

She heard her brother cross the floor toward her. Bobby grabbed her hair in his hand and yanked. She tried to open her eyes, but the light blinded her.

He laughed, dropping her head. He untied her, pulling hard on the ropes in the process, but she refused to cry out. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of breaking her. When her limbs were free, the blood rushed to her hands and feet in a painful flood. She tried to get up but failed, collapsed, breathing heavily.

“I’ll let you pull yourself together, Lily Pad. It really wouldn’t be that much fun to kill you now when you don’t even have a chance.” His voice was older, but still held the singsong taunting of his youth.

“I. Will. Kill you.” Rowan’s uneven breath sputtered a curse.

He laughed again. “Hope. Enjoy it while you still have some. I have… things to get ready for you downstairs. So just relax while you can.”

She heard him cross the floor and close the door behind him. The lock turned. He’d left the light on and she slowly opened her eyes. She was in the middle of a large bedroom. Though her vision was blurred, she made out the bottom of a bed, a pale blue dust ruffle ten feet away.

Gradually, she pulled herself on all fours, ignoring the ache in her chest, the throbbing of her shoulder from where the dart had hit her, the hot, painful tingling in her hands and feet. She remained in that position for quite some time, until the nausea passed and she could sit up.

Her vision cleared, and it looked as if someone were lying in the bed. Who? The owners of the house only stayed in the late summer and fall. Someone would have noticed if anyone from the property management company were missing.

She pushed herself up, ignoring the woozy sensation, a leftover from the narcotics. “Hello?” Her voice came out a croak and she cleared her throat.

She looked. Lying on top of the covers was a fifty-something woman. Her vacant eyes stared directly at Rowan, locked in terror. Small flies buzzed around her face. There was a single bullet hole in her forehead.

The pillow was stained dark red. Dried blood. But this woman had been awake when she died. She’d known her fate, her eyes reflecting her fear. Even as Rowan turned away, she knew who the woman was. She and John had seen her picture in the news while at the safe house in Cambria. She’d been driving from the hospital after visiting her first-born granddaughter somewhere in Arizona when she disappeared. Rowan hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but like any good FBI agent, she made a mental note of her photograph.

Arizona, on the way from Texas to California.

She screamed.

On the other side of the door, Bobby laughed.