Chapter 18 #2
I scrambled over the men toward the open door, and when a hand closed around my ankle, I kicked hard against it. Someone let out a grunt of pain, but I didn’t let it slow me down. I leapt to freedom, striking the pavement and rolling just as a pair of headlights down the road came into view.
I knew I should get up and run, but instead I glanced back over my shoulder. Frey was on his feet, his face a furious shade of red as he crawled over people to reach the door—
Tires spun and the van lurched forward, sending him and everyone else sprawling once more. The force of the sudden move made the doors swing shut with a loud slam, trapping them inside.
On your feet, now, Jason ordered. Move!
When I’d tumbled from the van, I’d dropped the gun, but I snatched it up as I climbed to my feet and took off.
Behind me, I heard a mechanical whine and recognized the sound instantly. The van was turning around.
Even if I wasn’t barefoot, I’d never be able to outrun it, and the road was flanked by cornfields on one side and a small creek on the other. I had no protection, nowhere to hide.
Once the decision was made, there was no other thought allowed.
I didn’t consider that my plan could fail, or that I might kill someone.
I spun around, planted my feet, and raised the gun, aiming as best I could despite the tremble that shook every inch of my body.
There was no specific target, just the large, moving mass of vehicle that hadn’t yet finished its turn.
I hoped there were enough rounds left inside this gun to hit something worthwhile.
I squeezed the trigger, and the gun kicked violently, the force reverberating up my arms. With my hands cuffed together, I could barely keep it in my grip.
I sent a line of bullets across the side of the van with a shower of sparks, creating bullet pockmarks in the metal as I worked my way toward the driver.
It took all of a second to unload.
The van unexpectedly veered from the road.
It tore through the guardrail with a scrape of whining metal and an explosion of plastic and glass debris, tipping and tumbling to its side.
It continued its violent roll until it came to rest crumpled on its roof in the creek, rocking and hissing in the aftermath.
The pavement felt like gritty ice as I fled toward the car that had stopped its approach.
“Help!” I yelled.
The woman seated behind the wheel wasn’t much older than I was, and I could only imagine what I looked like. A bloody, handcuffed, gun-toting girl in pajamas and a bulletproof vest who’d just forced a van off the road. The driver’s door flew open, and the woman fled.
Get in the car.
I had never driven so fast or recklessly in my life, hindered by the handcuffs.
I couldn’t catch my breath the whole way. Was the car behind me following? Had Frey and his men survived the crash? There wasn’t much gas left in the Mazda I’d unintentionally carjacked. The driver's purse lay on the passenger seat, where there’d probably be a phone and credit cards.
I could run, disappear forever. What was there to go back to now?
The car somehow found its way into the parking lot of a furniture store that looked like it had been closed for months, giving me a moment to think. I didn’t know anything about surviving on the run. I only knew I couldn’t stay here long.
As suspected, there was a phone in the purse. Even if I could unlock it, who would I call? Doing so would not only put my life in danger, but probably theirs, too. That was the first thing on my WITSEC guidelines. I thought about calling 911, but it was possible to listen to police scanners.
That could lead Frey right to me.
My decision had already been made, but it was a struggle to accept it. I used the back of my hand to wipe away cold sweat and plugged the motel’s name into the car’s navigation system.
The highway leading to the motel had been blocked off by a police cruiser whose driver tried to wave me around. When I stepped out of the car, he put a hand on the grip of his gun.
“Get back in your vehicle, miss,” he ordered.
“I need to speak with the marshal in charge.” I held up my handcuffed wrists.
The uniformed officer gave me a critical look, clearly wondering, what the hell?
“Please. I was in there.”
Before leaving the parking lot, I’d struggled out of the bulletproof vest. It was a bulky, one-size-fits-most type, and I was having a hard enough time driving with the cuffs.
I pulled the unstrapped vest from the passenger seat and held it up for the policeman to see, the large U.S. MARSHAL imprinted in white.
The officer was quiet while we waited in the heat of his patrol car for someone to retrieve me, but I could tell he wanted to ask what was going on. When a car pulled up and the door opened, I was overwhelmed, relieved to see a familiar face.
“Bill.”
“Unbelievable,” he uttered in relief and mostly to himself. He gestured to his car. “Get in.”
During the short drive through the staging area, I recounted my escape to him—although he knew one piece already. An ambulance had been dispatched to a wreck fitting the description of the van I’d been taken in.
“I lied and told Frey you know about his next job.” I didn’t look at Bill when I spoke. Instead, I watched the red and blue lights flashing ahead, competing with each other like a strange light show. “He said he could get to Zupan no matter what.”
Bill let out a heavy breath. “Zupan’s the federal prosecutor on the Markovic case.”
There was a large mobile SWAT unit parked in the front lot, and a semi-truck blocked most of the destruction from view.
“We’ve got medical set up inside, and someone will cut off those cuffs and take a look at you.”
A dark thought descended on me. They had medical, and probably a makeshift morgue too. That was the last place I wanted to be. “I just need these cut off. I’m fine.”
He shook his head to make sure I knew this was not up for discussion. He parked beside the truck, pulled off his jacket, and draped it around my shoulders.
“When we get out there, stay close and move quickly,” he said. “I don’t want to disrupt anyone’s work.”
By the time I’d pushed my door open and stepped out, he’d come around the car and extended a hand to help me. It was a warm gesture that made me wish for the father I’d barely known.
On the other side of the truck, the motel was bustling with people, everyone displaying the agency they worked for with badges hanging on chains around their neck or IDs clipped to clothes.
Some were coming and going from rooms, while a team of firefighters gathered around a charred vehicle that must have taken the grenade hit.
It was so busy, hardly anyone noticed Bill or the woman alongside him.
We rounded a corner, and my legs turned to lead. The physical reaction to what I was seeing was so strong I almost passed out.
At the edge of the corridor, Jason was having a heated conversation with two agents.
He’s not dead.
My mind babbled it over and over again. His eyes were sunken, looking like he’d been through hell. But he was alive. Upright.
And like me, wearing handcuffs.