Chapter 22 Species and Speciation #2
The click at the end of the message had echoed around us for three full seconds before Martin, looking somehow twenty years older, said, “I have a tracking device for you. It’s a prototype I invented, but it’s the best I can do on such short notice.
” He popped a tiny plastic button from a velvet jewelry box.
“It’s also a camera and an audio recorder.
It syncs to my phone and to the security office at my building.
I’m sharing the feed with the PD. As long as you’re wearing it, we’ll know where you are, what you’re hearing, and what you’re seeing. ”
I’d looked at the device, then at him. “Okay.”
I was almost proud of myself for not laughing or screaming or projectile vomiting. Instead, I let him press the button in place, let him explain how the adhesive backing would fuse to the actual button and how the battery would last at least ten hours.
The device stuck fast, perfectly disguised.
Then Martin said, “I’ll be tracking you the whole time. So will the police.”
I nodded, choked out, “Thank you,” and turned away before I could fall apart.
Now, as we approached the first of the two stoplights, Tara slowed and glanced in the rearview again.
“I want the rest of the team to back off,” I said, and my voice cracked hard on the last word. “He said to come alone. I don’t want to put Kaitlyn or Joey in any more danger.”
Tara nodded, set her jaw. “Next left, then you’re on your own. Are you really sure about this?”
I looked at her. “Yes.”
She didn’t argue. Instead, she pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned laundromat and turned to face me squarely. “I think this is a very bad idea,” she said, her voice flat and sincere. “But I know I can’t talk you out of it.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I exited the car, walked to the driver’s side, and accepted her unexpected hug. She patted me once on the back, then held me tighter than I expected, her biceps crushing enough to make me think she was trying to transfer some of her own strength through osmosis.
When I finally let go, she gave me a small smile and said, “If you get a chance, stab him in the balls.”
“Absolutely.” I nodded, feeling braver than I had any right to.
Accepting the keys, I adjusted my collar so the button tracker sat perfectly in line with the others. Tara stepped back, hands in her jacket pockets, and watched as I got into the Mercedes and drove away.
The address Henrik had texted was at the far edge of the city, in a part of the port district so old and irrelevant it wasn’t even gentrified yet.
The streets were a patchwork of new concrete and ancient cobblestones, lined with razor wire and rusted fences and more “No Trespassing” signs than your conservative uncle’s cabin in the woods.
It took two minutes to get there, and my heart rate climbed another ten BPM. By the time I saw the number painted in giant block font on the corrugated side of a warehouse, I was pretty sure I was in the red zone for a stroke.
My phone buzzed with an incoming call, startling me. Cutting the engine, I picked up my cell and read the name on the screen.
Andreas.
I stared at his name, thumb hovering over the green button, but the time mocked me from the upper right corner.
If I took the call, I’d have to explain, or hear him beg me to turn around, or admit that I was seconds away from walking into a situation with zero leverage and zero plan.
I sent the call to voicemail, muttering, “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” under my breath like a prayer.
I left the car running and jogged up the cracked pavement toward the main entrance of the building.
It was a massive structure, all dirty windows and steel siding and the faint chemical smell of something burning in the distance.
There was a battered sign over the door, but the name had been scraped off, leaving only the faded outline of what I guessed used to be some sort of shipping office.
I was almost to the door when someone called my name.
“Jarlston.”
I turned, and a man walked toward me from behind a large truck. He was dressed in all black—black jeans, black hoodie, black gloves—and his face was hidden behind an N95 respirator mask, the kind you’d see on the subway in flu season.
He looked left, then right, scanning the area with the jumpy energy of someone expecting an ambush.
Stopping about six feet from me, he crossed his arms and said, “Are you Samantha Jarlston?”
I nodded, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Yes. Where are Kaitlyn and Joey?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward, grabbed my arm with a gloved hand, and spun me around so fast I almost lost my balance. He pushed me toward the wall, then frisked me, hard and efficient, like he expected to find a gun or a knife or a wire.
When he got to my phone, he yanked it from my pocket, powered it off, and chucked it into the weeds. Then, without warning, he grabbed me by the back of the neck and marched me around the side of the building.
I didn’t fight. My only thought was that this was good. He believes I’m alone, with nothing on me, and I’m still alive. That’s something.
At the far side, there was a battered sedan parked up on the curb, trunk open and waiting. Before I could process what was happening, he shoved me into the trunk—hard, so my shoulder bounced off the carpeted wheel well—and slammed it shut.
The world went dark, except for the single pinpoint of light leaking through the seam of the back seat. For a second, all I could hear was the sound of my own breathing, ragged and echoing in the metal cage.
The car started moving immediately. No hesitation, no time for second thoughts. The ride was rough, every pothole magnifying the cramped, coffin-like space. The smell was industrial and greasy, and with every minute, the air got stuffier and thinner.
I counted my breaths and tried to think. I remembered Tara teaching me how to kick out the rear taillight, how to wave a hand for help, how to scream loud enough that passing drivers might hear. But if I escaped now, Kaitlyn and Joey would suffer.
I also reminded myself of the tracker button and hoped to God that Martin and the police were following every turn.
So, I waited.
It felt like hours, but was probably only twenty minutes, before the car slowed and took a series of hard turns, then came to a stop. I heard voices—muffled, arguing, one of them a woman—and then the trunk popped open, flooding the space with blinding white light.
For a second, all I could see was the sun. But I heard a voice. Henrik’s voice.
“Well look who it is. Apparently, you can follow directions.”