Chapter Forty-Three
It’s impossible to turn around and give chase; cars and trucks and buses stream down both lanes without a single gap, my own version of Frogger.
Even pulling back into traffic takes too long, and finally, I cut off a slow-moving shuttle that advertises Marriott Hotel and Suites.
The driver lays on the horn, but I’m too busy racing around—looping back to return to the arrivals area, to take that right turn and follow the van—to care.
When I finally get there, it’s nothing but empty airport road—probably where the employees go, or maybe where deliveries are made.
“Damn it.” I bite my lip until I taste blood, smack the steering wheel hard enough my hand throbs, and search for the white van—or any moving vehicle, for that matter.
But it’s abandoned. A long expanse of dark gray concrete, a handful of white and yellow lines, the side of the airport, unremarkable and utterly unhelpful.
I hit the brake, come to a stop.
“What now?” I whisper to myself. “What freaking now?” I picture my husband, tied up, gagged, in the back of the van.
The fear on his face, in his eyes—a thought that was almost joyful to me the other night, as I pictured beating the truth out of him.
Now it fills me with dread, and I try to assemble everything so it makes sense.
Ian took Brian. With help, no less—at least two sets of hands were pulling him into the van before he could fight back. Which would imply Ian planned this. He had help.
He also originally had accepted the contract on Brian. So he must be set on fulfilling said contract. He did tell me he wouldn’t kill him—but that was days ago. And I remember that he’d tacked on one extra word. Yet. He wouldn’t kill him yet. Maybe today is the day.
I knew he was coming to town, but he told me it wouldn’t be until tonight. At which point, he…what? Could console me in the knowledge that someone had gotten to my husband before I had? Maybe convince me of how bad Brian was? He thought he’d grab him before I could.
“He set me up.” The words come out in a gasp of realization. Ian set me up to not get Brian—to get to Brian himself first. And then to do…what? Kill him, of course. Collect the many hundreds of thousands of dollars put on his head for…whatever reason. Human trafficking, according to Ian.
I pull the car around, head back toward the highway. Maybe this is why Ian wanted separate flights—why he said he wanted to go home before coming to San Antonio. Maybe he had planned to kill Brian all along and was just biding his time.
Or maybe he’s trying to help me, afraid that I might not kill him.
I flip my turn signal on and merge back on the highway, wondering where the hell Ian would have gone.
“Hey, Siri, call Ian,” I command my phone.
It rings. And rings. And rings. I cancel the call.
“Hey, Siri, call John.” My voice goes up a notch, desperate.
“Helllllo,” he answers immediately. The bling-bling-bling of coins being collected by Mario fills the background.
“Do you have someone who can track a cell phone?” A long pause. He’s not paying attention. “John?” I snap. “Answer my question.”
“Uhhh…maybe? Why?” His words come out vaguely annoyed, like I’m interrupting. “I fired you, remember?”
“Put your game controller down and talk to me or I’ll come to Columbia, Missouri, and put a bullet through you.”
“Shit, Nadia.” From his tone, I imagine him sitting straight up, dropping the damn thing, suddenly focused. Then, in nearly a whisper, “How do you know where I live?”
“Because I’m not an idiot.” I huff a breath. “Can you track a phone? Yes or no?”
“I mean, I know a guy, but he’s probably sleeping right now—”
“Wake him up. I need you to trace Ian’s number.”
“Wait, did you say Ian? Aren’t you like BFFs or something?”
“I’ll call you back. Find him. Or else.”
He always stays at the same Marriott hotel near the airport. Of course, he wouldn’t take Brian there. And yet—what else do I have? Nothing.
I text John Ian’s phone number, even though it’s probably untraceable.
Then I add Brian’s—because if Ian didn’t think to toss it out, his likely is traceable.
And as I go to the text thread to copy and paste his number, my eyes skim over those last messages—the ones where he claimed to be excited to be coming home to me—and something twists inside my gut.
I’m a killer.
But Ian—he’s ruthless. He asks no questions. He will accept any job regardless of sex or age or circumstance. And he’s betrayed me.
Not to mention I have no doubt that he will kill Brian. And soon.