Tess Gerritsen - The Apprentice

Slowly she sat up.

They had just entered the Callahan Tunnel, which burrowed beneath the Charles River. Traffic had slowed, and they were creeping along an endless concrete tube, its interior lit a sickly amber.

Navy-blue nylon six, six DuPont Antron. Standard carpet in Cadillacs and Lincolns.

She remained perfectly still, her gaze turned toward the tunnel wall. She thought about Gail Yeager and funeral processions, the line of limousines slowly winding toward cemetery gates.

She thought of Alexander and Karenna Ghent, who had arrived at Logan Airport just a week before their deaths.

And she thought of Kenneth Waite and his OUIs. A man who was not allowed to drive, yet took his wife to Boston.

Is this how he finds them?

A couple step into his car. The woman’s pretty face is reflected in his rearview mirror. She settles back in smooth leather seats for the ride home, never realizing that she’s being watched. That a man whose face she has scarcely registered is, at that very moment, deciding that she is the one.

The tunnel’s amber lights glided by as Rizzoli built the theory, brick by brick. Such a comfortable car, a quiet ride, the leather seats soft as human skin. A nameless man behind the wheel. All designed to make the passenger feel safe and protected. The passenger knows nothing about the man behind the wheel. But the driver would know the passenger’s name. The flight number. The street where she lives.

Traffic was stalled now. Far ahead, she could see the tunnel’s opening, a small portal of gray light. She kept her face turned to the window, not daring to look at the driver. Not wanting him to see her apprehension. Her hands were sweating as she reached into her purse and grasped the cell phone. She did not take it out but just sat with her hand around it, thinking about what, if anything, she should do next. So far the driver had done nothing to alarm her, nothing to make her think he was anything but what he claimed to be.

Slowly she took the phone from her purse. Flipped it open. In the dim tunnel, she strained to see the numbers so she could dial. Keep it casual, she thought. As though you’re just checking in with Frost, not shrieking out an S.O.S. But what would she say? “I think I’m in trouble, but I can’t be sure?” She hit the speed-dial for Frost. Heard ringing, then a faint “hello” followed by static.

The tunnel. I’m in the goddamn tunnel.

She disconnected. Looked ahead to see how close they were to emerging. At that instant her gaze flicked involuntarily to the driver’s rearview mirror. She made the mistake of meeting his eyes, of registering the fact that he was watching her. That’s when they both knew, they both understood.

Get out. Get out of the car!

She lunged for the door handle, but he had already triggered the locks. Scrambling to override it, she clawed in panic at the release button.

It was all the time he needed to reach back over the seat, aim the Taser, and fire.

The probe hit her in the shoulder. Fifty thousand volts pulsed into her torso, an electrical jolt that shot like lightning through her nervous system. Her vision went black. She dropped to the seat, her hands useless, all her muscles contracting in a storm of convulsions, her body out of control, quivering in submission.

A drumming noise, pattering above, drew her from the darkness. A fog of gray light slowly brightened on her retinas. She tasted blood, warm and metallic, and her tongue throbbed where she had bitten it. The fog slowly melted, and she saw daylight. They were out of the tunnel, heading… where? Her vision was still blurred, but through the window she could make out the shapes of tall buildings against a background of gray sky. She tried to move her arm, but it was heavy and sluggish, the muscles spent from the convulsion. And the view of buildings and trees sliding past the window was so dizzying she had to close her eyes. She focused all her effort on making her limbs obey her commands. She felt muscles twitch, and her fingers closed into a fist. Tighter. Stronger.

Open the door. Unlock the door.

She opened her eyes, fighting vertigo, her stomach roiling as the world spun past the window. She forced her arm to straighten, every inch a small victory. Hand now reaching toward the door, toward the lock release button. She pressed it and heard the loud click as it snapped open.

Suddenly there was pressure on her thigh. She saw his face glancing back over the seat as he shoved the Taser against her leg. Another burst of energy pulsed into her body.

Her limbs spasmed. Darkness fell like a hood.

A drop of cold water falling on her cheek. The screech of duct tape being peeled off a roll. She came awake as he bound her wrists behind her back, wrapping the tape several times around before he slit it off the roll. Next he pulled off her shoes, let them thud onto the floor. Peeled off both her trouser socks so the tape would adhere to bare skin. Her vision slowly cleared as he worked, and she saw the top of his head as he leaned into the car, his attention focused on binding her ankles. Behind him, through the open car door, was an expanse of green. Marsh and trees. No buildings. The fens? Had he pulled off in the Back Bay Fens?

Another screech of duct tape, and then the smell of adhesive as it pressed to her mouth.

He stared down at her, and she saw details that she had not bothered to register when the car window had first rolled down. Details that had then been irrelevant. Dark eyes, a face of sharp angles, an expression of feral alertness. And excitement about what came next. A face that no one would register from the backseat of a car. They are the faceless army dressed in uniforms, she thought. The people who clean our hotel rooms and haul our luggage and drive the limousines in which we ride. They move in a parallel world, seldom noticed until they are needed.

Until they intrude into ours.

He picked up her cell phone from the floor where it had fallen. Dropped it onto the road and slammed his heel down, smashing the phone into a bundle of crumpled plastic and wires, which he kicked into the bushes. No enhanced 911 would lead the police to her.

He was all efficiency now. The seasoned professional, doing what he does best. He leaned into the car, dragged her toward the door, then lifted her into his arms without even a grunt of effort. A special ops soldier who can march for miles with a hundred-pound pack strapped to his back would find little challenge in the transfer of a 115-pound woman. Rain splattered her face as she was carried to the rear of the car. She caught a glimpse of trees, silvery in the mist, and a dense tangle of undergrowth. But no other cars, even though she could hear them beyond the trees, the whish-whish of traffic, like the sound of the ocean when you hold a seashell to your ear. Close enough to raise a muffled howl of despair in her throat.

The trunk was already open, the drab-green parachute laid out and waiting to receive her body. He dropped her inside, went back to the car for her shoes, and threw those in with her as well. Then he closed the trunk, and she heard him turn the key in the lock. Even if she got her hands free, she would not be able to escape this black coffin.

She heard his door slam shut; then the car was moving again. Heading toward a meeting with a man she knew would be waiting for her.

She thought of Warren Hoyt. Thought of his bland smile, his long fingers encased in latex gloves. She thought of what he would be holding in those gloved hands, and terror engulfed her. Her breaths quickened and she felt she was suffocating and could not suck in air deeply enough, quickly enough, to keep from smothering. She twisted in panic, thrashing like a crazed animal, desperate to live. Her face slammed against her suitcase, and the blow momentarily stunned her. She lay exhausted, cheek throbbing.