Allison Brennan - The Prey

She rose and crossed to her bag. Pulling out her toiletries, she found the bottle of prescription sleeping pills a doctor had given her years ago. She rarely used them, because she feared sleeping too deeply would prevent her from pulling herself from the nightmares that hounded her. But it had become a habit to take them with her, a reminder of her weakness.

Silently, she locked the door. Then, she took out her knife and cut the pills as best she could, pounding them to dust with the dull end.

She didn’t want to hurt poor Reggie Jackman. He was a big guy. Four pills should knock him out.

Roger paced in the Dulles terminal and waited for his flight to be called. His assistant stood several feet away, knowing better than to disturb him when he was in this pensive mood.

Once he landed in Burbank, he’d have six hours to orchestrate the trap. Bobby would be expecting something, so he had to make it look like there was nothing to expect. Roger alone would escort the decoy to the meeting place in the middle of a damned field in Ventura. There would be a full SWAT team completely out of sight, arriving on foot in case Bobby was casing the area.

Roger’s gut churned knowing that Bobby had Tess Flynn captive. He had no doubt she was alive at this point, but for how long? And in what condition? He should have killed Bobby MacIntosh when he had the opportunity twenty-three years ago. It would have cost him his job, his career, and his family, but the bastard would be dead and all these people wouldn’t have suffered. His quiet complicity in their deaths would haunt him to his grave. While he’d never lied to his boss or the government, he’d made several missteps over the last few weeks that could still cost him a reprimand or worse.

He should have checked on Bobby after the first murder, but Roger never thought he could orchestrate such an elaborate, undetected escape.

Rowan might never forgive him for his original lie. She might never forgive him for locking her in a safe house and keeping her out of the action. Had he failed her again? Gracie insisted Rowan would understand over time, but Roger didn’t think so. Gracie hadn’t seen Rowan, listened to her, talked to her. She didn’t know Rowan like he did.

He’d been lying to Rowan since he met her, and now they were both paying the price.

The speaker system buzzed, then a generic female voice announced, “Attention passengers. Flight 337 for Dallas, Burbank, now open for boarding.”

“Sir?” His aide, a skinny young guy right out of the academy, approached.

“Five minutes,” he said and pulled out his cell phone.

Roger had an idea. He didn’t know if it would work, but time was running out. He punched in a number from memory.

“Saint John’s, may I help you?”

“I need to talk to Father O’Brien. It’s an emergency.”

Adam woke up in the middle of the night with a memory within reach, but as soon as he saw his digital clock telling him it was 3:35 A.M., he lost it.

But it was important. He knew it was important, something he had to remember.

For Rowan.

He got up and poured himself a glass of milk. The dream was the same. He was at Rowan’s house at sunset watching the pretty colors and listening to the ocean. Something had caught his eye.

Something. But what?

He was determined to remember. He began going over that day in his mind. Over and over, from beginning to end. He’d woken up. Drank milk. Cereal. What kind of cereal? Rice Krispies. He smiled. Snap, crackle, pop!

Don’t get off track. You have to remember, Adam!

Cereal. Then cleaning up his dishes. Rowan told him it was important to clean up after yourself. He had watched part of Attack of the 50-Foot Woman on DVD before leaving for the studio. He loved that movie.

He’d gone to work. What had he done? Think. Think. He put together the blood packet for the gunfight. It wasn’t Rowan’s movie, but an action movie, and Barry was letting him help. Barry said he followed directions well.

Then why couldn’t he remember this thing that he knew was important? Think, stupid!

He sat and he thought. And when he got to the end of that day in his mind and it didn’t come to him, he started again.

4:50. And counting.

They grouped at FBI headquarters at three that afternoon. John was beside himself about Tess. Though Collins had spoken to MacIntosh earlier and was able to talk briefly to Tess, Bobby was too volatile, too violent, too unpredictable. He could have shot her as soon as he’d hung up.

But John felt she was still alive. She had to be. It had been his responsibility to protect his sister, and he had failed her.

The ground game was set. The SWAT team had already moved into place. Roger would escort the decoy to the exchange point and Bobby had agreed to bring Tess with him.

John wanted to drive Roger’s car, but Roger tagged Quinn for the assignment, ordering John to stay at the command center they’d set up down the road. If anything went wrong… Roger didn’t need to say more.

Get back to Rowan and hide her.

Nothing would go wrong, John told himself. Not with Tess in the middle of a hostage situation. Not with Tess being held by a murderer.

Not with Rowan waiting for him.

Please forgive me for leaving you. It’s for your safety . He hoped Rowan had accepted it by now. Realized it was for the best.

Even John had his doubts. Were they doing the right thing in keeping Rowan in the safe house? Was she right about the trap? She was safe now, but for how long? If this went bad, who would protect her?

I love you.

He had a lot of reasons to get out of this alive, not the least of which was saving Tess. But also important was to build on this precarious relationship with Rowan. He didn’t want to lose her.

So he sat in the command center a half-mile away with Colleen Thorne, Quinn Peterson’s partner, and waited. Two other agents and a pair of SWAT team members hunkered down over communications equipment, but everything was quiet, tension simmering hot and silent beneath the surface.

The exchange point was in the middle of a fallow field outside of Ventura, accessible from all sides. The soil was dry, hard, and lumpy, the landscape impossible to position support troops in. Bobby had insisted that Collins and Rowan drive to the field from the north and when he saw them, he would drive in for the exchange.

The SWAT and FBI teams had changed into dark fatigues, but they couldn’t get too close-barely close enough to take a clean shot.

So many things could go wrong. John stood rigid at the edge of the makeshift command center, where he could observe and hear what was said. He was used to being responsible-for himself and his small team of loyalists. He hated not being in control.

Nearly six o’clock. Time for action.

“Has the suspect been identified?” Agent Thorne asked the field.

“Negative,” the SWAT commander stated. “Hold on.” He listened to someone talking in his earpiece.

John’s skin tingled. This was it.

“We have a possible approaching from the northwest. Dark green sedan.”

John frowned and glanced at the map. That part of the field was impassable with a car. You’d need a four-wheel drive to get through the rough terrain and irrigation ditches.

“It’s not him. The car stopped. A lone driver emerged. Female.”

“Tess?” John asked, but doubted Bobby would have let her go.

“Negative.” The commander called in for a description. “The female is approximately five foot eight, wearing jeans and beige jacket. Blonde.”

Rowan. John slammed his fist on the table. “God dammit !”

Roger Collins called in from the far north of the field. “Eighteen hundred hours,” he said. “We’re proceeding to the exchange point.”