Allison Brennan - The Prey

The game isn’t over until you’re dead.

John didn’t know how long he’d been out, but a group of SWAT members were reviving him with water.

He sat up quickly, his ears ringing. Tess. He looked around and saw her lying more than twenty feet from him. He tried to stand and swore as his stomach threatened to rebel.

“Whoa, Mr. Flynn,” a member of the team said. “You were out for a good five minutes.”

“Tess.”

“She’s fine. Possible concussion, and it looks like she broke her arm in the fall, but she’ll be fine. An ambulance is on the way.”

Rowan. Slowly John stood, gathered his wits, and spotted Roger, who lay several feet away, awake. He approached him. “Rowan.”

“We lost them.” Roger’s face twisted in pain, both physical and emotional.

“ What ?” No, dammit, they couldn’t have lost her! He had ached to go after her, but couldn’t. He hadn’t had a choice.

Tess would be dead right now.

But Rowan could be dead. From what he’d seen and heard about Bobby MacIntosh, her death would be slow and painful. Some twisted sort of retribution.

John’s fists clenched.

“In the chaos after the explosion, only one team followed. They got a license plate, ran it, tailed them. Lost them momentarily when he got off the freeway, then found the car ditched.”

“Idiots!” John ran a hand through his hair, dirt raining down on him. He didn’t care about his filth; he needed to find Rowan.

One of the SWAT team members approached. “Director Collins, you need to lie still.”

Collins winced as the cop inspected him.

“What’s wrong?” John asked.

“Possible broken vertebrae,” the cop said.

“And Quinn Peterson?” John asked.

“Nasty-looking head wound, but he should be fine. Our medics are with him now.”

John would never forget the last three minutes before the explosion.

Not being able to follow Rowan killed him inside. His stomach felt ill, hollow. He was lost-the thought of Rowan in the hands of Bobby MacIntosh made him want to hit someone.

Or kill someone. Namely, the bastard who’d taken her.

He remembered it now. Out of the corner of his eye, John had watched Rowan jog away with a glance at her watch. She’d give them the full three minutes. If it didn’t take that long to dismantle this device on Tess, then he could follow her.

Quinn Peterson had gone over to look at the explosives on the truck.

“Peterson! Leave them alone, unless you know how to dismantle them,” John had called, his voice strained as he unscrewed the final panel.

“No,” he’d said, voice as tense as John felt. “Just wanted to verify the explosives.”

Good idea. John continued to work on Tess’s bomb, relieved that the failsafe was standard. Ninety seconds. Then they’d run.

Only he planned to run after Rowan.

A few seconds later, Peterson swore loudly. “He has an arsenal of explosives in here! It’s set on a remote detonator only.”

“No time delay?” John asked.

“None.”

“He never was going to give us the ten minutes,” Tess said, trying to control her sobs. “I told you. Please, John.”

“Shush. I’m almost done. Then run as fast as you can.”

Two minutes left. John asked Collins to count down every ten seconds. Each interval seemed to go by so slowly he wondered if time had somehow stood still, locking him in this hell of risking Tess’s life and fearing Rowan would be shot on sight.

“Ten.”

Snip. Five more wires to go. What order? Right, right. Standard. Snip. Four more wires. Separate. Unscrew the switch. Snip. Three more wires.

“Twenty.”

Rowan, please be careful. Stay far back. As soon as the three minutes are up, get away. He’s going to blow it. No matter what, he’s going to blow it and you need to run fast. I know you can do it, John willed.

“Thirty.”

Snip. Snip. One more to go, but this was tricky. If he cut the wrong one-no, he knew. It had to be the white one. It was connected-shit, double-check. White, beige, black. Black? No, definitely white. Connected there. Don’t snip too close to the switch.

“Forty.” Collins called to Peterson. “Quinn! Get back here.”

John braced himself. Snip.

Nothing.

“Got it,” he said, under his breath. He quickly helped Tess out of the rigged vest and gently dropped it to the ground.

“Fifty,” Collins said.

“Peterson!” John yelled. “We’re clear. Run.” He grabbed Tess. They had one minute, ten seconds, and John sensed Bobby MacIntosh wouldn’t give them a second more.

Two hundred yards? No, they wouldn’t make two football fields. He hoped a hundred would get them in the clear.

The explosion shook the earth and threw Tess away from him. John felt his feet leave the ground and he was flying. Then everything went black.

He now cleared his mind of the nightmare they’d just lived through and checked his watch, which was surprisingly undamaged. It wasn’t even seven.

“I’m going to find Rowan,” he said.

“Flynn, be careful. Every available team is looking for her.” Roger Collins then talked into his transmitter. “Agent Thorne, are you available?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How’s Francie? Is she-” Roger swallowed, glanced at John.

“The vest saved her life. She’s being looked at by medics and will need minor surgery, but she’ll pull through.”

“Thank God.” Roger drew in a breath. “Thorne, bring a car out here and pick Flynn up. Help him any way you can.”

“ETA two minutes. Out.”

“Thanks,” John said, and meant it.

“Find her. Before Bobby-before he kills her.”

“I will.”

But he had no idea where to start.

Father Peter O’Brien landed at Burbank Airport after eight that night, having traveled more than ten hours. He hadn’t had much opportunity to sleep. On the leg from Boston to Chicago, he sat next to a ninety-year-old widow who asked him to pray the Rosary with her-all twenty decades. Each ten prayers, he asked for Rowan’s safety and Bobby’s soul.

In Chicago they were delayed three hours because of a security problem. He ate in a café in the airport and was subjected to the ridicule of a young couple who found his Church lacking in many ways. On the connecting flight he sat next to a woman diagnosed with stage-three breast cancer and was humbled by her strength of character and quiet confidence that God would use her doctors to make her well. She wasn’t Catholic, but her faith was strong and gave Peter hope.

It was a long trip, and he dozed maybe forty minutes before landing in Burbank. He attempted to contact Roger Collins in Chicago to tell him of the delay, but without success. Once he’d landed, he tried Roger again. Still no answer.

Roger had made it clear that if Peter couldn’t reach him, something had gone wrong.

He took out the note he’d jotted down after his conversation with the assistant FBI director last night.

John Flynn, 818-555-0708.

Flynn was protecting Rowan. But since Roger couldn’t be reached, Peter feared Rowan was in danger.

He dialed the number. After the third ring he became more worried; then someone picked up the phone.

“Flynn.”

“John, it’s Peter O’Brien.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m at the Burbank Airport. Roger was supposed to pick me up, but I can’t reach him.”

There was a pause. “Roger’s in the hospital with a broken back. Why are you here?”

Peter crossed himself. “Roger felt I might be helpful in negotiating with Bobby if it came down to that. Bobby doesn’t know I’m alive.”

“He has Rowan.”

“Dear God,” Peter said, grabbing the side of the phone booth. “Where?”