Tess Gerritsen - Vanish

Gabriel nodded. “That’s the way it should be handled. No bullets, no assault. Just keep them all alive.”

Emerton called out: “Captain, we’ve got the list. Names of personnel and patients still unaccounted for.”

Stillman snatched up the page as it came off the printer and scanned down the names.

“Is she on it?” Gabriel asked.

After a pause, Stillman nodded. “I’m afraid she is.” He handed the list to Hayder. “Six names. That’s what the hostage taker said on the radio. That she’s holding six people.” He neglected to add what else the woman had said. And I have enough bullets for them all.

“Who’s seen that list?” said Gabriel.

“Hospital administrator,” said Hayder. “Plus whoever helped him compile it.”

“Before it goes any further, take my wife off it.”

“These are just names. No one knows-”

“Any reporter could find out in ten seconds that Jane’s a cop.”

Maura said, “He’s right. All the crime beat reporters in Boston know her name.”

“Scratch her name off the list, Mark,” said Stillman. “Before anyone else sees it.”

“What about our entry team? If they go in, they’ll need to know who’s inside. How many people they’re rescuing.”

“If you do your jobs right,” said Gabriel, “there’ll be no need for any entry team. Just talk that woman out of there.”

“Well, we’re not having much luck on the talking part, are we?” Hayder looked at Stillman. “Your girl refuses to even say hello.”

“It’s only been three hours,” said Stillman. “We need to give her time.”

“And after six hours? Twelve?” Hayder looked at Gabriel. “Your wife is due to give birth any minute.”

“You think I’m not considering that?” Gabriel shot back. “It’s not just my wife, it’s also my child in there. Dr. Tam may be with them, but if something goes wrong with the birth, there’s no equipment, no operating room. So yes, I want this over as quickly as possible. But not if there’s a chance you’ll turn this into a bloodbath.”

“ She’s the one who set this off. The one who chooses what happens next.”

“Then don’t force her hand. You’ve got a negotiator here, Captain Hayder. Use him. And keep your SWAT team the hell away from my wife.” Gabriel turned and walked out of the trailer.

Outside, Maura caught up with him on the sidewalk. She had to call his name twice before he finally stopped and turned to face her.

“If they screw up,” he said, “if they go charging in there too soon-”

“You heard what Stillman said. He wants to go slow on this, just like you.”

Gabriel stared at a trio of cops in SWAT uniforms, huddled near the lobby entrance. “Look at them. They’re pumped up, hoping for action. I know what it’s like, because I’ve been there. I’ve felt it myself. You get tired of standing around, endlessly negotiating. They just want to get on with it, because that’s what they’re trained to do. They can’t wait to pull that trigger.”

“Stillman thinks he can talk her out.”

He looked at her. “You were with the woman. Will she listen?”

“I don’t know. The truth is, we know almost nothing about her.”

“I heard she was pulled out of the water. Brought to the morgue by a fire and rescue crew.”

Maura nodded. “It was an apparent drowning. She was found in Hingham Bay.”

“Who found her?”

“Some guys at a yacht club down in Weymouth. Boston PD’s already got a team from homicide working the case.”

“But they don’t know about Jane.”

“Not yet.” It will make a difference to them, thought Maura. One of their own is a hostage. When another cop’s life is on the line, it always made a difference.

“Which yacht club?” Gabriel asked.

Mila

There are bars on the windows. This morning, frost is etched like a crystal spiderweb in the glass. Outside are trees, so many of them that I do not know what lies beyond. All I know is this room and this house, which has become our only universe since the night the van brought us here. Sun sparkles on the frost outside our window. It is beautiful in those woods, and I imagine walking among the trees. The crackling leaves, the ice glistening on branches. A cool, pure paradise.

In this house, it is hell.

I see its reflection in the faces of the other girls, who now lie sleeping on dirty cots. I hear the torment in their restless moans, their whimpers. Six of us share this room. Olena has been here the longest, and on her cheek is an ugly bruise, a souvenir left by a client who liked to play rough. Even so, Olena sometimes still fights back. She is the only one among us who does, the only one they cannot quite control, despite their calming drugs and injections. Despite their beatings.

I hear a car roll into the driveway, and I wait with dread for the buzzing of the doorbell. It is like a jolt from a live wire. The girls all startle awake at the sound and they sit up, hugging their blankets to their chests. We know what happens next. We hear the key in the lock, and our door swings open.

The Mother stands in the doorway like a fat cook, ruthlessly choosing which lamb to slaughter. As always, she is cold-blooded about it, her pockmarked face showing no emotion as she scans her flock. Her gaze moves past the girls huddled on their cots and then shifts to the window, where I am standing.

“You,” she says in Russian. “They want someone new.”

I glance at the other girls. All I see in their eyes is relief that this time they are not the chosen sacrifice.

“What are you waiting for?” the Mother says.

My hands have gone cold; already I feel nausea twisting my stomach. “I-I am not feeling well. And I’m still sore down there…”

“Your first week, and already you’re sore?” The Mother snorts. “Get used to it.”

The other girls are all staring at the floor, or at their hands, avoiding my gaze. Only Olena looks at me, and in her eyes I see pity.

Meekly I follow the Mother out of the room. I already know that to resist is to be punished, and I still have the bruises from the last time I protested. The Mother points to the room at the end of the hall.

“There’s a dress on the bed. Put it on.”

I walk into the room and she shuts the door behind me. The window looks out over the driveway, where a blue car is parked. Bars cover the windows here as well. I look at the large brass bed, and what I see is not a piece of furniture, but the device of my torture. I pick up the dress. It is white, like a doll’s frock, with ruffles around the hem. At once I understand what this signifies, and my nausea tightens to a knot of fear. When they ask you to play a child, Olena warned me, it means they want you to be scared. They want you to scream. They enjoy it if you bleed.

I do not want to put on the dress, but I’m afraid not to. By the time I hear footsteps approaching the room, I am wearing the dress, and steeling myself for what comes next. The door opens, and two men step in. They look me over for a moment, and I’m hoping that they are disappointed, that they think I am too thin or too plain, and they’ll turn around and walk out. But then they shut the door and come toward me, like stalking wolves.

You must learn to float away. That’s what Olena taught me, to float above the pain. This I try to do as the men rip off the doll’s dress, as their rough hands close around my wrists, as they force me to yield. My pain is what they have paid for, and they are not satisfied until I am screaming, until sweat and tears streak my face. Oh Anja, how lucky you are to be dead!

When it is over, and I hobble back to the locked room, Olena sits down beside me on my cot, and strokes my hair. “Now you need to eat,” she says.