Jenness Walker - Double Take

A woman rose from the last seat and strode forward as the old man’s head slumped against the window. “I’m an LPN.”

“Good.” Cole shoved her into his seat. “Someone help her.” He ran up the aisle, but another man beat him to the driver’s radio. Cole stared out the windshield. The van was long gone.

“The radio’s busted,” the man said. “And they took the keys.”

“All right. Let’s go.”

The timekeeper raised his voice from halfway back. “Still got two minutes left, man. You go, you kill that girl.”

Cole stiffened, trying to block the image of the girl’s face—her sad eyes, her lips white with fear. If her car hadn’t died that morning…“I stay, and this man dies.”

Sirens blared. First a patrol car, then a fire truck, with an ambulance not far behind. Cole blew out a breath, glanced down the aisle where the nurse still hovered. It was out of his hands now. He could tell his story and go. The Atlanta Police Department and emergency response teams would take care of everything.

When the first policeman stepped from the car, the subdued silence on the bus gave way to controlled chaos. In a blur of movement, paramedics whisked the heart attack victim away, the bus was emptied and roped off and a staging area was set up farther down the blocked-off section of street.

Cole sat on the curb and mulled over his statement as emergency personnel began weaving through the crowd, treating injuries and checking those with medical conditions. He played the scene in his head, his pen flying over the paper as he jotted down what had happened, filling in as many details as he could remember.

Two men with black ski masks—he hadn’t noticed their faces before the masks went on. Probably should have, because one had been seated right behind him. He should have known, somehow. Should have been able to—

Clenching the pencil tighter, he continued to write. The gun. The boots. Their clothes. The black van. James’s heart attack. The search for a phone…

And that was it. Cole sketched the boots and the little he had seen of the men’s faces, then turned and stared at the bus. All he’d wanted to do was get a little air and some lunch, kill some time while his cousin was at work. Try to find a little peace between jobs.

He’d found a nightmare instead.

Thump-thump.

The sounds faded in and out around Kenzie as she regained consciousness: The hum of an engine. The slow-speed, lower-pitched men’s voices. The sharp pounding of her heart and the rasping of her own breath.

Thump-thump.

Her head throbbed. She tried to lift a hand to feel for a bruise or gash but couldn’t. Something cut into her wrists, binding them behind her back, her fingertips brushing the wall of the vehicle. Her ankles were bound, as well. She tried to force open her eyes, but the blackness stayed.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

The walls closed in on her as time stood still in the cloying darkness, dragging her down.

She swallowed hard and shook her head. Not now. Not here. If she didn’t want to end up dead, she had to get a grip.

Deep breath. And again.

The walls backed away slightly. Were they going to let her go, like they promised? Or just kill her once they made good on their getaway? She needed to know. But more than that, she needed to be able to see.

Now.

The need for light grew as Kenzie pulled her legs in close and pressed her face against her knee. She rubbed hard, frantically trying to dislodge the blindfold. It stayed, the material cutting into her head, making the ache worse. Pressing her mouth against her knee, Kenzie muffled a whimper.

Then screamed as a hand touched the back of her neck.

Someone could be dying right now. And here he stood, watching as a crew removed the crime-scene tape from the bus, waiting to be interviewed by a detective as the group anxiously reclaimed their belongings now that they’d been released.

Cole slowly—guiltily—collected his things. His wallet. The novel.

His chest tightened again.

A stylish black purse, the one that the pretty brunette had hugged to herself, remained on the table. Would she ever get it back?

Turning away, he found a spot on the curb again. He needed to call his cousin. See if John could pick him up after his turn with the detective.

Why? So he could go back to his vacation like normal? To act as if he hadn’t just watched an innocent woman be marched away, probably to her death…and done nothing about it?

He kept seeing the first paragraph from the Warren Flint book. The words would scroll across his brain, followed by the corresponding actions. The gray seats. The curve in the road. Every second, from watching Monique’s twin sit in the front to when the gunmen had hauled her away.

And especially the moment cold metal had touched his temple.

It could have been him…but it wasn’t.

When his turn in the hot seat was finished, Cole rose from the metal folding chair and shook hands with the detective. With his interview over, he could go, but…

He should mention the book—just get it out there and let the cops go ahead and discard the notion that it was more than a coincidence. Because then he could, too.

Cole hesitated, then said, “What’s the best way to stay up-to-date on the situation?”

Coward. Like they were going to give him inside information.

Detective Parker tipped his bald head and studied Cole through narrowed eyes. “Do you know the hostage?”

“No, sir. I just want to know that she’s all right. Makes me feel guilty, you know?” Cole’s grip tightened on his belongings.

Detective Parker nodded, his eyes clearing. “I understand, son. But you’ll just have to check the news like everyone else.”

“Right. Thank you, sir.”

As he walked away, the book felt heavy, as if it had taken on his burden of guilt. He sat near the street and balanced the novel on his knee while he waited for his ride. Skimming the pages, he found where he’d left off…where Monique had been taken off the bus. A gun to her head. Shoved in a van. Tied up, blindfolded and whisked away.

He was almost afraid to read the words, almost afraid he’d somehow caused them—as if his imagination typed out each paragraph onto a blank page just before his eyes could catch up. And as if everything on the page was coming to pass.

Right.

It was ridiculous. Crazy. But…what if, by some one-in-a-million chance, the gunmen were using the novel as a playbook for their crime spree?

Then, if he read more and found out what happened to the heroine…there was a one-in-a-million chance he could help save a life.

Monique flexed one hand, then the other. No give in the restraints, but she tried again anyway. She should be wearing the diamond bracelet Evan had given her, not the rope chafing her wrists. Looking through a wispy veil, not sporting a rag blindfold.

She rested her forehead on her knees, just for a moment. Then a sharp turn landed her on her side on the floor of the van. Refusing to cry out, she bit her lip and tasted blood.

“This is your stop, sweetheart.” The voice hovered too close above her head and was followed by a sharp jab to her left ankle, then a million needles as blood rushed to her feet. They’d cut the ropes. She should lash out—

A rough hand grabbed her arm, hauled her up. The door opened with a low rumble, and Monique lurched to the ground. Her foot turned on the uneven pavement, and she went down hard. The tears came then, but she forced them back before her captor jerked her upright.

She should be slipping into her borrowed Vera Wang dress, not putting holes in the knees of her designer jeans. She should be kissing Evan, not spitting out dirt and pebbles.