Blind Instinct (20 page)

The downward motion of the elevator made her stomach heave, and for a moment she thought she was going to be sick. The doors slid open and the much cooler air of the foyer flowed over her.

Lopez jerked her into motion again. Jaw clamped, she fought to stay upright and mobile. She had no idea what he had injected her with, but she would fight it. She wasn't experiencing any kind of euphoria; the predominant feeling was drowsiness and an increasing clumsiness. The probability that he had given her some kind of sleep-inducing drug was high.

Fight the drug by making a conscious effort to
stay alert. Hyperventilate to increase the amount
of oxygen in the bloodstream. If you can get to
water, drink as much as you can to flush the drug
out of your system
.

She didn't know where the information came from, it was possible she had read it, but she didn't think so. The knowledge was simply
there
, a part of that new awareness.

Sucking in a deep breath, she shuffled forward, delaying Lopez, although with Hudson and Glover both dead, the likelihood of rescue was slim. The harsh lighting in the foyer hurt her eyes, which had become ultrasensitive. Taking another
deep breath, she lifted her head and looked directly into the security camera bolted above the front doors. That way Bayard would pay attention and get a good look at what she was holding in the palm of her hand.

Seconds later they were out on the street. The breathing wasn't working; her head felt thick, she was having trouble keeping her lids open, and her coordination was going.

Light and shadow striped a van parked beside the curb. She lifted her head and tried to fix on details, but in the dim lighting she couldn't make out the license plate. She hadn't seen any sign of either Hudson or Glover, which meant Lopez must have concealed their bodies, probably in the janitor's room. The thought that Harry Clare-mont, the janitor, was also probably dead made her feel sick to her stomach.

Lopez slid the side door of the van open. For the short time that his attention was diverted, it occurred to her that she could make a break for it, but the thought was fleeting and distant. Her breathing was shallow and she was having trouble staying upright.

Lopez half dragged, half carried her into the interior of the van. While he cuffed her to the
steel frame of the seat, she kept her fingers closed grimly around the earrings.

The side door slammed. Seconds later, Lopez slid into the driver's seat and started the van. As they pulled out into traffic Sara noticed that someone was sitting in the passenger seat.

A small shudder went down her spine when she recognized the back of Helene Reichmann's head.

Turning her attention to the earrings, she isolated the transmitterized one. Fighting lethargy, and a dangerous clumsiness in her fingers, she turned the bezel, switching the transmitter and the GPS on, then slipped the earring into her mouth and swallowed.

B
ayard's phone rang as he pulled in at the curb outside his apartment. Bridges had beat him by two minutes. He had found Hudson and Glover— both dead. Harry was okay, although still dazed. He had been knocked out and locked in the basement. Sara was gone, the apartment left wide-open.

Bayard walked through the apartment, his jaw tight. Bridges hadn't touched a thing. The two IDs Lopez must have taken off Hudson and Glover were still sitting on the dining table.

Bridges poked his head through the door. “I've rewound the security tape.”

Bayard secured the apartment and took the elevator down to Harry's office.

Bridges pressed a button on the VCR.

Bayard watched the surprisingly crisp footage. When he saw Lopez herding Sara toward the front door, fear and raw panic briefly paralyzed him.

Profilers had written endless papers on Lopez. He was a vicious and inventive killer, juggling modus operandi in a way that confused the purists. But there was one common theme—that Lopez was escalating in his behavior, becoming less and less able to hold to any kind of pattern.

Given that he had spent years altering his appearance and remaining anonymous, he had taken a huge risk snatching Sara. His reasons in taking a hostage were clear enough, but the act itself bordered on insanity. He had exposed himself to security cameras and left a raft of DNA evidence.

Although, as with everything he did, Lopez had achieved his purpose. In one stroke he had obtained a hostage and delivered a message. He had Bayard's woman. If Bayard tried to stop him, he would kill her.

Lopez also knew that he would follow.

Bayard watched the footage as Bridges ran it through again. Lopez walking to the elevator
then, approximately twenty minutes later, leaving with Sara. Sara lifting her head, her face bruised on one side, her eyes blank as she stared directly into the security camera.

He frowned. Bridges replayed the last section of the tape. This time, instead of watching Sara's face, he studied what she was wearing. An oversize sweatshirt shrouded her upper body, hanging down low enough that it skimmed her upper thighs. The sweatshirt was familiar—it was his— but that wasn't what grabbed his attention. Something glinted in her palm.

Bridges ran the tape again.

His heart pounded once, hard, at the risk she had taken. “She's got a GPS with her.”

Bayard made a call. Minutes later, Lissa rang back. They had a signal.

When Sara woke it was light and they were still driving, but with a difference. Skin crawling, she examined her immediate surroundings. At some point, Lopez had ditched the van and transferred her to the backseat of an SUV with darkly tinted windows. One wrist was shackled to a door handle and a blanket had been thrown over her, concealing her from anyone who might see into
the car if a window was wound down or a door opened.

She lay quietly for long seconds, systematically flexing muscles and gauging her condition. Aside from a few bruises and the headache, she felt surprisingly alert.

Moving slowly, and keeping her expression slack, as if she were still fighting the drug, she eased into a sitting position and stared out of the window. The light was bright enough to hurt her eyes. She had no idea what the time was. At a guess, from the heavy traffic it wasn't early, maybe nine or ten in the morning. They were in a sizable town. A sign flashed past. Rochester.

The traffic slowed to a crawl—morning gridlock. Adrenaline surged, burning away the last remnants of lethargy.

They were stopped in traffic now, with cars hemming them in from behind. The SUV inched ahead a few feet.

Helene craned around, almost unrecognizable in a fluffy gray wig that made her look like everyone's favorite grandmother. “She's awake. You should have injected her the last time we stopped.”

Lopez glanced in the rearview mirror. The chill that just looking at him gave her deepened.
Wearing a fake salt-and-pepper beard, a pair of aviator sunglasses and a ball cap, she could have walked past him in the street and not recognized him.

“The syringe is in the glove compartment,” he said flatly.

The SUV moved forward, then came to a halt.

Sara heard the click of the glove compartment.

Helene leaned over the backseat with the syringe in her hand, her eyes cold. “If you give me any trouble I'll shoot you. He's the one who wants you along. I don't.”

Leaning over the headrest of her seat, she grabbed at Sara's arm and peeled up her sleeve, but the angle was awkward. She leaned over farther. Sara kept her arm limp until all of Helene's attention was on inserting the needle. Sucking in a breath, she twisted free, caught Helene's wrist and jerked. She sprawled forward, her wig flying. The syringe dropped to the floor.

Sara lunged for the syringe, but at that moment Lopez, aware that the syringe was rolling loose, accelerated then braked so that it rolled under the driver's seat and out of her reach.

Helene was scrabbling at the glove compartment. Lopez, once again stopped in traffic,
wrenched the gun out of her fingers. “If you lose that,” he said coldly, “we're both dead. Get the syringe.”

Lopez swung around. Keeping the gun low so it couldn't easily be seen by anyone in adjacent vehicles, he aimed the weapon at Sara. “Move while she's getting the syringe and I will shoot. I won't kill you. I'll just shoot your arm and shatter the bone.”

Helene leaned down between the two front seats, reached around and beneath Lopez's seat and retrieved both the wig and the syringe. A car horn blasted. Ahead the traffic had moved, leaving a gap of about a car's length.

As Helene slid back into her seat, Sara glimpsed a uniformed officer walking down the stationary line of cars.

Helene pulled the wig on as Lopez moved forward, closing the gap. “Something's wrong. It's Bayard up ahead. He knows where we're going.”

Lopez swore. The SUV reversed with a sickening jolt, hitting the car behind. The car ahead crawled forward, creating more space and he spun the wheel, cut across the median strip and accelerated back the way they had come.

Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed. Sara
fumbled for the seat belt and eventually got it locked in place as Lopez accelerated, driving in silence.

Ten minutes out, the sirens, plural, were now distant. Lopez took a right turn, cutting away from a light flashing at a distant intersection. He turned again, this time onto a dirt road. For long minutes they drove through rolling farmland dotted with houses and barns, the road empty, the countryside peaceful and silent.

Helene had a road map out on her knee and a cell phone to her ear. “Take the next left,” she said tersely. “The airfield's just outside of Middleport.”

Instead of turning, Lopez continued to barrel straight ahead.

“What are you doing?”

“Stop talking and listen.”

The faint pulse of a chopper registered over the sound of the car engine.

“So what's the solution?” Helene demanded coldly. “Drive until we hit a blockade?”

“We forget about the airfield and walk across the border.”

Lopez's flat gaze, checking on her in the rearview mirror, sent a ripple of unease through Sara. Even if that was Bayard and his men chasing
them, there was no easy way out for her. Shackled to the rear passenger door, she was out of options.

Helene whipped around in her seat, the gun back in her hand, the sound of a round being chambered was almost drowned out by the rotors of the chopper, now almost directly overhead. “It's her. She's got a tracking device.”

The car swerved. Helene was flung sideways. A shot discharged, shattering the side passenger window directly behind Lopez's head. His hand snaked out, wrapped around her wrist and wrenched her hand back at a painful angle, aiming the barrel of the weapon at the roof of the car. “Shoot her and I'll shoot you. This is where she becomes useful.”

Helene's face contorted. The gun discharged again, blowing a hole in the roof. The detonation was punctuated by the squeal of locked tires as the car fishtailed. Sara jackknifed, bracing her legs against the back of the seat as the car careered out of control. Seconds later the side of the SUV bounced off a bank, spun almost three hundred and sixty degrees and plunged nose-first down a hill.

W
hen Sara came to, Lopez, the cap and beard gone, and blood streaming from multiple cuts to his face, was hauling her out of the backseat. Sharp pain seared up her right arm. Seconds later, he unsnapped the cuff around her wrist and jerked her to her feet. She staggered and gripped the bent and twisted car door. Pain shot up her arm again. It wasn't broken, but she must have come close.

She checked inside the car and the immediate surrounds, but she couldn't see any sign of Helene. Either she was crushed beneath the vehicle, or she had gone out on her own.

Lopez jammed the barrel of a gun into the side of her neck. “Walk, or I'll shoot.”

Pines towered, the canopy cutting out the sun as they climbed. The thick layer of needles muffled their footsteps. A chopper skimmed overhead, hidden by the thick branches. In the distance she could hear the slam of car doors.

Lopez continued to push her ahead of him. They stopped to rest on a ridge. Disoriented, she tried to get her bearings. The sun was almost directly overhead, which didn't help, and there were pines on all sides, flowing in ranked formation, which indicated that they were in a managed plantation, not a wilderness area.

Lopez produced a GPS then slipped a cell phone out of his pocket. In the distance a second helicopter hung in the air, and she realized what was happening. They were close to the border, possibly in Canada already, walking toward a prearranged rendezvous.

He crouched down, put the GPS on the ground and dialed a number. Taking a deep breath, she threw herself down a bank, rolled to her feet and hit the ground running. She could hear Lopez behind her, the thud of footfalls, the whipping sound as branches rasped against his clothing.

Fingers caught in her hair and bunched in the material of her sweatshirt. Her feet slid from
under her. As she fell, she twisted and rolled. Something punched into the small of her back. Lopez's knee.

Panic, raw and visceral exploded. She twisted, using the downslope of the hill to knock him off balance. The hand in her hair released, the gun went flying. Something snapped beneath her weight, a small sapling. Then she was in midair, falling.

Iron-hard ground punched all the breath from her lungs and for a stunned moment she stared blankly at the sky, unable to breathe. Lopez appeared, looming over her.

There was a deep sting in her arm. Then he was gone, withdrawing silently into the trees.

Oxygen shoved into her lungs. She doubled up, rolling onto her side, gasping at the painful rip of air. She pushed to her knees, and rubbed at the numb tingling area where Lopez had injected her, as she took stock.

Lopez was nowhere in sight, although that didn't mean he was gone. If he had simply wanted to cross the border and disappear, he would have left her. Instead, he had taken the time to inject her.

Sucking in a deep breath, she began to climb
back up the bank she'd fallen down. Aside from the sound of the helicopters, the forest was utterly silent.

Gripping the trunk of a pine, she pulled herself up and over the lip of the bank. He had dropped the gun. Unless he had retrieved it, it had to be here somewhere. She could see the disturbed patch of pine needles where they had fought, the smashed sapling at the edge of the drop-off.

Something flickered at the edge of her vision. Her head jerked around. Adrenaline pumped. Lopez, melting into the trees. A split second later her gaze locked with Bayard's.

Shock held her immobile for long seconds. He was standing amongst the trees, almost invisible in a dull green T-shirt and camouflage trousers. She shook her head, indicating she didn't want him coming to help her, then stared directly at the last place she had seen Lopez. When she looked back, Bayard was gone.

Head feeling progressively heavier as the drug took effect, her limbs already clumsy, Sara searched the small clearing, but she couldn't find the gun, which meant Lopez must have come back to collect it.

With the gun no longer a viable objective, she
moved a few paces to her left. Lopez was using her as bait, therefore he would want to keep her in sight and would have to move with her. When he shifted position, Bayard would have an opportunity to pinpoint him.

She continued to scan the forest as she sat down, propping her back against a tree so she would stay upright and awake. A shadow materialized, more forest than man, but the cold prickling at her nape told her it was Lopez. The way he had disappeared into the trees after he had injected her replayed itself. He hadn't run, he had
withdrawn
.

The shadow disappeared and she blinked, fighting drowsiness, abruptly caught between two worlds, one warm with dappled sunshine filtering through the trees, the other, icy-cold and filled with shadows. Stein.

A flicker of movement snapped her back to sunlight.

Not Stein. Lopez. And it was Bayard he wanted—his focus intent, malicious.

The breeze lifted slightly, a branch shivered.

Something moved off to one side.
Lopez
.

On the opposite side of the glade, a figure Sara hadn't noticed before, also dressed in camouflage,
was briefly visible. Lopez took a half step to make his shot. Simultaneously, Bayard, who until that point had been standing absolutely silent and still, stepped out of the shadows, a rifle nestled in the crook of his shoulder, and fired two shots at Lopez in quick succession. In contrast to the popping sound of the pistol, the sharp crack of rifle fire echoed in the valley below. Lopez toppled forward.

Bayard walked through the trees and stood over Lopez for a few seconds, the rifle still in the ready-to-fire position. The second man, now recognizable as Bridges, joined him.

Sara blinked at the textbook simplicity of the action. A decoy to draw Lopez out. No messing around with handguns—just two businesslike shots from a weapon that had guaranteed accuracy over long range. Clinical and effective.

Seconds later, Bayard dropped down beside her and gripped her arms. “What's he given you?”

“He injected me with a sedative. It's the second shot. I slept for several hours before. I don't think it's fatal, but I don't know how much he gave me.”

Bayard's face went bone-white. “You are not going to die.” He made her lie down, spoke
briefly into his lip mike then reached for his cell phone and stabbed the speed dial.

When he couldn't get service, he stood upright, moving to a slightly higher position, standing almost exactly where Lopez had when he had made his call.

Lopez
. A stark shudder went through her.

The low timbre of Bayard's voice indicated that the call had finally connected.

Her lids slid closed.

Heart pounding at the paleness of her expression, Marc shook Sara awake. “Wake up, honey. We need to walk.”

Her eyes flickered, fixed on him, and she smiled sleepily.
“Bien sûr.” Of course
. And for an eerie moment something inside him shifted, refocused.

“
Get me out of these trees and I'll fly
.”

The pulse of helicopter rotors snapped him back to hot sunlight and the warm scents of earth and pines.

Sara's eyes had closed again. He shook her slightly, until she was able to focus on him. “Try to stay awake. It'll take a few minutes to get down to the road, another few minutes flight time to Rochester.”

It took twenty minutes to reach the road, fifteen to touch down in Buffalo—not Rochester—where a specialist medical team and a toxicologist were waiting.

Marc stayed close to Sara, using his clout to stonewall state and federal authorities and generally piss off the medics. He pulled rank, using the federal investigation and the fact that Sara was a federal witness to justify his presence in the emergency suite.

A suit from admin had balked at Bridges, who stood outside the door, still dressed in a faded green T-shirt and DPM trousers, a businesslike Glock holstered at his thigh. But when Bridges had politely produced his National Intelligence ID and referred the suit to him, the protest had dissolved.

Marc watched like a hawk as intravenous lines were put in, demanding to know what drugs were being used, and the precise quantities. He knew enough about the procedures to be damned irritating, but he didn't care. This was about Sara. And if anyone slipped up, he wanted to know about it before it happened.

An hour later, in a quiet private room Marc had demanded Sara be moved to rather than the much
noisier recovery room, she came out of her unconscious state.

Her gaze fixed on his. His grip on her fingers tightened. And just like that, happiness surged, making him feel as giddy as a kid at Christmas. “How are you feeling?”

“Horrible.”

“That's because you should still be out cold.”

She blinked. “I need coffee.”

“I'll get it.”

He poked his head out the door. Bridges was still on guard, looking toned down now that he'd changed out of the camouflage gear and into street clothes, but still dangerous enough that the medical staff were giving him a wide berth.

Five minutes later, Bridges walked in with a foam cup of coffee. Two minutes later, he reappeared with a second cup. The reason he hadn't carried two at once was habit, pure and simple. He was on guard duty, which meant he needed to keep one hand free to go for his weapon if he needed to. The pedantic attention to detail was one of the things Marc liked most about Bridges.

He had to help Sara hold the cup, because she was still shaky. By the time she had sipped her
way through the first coffee, she was steady enough to hold the second cup on her own.

A nurse, carrying a clipboard, stepped into the room. “I heard she's awake.” When she saw the empty foam cups she frowned, but didn't say anything. Marc figured she thought he'd had the coffee.

She took Sara's pulse and fixed Marc with the kind of look he hadn't been on the receiving end of since his mother had swatted him for dragging his grandfather's air rifle out of the gun cupboard at age four. “She's not supposed to have anything but water. According to the toxicologist, she was injected with a cocktail of drugs. So far he's identified the constituents for Temazepam and Rohypnol. There are even traces of some kind of antihistamine. I heard she also swallowed some kind of transmittor. The last thing she needed was a dose of caffeine.”

“I feel fine,” Sara said flatly. “I'd like to go home.”

The nurse shook her head, checked Sara's blood pressure, asked her a few questions and made some notes then walked to the door. “The doctor will be along in a few minutes.”

Thirty minutes later, the doctor was convinced
that Sara was well enough to leave. If they didn't let her go, having Marc and Bridges on the premises was going to be an even worse pain in the ass than it already had been.

Bridges produced the keys for an SUV he'd had delivered to the hospital parking lot. He had also arranged a flight to D.C., complete with an attending doctor. The private jet was waiting, fueled and ready at the airport.

Marc opened the back door of the SUV and helped Sara in before walking around to the other side to join her. Bridges climbed behind the wheel.

Now that Sara was away from the prying eyes of the doctor and nurses, her energy had evaporated in a rush. She was having trouble holding her head up, and staying awake.

He had expected it, which was why he had arranged for a doctor to attend her on the flight. He had wanted her away from Buffalo and into a safer environment, but he hadn't wanted to take any unnecessary risks.

Sara smothered a yawn. “Did you find Helene?”

He buckled them both in and pulled her head down on his shoulder. “Helene got away. She had a plane waiting at a private airfield. She's free. For now.”