Authors: Richard Doetsch
“You’re kidding me, right?” There was a mix of fear and humor in the young man’s eyes.
Mia tapped the gun against his head. “Do you want to see how much I’m kidding?”
“You wouldn’t shoot.” Jacob’s words sounded more hopeful than definitive.
“Then you don’t know me very well.” Mia stepped back and pulled back the bedspread to reveal long white ropes, hand-woven from torn strips of bedsheet.
“Lash your legs together,” Mia said as she tossed him a four-foot length.
Jacob reluctantly sat on the floor and tied his legs, laughing as he did. “You don’t have a chance of escaping.”
“You’d be surprised how far a woman will go to save her family.”
“You’ll be surprised, then, because it won’t be very far.”
“On your knees,” Mia snapped.
Jacob shook his head as he complied. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Hands behind your back.” Mia brought the gun close to his eye, reminding him of what she held.
As Jacob held his hands behind his back, Mia grabbed a length of woven bedsheet tied in a noose and, walking behind him while jamming the gun hard into the back of his neck, dropped it over his wrists and pulled it tight, binding his hands together. She yanked it roughly for emphasis, wrapping the excess twice more about his wrists, ensuring that he couldn’t free himself.
“I can’t tell you what a mistake you just made.” Jacob’s humorous tone was completely gone, replaced with a mix of anger and fear. He sneered. “If Cristos has his sights on your family, they don’t have a chance.”
Mia’s temper boiled, and she drew back her arm, smashing the butt of the gun into the man’s temple. He tumbled from his knees and hit the hard floor face-first, out cold. She leaned over and grabbed the elegant cloth napkins from the silver tray and stuffed them into Jacob’s mouth.
She rifled through his pockets, empty except for a single key.
She slipped the key into the lock, and with a quick turn, the heavy dead bolt slipped back into the door with a click. She laid her ear on the door and listened. She wrapped her hand around the brass handle and slowly turned.
As she cautiously opened the door, what she saw shocked her. Despite the constant whine of city noise, the sounds of traffic and people, she could not have been farther away from the image the sounds of the city painted in her head.
Mia stepped into a room, and her captivity immediately took on a whole new perspective. While expecting to be met with a dingy, run-down warehouse, perhaps a decrepit apartment building, she saw before her anything but.
The room she had been held in for the last twenty-four hours was not a room but a closet, an anteroom to a large, elegantly appointed bedroom. The walls were covered with soft floral-print paper, and thick green velvet curtains framed the large windows. A canopy bed dominated the room, while its matching dresser and makeup table sat off to the side. She looked at a small stereo on the floor and felt the fool. A CD was on perpetual repeat, and the sounds of city noise, cars honking, bus doors closing, sirens racing off to nowhere poured from the speakers.
Mia’s fear grew as Jacob’s words began to ring in her ears,
you won’t get far.
J
ACKA STOOD OUTSIDE
Peter’s house, looking at the dark clouds looming overhead, the orange lights of the city reflected off their underbellies. Flashes of summer lightning burst inside their five-mile-high confines.
There was no doubt in his mind that Frank was right. The list in the back of the book was a hit list. Reports were already coming in that FBI Director Lance Warren was dead. Being on Cristos’s hit list hadn’t fazed him; he was killed once already. He had never been involved in anything recorded in those books. His name was on the list for retribution, for revenge, for putting Cristos to death the year before.
Jack’s cell phone rang, startling him. He saw Mia’s number come up, but he knew who was calling. He placed it to his ear.
“Heard you escaped.”
“Where is my wife?”
“You betrayed me while I hold the proverbial blade to your wife’s throat,” Cristos raged through the phone. “If I’m not holding the contents of that case, every single piece in my hands by dawn, I will kill your wife … not quickly. Slowly, drawn out, where you will hear her screams no matter where you are in the world. And then I will kill your children. I will do it in front of you as you watch the life slowly seep from their young eyes. Then I will render you helpless, crippled, blind, with nothing but the memories of their cries to keep you company for the rest of your days.”
“You son of—”
“I imagine you’re at Peter Womack’s house trying to track me down. Don’t bother with that list in the back of my book. They’re all dead.”
“Where are you?” Jack begged through gritted teeth.
“You know exactly where I am.”
And Cristos hung up.
1:25
A.M
.
M
IA SLOWLY OPENED THE
bedroom door to find a wide hallway, the ceiling at least twelve feet, the floor covered in a thick burgundy rug. She could see a cloud of dust rising up with her every footstep.
Several doors ran off in both directions, while a sweeping set of stairs lay at the far end of the hall and fell off into an enormous marble foyer. The paneled walls and coffered ceiling left no doubt about the extreme wealth of the home owner.
Mia crept down the hall, thankful for the pair of flats she wore on her feet, glad she had changed from the three-inch pumps when she got into the car the night before. She held tightly to the pistol, taking comfort in its lethal ability and the fact that she knew how to bring it to bear so well. She ejected the clip, confirming nine bullets, before slamming it back into the butt, resolving to use it only as a last resort. Her only thought was getting to her children. Jack said they were safe, but she had seen the look in Cristos’s eyes. She saw the picture that he had taken of them and knew that their innocent lives meant nothing to him except as pawns of leverage in achieving his goal. And while she was terrified for them, she tucked
her fear in the back of her mind, knowing that it would do nothing but cripple her and keep her from reaching them before it was too late.
She stopped at the top of the stairs and peered down into the foyer. She tuned her ears, listening for any presence, but heard nothing. On silent feet, she crept down the stairs, her pistol waving back and forth, her finger poised on the trigger, ready to shoot.
As she stepped into the foyer, she was amazed at what she beheld. The house was enormous. To her left was a ballroom-sized living room, replete with antique furniture from a bygone age. To her right was an old-fashioned library, deep cherry paneling, a fireplace you could park a car in, bookshelves covered in never-ending volumes. There were large overstuffed sofas, and high-back wing chairs faced the fireplace.
But there was a coldness to the place, a foreboding of death and abandonment, despite the furnishings, the pictures that lined the tables. She couldn’t help feeling that the place was haunted. Dated pictures covered the desk and the end tables, images of a forgotten time that was only recalled by the depths of the house
She cut through the library to a set of French doors and, gently turning the handle, pulled it open. She inhaled the humid summer night air and looked around the well-lit grounds, but again, she saw no one.
She took a step outside onto a slate terrace adorned with planters filled with withered flowers. Suddenly, the planter beside her exploded, turned to gravel and dust.
The gunshot came from the house, not behind it, not from above or from the brush. It came from the porch by the front door, where two men were focused on her with guns raised.
Without thought, Mia ran for cover.
A hail of bullets erupted, tearing into the ground right behind her, shredding the stone wall to her left. As Mia kept running, she caught sight of two guards racing her way.
The cascade of gunfire continued without pause. Mia had been an FBI agent for thirteen years, and although she was well trained, her investigations had never brought her into a war zone until now.
Rounding the house, she saw a blanket of darkness before her, a shroud against the star-filled night sky. The woods were only twenty-five yards away, a momentary place to seek sanctuary, to get lost, to afford her the time to clear her head and save herself. She pushed her legs to the breaking point, the lactic acid pouring over her muscles, urging her to slow, her mind protesting, clinging to the adage,
fight or flee.
As the gunfire continued, skimming the ground around her, she thought she was about to die when she cut right and into the deep woods.
The sounds of gunfire soon diminished, echoing behind her, but she didn’t slow. Branches slapped her face, stinging her skin, as she ducked and dodged through the thick nighttime forest, her footing precarious as she sprinted over the uneven forest floor, struggling not to fall as her toes caught on protruding roots and rocks. Putting as much distance between herself and death as possible, she headed deeper into the dark woods, the shadows enveloping her, and finally slowed her pace. Catching her breath, she listened for her pursuers and prayed that they were as lost as she was. She felt like an animal, hunted for sport. She knew there was no surrender, no going back. She was no longer their prisoner, and, as she knew all along, they couldn’t afford for her to live.
Mia looked around the woods; shadows ran long and deep under the moonlight, its intermittent shafts slicing down through the leafy canopy reflecting off the rocks and fallen, decaying trees scattered on the ground around her. The sounds of the summer night filled the air—insects, birds, nocturnal creatures rustling in the treetops. And although she knew she was awake, she felt as if she had just been thrust into the darkest of nightmares.
And then, in the distance, like a voice calling to her, she heard the roar of a train, its howling whistle, like a beacon. It filled her
with hope. It gave her a desperately needed destination where she knew she could find help.
She began to walk, gingerly, each footstep on the forest floor taken with care, trying to minimize her footfalls upon the unseen leaves and sticks.
On the horizon, five miles away, she could see the flashes of lightning, setting enormous thunderhead clouds ablaze. With each successive strike, she could see the enormity of the approaching storm, built up throughout the humid day, ready to unleash its fury on the world below. There was no doubt in Mia’s mind, fate was drawing the storm toward her.
Up ahead, she saw a clearing, the last bits of moonlight dancing off a white concrete roadway. She stopped, tuning her hearing, listening, reaching out with her mind for a trap. She was so close to escape, her pounding heart racing faster as she knew that it was always when freedom was in view that the gates came crashing down.
As she stepped from the woods, she nearly collapsed, for what she thought to be a roadway was not. The sound that called to her was not a train. In hindsight, it was like the mythical sirens that called to Odysseus, tempting him with their seductive cries.
Mia realized that her efforts were to no avail. There would be no finding Jack, no way to get to her children in time. She was truly powerless, trapped …
For the place where she was held had no escape.
Mia stood at the edge of the forest and fought the overwhelming urge to give up. She thought herself so smart, so brilliant, in overpowering her captor, in making her escape. She had not only managed to avoid being killed in a hail of gunfire but had successfully eluded her captors.
But now she knew why they had slowed their pace, why their desperate gunfire had fallen off. They knew she’d never get away. She had nowhere to go.
Mia looked out over the sandy beach at the great expanse of water before her. Moonlight danced up the crests of the waves, swirling
like lights at Christmas. A ship three miles to the north steamed through the ocean waters, its running lights like fireflies in the distance, its low bellowing horn echoed out to sea. Her wishful thinking had morphed its sound into that of a locomotive luring her here where she now stood with her feet in the sand.
And then she heard them, getting closer, closing in.
J
ACK WAS AT
a loss. It was after 1:30 in the morning. He had less than four and a half hours to get to Mia, and yet he had no idea where she was. He was so sure he could get it out of Peter, and that was his only option.
Jack racked his brain, trying to focus, to see if there was some clue he had missed. He thought he had all of the cards. He had the books that Cristos wanted, he had the passport and the prayer necklace. He examined them, wishing that they would speak to him, give him some direction.
He looked at the two fateful pictures, of him lying dead along the river …
And it hit him. It was there all along. He looked closer at the drawing of Mia, at its exacting detail. The drawing of Jack on the riverbank was so precise, down to the wet errant hairs on his head.
If there was any truth to these drawings, if the drawing of Mia was done to the same standard as Jack’s, then Mia’s depiction was the compass that would lead him to her.
A momentary blossom of hope welled inside him as he looked at the picture. He knew the area where she lay. He knew the rocks and the trees. He knew the sandy beach like the back of his hand.
S
ATURDAY
, 2:00
A.M
.
T
HE WHITE
H
ATERAS YACHT
belonged to Jack’s friend, Mitch Schuler. They had graduated from law school at the same time, but Mitch had never been bitten by the justice bug, heading straight into Wall Street and millions. When Jack called in a favor, Mitch never hesitated. And this time, finding out that his friend was still alive, Mitch almost leaped through the phone to hug him. He made sure that his sixty-foot yacht was fueled and stocked and was happy to play the game that Jack was still dead. He told the head of the marina that Frank Archer and a friend would be picking up his boat that night and not to expect it back until the next day.