Extreme Danger (McClouds & Friends #5)(133)

He would be long gone.

They were both silent, each lost in a private hell of dark thoughts as he drove aimlessly around the city, formulating the key elements of a plan for dealing with her. It began to come together in his mind, painful and flawed and ugly as hell, but so was everything else.

He pulled into a strip mall that boasted both a supermarket and a Staples store. Becca gave him a questioning look as he parked.

“Got to pick up some supplies,” he said. “Come in with me?”

“I’ll wait for you here, if you don’t mind. If he calls, I don’t want to take the call in public. I might cry, throw up. Faint. Who knows.”

He grunted. Fair enough. But he didn’t like leaving her unsupervised. She could plant that locator somewhere on his vehicle. Or make phone calls to her boss. Still, he’d rather get provisions unobserved. And once he got her settled, he could always make sure the locator was still in her purse and behave accordingly. So whatever.

He was brisk and focused in the supermarket, now that he’d decided what to do. Some bottles of water, some meal replacement protein bars, some snak-pak cheese and cracker combos. A heavy-duty dog chain, like one you’d buy for a Doberman or pit bull. Done.

He loped across the parking lot, ducked into the Staples. Grabbed the first clerk he found, a pimply blond youth, and yanked the digital voice recorder out of his pocket. “Got the right battery for this?”

The kid examined it, frowning. “Aisle five, on your right, at the end.”

Found them. Bought five. The f*cking things were tiny.

There was a FedEx machine in the store. One more detail. He scrounged a piece of paper off a clerk, and scribbled a terse message to his ex-boss at the Cave. He filled out forms, swiped his credit card, watched to make sure that sucker wasn’t maxed out. It took. He dumped it into the deposit slot.

It wasn’t going to go out until Monday morning, but that was OK. He’d chosen the quickest, most expensive option. It should be on her desk by Monday afternoon, max. And his name on the sender’s line should serve as a red flag that would get it to the top of the In box.

He climbed into the truck just in time to hear Becca’s phone ring.



One. The playful twittering, chirping sound that distinguished a call from Carrie was bizarre in this context. Becca was paralyzed. She could not move her hand. Two twittery chirps. Three. Her body vibrated.

Nick plucked the cell phone out of the pocket on her purse, glanced at the display, held it out. Four twitter chirps. “Pull yourself together, babe,” he said. “Showtime.”

Five twittery chirps. She hit talk. “Yes?” she croaked.

“Rebecca. How rude. I was beginning to think you didn’t care. Or that you were angry at me.” Zhoglo’s voice was full of mock hurt.

She could think of nothing to say to his taunting. She waited.

He grunted, and got on with it. “Telling you the location of the meeting so far ahead of time is risky for me, but I am aware that you will need lead time. You must fabricate a convincing story to lead your lover in, no? I am not an unreasonable man, you see.”

“Um,” she said. “Ah, no.”

“There is a house, outside of Cedar Mills. Number 6 Wrigley Lane. Any GPS navigational system will have no trouble finding it. A humble place, on high ground, with a clear visual for three hundred and sixty degrees. You will bring Solokov to this house at ten o’clock this evening. I personally will not be there, so please, no clever tricks, no heroics, no police. Or Carrie and Josh…need I go on?”

“No,” she whispered.

“My men will be waiting for you there. You will be covered by hidden gunmen. All must be exactly as I dictate. Or both your siblings will die tonight. Along with you and Solokov. Very, very slowly.”

“I understand,” she said.

“Till later, then.” The line went dead. Becca’s hand dropped, limp.

“And?” Nick prompted. “Ten o’clock, in Cedar Mills,” she said dully. “Number 6 Wrigley Lane. A house, I suppose, in a rural area. He says he won’t be there. No police, no heroics, or he’ll kill everybody.”

“Hmm. OK.”

Nick’s voice sounded so detached. She glared at him, incredulous. “Huh? Hmm, OK?” Her voice vibrated with strain. “What are we going to do, Nick? What the hell can we do?”

“Calm down, and let me think it through,” Nick said in that weirdly cool, distant voice. “We’ve got time.”

“Time?” Her voice rose to a shriek. “What do you mean, time? My brother and sister have a knife to their throat! Three hours until—Jesus, Nick! There’s no thinking through this! There is no way through this!”

“Panicking won’t help. Shut up and breathe,” was Nick’s pitiless rejoinder.

Becca covered her face in her hands and tried to do exactly that. Breathe. Oxygenate her body. She had to stay functional. It was hard. She’d never tried breathing with a thousand-pound weight of pure terror weighing her lungs down. Her rib cage would not budge.

The miles flew beneath their wheels. The sun was down. It was getting dark. She saw signs for SeaTac, and for Southcenter. Nick was driving with more purpose than before. They had entered an industrial area. Warehouses, towers of giant, multicolored shipping containers. Chain link fences, semi trucks. Nick pulled up outside a big steel gate and got out, leaving the truck idling. He picked at a combination lock that closed it. Pushed the gate wide, with a rusty, protesting screech of metal.