A Harmless Little Plan (Harmless #3)(2)

I sniff, then sniff again, my body’s desperate attempt to get oxygen in me. My tongue is flat in my mouth, pressed hard against my bottom teeth, and my throat goes dry as sandpaper.

“Shut up, John,” shouts another voice. I can barely hear him over the helicopter. They get me into a seat and quickly close the chopper’s door. No one bothers to buckle me in. I close my eyes.

“Playing possum? Cute.”

Why are they ruining the word cute?

As the helicopter lifts off, I crack one eyelid.

Stellan. Of course.

I say nothing. I can’t. If I have a speech center in my brain, it’s shut down so the rest of me can work on pure survival. I know from four years on the Island that the mind can be your best friend or your worst enemy. Thoughts loop through me, triggering a rush of fear so great I think it’ll tear my skin into ribbons in an attempt to flee my body.

Because my body is the target.

Drew’s in police custody? For stalking me? What does that all mean? He didn’t stalk me.

My mind scrambles to put the pieces together.

Set up. It’s a set up. Drew’s being turned into the scapegoat.

Oh, God.

If they’re telling the truth, how will he get out? How will he rescue me?

I can’t look at them. Screaming won’t make a difference. Out of the corner of my eye I see Silas outside, right by the double doors to the house. My heart squeezes in my chest. As we rise higher and higher, he gets smaller and smaller.

He failed.

He doesn’t know it yet, but he failed.





Drew


I wake up on a thin blanket on the floor in a holding cell, my cheek ice cold, the throbbing in my head a bass drum. The ground beneath my body is clean. It smells like mildew and bleach. The distinct ammonia odor of piss is mixed in there.

I know this scent.

It’s the smell of jail. I’ve spent plenty of time immersed in it in the past, but always as the jailer.

Not the jailee.

Gingerly, I start to sit up, inch by inch. My body is unclothed except for my boxer briefs. Shoes are gone, pants are gone, shirt is gone.

Dignity – long gone.

I hear the click and clack of a heavy-duty lock opening. The door to the cell moves and there stands Mark Paulson.

He’s white as a sheet and his jaw is tight.

It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s not mad at me.

He’s in crisis mode.

“Just got off the phone with Harry Bosworth. Re-establishing a connection was hell. According to the senator, his assistant Anya was told Mark Paulson would bring the helicopter to take Lindsay back to the Island. She escorted Lindsay halfway to the helicopter, then I -- ” He chokes on the word, running a furious hand through his blond hair, face exploding with rage “ -- someone impersonating me escorted her to the copter, where they took off.”

“When?”

“An hour ago.”

“Sweet Jesus, I’ve been out cold for an hour?”

“Look, Drew, this is a fucking mess.”

“This is fucking unreal. We need to get Lindsay now!”

“You’re being charged with so many federal and state crimes you’ll be lucky to get out of jail when you’re a mummy.”

“Not funny.”

“Not joking.”

“What the hell are you doing to rescue her, Mark?”

“Everything we can. We’re trying to track her, but the chopper turns out to be...” He gives me a bleak look.

Yeah. I can guess. It’s not one of Harry’s. Not government-issued, but made to look like one.

We’ve been had. Badly. Outsmarted and outmaneuvered.

“She’s chipped,” I blurt out, talking more to myself than him. Reassuring myself.

Because that’s all I have right now. Words.

I don’t give a shit about Mark’s feelings right now. Losing a client is one of the worst experiences for a person whose sworn duty is to protect people. Losing my girlfriend turns this into a clusterfuck of emotional madness.

The look on his face when I say that gives me hope.

“You chipped her?” He grimaces as he confirms what I said. “That won’t do us any good. A microchip only gives us information about her when we scan. It’ll be good for identifying her body if -- ”

Might as well kick me in the gut.

“It’s a GPS-enabled microchip.”

“Those don’t exist.” Mark shoots me an incredulous look. His eyes narrow as if he’s rethinking my mental state.

I’d do the same if the roles were reversed.

I give him a sour look. Of course they do. He should know better.

“Whoa,” he hisses. “I thought we were years from that.”

I don’t bother to answer. My tongue licks the corner of my mouth, finding a raw split and blood.

“How do you track her?” he asks, bending down to talk at eye level.

My skin starts to crawl with awakening. The aches and bruises will fade over time, but time is of the essence now for Lindsay. She must be terrified.

And I know she’s waiting for me. I can’t fail her.

I won’t.

“Get me out of here.”

“I can’t! They’re --”

“Get. Me. Out. Of. Here.”