If he managed to get out of here alive, he would burn Follman’s and his partners’ worlds to the ground.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The moment Dot landed the helicopter for the scheduled refueling halfway back to Las Vegas, T.J. did what Eriksson warned them not to do. He jammed all radio frequencies and electronic devices.

  Armed, they both exited the cockpit as the two-man refueling crew lumbered toward them. The men were more concerned with saving their hides than putting up any fight. They hightailed it for safety; their vehicles peeled away. Once they were long gone, Dot and T.J. made their move.

  The darkening landscape helped to shield their movements as they converged on the cabin. The curtained windows didn’t afford them a chance to see what they were up against. But it didn’t matter.

  “How do we play this?” Dot asked T.J.

  “We’re going to take the direct approach.” He raised his fist then beat it against the door.

  With the blades still moving above them, any sounds inside were muffled. It worked both ways, shielding their voices from anyone inside.

  There was no response to his first knocking. T.J. did it again, beating harder against the panel.

  Dot stayed right on his shoulder, her 1911 pointed at head level for anyone coming out. None of the curtains moved. Still no response from inside.

  T.J. was reaching for the handle when the door cracked open. A rifle barrel poked through. T.J. grabbed the barrel and yanked it. Caught off-balance, the owner of the rifle came flying out of the helicopter and slammed onto the pad. T.J. moved toward him, and Dot slipped inside the cabin.

  Another rifle-wielding man was moving to take the place of his missing partner. Dot drilled two bullets into each of the man’s thighs, and he dropped, screaming.

  His screams were joined by a chorus of female shrieks. Dot ignored them. She needed to take care of the now-wounded rifleman first.

  She grabbed the man’s ankles and flung him out of the cabin onto the landing pad. His head cracked against the copter floor and then the ground as he was unceremoniously dumped beside his unarmed partner.

  T.J. loomed over the other man, his firearm leveled on the man’s forehead. “I’ve got ’em,” he said. “Take care of the hostages.”

  She holstered her 1911 and popped her head inside the cabin. Five shrieking … girls.

  A firecracker popped inside of her and molten heat coursed through her veins at the sight of dirt-streaked, terror-filled children chained to the helicopter floor.

  Dot abandoned the girls and stalked back to their guards, drawing her 1911 as she went. T.J. had a split second to intervene before she shot them.

  “Whoa! Dot, no!” He grabbed her gun arm and shoved it skyward. “We need them alive.”

  “They’re children.” Something hot and wet raced down her cheek. “Children!”

  Movement in her periphery caught her attention. The uninjured man was making a run for it.

  T.J. unarmed Dot. “Have at him,” he said and turned away.

  Dot broke into a sprint. The fleeing captor barely made it more than a hundred yards by the time she caught up. Unable to outrun her, he slowed and turned to face her. He was raising his fists when she clotheslined him. He slammed to the pavement.

  Dot flipped her braid over her shoulder and smoothed away the freed strands as she circled his writhing, gasping body. He flipped onto his back, and she planted her boot on his heaving chest.

  His eyes bulged as he managed to catch his breath enough to blubber out something she didn’t understand. But she recognized the cadence of his speech.

  She took her boot off him, grabbed a handful of shirt, and yanked him up off the ground. “I don’t barter with child molesters.”

  He couldn’t understand her, but he understood the righteous anger in her tone. He shut his yammering mouth.

  Dot dragged him back to the helicopter and gave him a hard shove to the ground. T.J. cuffed him to his injured partner. There’d be no running again.

  “Thank you for not killing him,” T.J. said as he returned her 1911.

  “He’s Arabic. They probably both are.”

  “That makes it easy to interrogate them.” He studied her, worry straining his features. “Are you okay to take care of the girls?”

  She slid the 1911 back into its holster and snapped the strap. “I have to be.” She sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “They remind me of Bethany.”

  “They’re not. You’ve got to remember that. They need a woman’s touch. If I go in there, I’ll terrorize them more.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Those girls had been traumatized enough by men.

  “Turn off the helicopter,” he said. “I’m calling Eriksson in.”

  Dot climbed into the cockpit and killed the engine. She took a moment to compose herself. The anger that had burned white-hot was a smoldering coal inside. But these girls needed the calm and cool Dot, the one Bethany trusted and loved.

  Taking that thought and a cheerful image of her adoptive niece, Dot exited the cockpit and stepped up to the cabin.

  All five girls were clutching each other the best they could with the shackles on their hands and ankles.

  “You find a key on one of those fuckwads?” she asked T.J.

  “Sure did.” He passed it off and returned to his little Gitmo Bay.

  Dot held up a hand, then the other with the key. The girls didn’t make a sound. Their wide dark eyes stared back at her. Their fear heavy in the air, coating her skin with its slime. She caught the distinct odor of urine, and she choked up.

  Fuck these fuckwads. Fuck Follman. Damn it, when she saw that man again, she was going to rearrange his face.

  Dot brought her anger back under control and gestured to the key.

  One of the girls, who looked older than the rest, but not by much, leaned away from the girl next to her and gave Dot a timid nod.

  Slow and methodically, Dot climbed inside the cabin and approached them. She unlocked the chains from the eyebolts anchored into the floor. Then one by one, she freed the girls from their bondage. None of them moved from their seats. Dot wouldn’t press the matter. She’d earn trust after the girls realized she was not going to harm them.

  Dot was backing out of the cabin when one of the girls farthest from her spoke. Dot hesitated and the girl stopped speaking. Dot and the girl stared at each other.

  “T.J.,” she called out of the cabin. “You better make sure Eriksson sends someone who can speak all of the Afghan languages.”

  “Already on it,” he said.

  Fatigue hit Dot like a ton of bricks. She sank to the floor and sat with her back against the cabin door. She kept silent guard over the girls, thinking of all the ways she was going to use a hot poker on Follman and any of the other men in his circle.

  This was how she remained until Eriksson’s people arrived with a female translator in the traditional garb of an Afghan mother. T.J. had to help Dot up and away from the helicopter while the girls were taken care of.

  “Don’t make me go back to Las Vegas,” she said. “I’ll kill Follman if we do.”

  “I’m not making you, but we do need to. The helicopter,” he said, tucking her tight against him as they walked to the vehicle that would transport them to their next destination. “I’ll have Stevo bring our gear to us.”

  She sagged into T.J. He had redeemed himself in the last twelve hours. They might not be any closer to locating Caleb. But at least they’d done one good deed rescuing these girls.

  Yet, the man at the farm had mentioned a technical difficulty. It couldn’t have been about the girls? The bruises on his knuckles had been fresh. None of the girls had signs of being beaten. So, what was it?

  Dot climbed into the back seat. T.J. held up a finger, shut the door, and turned to speak to one of Eriksson’s people. Dot didn’t care. She just needed to catch a nap.

  She rested her head against the plush seat and closed her eyes. She knew the hunt for Caleb was still ongoing. But a strong pull inside warned there was more to come.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Unable to face her apartment alone, Vivian returned to the law firm.

  After the news of Charley’s murder had been relayed to everyone, the whole building turned into a funeral home. Between the weeping administrative assistances and paralegals to Loren’s repetitively stunned I can’t believe he’s dead, she’d had about all she could take.

  Everyone had gone home before official closing hours; Vivian remained, locked in her office. The sun had long set and the building was dark except for her lone desk lamp. She had waited all day for a call from Dot, hoping her cousin had received the message.

  Vivian’s phone remained silent.

  She tried to read through the file on Caleb Podolsky, but she kept imagining him murdering Charley and ramming his body inside that gym locker. Any attempt to switch to current trial work was thwarted with reminders of Charley’s demise. She threw a pen against the folders spread across her desk and slapped her hands down, pushing her body out of the chair at the same time. The wheeled chair careened away from her and banged into the credenza lining the wall behind her desk, knocking over a porcelain kangaroo figurine she’d picked up in Sydney six years ago.

  “Damn it,” she muttered when the tail broke free of the body.

  She picked up the pieces and examined the broken edges, wondering if she’d be able to superglue them back together.

  Her cell rang, startling her into nearly dropping the pieces. Blowing out a breath, she set the kangaroo and his tail on the credenza top and went to grab up her phone. An unfamiliar number scrolled across the screen.

  Vivian did a quick scan of her office and strode over to the door to peek through the single glass pane into the hall. Except for a lone light down the hall illuminating the janitor’s trolley, it was still dark and quiet. The phone continued to ring.

  She let it go two more rings then gave in to her unquenchable curiosity and answered the call.

  “Vivian?”

  She recognized the voice immediately. “Oh my God, Hal?”

  “You’re being followed. If you value your life, you will get out of the office now.”

  “Hal, what’s going on?”

  “Vivian, do what I said.” The connection went silent.

  “Hal? Hal?” The screen had flipped from the call app to her wallpaper.

  Vivian checked the hall again. Same light farther down still on, janitor’s trolley still there. Assured that her door was still locked, she returned to her desk. From her briefcase she pulled out the Glock. As a final safety measure, she closed the window blinds, muting the streetlamps’ brightness in her office. She was on the firm’s second floor but had a wide view of the neighboring buildings. All these beautiful windows were a walking death trap for her if someone was camped out on a nearby rooftop with a gun.

  The tone of Hal’s voice had toppled Vivian right over the panic ledge. If she was being followed and she left the building, she’d be a sitting duck. No, she couldn’t leave. She had to get someone here. So, who did she call for protection? The only people she trusted in that department were in Las Vegas. She paced the length of her office, thumbing through her extensive contact list until it landed on Larrabee’s number.

  Without a moment to second-guess herself, she tapped the call icon.

  He answered on the fourth ring. “Counselor, I was about to call you. Why are you not at your home?”

  “You’re looking for me?” she asked incredulously.

  “Yes. You’ve gotten yourself twined into a disturbing matter of murder and chaos. Not to mention I’ve been ordered by your cousin to watch over you. Now where are you?”

  He sounded like he was driving, which proved to be a good thing.

  “I’m at my law firm, locked in my office.” She wandered back to her door to check the hall again. “I was told I am being followed, and I need to get out of the building. Now.”

  The janitor’s trolley was still at the same office. But had it moved a little bit?

  “I’m not far from your office. I’ll be there in two shakes of a cat’s tail.”

  Vivian spotted a shadow near the far doorway. “Cassius, hurry.”

  “Vivian, stay on the phone with me.”

  The shadow moved. Her heart sped up.

  “Someone’s in the office,” she whispered and moved back from the door.

  “I’m almost there. I swear it. Are you armed?”

  She hurried over to her desk and doused the desk lamp. “Yes. Dot made sure I was able to handle it.”

  “Good. Find a place to keep an eye out but stay protected. I can see your building.”

  Vivian chose the open corner between a tall bookshelf and the credenza to wedge herself into. She could still see the door. “This wasn’t how I imagined my life as a lawyer.”

  “We can never imagine our lives to go the way they do,” he said. “I’m in front of the building.”

  She heard the repetitive sound of barking tires outside and through her phone. At the same time, she spotted movement outside her door. She sank down in her corner, using the desk to block her from sight.

  “Someone is outside my door,” she whispered.

  “Hold on, darlin’, I’m coming.”

  Vivian lowered her phone, facedown, to the floor and left it there. With the Glock gripped in her hands as she’d been taught, she raised it, keeping it in line with the doorway and her finger away from the trigger.

  The handle rattled softly. Vivian swallowed against the rock forming in her throat and raised the Glock higher. Glass shattered. She ground her molars, resisting the urge to pull the trigger.

  Gunfire from the first floor blasted through the building. Vivian had to bite her tongue to stifle the yelp threatening to break free. An all-out gunfight ensued.

  It didn’t sway her intruder. Over the sound of guns firing, she heard the lock and then the door open. The intruder stepped in, and Vivian did as Dot had taught her hundreds of times.

  She aimed for center mass and fired three shots. The intruder slammed into the doorframe and fell back.

  Vivian bolted upright. The intruder wearing janitor’s coveralls lay on the floor, blocking her escape. How did she get out? She left her cover and inched around the backside of her desk, keeping her weapon trained on the body and the door.

  Except the body didn’t stay down. With a groan, the intruder rolled onto his side and started to rise. Vivian reacted out of sheer terror and fired the Glock, her aim going wild.

  The sound of a bullet smacking into something wet nearly undid her. The intruder’s head snapped back, and he slumped to the floor. Even in the muted light from outside, she could tell she had done enough damage to keep this man down for good.

  Vivian grabbed the extra clip she kept in a desk drawer and then stepped over the downed man’s body into the hall. After a quick check of the hall, she ran toward the light of the other office. Below sporadic gunfire went off, but no sounds of movement or men yelling orders. She assumed Cassius was still alive and trying to pick off the remaining intruders to get to her.

  Her trepidation at being hunted fled. She’d turn the tables on the men coming after her. She reached the janitor’s trolley and discovered the bloody truth. The poor man had his throat slashed and was left to die on the floor where he’d been dusting a desk.

  Swallowing the rising bile, she moved on.

  She rounded the corner at the end of the hall, heading for the staircase. More shots fired from the first floor. Vivian let out the pent-up breath she hadn’t fully realized she was holding and continued on. A crash from the third floor sent her running for cover. Then she followed the sounds of a scuffle and grunts to the staircase.

  She reached the stairs and heard a muffled scream. She jolted back as a body flew down the steps and watched in horror as it rolled to the bottom, slamming into the floor, where it remained unmoving.

  A man huffed down the steps. Vivian gaped at a disheveled Loren.

  “Move, Montgomery,” he barked.

  Together they hurried down the remainder of the steps. She had to step over the body to follow Loren to the receptionist’s desk. So many of the windows on the first floor were gone, the shattered glass strewn across the carpet. Three bodies were scattered among the wreckage, but no sign of Cassius or any more of the intruders.

  Loren led her to the backway into the building.

  “I thought you were gone,” she said.

  “Nights are the best time to get work done.” He stopped beside the break room door and pushed her up against the wall. “You were still here. There was no way I was going to leave you alone. Not after what happened to Charley.”

  Loren checked the break room. “All clear,” he said, then grabbed her arm and tugged her along after him.

  They were coming on the back exit fast. Until another black-clad intruder stepped into their exit route. Loren slid to a halt, and Vivian slammed into his backside. She spotted the raised weapon and tried to get around Loren.

  Shots blasted and she winced, waiting for the pain. Instead, she watched the last man jerk about and then fall to the floor.

  Cassius appeared from the hall, his weapon trained on the downed man.

  “Who are you?” Loren demanded.

  Cassius tilted his head sans typical cowboy hat toward Loren. “Detective Sergeant Cassius Larrabee of the Idaho State Patrol. I’m here for Vivian.”

  Loren’s shoulders slumped. “Oh.”

  “Is the last of them?” Cassius asked.

  “I think so,” Vivian said.

  Cassius ejected his clip; it clattered to the floor, making a hollow ring against the tile.

  He pressed a fresh clip into his sidearm. “We’re not going this way. They entered through here.”

  He grabbed Vivian’s elbow and escorted her back the way she and Loren had come. “Who told you they were coming?” he asked as he cleared the first floor.

  “Hal Jones.” She skidded to a halt, breaking free of Cassius’s grip. “My phone.”

  He reached back and took hold of her once more. “Forget it. We’re getting you out of here, now.”

 

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