On Midnight Wings

Jesus Christ, is that a gun?

Ducking down in her seat, Heather jerked the wheel to the left, swerving into the passing lane. She goosed the gas, hoping to arrow past any bullets. The Lexus surged forward, then the soft green dash lights winked out. The headlights vanished. The engine switched off. The sharp odor of ozone and scorched circuits curled through the air.

Heather’s heart sank. Not a gun, no. The Lexus had been brought down with a mini-EMP bomb. Headlights flashed on ahead of her and two cars arrowed down the dark road toward her coasting Lexus. Light flared in her rearview as the posed vehicle behind her started up.

A trap. A goddamned trap.

She couldn’t help but wonder if someone at Strickland had contacted the FBI to let them know that James Wallace had just checked his daughter out ahead of schedule.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Heather tried to steer the Lexus off the road to the shoulder, but the damned thing was about as maneuverable as a mountain. She settled for tapping the brakes as she rolled to a stop. Headlight glare filled the car. Unstrapping her seat belt, she leaned over, popped open the glove box, and grabbed the tin snips.

It was easier than she’d expected. A turn with her wrist, an adjustment to the angle, then two quick snips, and her hands were free. Tossing the snips aside, Heather scooped up the cell phone and tucked it into a pocket of her jeans. She pulled the Colt Super and chambered a round.

Two dark sedans pulled to a stop in front of the Lexus. One—the decoy—stopped behind. Doors opened and suited figures sheltered behind them. Air curled in front of the headlights like blue twists of smoke.

“Heather Wallace,” a man’s voice called, muffled through the windshield. “Toss out your weapons, then slowly step out of the vehicle.”

Guns lifted. Aimed.

Wiping her sweaty palms against her jeans, Heather considered her options. If the Bureau had wanted her dead at this particular moment, they could’ve arranged for a car accident instead of an EMP guaranteed to stop her without harm. And the guns might actually be trank guns or Tasers.

She’d just escaped from one institution. She’d be damned if she’d just surrender and allow herself to be taken to another—one with top-level security and no visitors allowed. Heather blew out a breath. Okay. She’d started the day with a gamble. No point in stopping now. It was all in or nothing.

Picking up the tin snips, Heather opened the door, and tossed them out as though they were her gun. They hit the pavement with a hard tunk. “All right,” she called. “I’m coming out.”

“Slowly,” she was reminded.

She stepped out of the Lexus. Then swung up the Colt and fired several rounds at the lead cars. She whirled, ignoring the twinge in her ankle, and ran for the woods. Startled shouts slashed into the air behind her.

She felt something bite into the backs of her shoulders and, just like the Lexus had, her muscles shut down as an electrical pulse thrummed through her. She flopped to the ground like a dynamite-stunned fish.

Heather heard footsteps in the dry grass, then the rustle of cloth as someone crouched beside her. The Colt was wrenched from her rigid grasp. Polished black shoes moved into her field of vision.

“Here’s another taste,” a male voice grumbled. Her muscles contracted as another surge of electricity danced through them. “Shoot at us, will you? Damned fed. I should zap you all the way to Alexandria.”

“Knock it the hell off, Roberts. Just cuff her, okay? Let’s get moving. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

A grunt of acquiescence, then Heather felt her arms pulled behind her back, felt handcuffs ratchet shut around her wrists. A cold sweat iced her body as she was hauled to her unsteady feet. Her muscles quivered.

Damned fed. Alexandria.

She’d been intercepted by the SB, not the FBI.

Heather never dreamed she would wish that James Wallace had reached the Colt before she had. As a steel-fingered hand locked around her biceps and forced her forward, she wished so now. She walked, stumbling, toward one of the dark sedans, knowing she was well and truly screwed.

21

A SIMPLE, UNAVOIDABLE TRUTH

DALLAS, TEXAS

APRIL 1

LUCIEN LANDED BESIDE THE abandoned Lexus, his wings flaring once before folding shut behind him. The car was parked at a slant on the highway’s shoulder, the driver’s-side door open wide, the interior dark.

A quick glance at the license plate number confirmed that it was James Wallace’s rented Lexus, the vehicle Lucien had seen on the Strickland Deprogramming Institute’s gate security tapes as Wallace had driven away hours ago with Heather in the backseat instead of the passenger seat—as though he were transporting a prisoner.

Question was, where was he taking her? Or, Lucien reflected grimly as he studied the night-shadowed car, where had he intended to take her?