“Oh, really?” I said, rising from my seat. “Well, guess what, buddy? I need to know and I need to know fucking now!”
Agent Owen looked at me askance and his female counterpart lurched to attention. Liz jumped up and placed herself between me and the man, as if to protect him from a physical attack.
“Sorry,” the man said from behind Liz. “We aren’t allowed to reveal that information.”
I placed my hands on the table and leaned on them, taking deep breaths and counting to ten. Then twenty.
“Call us if you need us,” Owen said to Liz. “We’ll be in the other room.” He started to go, and then stopped. “You need to decide quickly, Ms. Evans. Time is of the essence. And there’s a lot at stake.” With that, he and his twin partner high-tailed it out of there.
I sat back down and put my face in my hands.
“Why, Liz? Why did I have to write a thriller?”
I could hear Liz resume her seat across from me.
“Why couldn’t I have just written, I don’t know, romantic suspense?” I continued. “You know, one of those silly stories where Colonel Peacock gets killed in the garden with a hoe or a pitchfork and the heroine gets her man? Terrorist groups don’t give a shit about those stories, do they?”
“Jessica, I’m so sorry. About everything.” Liz sighed before continuing. “You have no idea how I’ve worried since Homeland Security told me all this. That’s why I hired those guards. I wanted to protect you, and I hoped it wouldn’t come to this. But, you do need to decide. And he’s right. This could happen any time. So the sooner you decide, the more likely we are to prevent what may be the worst catastrophe in modern history.”
“Shit.” I stared into my hands, wishing I would wake up from this horrible dream. I briefly thought of all the films I’d seen in which the needs of one were outweighed by the needs of many. Casablanca, Star Trek: Wrath of Khan. Ugh, why do I watch movies or care about anything? My heart felt like a lead weight in my chest as I finally spoke. “What choice do I have? If they absolutely need me, I’ll do it.”
Even as I said it, I couldn’t believe those words were coming from me.
Liz put her hand on my arm. “I . . . ” She couldn’t go on. After a few moments, she steeled herself and rose. “I’ll go tell them.” She turned and left the room. I almost shouted for her to wait, that I’d changed m
y mind, but the words wouldn’t come. So I simply stared at her retreating back.
I had one night at the safe house, while plans were prepared for me to be kidnapped. Super, I thought. I wondered what delightful method they’d use. Would I be forced into a car at gunpoint or simply bashed over the head?
Agent Owen (whom I’d mentally dubbed George Clooney, because Owen and Clooney could’ve been brothers) told me not to worry, because the operative would do everything possible to make sure my capture was swift and painless. “Swift and painless”—words that could also apply to someone’s death. Coming from good old George, I wasn’t taking much comfort in them.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Kevin
Kevin snapped out of his latest drug-induced haze and tried to focus on the problems at hand.
So the writer had gotten away and grievously wounded two of the group’s men. But he knew it was just a matter of time before they flushed her out again. Then, they could ask her how much Fred had told her.
Fred’s research for this woman had made him far too curious about other matters. Matters the woman could definitely confirm by talking to Selby.
While Selby was no longer a threat, the question was how much had he told her at their meeting?
The group’s plans hinged on Selby’s knowledge of a risk so little known, yet so potentially lethal, it was astonishing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Jessica
That night at the safe house, I thrashed around in bed, unable to sleep. Couldn’t imagine why.
The room was hot and dusty, little-used, and unkempt with only a bed, a desk, a computer, and a bookshelf along one wall. The musty smell of old books made me feel like I was trying to sleep in the back room of a used book warehouse.
After 1:00 in the morning, I threw off the covers and got up. I peered through the Venetian blinds at the quiet, dark neighborhood. Everyone tucked safely in bed and sound asleep, no doubt. Or curled up in front of a television watching a late night movie and munching on popcorn or drinking cocoa.
If any of them had insomnia, it wasn’t because they’d been called upon to be kidnapped by terrorists in order to help authorities save the world from its biggest catastrophe ever. Nor had they seen a nice guy like Fred lying on the floor with a bullet through his head. Or witnessed a man keel over dead—probably poisoned. And Cynthia of all people was involved with this group. Jesus!
All of this had started on Monday. Only a few days ago. Talk about your bad weeks. And it was just barely Friday.