Girl of Lies (Rachel's Peril)

  A sign. Exit 80, for Sykesville Road in Clarkesville, Maryland.

  4:56 pm. She was getting further by the minute from the airport, further from her family, further from safety.

  She took a deep breath. Maybe she could try negotiation. She leaned forward in her seat slightly then said, “My father is wealthy. He’ll pay a big ransom.”

  Crew Cut rolled his head to the left for just a second, his jaw tightening, the powerful muscles in his neck going tense. She didn’t anticipate the sudden violence, as he lashed out with his right fist. Her vision went white as his fist connected and she cried out, her mouth flooding with blood. She’d bit her tongue, hard.

  Hairy Chest shook his head and chuckled. He glanced over his shoulder at her, and then said, “Don’t mess her face up too much. I want to break her in before we get rid of her.”

  Andrea’s entire body shuddered. She’d taken self-defense. More than one course, in fact. Abuelita had always been insistent that Andrea be able to defend herself in any situation. She knew how to fight, how to draw blood, how to run away. But fighting in real life was a completely different undertaking than in the control of the classroom, or even kneeing an obnoxious drunk in the balls. Plus, there were two of them. And they had guns.

  “Yeah, well right now, every second fucking counts,” the driver said. “We need to get off the road.”

  “How far?”

  “Twenty minutes. No way they’ll have an alert out that fast, but we can’t kid around. Keep her fucking quiet back there.”

  She sniffled then ground her teeth. She wasn’t giving up. No matter what. Hairy Chest met her eyes, then said in a conversational tone, “I fuck you so hard you scream.”

  The words froze her in place, all panic and fear gone. She was ice cold. And if she’d held a knife in her hand at that moment, she wouldn’t have hesitated to slide it right between his ribs.

  As it was, she needed to think, and quickly.

  There was nothing in the backseat she could use as a weapon. Normally she carried a can of mace, but she couldn’t take that on an airplane. Fuckers. Heavy floor mats lined the backseat floor. They wouldn’t make much of a weapon, though she might be able to use one to blind the driver for a moment. And cause the car to crash. At the moment the speedometer rested at 74 miles per hour. She might be killed if they crashed, but she thought her odds would be better in a high speed collision than whatever else these two had in mind.

  Her eyes moved back to Hairy Chest, still watching her, and she intentionally breathed in deeply and made her lower lip tremble. “I’ll cooperate. Please don’t hurt me.”

  She said it in as meek a voice as she could muster. But she was going to fucking hurt him if she got the chance.

  And that’s when she saw it. The driver braked a little, as a state patrolman pulled out onto the highway three lanes over.

  Without thought or preparation or hesitation, she reached down with her left hand and grabbed the floor mat.

  Hairy Chest shouted. “What the—”

  He was too late. The floor mat swung wide and caught Crew Cut right in the face. The car lurched to the left, away from the police car, and skidded onto the median. The ride suddenly went rough as the car ran partly onto the gravel and grass, bumping this way and that, and then hitting a pothole with a wrenching thud that jarred her brain in her skull.

  “Fucking bitch!” shouted the driver as he fought to get the vehicle back under control.

  She reached both hands forward and grabbed Hairy Chest from behind, digging her nails into his face. He let out a scream and forced his way out of her grip, then spun around and lunged blindly, just missing her with his fist as she scrunched back as far in the seat as she could get.

  That got the response she wanted. The squeal of a siren, then a flash of blue light, as the cops responded to the highly visible fight inside the Lincoln.

  “Motherfucker!” shouted the driver. Hairy Chest reached for his gun, and she grabbed at his arm, but screamed as the driver punched her in the head. Once. Twice. Her vision narrowed to black and she lost her grip on Hairy Chest’s arm. The driver accelerated, and Hairy Chest moved in nightmare slow motion as he raised his pistol. She dived down behind the seat as far as she could go, and then heard an explosion of sound.

  Hairy Chest leaned out the window and fired his pistol at the pursuing police car.

  3. Sarah. April 28. 4:58 pm

  “What the hell?” shouted Lieutenant Miller into a phone. “Can someone please tell me how the daughter of the Secretary of Defense came through my airport… and was abducted… and I wasn’t notified? What the hell is wrong with you people?” A long pause. “I don’t give a damn if he hasn’t been confirmed yet. You people dropped the ball, and now there’s a sixteen-year-old girl who’s been kidnapped!”

  Sarah groaned and stayed low in her seat. She didn’t want to remind them she was here, because right now, she had some clue what was going on. If they made her leave, she’d lose that. For the last ten minutes she’d been sending text updates to her sisters: Carrie in Maryland, Alexandra in New York, Julia in Los Angeles and Jessica in San Francisco. Jessica hadn’t responded, but then again, she didn’t much lately.

  Carrie had reminded her in a message that their father, recently called out of retirement by the President, was on Capitol Hill today preparing for his confirmation hearings. He wouldn’t take any phone calls, but Carrie thought she could reach him through the Pentagon.

  “Lieutenant!” one of the cops called. “State patrol spotted the vehicle. They’re in pursuit.”

  Miller covered the receiver of the phone he’d been shouting into. “Any visual?”

  The cop shook his head. “Audio only.”

  “Put it up.”

  Sarah shook. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She started to send another text message to her sisters.

  The room filled with sounds from the state patrol dispatchers. A lot of unrelated radio chatter. Then a loud, strong voice calling, “Shots fired, four-four-four, shots fired.”

  More voices, calling in locations, more cars responding.

  Miller hung up on whoever he was talking with, and Sarah dropped her phone. The glass front of the phone shattered.

  4. Andrea. April 28. 5:02 pm

  Andrea felt her stomach lurch as the car swerved left, right, left again. Hairy Chest was yelling now, cursing in Arabic at the following cars. She stayed hunched down as tightly as possible, ignoring the rushing wind, the stomach churning swaying of the car, the sound of the tires screeching—she was focused only on survival. Terror threatened to paralyze her as she thought of never being able to see Javier again, the thought of losing her sisters, of not being there for them.

  Then it happened. Hairy Chest’s body jerked, then spasmed. Blood splattered on the windshield in a splotchy pattern, and he fell awkwardly against Crew Cut, who swerved again, shoving him away. Hairy Chest’s face was dark with blood, his lips swollen, as he fell between the seats. Hairy Chest’s head came to rest right next to Andrea, who let out a scream as blood poured from his mouth.

  The scream was cut short a second later when the driver fired a shot, unaimed, a wild shot, right through the seat. At her.

  She jerked up behind the seat, powered by adrenaline and fear, grabbing his gun hand from behind and covering his eyes with the other. He screamed and she did too as he lost control of the car and then he pulled the trigger once, twice, three more times. The bullets flew randomly, all of them missing her. The sickening screech of tires grew lower in pitch, the car moving sideways now, threatening to roll. As the car reached a stop she realized her mistake. The police were behind them, but there was nothing to prevent the son of a bitch from shooting her right now.

  In desperation, she leaned forward, over his shoulder, and sank her teeth into his cheek. She felt her teeth break the skin, salty, copper tasting blood spurting into her mouth as he jerked and howled in pain, and then it happened. His hand released the pistol.

/>   Instantly, she grabbed it, diving into the back seat.

  And then the driver was gone, running, the front door of the car swinging open.

  She sagged into the seat, spitting out her kidnapper’s blood, and dropped the gun. Her eyes went to Hairy Chest. His bloodshot, dead eyes stared up at the roof of the car. Did he wonder what had happened? Did he wonder how two armed men managed to lose control of their prisoner, a sixteen-year-old girl?

  Well, fuck him.

  She flinched at the sound of gunshots outside. A lot of shots, followed by silence.

  A few seconds later, a police officer appeared in the window, shouting, “Step out of the car now!”

  She exhaled slowly, exhaustion sinking fast into her bones. Then she called out, “I can’t open the back door!”

  She didn’t say that there was no way in hell she was crawling over the body of Hairy Chest to get to the front door. They could figure that out on their own.

  Seconds later, the door opened, and she staggered out of the vehicle.

  1. Andrea. April 28. 5:20 pm

  “IT’S JUST A precaution,” the police officer said. “We’ve got orders to make sure you get to the hospital safely and get checked out.”

  Andrea sighed. She knew it was necessary, especially since she’d gotten an unfortunate amount of blood in her mouth from the driver. But a helicopter?

  Whatever her objections, the bright red air ambulance was coming in for a landing, the rotors throwing up a wash of dirt and dust all over the highway. Westbound traffic on Interstate 70 was stopped, and police directed frustrated and angry commuters to alternate routes. Half a dozen police cars, two ambulances, a fire truck and a swat team truck had converged on the site.

  The need for that level of force had already come to an end. Fifteen seconds after exiting the car, Crew Cut, or Dan, or whatever his name was, opened fire on the police, then died from half a dozen gunshot wounds. The police were quite thorough making sure he wasn’t getting back up.

  The police had refused to allow her to retrieve her phone or purse. Evidence, they said. It might be evidence, but her passport was in there. Her frustration about that situation lasted right up until the moment she stood up to walk to the helicopter. After a brief argument with an EMT who wanted her to be strapped down on a stretcher, she squeezed herself into a crew seat and they buckled her in.

  She stared out the windows as the twin engines roared to a high pitch and the helicopter lifted into the sky. To the east stood Baltimore, a city she’d never actually been in other than passing through the airport. Toy buildings, tiny cars, the hazy horizon, all contributed to her sense of unreality and isolation. Was it only two days ago she’d said goodbye to Javier? To her grandmother?

  She wanted to go back home. She shivered, looking out at the harbor on the right side of the helicopter as it sped toward its destination.

  Damn it. She didn’t even know Javier’s number. Or any of her friends from school. And if she got a replacement phone, it wouldn’t do any good, because her backup was on her laptop, in the trunk of the stupid car.

  Who the hell were they? What did they want? It didn’t make any sense. Sure, her father had been nominated for some job with the US Defense ministry or whatever they called it. But that had nothing to do with her. And her attempt at negotiation wasn’t exactly honest. For all she knew, her parents wouldn’t lift a finger to ransom her. She barely knew them, and had been raised primarily by her grandmother. Her mother and father were remote figures on another continent.

  The only one of her sisters she was close to was Julia, the oldest. At thirty-two, she was double Andrea’s age. But she’d also been the one sister who consistently visited her in Spain. She was the sister she could count on.

  It had been eight months since she’d seen Julia. That was a long time. They’d sat in the park together near Carrie’s condo in Bethesda, Maryland, the day after Ray Sherman’s funeral.

  “Why don’t they want me home, Julia?”

  She had asked the question, not really expecting an answer. What possible answer could there be when your parents don’t want you there?

  “Of course they want you, sis,” Julia said.

  Andrea shook her head. “No…they don’t. When I told Mom I wasn’t coming home for Christmas last year, she didn’t even argue.”

  Julia flinched. “Mother and I…I’ve never understood her.”

  Andrea said, “There’s nothing to understand. They’re both awful. She’s crazy and he’s an icebox. I’m glad Abuelita raised me. At least I know I’m loved.”

  Julia sniffed. “They love you…our parents are just screwed up. They don’t know how to show it. And…we love you. Your sisters.”

  “You say that, but you know as well as I do that except for you, I barely know the others. Carrie might as well be a stranger.”

  Julia shook her head. “That’s not true. She practically raised you.”

  “Until I was what…six? I don’t even remember.”

  “I feel like we failed you.”

  Andrea sighed and sniffed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…I just…sometimes I’m so lonely, you know?”

  She’d cried that day, and Julia held her. Two days later, she flew back to Spain. She and Julia talked on the phone twice a week, whether they had anything to say or not. She called once every two weeks to check on Sarah and Carrie. Sarah was recovering from her injuries and Carrie was going through her pregnancy.

  Her mother rarely asked to speak to her during those calls. That loneliness pervaded her.

  The helicopter circled the hospital, a low bass vibration rising up through the soles of her feet. Bright light sparked out in the harbor, sunlight reflecting off the waves.

  The crew chief sat across from her. “We’re going to land in a minute…they’re going to want to do the full VIP work-up on you. Keep your chin up, okay? I know it’s going to suck, but they just want to cover their asses and look out for your best interests, okay?”

  The unexpected kindness caught her off guard. Andrea nodded. The crew chief touched her shoulder and said, “Did you get any of his blood on you?”

  “Yeah,” she said at a whisper. He couldn’t hear her, but he could see her shudder.

  “You’re gonna be all right, kid. This is just about the best hospital in the country. They’re gonna do all the tests and make sure you’re good to go. You got nothing to be worried about.”

  She sniffed. She wasn’t used to being called kid and having someone reassure her. She wasn’t used to needing other people. But something about the crew chief reminded her of her Uncle Luis, and before she could stop herself, she said it. “I’m scared.”

  She hated herself for saying it. He smiled kindly then squeezed her shoulder.

  “Here we go,” he said. He stretched up a little, wrapping his hand around a handle mounted above the door. The helicopter landed gently.

  “You ready, kid?”

  She nodded. “Thanks.”

  2. George-Phillip. April 28

  “Daddy, I love you.”

  “And I love you, darling.”

  George-Phillip leaned close to his daughter and kissed her on the forehead, then tucked her in. Jane was six years old, raven haired with green eyes. Creative. Mischievous.

  Trouble.

  His lips turned up in a half smile at the thought.

  “I’m turning out the light, Jane.”

  “No…” she said.

  He said, “I’ll leave the door cracked?”

  “Thank you, Daddy.”

  He smiled, switched the light out and stepped out into the hall, leaving the door open six inches.

  Adriana Poole, Jane’s nanny, sat reading a book in the room down the hall. “She’s down,” he said.

  “For now,” Adriana replied. “I’ll be here, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  He sighed, walking down the hall. He left the overhead lamp off in the study, choosing to only turn on the small desk lamp that lit
one spot in the center of his desk. He turned on his computer and looked out at Belgrave Square.

  Department security had warned him repeatedly about the wisdom of having his study facing the square. But Dukes of Kent had occupied this home for more than a hundred years. Princess Alexandra had been born in this house in 1936. Grudgingly, SIS security had installed additional equipment, bulletproof glass and a twenty-four hour security detail on the premises. And George-Phillip kept his study where he could see into the square.

  The Wakhan file had been troubling him ever since O’Leary brought him the news of Andrea Thompson’s travel to the United States. It was one of the oldest files he’d worked on. One of the most explosive, on a personal and international level.

  It haunted him. He unlocked his desk and slid the top drawer open, taking out the file marked with seals labeled CONFIDENTIAL and EYES ONLY. He opened the file.

  As always, it was the photos that caught him first. The bodies, laying where they’d fallen, twisted, bloated.

  Many of them had been children.

  He closed the file. He wouldn’t find any answers in there tonight, any more than he did ten years ago or twenty years ago.

  Thirty years since the photos had been taken. Thirty years.

  He sighed then slid the folder back into his locked drawer. In the morning, he would instruct O’Leary to increase the surveillance on everyone related to the Wakhan file. But for now, he needed to get some sleep.

  That, of course, was when the phone rang. Not his personal phone. The official phone.

  He lifted it to his ear. “This is the Chief,” he said.

  “O’Leary, sir.”

  “What is it?”

  “Wakhan file, sir. It’s heating up.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Andrea Thompson was abducted on arrival at Baltimore Washington airport.”