Placebo

  I feel for a shoulder holster on the dead man, find his gun, and as I’m removing it, I hear indistinct voices in the embalming room, and a man in jeans and a black sweater crosses the doorway, walking backward, dragging a woman across the floor. She’s not moving.

  The other agent.

  Then the person dragging her speaks. This time I hear him clearly: “Go get the man.”

  I scurry to the wall, duck behind one of the chairs.

  Stillness. Perception. Expectation. There’s no reason for him to suspect that anyone else is in the room.

  He’ll focus on the task, why would he look your way?

  Still, I hold the gun ready, umbrella tucked behind the curtain beside me.

  The man enters the room. He’s athletic, walks with poise, confidence. Doesn’t look my way. Identical to the other man except he wears a green sweater.

  This twin grabs the wrists of the dead Secret Service agent, tugs him toward the door to the embalming room, but as he turns the corner, the flap of the dead man’s jacket flips open, revealing the empty shoulder holster.

  Countdown

  In a beat while I still have the advantage, I respond.

  Ditching the umbrella and swinging the handgun in front of me, I dash across the room, through the doorway, and shout, “Do not move!”

  But only one man is here now, and it’s not the one who pulled the male agent’s corpse into the room. A wicked scar scribbles down this twin’s left cheek. He looks at me calmly, holds out his hands, palms up, to show that he’s unarmed. The dead woman whom I saw him dragging a moment ago lies at his feet.

  “Who are you?” he asks.

  There’s one other door leading out of this room. His brother must have fled the second he realized the agent’s gun was missing.

  “Don’t move.” Then I call out the door, “I have the gun! I’m aiming it at your brother. Step out with your hands up.”

  No response. No sound. The man in front of me appears unfazed. “Who told you to come here? Dr. Colette?”

  I’m trying to keep an eye on both him and the doorway. “I said I have your brother!”

  No reply.

  How to do this?

  How to do this?

  Make sure this guy’s not a threat.

  “Get on your knees.”

  He doesn’t move.

  “Now.”

  But that’s when I hear the front door bang open and Charlene cry out, “Jevin, he’s got—ouch!”

  “Don’t!” Anger flares up inside me. “Touch her!”

  He got outside, got to the women!

  “Give my brother the gun,” the man down the hallway demands. He’s still out of sight, as are Charlene and Riah.

  The twin I’m aiming the pistol at speaks to me calmly. “My brother will kill her, I assure you. He has the other agent’s gun. Now set down your weapon. Kick it to me.”

  From the foyer: “I’ll give you five seconds.”

  No!

  “Five—”

  Thoughts whip through my head: If you shoot this guy, his brother will kill Charlene, Riah too—

  “Four—”

  But if you stall long enough—

  “Three—”

  The police or more Secret Service agents can get—

  Charlene: “Jevin, he—!”

  “Two—”

  “Okay!” I lower the gun. “I am. Let her be!”

  The man with the scar indicates toward the floor. “Slowly.”

  I bend down and place the gun on the floor, then slide it toward him. While he retrieves it, I stand, brushing my hand across my pocket. He doesn’t notice but gestures toward the wall to my left. “Stand over there.”

  I cross the room.

  “Okay, Daniel,” he calls to the foyer. “Bring her in.”

  I survey my surroundings. The surgical tools on the counter across the room could serve as weapons. There’s a scalpel, a small saw, and a trocar—a hollow, spear-like probe about a foot and a half long. One end is attached to a rubber tube that leads to a pressure pump and plastic tub of yellowish liquid, the other end is sharpened, with a hole it. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the trocar is used for filling body cavities with embalming fluid.

  The plastic tub has a warning on it: FORMALDEHYDE.

  Yes. If I could get to that—

  Riah and Charlene enter through the doorway, followed by Daniel, who holds a gun identical to the one I’d found.

  The crowd gasped as the man stepped off the roof of the Franklin Grand Hotel.

  Then exploded.

  And disappeared in midair.

  I berate myself for leaving the women alone, for not getting them out of here. “Are you two okay?”

  They both nod.

  “Riah.” Darren’s voice is flat. “Who are these people?”

  She doesn’t respond to his question but asks one of her own: “Why the president, Darren? How is he a threat to national security? Why are you doing this?”

  He motions for her and Charlene to stand beside me and they do. All of us have our hands up. Daniel joins his brother, who replies to Dr. Colette, “He wants to shut down Project Alpha, but what we’re doing here, Riah, this will save the lives of thousands of American soldiers.”

  Daniel goes on, continuing as if he’s thinking the exact same thoughts as his brother: “It’ll give us the upper hand around the globe in fighting terrorism. You must know that too. We can’t just abandon it.”

  “More people like Malik?”

  “Yes”—it’s Darren now—“his death saved hundreds of lives. That’s just one example. We can save tens of thousands more.” He looks at Daniel, who says, “The cuffs.”

  “Yes.”

  Daniel stows his gun on the counter next to the trocar and embalming fluid. He leans over the dead woman’s body and removes the pair of steel handcuffs she was carrying, slips them into the back pocket of his jeans, then visits the man’s corpse and retrieves the cuffs from him as well.

  I’d given Charlene back her earring a few minutes ago. If I were cuffed right now, I wasn’t sure how I would pick the lock.

  I opt for stalling and think back to what Glenn Banner said when he was dying—the threat, the man who would find me, the hero who avenges. “It was Akinsanya, right? He was the sniper in Kabul, wasn’t he?”

  The men look at me with interest but say nothing.

  “Okay, Riah,” Darren begins. “It looks like we’re going to have to move to a new location. We’ll take care of things from there. You’re still going to help us, aren’t you—or have you changed your mind?”

  She points to Charlene and me. “I’ll help you if you let these two live.” I’m not sure if she’s bluffing. I sense no deception in her words. She brought the medical instruments, and I wasn’t sure if maybe she’d been planning to help them all along

  It was definitely possible.

  The brothers exchange glances, then Darren nods. “Come over here, Riah. Daniel, cuff them.”

  Riah obeys while Daniel strides toward us. Charlene lifts her hands so that they’re behind her head.

  I want to keep them talking. “You had the sniper shoot the guy’s vest because you can’t do it, can you? That’s why you need Riah. You can’t do it without her. But Arlington thinks you can, so—”

  Darren cocks his head. “Who are you?”

  “Jevin Banks, the magician.”

  “Magician?”

  My thoughts are racing. “What about Williamson? Is she involved, or were you just using her to help secure funding for Project Alpha?” Honestly, I’m not certain about any of these conclusions, but I’m not really trying to get them to admit anything. It’s all misdirection.

  What I do best.

  Daniel tells Charlene to turn around, put her hands behind her back. She does. When she lowers her hands from behind her head, I see that one of her earrings is missing.

  I hold up my hands to show him that they’re empty.

  But the rig
ht one is not.

  When I stood up a few moments ago, I palmed something from my pocket.

  The 1895 Morgan Dollar.

  Sight lines. Darren hadn’t seen me do it.

  It’s the only advantage I have.

  And I’m going to use it.

  The Trocar

  Daniel handcuffs Charlene’s wrists behind her, then she turns her back to the wall and I know what she’s doing: using the earring she just palmed. I’d give her just under thirty seconds to get free. She’s not quite as fast as I am, but she definitely has skills.

  He approaches me, and I turn and feel him click the cuff around my left wrist, but that’s when I make my move. I whip around and, in one motion, swipe the Morgan Dollar violently toward his right eye.

  Based on how deeply it gouges in, I’m guessing there’ll be no using that eye again. I don’t care how tough you are, that was going to hurt.

  He cries out and throws his hand to his face, and while he’s disoriented I grab his shoulders and tug him toward Charlene, positioning him in front of her to use as a human shield, but Darren is leveling the gun at us, and even with Daniel in the way, I have a feeling he might be able to pick off me or Charlene. He eyes down the barrel, but Riah throws herself against his arm, and when he fires, the bullet ricochets off the floor.

  The other gun is on the counter.

  Get it. Go!

  I shove Daniel to the floor and rush at Darren, who tugs free from Riah. I have enough speed and connect with a front jump kick to his brachial plexus on the inside of his upper arm, whip my hand out, and manage to knock the gun away—sleight of hand, instinct—but he’s so quick he snags my leg in midair before I can retract it and whips me around, sending me crashing against one of the metal gurneys.

  As I leap to my feet, I hear Charlene cry out from behind me, and I glance back only to see Daniel grab her arm and hustle her out of the room toward the hallway that leads to the funeral home’s entrance.

  No! Stop him, he—

  But Darren comes at me. He’s better than I am, and every move I make he’s one step ahead of me. He deftly blocks my uppercut, does a spinning side kick that connects with my fractured ribs. I gasp and stumble backward, almost toppling over the dead female Secret Service agent.

  A crippling throb of pain overwhelms me when I try to draw in a breath, and as I struggle to regain my balance, Riah valiantly tries to help and goes for Darren’s arm again, but he backhands her brutally in the face, sending her reeling into the wall. She smacks it hard with her forehead and sinks limply to the floor.

  As he’s bending down to retrieve the gun, I grab him with both hands and drive him backward. He crashes into one of the metal gurneys, the momentum sends it spinning toward the counter, and that’s when I see that Riah has risen and flipped on the switch to the motor attached to the trocar. Embalming fluid immediately floods the tube.

  On his feet again, Darren reaches for my head.

  He broke the necks of the Secret Service agents. He’s going to—

  I spin, rotating him toward Riah.

  And she plunges the trocar into his side. And depresses the trigger.

  He draws in a strangled, horrid-sounding breath and looks down, stunned, at the hollow metal rod that’s augered in between his ribs, that’s filling his lungs with embalming fluid. He grips it with both hands to pull it out, but Riah rams it in farther and he gasps, then crumples to the floor, making sounds I never want to hear again.

  Charlene.

  Go!

  As Riah watches Darren die, I bolt across the room, down the hallway, through the foyer, and out the front door.

  Daniel is sliding into the driver’s seat of the Secret Service agents’ SUV. Charlene lies on the driveway next to the hearse, her hands still cuffed behind her. She isn’t moving.

  No!

  I rush to her.

  No, no, no!

  When I turn her head toward me, she groans.

  Oh, thank God you’re alive. Thank—

  “Stop him.” She coughs slightly. “He’s still going to kill . . .”

  “Are you—”

  “Yeah.” She still seems dazed, and I don’t know why Daniel didn’t kill her, but I’m thankful—

  “I’m fine. He’s going after Hoult.” There’s no hesitation in her voice. “Stop him!”

  “Alright.” I jump to my feet. “I will.”

  And how exactly are you going to do that?

  Improvise.

  Daniel is backing up to pull around the sedan. The SUV rides high, has runner boards beneath the passenger’s and driver’s side doors.

  That’ll work.

  I sprint alongside the vehicle and reach for the passenger-side door handle but can’t quite catch it. Daniel aims the SUV toward the road and I try for it again.

  Can’t hold on.

  Do this!

  Now!

  He accelerates.

  On the third try I snag the door handle, yank the door open, and, striding off the runner board beneath it, leap inside. Either it surprises him or he’s trying to throw me from the vehicle because he swerves wildly, but I’m already in with him. The door bangs shut and I reach for the wheel to crank it to the right. Toward the yard. Toward the Schuylkill River.

  Where I’ll have the advantage.

  Yeah, improvise.

  He elbows me savagely in the face, but I hold on, wrench the wheel again, and we bounce across the lawn toward the drop-off to the water.

  And as we launch off the edge, I hit the button to roll my window down.

  Cuffed

  The impact is even more jarring than I expect.

  The air bag smacks me in the chest and knocks the wind out of me, causing a whole new flood of pain to rupture up my side from my cracked ribs. The current grabs the vehicle, tilting it forward and redirecting us downstream. We’re low enough for water to pour in through the open window, and the SUV tips in my direction.

  After all the cold-water escapes I’ve done, I’d figured I’d be more able to withstand the shock of the river water than Daniel would, but I’m out of practice, and with the fractured ribs I’m having a hard time breathing at all.

  Both of the air bags are deflating, giving us more room to move. Daniel, who’s handling the chilly water better than I thought he would, wrestles to get his door open, but I clutch his arm and hold him back.

  “Your brother’s dead,” I tell him. “It’s over.” Pain wracks my side with every breath. With the open window, the SUV is sinking fast and the water is almost to my chest.

  “I know. His left side.”

  But how? He left before—

  Oh, just like your boys. He feels the pain his brother felt.

  He punches my jaw, stunning me, then wraps his hands around my throat and shoves my head down. I struggle to get free, but his grip is fierce and he manages to get my face beneath the water that’s cascading into the SUV.

  I wish I could smack the handcuff dangling from my wrist into his face, but the angle’s not right for that arm.

  But it is right for the other arm. I’m still wearing the watch from Banner, the one built to withstand a bullet, so I use that instead. I swing my wrist backward, smash it into Daniel’s face. His grip weakens just enough for me to fight free, sit up, grab a breath.

  Water is rising fast. He goes for his door again, then sees the handcuff still hanging from my wrist, seizes my arm, and drags it toward the steering wheel.

  Oh—

  No.

  I try to pull free, but he hits me hard in the jaw again, causing me to see stars.

  “I’ll kill her,” he says evenly. Looks at me with eyes fierce and cold. “The woman back there. Her life for his.”

  Don’t let him get out. Do not let—

  He angles my wrist to snap the cuff to the steering wheel—

  Now.

  You’ve done it before in your stage shows. It’s not that hard of a move.

  In an instant, I twist my hand around, slap
the open side of the handcuffs to his wrist, and smack the lock mechanism against his chest to ratchet it shut, cuffing his wrist to mine.

  Descent

  For a moment it’s as if he doesn’t realize what just happened, then he yanks powerfully at his arm, but there’s no getting free. The water is almost up to our necks. I don’t know how deep the river is—we haven’t hit bottom yet, and it looks like water’s going to fill the vehicle before we do.

  Water splashes into my mouth. We won’t have air for more than a few more seconds.

  Daniel wrenches at the cuffs again but it does no good.

  “Never threaten a guy’s girl, Daniel. It’s not a good idea.”

  The force of the current swirls the SUV and takes us farther down, and the water roils higher. I snatch one final, deep and painful breath, then the water is over my head.

  As his mouth goes under, I hear a fierce, enraged scream that uses up a lot of air, and that’s bad for him. It’s seriously going to shorten his life.

  I used to be able to hold my breath for three and a half minutes, but not in water this cold, and that was back when I was practicing every day. I figure the temperature will cut into that time; I might have a minute, maybe less.

  You can still get out of this.

  Pick the lock. You need to pick the lock.

  How?

  Beside me, Daniel is struggling to get away, but that’s a mistake because he’s using up the precious oxygen in his blood. You want to stop moving. That’s the secret.

  Hang on, Jev.

  His hand goes for my throat. I try to pull it away, but he’s stronger than I am.

  Not like this, Jev.

  Don’t let it end like this.

  Again I try to pry off his hand but can’t.

  The water is too cloudy for me to see him anymore, but I can feel him squeezing harder. He jerks again at the cuffs, but then his grip on my throat begins to weaken. A moment later his arm goes slack and he begins to shake uncontrollably. I know what’s happening, what he’s going through. I’ve been there myself. It’ll go on for a few more seconds.

  And then it will stop.

  Which it does.

  They died like this. Your boys did. And Rachel did too. Drowning in that minivan.