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When cold metal pressed against her temple, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t.
The second gunman stood just in front of Cole. He could kick the thug’s knees and throw his backpack over the man’s face, if someone else could just go for the gun.
But the gun would go off before anyone could get it. Someone would die. And the bad guys would have to be together, or he’d have to take out the second man when the first one’s back was turned. But how could he know, when he had to keep his head down? Peeking into the aisle gave him a full-on view of the man’s camouflage jacket, Wolverine work boots and nothing else.
Maybe it would be all right. If everyone just relaxed, they could take the money and go, and everyone would be okay. Maybe heroics would be the wrong thing to do—would hurt people more than help.
He winced. Yeah, he was good at doing that. His gaze fell on Obsession—still open on his lap—and he skimmed down to where he’d left off. Where two gunmen told the bus passengers to put their heads down, their hands up, and robbed them.
No…
Where they put a gun to Monique’s head. Where the bad guys jerked her to her feet, marched her down the steps. His eyes jumped to the first line again.
If her car hadn’t died that morning, Monique might not have, either.
Someone was going to die.
No. It was just a crazy book. One he didn’t want to read anymore. He moved his leg, jostling the book closed.
Then he was the one with the business end of a pistol pointing at his head.
Cole settled his foot flat on the floor again and tried to slow his breathing, but his heart raced faster. He could feel the blood pulsing in his neck as he tried to remain motionless, to fight the urge to jerk away from the weapon, to not give the gunman the wrong idea.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” the man in the front finally shouted.
The gun shifted, but remained inches away from Cole’s ear. With it so close, he could grab the gun first, if he got lucky. Duck and grab, then drop the guy while the seat still protected him from the first man’s gaze…and weapon.
The one he could use to fire at Cole anyway. Hitting the kid in front of him, or the man next to him. His seatmate met his eyes, blinked, mouthed, “No, son.”
“Don’t move! Keep your hands on the seats, your heads down.”
Something rustled near the front. Cole’s eyes settled on the book cover, with Monique gazing up at him. Frightened. Haunted.
“We’re taking one of you with us.”
The whimpers grew louder.
“If you move before five minutes, if someone calls the cops, if we don’t get away clean, she’s dead. But if you cooperate as well as you have so far, she’ll be deposited somewhere, unharmed, for the police to find.”
Monique’s face merged with the girl from the bench, and Cole’s heart lurched.
Kenzie stood in the aisle after being jerked to her feet. Numb, she looked toward the back of the bus. The man from the bus stop met her gaze for a split second as the guy in the camo jacket held a gun to his head. Then, nothing but a sea of hands. No faces except the two men leering at her with their eyes. No one to come to her rescue.
“Come on,” said the man with the leather jacket, tugging on her arm. The other guy moved toward her and pointed his weapon at a nearby child. The message was clear: Struggle, and she’d take more down with her.
She walked with leaden feet, slowly descending the stairs. Her shoe touched the tube of lip gloss, and she watched dully as it fell to the ground beside the front tire. It was her favorite kind—discontinued. Her purse lay on the dusty floorboard. Maybe when it was all over she could pick up her things. Maybe the bus driver would hold them for her.
Maybe she’d no longer need them.
Her breath hitched as she was led to the road. Her captor gripped her arm, keeping a watchful eye on the bus. The other man disappeared from view. Moments later, a black van skidded to a halt, and the side door popped open.
“Your chariot, pet.”
Just before they shoved her inside, she glanced back at the bus. Something crashed against her head.
Then everything went black.
Cole strained his ears but couldn’t hear over the rumbling engine and crying passengers. Had the gunmen left on foot or in a getaway car?
The crying grew louder. One man raised his voice, shaky with fear. “Don’t move. Don’t want nobody hurt. They said five minutes. Still got four left.”
Cole ignored the timekeeper, inching his head up high enough so he could see out the window. The street appeared empty except for a black van. It disappeared around the corner before he could get the license number. He felt under the seat for his belongings. The book was there. His cell phone, gone. They needed to get help fast, get the Atlanta PD looking for that vehicle before Moni—no, the girl from the bench—wound up dead.
Cole half stood, then jerked his gaze to the side as the old man gasped. His hands clutched his chest, and his mouth hung open as sweat trickled down the side of his face.
“Anyone still have a phone?” Cole yelled, leaping to his feet. “This man’s having a heart attack!”
“Are you crazy?” the shaky voice yelled again. “Sit down before you get us all killed!”
A woman rose from the last seat and strode forward as the old man’s head slumped against the window. “I’m an LPN.”
“Good.” Cole shoved her into his seat. “Someone help her.” He ran up the aisle, but another man beat him to the driver’s radio. Cole stared out the windshield. The van was long gone.
“The radio’s busted,” the man said. “And they took the keys.”
“All right. Let’s go.”
The timekeeper raised his voice from halfway back. “Still got two minutes left, man. You go, you kill that girl.”
Cole stiffened, trying to block the image of the girl’s face—her sad eyes, her lips white with fear. If her car hadn’t died that morning…“I stay, and this man dies.”
Sirens blared. First a patrol car, then a fire truck, with an ambulance not far behind. Cole blew out a breath, glanced down the aisle where the nurse still hovered. It was out of his hands now. He could tell his story and go. The Atlanta Police Department and emergency response teams would take care of everything.
When the first policeman stepped from the car, the subdued silence on the bus gave way to controlled chaos. In a blur of movement, paramedics whisked the heart attack victim away, the bus was emptied and roped off and a staging area was set up farther down the blocked-off section of street.
Cole sat on the curb and mulled over his statement as emergency personnel began weaving through the crowd, treating injuries and checking those with medical conditions. He played the scene in his head, his pen flying over the paper as he jotted down what had happened, filling in as many details as he could remember.
Two men with black ski masks—he hadn’t noticed their faces before the masks went on. Probably should have, because one had been seated right behind him. He should have known, somehow. Should have been able to—
Clenching the pencil tighter, he continued to write. The gun. The boots. Their clothes. The black van. James’s heart attack. The search for a phone…
And that was it. Cole sketched the boots and the little he had seen of the men’s faces, then turned and stared at the bus. All he’d wanted to do was get a little air and some lunch, kill some time while his cousin was at work. Try to find a little peace between jobs.
He’d found a nightmare instead.
Thump-thump.
The sounds faded in and out around Kenzie as she regained consciousness: The hum of an engine. The slow-speed, lower-pitched men’s voices. The sharp pounding of her heart and the rasping of her own breath.
Thump-thump.
Her head throbbed. She tried to lift a hand to feel for a bruise or gash but couldn’t. Something cut into her wrists, binding them behind her back, her fingertips brushing the wall of the vehicle. Her ankles were bound, as well. She tried to force open her eyes, but the blackness stayed.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The walls closed in on her as time stood still in the cloying darkness, dragging her down.
She swallowed hard and shook her head. Not now. Not here. If she didn’t want to end up dead, she had to get a grip.
Deep breath. And again.
The walls backed away slightly. Were they going to let her go, like they promised? Or just kill her once they made good on their getaway? She needed to know. But more than that, she needed to be able to see.
Now.
The need for light grew as Kenzie pulled her legs in close and pressed her face against her knee. She rubbed hard, frantically trying to dislodge the blindfold. It stayed, the material cutting into her head, making the ache worse. Pressing her mouth against her knee, Kenzie muffled a whimper.
Then screamed as a hand touched the back of her neck.
THREE
Someone could be dying right now. And here he stood, watching as a crew removed the crime-scene tape from the bus, waiting to be interviewed by a detective as the group anxiously reclaimed their belongings now that they’d been released.
Cole slowly—guiltily—collected his things. His wallet. The novel.
His chest tightened again.
A stylish black purse, the one that the pretty brunette had hugged to herself, remained on the table. Would she ever get it back?
Turning away, he found a spot on the curb again. He needed to call his cousin. See if John could pick him up after his turn with the detective.
Why? So he could go back to his vacation like normal? To act as if he hadn’t just watched an innocent woman be marched away, probably to her death…and done nothing about it?
He kept seeing the first paragraph from the Warren Flint book. The words would scroll across his brain, followed by the corresponding actions. The gray seats. The curve in the road. Every second, from watching Monique’s twin sit in the front to when the gunmen had hauled her away.
And especially the moment cold metal had touched his temple.
It could have been him…but it wasn’t.
When his turn in the hot seat was finished, Cole rose from the metal folding chair and shook hands with the detective. With his interview over, he could go, but…
He should mention the book—just get it out there and let the cops go ahead and discard the notion that it was more than a coincidence. Because then he could, too.
Cole hesitated, then said, “What’s the best way to stay up-to-date on the situation?”
Coward. Like they were going to give him inside information.
Detective Parker tipped his bald head and studied Cole through narrowed eyes. “Do you know the hostage?”
“No, sir. I just want to know that she’s all right. Makes me feel guilty, you know?” Cole’s grip tightened on his belongings.
Detective Parker nodded, his eyes clearing. “I understand, son. But you’ll just have to check the news like everyone else.”
“Right. Thank you, sir.”
As he walked away, the book felt heavy, as if it had taken on his burden of guilt. He sat near the street and balanced the novel on his knee while he waited for his ride. Skimming the pages, he found where he’d left off…where Monique had been taken off the bus. A gun to her head. Shoved in a van. Tied up, blindfolded and whisked away.
He was almost afraid to read the words, almost afraid he’d somehow caused them—as if his imagination typed out each paragraph onto a blank page just before his eyes could catch up. And as if everything on the page was coming to pass.
Right.
It was ridiculous. Crazy. But…what if, by some one-in-a-million chance, the gunmen were using the novel as a playbook for their crime spree?
Then, if he read more and found out what happened to the heroine…there was a one-in-a-million chance he could help save a life.
Monique flexed one hand, then the other. No give in the restraints, but she tried again anyway. She should be wearing the diamond bracelet Evan had given her, not the rope chafing her wrists. Looking through a wispy veil, not sporting a rag blindfold.
She rested her forehead on her knees, just for a moment. Then a sharp turn landed her on her side on the floor of the van. Refusing to cry out, she bit her lip and tasted blood.
“This is your stop, sweetheart.” The voice hovered too close above her head and was followed by a sharp jab to her left ankle, then a million needles as blood rushed to her feet. They’d cut the ropes. She should lash out—
A rough hand grabbed her arm, hauled her up. The door opened with a low rumble, and Monique lurched to the ground. Her foot turned on the uneven pavement, and she went down hard. The tears came then, but she forced them back before her captor jerked her upright.
She should be slipping into her borrowed Vera Wang dress, not putting holes in the knees of her designer jeans. She should be kissing Evan, not spitting out dirt and pebbles.
They moved forward, and the way grew more rough. Monique counted each step, tried to remember any turns in the path. Fifteen steps straight ahead. Ten tothe left. Three more, and she heard a metallic pop. The sound of a car trunk opening.
She should be riding in a car with tin cans rattling behind it. Not squashed into a trunk like leftover wedding balloons.
The hand let go of her arm.
She ran.
Well…at least Monique got away. Maybe this hostage had, too, and was holed up somewhere hiding out until she felt safe enough to come home.
Yeah, he could keep telling himself that.
Skimming the page, Cole found his place. Monique fell, the bad guy caught her and slammed something against her head. She heard the sound of the trunk lid closing just before she blacked out.
He could have gone without reading that.
Kenzie huddled in the empty van, the stillness more frightening than being helpless through wild curves and sudden stops. Once again, she scraped her face against her knee, trying to work the blindfold up. It shifted, but not enough.
Why did they go away? Did she dare hope they’d left her for the police to find? Or…did they have something else in mind? Some further torment or darker ending.
Please, no. Kenzie leaned to the side until she touched the floor. Dirt clung to her skin, but it didn’t matter. She curled into a tight ball, trying to block out this world, imagine one of light and fluffy clouds and frothy waves. But instead of ocean breezes, the air stood still, growing hotter in the closed vehicle. Sweat trickled down her face, flattening her hair and stinging her eyes.
Maybe this was part of the plan. Leave her in the dark to lose her mind, or to succumb to the heat and the pounding pain in her head.
