Shavik sat in the basement, listening to Angel breathing.
Deep, heavy breaths that told him she was completely unconscious. Her makeup was a mess, her head slumped to one side. He gripped her chin, lifted her face. Her eyes were closed, a purple bruise on her cheek where Arkov struck her. “Can you hear me, Angel?”
Nothing.
He shook her face, patted her cheeks. No reaction.
Two hours lost because of the overdose of scopolamine and still no response. He looked over angrily at the discarded syringe, just as the door burst open and Arkov returned, looking pleased with himself. He held a small glass bottle in his hand. “Got it.”
“You’re sure it’ll work?” Shavik asked.
“It depends how bad she is, but it’s worth a try.”
Arkov unscrewed the cap. A strong smell of ammonia salts wafted on the air. He held the open bottle under Angel’s nose. Her reaction was instant.
Her head jerked back, then snapped forward, and she dry-retched, trying to throw up on an empty stomach, but nothing came, only dribbles of mucus and saliva.
When she finished retching, she groaned, blinked, looked up at them, her pupils trying to focus.
Arkov grinned, and screwed the top back on the bottle. “Looks like it’s zombie time.”
• • •
Ronnie walked through the lines of polished rental cars in the Hertz lot opposite the arrivals building at Tyson Airport.
He came to a woman in a kiosk. Her name tag said Peggy.
He tipped his hat, smiled. “Ma’am.”
“May I help you, sir?”
“My wife returned a rental this afternoon. White Toyota Camry. She may have left her purse in the car and wanted me to check.”
“Your wife’s name, sir?”
“Carla Lane.”
“One moment, please.” Peggy tapped her keyboard, frowned. “You’re sure she returned the vehicle to Hertz?”
“Why?”
“I’ve no record of anyone named Lane returning a rental, sir.”
“You sure about that?”
“Absolutely. It’s been a quiet day. No white Toyota Camry, either.”
“Seems like my wife’s been lying to me, Peggy.”
• • •
He heard the angry roar of a jet taking off as he walked back to the airport parking lot.
Ronnie took off his hat, tossed it onto the passenger seat, and slid into the pickup. He sighed, ran a hand through his hair.
He didn’t touch the GPS on the dash. New Jersey was a long drive, at least twelve hours. He’d never make up enough time to catch up with her.
He took out his cell and tried calling her number again.
Her voice mail kicked in once more.
This time he didn’t bother leaving a message.
He tossed his cell aside and flicked open the glove compartment.
Inside was the envelope with the copy photographs of Shavik’s house in Cape May, and he spread out the images on the passenger seat. He studied them, tapping the steering wheel with his fingers, his mind ravaged.
At the back of the glove compartment was a holstered Glock 26 with a spare clip that he kept for his own personal protection. He took out the handgun, stared at it, and again felt racked by indecision.
And again he asked himself the same question.
Could he break his pledge to Josh?
The same pledge he gave to Regan just hours ago.
And most of all, the promise he made to himself.
On the battlefield and in life he’d seen people behave just like Carla.
Driven by a powerful need to retaliate for the death of a comrade or a loved one, they couldn’t see past the red fog.
All that mattered was revenge.
With Carla, it went even deeper once you factored in her brother.
Big question.
How could he protect her? As much from Shavik and his kind as from herself.
As Ronnie sat there, he was conscious of time slipping away. Drops of sweat dripped from his brow onto the back on his hand. He wiped them away with his sleeve, touching his temples, feeling his heartbeat pulsing there.
No matter what, he couldn’t break his promise.
He just couldn’t, not for the life of him.
Finally, he replaced the Glock in the glove compartment.
He heard the harsh roar of another jet take off.
The big question came back.
How to save Carla from herself?
There was really only one way he could do it.