Terminated

Chapter 22

A public access computer terminal in the airport’s private lounge turned up a Kiera Johannsen’s blog. She had about fifty followers, and she generally talked about dense science that Bryn didn’t even attempt to follow. The photo on the blog showed a fortysomething woman with close-cropped red hair and a ready smile; she had the tan of someone who enjoyed the outdoors, and a hiker’s lean build. Not pretty, but she had an attractive strength in her face. Compelling, Bryn thought.

She didn’t look like someone who’d give up without a fight.

Kiera Johannsen’s research station was more of a cabin, and global positioning showed it was pretty much out on the fringes of everything . . . which was evidently where she liked to live. Getting out there was going to be a challenge; roads weren’t a priority out that far, though there must have been some kind of rudimentary trail leading up to the research station. Johannsen did come into town from time to time, according to the blog; she had an addiction to mint chocolate chip ice cream, and the store in town ordered it special for her by the gallon. Couldn’t be lucky enough to be a day the woman made an ice-cream run, though—and sure enough, when Bryn dropped into the small shop, asking casually after Kiera yielded a fountain of mostly useless info about the woman’s habits and schedules. Mostly useless because she’d been in four days before to pick up her monthly order, and wasn’t due back for a while. The clerk did point out the best way to get to the research station, though, and marked it on the map.

Back at the airport, Bryn showed it to the others, and Joe and Patrick and Riley all geared up to accompany her. “I don’t think we need SEAL Team Six,” she protested. “C’mon, she’s a scientist. Manny could take her.”

“Probably,” Manny agreed. He was working another crossword—and, she realized, that was probably to deal with general anxiety. This was hard for him, being on the move without any good way to seek solid cover. Even the plane probably gave him bad feelings of exposure. But he was hanging in there, and playing it as cool as she’d ever seen him, except in the middle of a crisis. Pansy was being a helicopter girlfriend, though—hovering. Obviously worried about him, and just as obviously hoping nobody would notice.

Manny looked up over his glasses, straight at Bryn, and said, “Take the firepower, you idiot. We’re not playing for pickup sticks. You know what’s at stake.”

She did, and she bowed her head to acknowledge it. “I rented a truck,” she said. “It should get us out there and back in about two hours, maybe less. Keep the pilot close, we might have to leave fast.”

“We’ll be ready,” Liam promised. He, she noticed, was conspicuously armed with what looked like a nine millimeter pistol tucked snugly in a shoulder harness. It gave him a dangerously piratical edge. Annie, on the other hand, was looking stormy; she was sitting on the edge of her seat, elbows on the table, and frowning. Liam, not too subtly, had his hand on her shoulder, pinning her in place. He smiled and said, “Don’t worry, we won’t eat all the snacks before you return.”

“There were snacks? Damn,” Bryn sighed, and she was only half kidding. “Okay, let’s roll if we’re rolling.”

The SUV was a monster of a thing, not too late-model but it had the look of a truck well suited to its surroundings. If vehicles could evolve, this one definitely had, and as she set out from the airport down a partly muddy, partly snow-clogged road, it seemed to handle the terrain easily, if not comfortably. That was probably the springs in the seats, which had long ago given up the fight.

Patrick was hanging on to the strap, which was probably wise, considering the bouncing, and simultaneously studying the map she’d marked, though how he could do it and not be motion-sick she couldn’t imagine. The town of Barrow fell away within minutes, and the Alaskan tundra stretched on in a blotched, mostly white expanse. “Glad it isn’t winter,” he said. “The snow would be impassible without plowing paths.”

On Bryn’s left was the distant curve of the bay, and beyond that, straight north, would be . . . well, she supposed, a pole. Strange to think that this shore here was, in a way, what people liked to mark as the end of civilization . . . at least until you crossed the pole and came down on the other side. She’d put on her sunglasses, so the sun’s glitter on the snow wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but within just a few miles she understood why it would blind people. The constant, unyielding glitter . . . beautiful, but deadly.

“Slow down,” Patrick finally said, and released the safety strap to point to the left. “Should be some kind of trail that way—yeah, right there. Turn.”

If he hadn’t directed her, she would have missed it, because it was less a road than a vague depression in the landscape. Snow had covered it for about a foot, and buried all traces it existed . . . except for a snow-covered mailbox burdened by another layer of white. Beneath, it was painted a shocking Day-Glo yellow, probably because it would have otherwise been regularly missed.

Bryn slowed, and without being asked, Joe bailed out of the back, jogged over, and checked the mailbox. Empty. He got back in the SUV, and Bryn followed the barely visible curves of the trail up a hill . . . and at the top, she spotted a snowy roof.

She stopped. Joe and Riley exited to check the perimeter, and to keep watch; she and Patrick then drove the rest of the way up. The chill was penetrating through the windows, and she hadn’t really noticed until now. “Is it getting colder out there?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “Getting on toward sundown in the next couple of hours, and we need to be back in Barrow before it’s dark or we’ll have hell finding our way. This isn’t country for tourists.”

No kidding. She couldn’t imagine how dark it would be out here, and how forbidding. Getting stuck or stranded could be a death sentence.

“Got an approach planned?” he asked her. Bryn shook her head and brought the SUV to a stop in the dirty packed snow of the cabin’s front yard, such as it was.

“I don’t think planning’s going to help,” she said. “I have no idea what to expect from her, so I’m going to play it by ear. And be as honest as I can. I—I think she deserves that. She’s not part of this.”

He nodded, whether or not he agreed with her, and it moved her to lean over and give him a very quick, but very warm, kiss. He smiled. “Be careful,” he said. “I’ll be out here.”

“My last line of defense?”

“Something like that,” he said. “Or you’re mine, which is probably closer to the truth. I just have to love the powerful women.”

“Flirt.”

“Guilty.”

She moved quickly up to the cabin’s front door; the glow of lights in the windows guaranteed, she thought, that someone was home—and probably watching, because having a strange vehicle drop by in this remote expanse was likely worth noting.

The door opened on her knock, and she was facing the business end of a double-barreled shotgun, held very competently by a woman who’d probably grown up with it. The smile was gone, but the face was the same as the picture on the blog. Kiera Johannsen, in the flesh.

“Don’t mean to be rude,” Johannsen said, “but who the fuck are you, and why are you on my porch?”

Bryn slowly raised her hands. Her skin felt very exposed to the wind whipping across the snow, and she shivered as it found ways inside the neck of her sweater, under the parka she’d worn open. “Bryn Davis,” she said. “You don’t know me.”

“Damn right I don’t.”

“Calvin Thorpe sent me.”

That made the woman blink and take a step back. The shotgun, though, didn’t come down. “Why would Cal send you? Where is he?”

“He’s dead,” Bryn said. “I’m sorry. He was killed in an explosion in California.”

“Oh,” she said blankly, as if she hadn’t understood. And maybe she hadn’t. “Oh.” The second time had weight to it, and emotion. She sagged a little, as if she’d received a jab to the ribs and couldn’t quite get her breath. But she didn’t look surprised. “You came all the way here to tell me that?”

“No,” Bryn said. “I came because Dr. Thorpe said I could trust you. He left something with you to hold, and I need it. It’s important.”

It was the wrong thing to say, because the woman’s light blue eyes seemed to catch fire, and her face tightened. So did her aim. “I don’t know you. You show up out of nowhere and tell me to hand something over? Why would I do that? How do I even know that Cal is really dead?”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry. I wish I had time to tell you everything, and explain all that happened, but . . . there just isn’t a way I can do it. I was with him when it happened. He wanted me to do this, and I intend to do it, because it’ll save lives. That’s what he wanted to do, in the end. Save lives.”

For a few seconds nothing changed, and then Johannsen shook her head, as if shaking off a bothersome fly. It wasn’t the no that Bryn was expecting, though. “That sounds like him,” she said. “He believed . . . he believed science could save everything. Everyone. I told him he was a dreamer, you know. But he said he’d proved me wrong. He said—you know, he got drunk once and said one day, he’d cure death.” She shook her head again. “He was a fool sometimes. Science can repair, but it can destroy just as fast. I kept trying to make him understand that.”

Bryn said nothing. After another few heartbeats, the woman backed up and lowered the shotgun. “All right,” she said. “Come in. But I warn you, make a wrong move, and I’ll blow you into polar bear bait.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bryn said. “You need a lot of that? Polar bear bait?”

“You’d be surprised,” Johannsen said. “Sit down. No, I’m not making you tea; I’m not stupid. But if you’re sitting with hands flat on the table, you’re not likely to make me shoot you.”

Bryn moved to the small square breakfast table and sat in one of the two wooden chairs—handmade, felt like, and not entirely steady. One leg was a bit too short, and it clunked as she settled her weight. She put both hands flat on the table’s surface, and waited.

She didn’t have to wait long before Johannsen said, “Tell me what happened to Cal.”

“You know he went on the run?” Bryn got a quick nod. “He was hiding out. We tracked him down because we needed his help.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re trying to stop the same things from happening that he was afraid of,” Bryn said. “And they are happening. He agreed to help us get our hands on a sample of a drug that could change everything, but he was betrayed by his brother-in-law.”

That, finally, was the right thing to say, because a spasm of dislike went across Johannsen’s face. “Not hard to believe,” she said. “And?”

“And his dead drop was compromised. It was a trap. We were both caught in it, but he—he sacrificed himself to save me. Before he did, he said to find you. He said you have the other sample.”

“I don’t—” She went perfectly still for a moment, and then continued. “I don’t have anything from him.”

“You do,” Bryn said, with perfect confidence. “Please. I promise you, it’s very important. And it will make a difference. Cal changed his mind about what he was doing, what he believed was right. He would have wanted you to know it.”

For just a moment, those sharp blue eyes seemed a little less suspicious. Just for a moment. But Johannsen came right back on point. “You found me just fine,” she said. “Should I be worried?”

“Probably,” Bryn said. “You weren’t trying to hide. And that’s fine, except that the people who killed Calvin, who killed his family . . . They won’t stop. They’ll never stop until someone stops them. Do you understand? They’ll kill you because you knew him, and you might be a loose end. I don’t want that. If you give me what he left with you, we can help you get to Barrow. From there, you should get somewhere else. Don’t tell me where, just . . . go. And don’t come back.”

“My work—”

“Your work won’t matter when you’re dead and this whole cabin burns to the ground. They’ll probably make it look like an accident. Or maybe they’ll leave the cabin, and fake a bear attack. Nobody would question it, would they?”

“Not around here,” she said. “We don’t have much of a CSI team.” Johannsen crossed to the windows and looked out. “You have friends with you?”

“Three,” Bryn said. “Two out by the mailbox, watching for any incoming traffic. One by the SUV. They’re here for your protection as much as mine.”

That woke a bleak, but real, smile on the other woman’s face. “Bet that wouldn’t be true if I blew a big ol’ hole in your chest,” she said. “You could have come in here guns blazing and just taken it, you know.”

“I know,” Bryn said. She kept her hands on the table. “I could do that right now, if I wanted.”

It was a warning, but a gentle one, and she saw the recognition of it in Johannsen’s face. For a long heartbeat, the woman thought about it, and then sighed and crossed the small room to open the front door. She leaned out and said, “You, by the car. It’s cold out here. Come inside. I’m getting what you want.”

Patrick came in with all due caution, sidearm ready, and immediately saw Bryn sitting at the table. She nodded to him, and he relaxed. But he didn’t put the sidearm away, either. “Ma’am,” he said to Johannsen, as she shut the door behind him. “Starting to get a little worried.”

“I needed to make sure. Sit down, please. Hands flat on the table, just like your friend. I’ll get what you want.”

The shotgun was at port arms, not an active threat, but Bryn could see him debating the move. He finally said, “No, ma’am, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll go with you. Just in case of unfriendlies.”

“Well, come on then, let’s get this over with,” she said, and led the way into the back room. Bryn rose and followed after Patrick.

Inside was an entirely different environment from the rustic little cabin’s main living area; it hummed with computers and equipment Bryn couldn’t immediately identify. Huge refrigerators took up most of the space—they were all labeled, but the designations didn’t mean anything to Bryn. Ice cores, she supposed. Climatologists collected a lot of those, didn’t they?

Johannsen passed those by and went to a smaller stand-alone fridge, one that in another household would have held beer, most likely, maybe in a game room. This one held small vials and samples, neatly racked.

From two-thirds of the way back, on the second shelf, she picked out a single vial that looked just like the others. It had a handwritten label on it that read CT INACTIVE SAMPLE DND.

“Do not destroy—that’s what he told me,” she explained, and handed the cool bottle over to Bryn. “That’s all he gave me. I don’t know anything about it; I just kept it for him. Is it—is it dangerous?”

“No,” Bryn said. “It’s the exact opposite of dangerous. It’s a cure we need, very badly. Thank you.”

Johannsen nodded. She still didn’t seem certain, but she also seemed resigned, which was good. “You said others will come looking. What is this, some kind of—of big pharma espionage thing? How worried should I be?”

“How worried was Dr. Thorpe?” Patrick asked her. She met his eyes, and frowned. “You know the answer to that, and the fact is, he wasn’t worried enough. So judge by that. I’m sure Bryn already warned you others will be coming, and trust me, they won’t be so nice or so talkative as we are. You need to get the hell out of here, and don’t come back. Travel on cash only. Hell, take a freighter to Russia—that’s pretty safe, and it’s a shorter trip from here. But, Doctor—don’t come back. If you do, we won’t be able to protect you.” He glanced over at Bryn. “Is that everything you need?”

“I think so,” she said, and carefully wrapped the vial in a small square of bubble wrap she’d brought for that purpose, then folded it up and zipped it into an inner pocket of her parka. “Ready to go.”

“Doctor,” Patrick nodded, and backed toward the door. He still didn’t have his gun raised, but he was watching hers with unnerving intensity. He covered Bryn as she left first, then stepped out the door and jerked his head to let her know she should precede him to the outer exit, which she did.

Johannsen followed, shotgun still comfortably cradled in the crook of her right arm but threatening only the floor.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Bryn said. “Please get out of here. I really don’t want anything to happen to you. Dr. Thorpe wouldn’t have, either.”

The woman inclined her head, just a tiny bit, and that was all the reassurance that Bryn thought she’d get. Then she and Patrick were heading with all due speed to the SUV, starting it up, and driving down the bumpy trail toward the mailbox.

Patrick keyed the small radio that he’d clipped to the collar of his parka. “Joe, you ready? On our way out.”

“Bring coffee, it’s freaking freezing out here,” Joe said. “If I had to take a piss it’d probably be ice halfway down . . .” He paused, and his voice changed. Utterly. It went flat and cold and nothing like Joe at all. “Pat, we’re boned. Get—” He cut off. Dead air.

“Joe?” Patrick clicked the radio again, twice, and got nothing in response. “Goddammit. Floor it.”

She did, at least as much as she could, given the crappy road conditions; the SUV’s treads were packed with hard snow, and as the temperature dropped, the little thawing from the sun was freezing into slick ice. She hit a patch, and the vehicle slid to the right with a lurch, just as they rounded the curve and she spotted the Day-Glo yellow mailbox up ahead.

Joe was on his knees in the middle of the road, blocking their path, with Riley right behind him. Bryn hit the brakes, and cried out as the SUV kept sliding toward them. The front tires hit a patch of raw snow, bit, and held, throwing both her and Patrick forward into their safety belts, and as Bryn took a deep breath of relief she realized that something was very, very wrong with Joe and Riley.

Joe was on his knees, hands at his sides. Riley was standing behind him, her eyes fixed on the cab of the SUV.

And she had her gun pointed right at Joe’s head.

Patrick threw open his door and stepped out on the running board, drawing dead aim on her. She wasn’t afraid of that, of course. She even smiled, just a little.

“Even if you get the sweet spot, I’ll still pull the trigger,” she told him. “Nobody has to die here, Pat. Toss the weapon and step away from the vehicle. Bryn, shut off the engine. Now.”

She didn’t have much choice. Going forward meant hitting Joe first. Bryn jammed the SUV in park and turned off the engine.

Patrick, after a long, torturous moment, held up both hands and tossed his sidearm into the snow ten feet away—equidistant between him and Riley. Then he jumped off the running board, shut the truck door, and knelt, hands laced behind his head.

“Bryn,” Riley said. “Same thing. Toss the weapon, get out and on your knees.”

“Sorry,” Joe said. His voice was clipped and tight with fury. “Never saw it coming. Should have, I guess. But you get so used to your pets you forget they can bite.”

“I said I was sorry,” Riley said. She sounded calm and amused. “Bryn. Count of five, I’m blowing his head off, and then I shoot Patrick. If it comes down to the two of us, I’ll probably still win. You know that, and you still lose these two. I don’t want that, and neither do you.”

Red fury rose up inside her, a hot spiral that made her hands tingle with the need to rip into Riley’s flesh. She wondered if it showed in her face; it must have, because Riley tensed and took hold of Joe’s collar in a tight grip.

“Don’t,” she said. “Out. Do it.”

Bryn popped the door, tossed her gun, and knelt down, hands behind her head. “You’re working for Jane.”

“Never,” Riley said. “I told you, I work for the government. I always have, and I always will. This doesn’t have to go badly. Just give me the formula, and I’ll let you all go. You’ll have to hole up with Johannsen at her cabin, but you won’t freeze to death, at least. I’m sure she’s got transportation to get you back to the plane once it thaws in the morning.”

“Salving your conscience?” Patrick asked. “You know we need the formula to stop Jane. And we still don’t know if the sample Manny has is any good.”

“That’s right, and this might be the last viable sample, so no offense to your personal vendetta against Jane, but your government needs it more. I’m sorry, but my mission diverged from yours. We’ll take on the Fountain Group. You know we’re better equipped to finish this.”

“I know the government’s half owned by these assholes,” Joe said. “You know that, too, Riley. Jesus Christ, you were there. There was a whole helicopter regiment ready to blow our balls off in the middle of the Heartland. What makes you think the people you hand that over to will do the right thing?”

“He’s right,” Bryn said. “Riley, think. Your orders could just be the Fountain Group taking the easy way out, and getting you to do their dirty work for them.”

“We’re boned anyway,” Joe said. “She’s been making reports, which means somebody along that chain of command will have leaked it. We’re just lucky they haven’t killed us yet—”

“Shut up!” Riley said sharply, and yanked on his collar. “Joe, you know I like you, but you’re talking bullshit. Nobody is going to sell us out. I work for the FBI, not some banana republic Bureau of Corruption. . . .”

Bryn could have sworn that she heard something, but it probably wasn’t the drone itself; those were eerily quiet. It was probably the missile it released, hissing toward its target. It was a split second of knowing, with a sinking feeling of horror, that something wasn’t right, and then Dr. Johannsen’s quiet, remote cabin exploded in a fireball that lit the snow with hot orange an instant before the concussion wave slammed into her, knocking her forward, and blew the SUV into a sideways skid. She’d fallen with her face toward it, and so she saw the windshield and windows explode like jagged safety glass confetti as it slid . . .

. . . toward Joe and Riley, who’d both been knocked over as well.

Riley had just enough time to wrap arms and legs around Joe and roll him out of the path before the heavy weight of the left front tire tore through where they’d been.

Bryn lunged for the gun she’d thrown away; she saw that Patrick was doing the same, fifteen feet away on the other side of the trail. They both came up armed at almost the same second. Riley was pinned under Joe’s weight, and somehow, he’d come up with a backup weapon—a knife, which he was pressing right over her carotid artery.

Johannsen’s cabin was a holocaust of flames and billowing black smoke. Bryn could feel the unnatural heat on her back, even at this distance.

“You were saying?” Joe asked Riley. It was almost his usual, good-natured voice, but the muscles in his jaw were tight, and his eyes were narrow and cold. “About how you don’t work for the Federal Bureau of Corruption? I’m sorry, I might have lost the last of that in the giant fucking explosion that just killed an innocent woman.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t move, except to shake her head. More denial, Bryn thought, than response. Her world had just been rocked . . . or shattered.

“Come on,” Patrick said, and tapped Joe’s shoulder. “We have to get the hell out of here. If they’ve got a drone, they’ll be coming back around for another pass.”

“Not much use in trying to outrun it,” Joe said, but he eased his weight off of Riley and yanked her up to her feet. While he held her, Patrick gave her a quick, competent pat down for weapons, then shoved her to the SUV. Joe took the backseat next to her, with his own recovered sidearm pointed at her for security. Bryn took the driver’s seat, brushing the broken glass away, and started up the engine. It took a few tries, but it finally caught just as Patrick slammed his door closed and clicked his seat belt in place.

“Any suggestions on how to do this?” she asked him.

“Considering we’re on flat, empty snow plains? Not a fucking clue,” he said. “Small-arms fire won’t help us, either. Just . . . drive. At least we’ll make them work for the privilege.”

It wasn’t a great plan, but Bryn had to agree, it was all they really had. And, some thought, if the drone dropped another missile on them, at least they’d never know it. Even upgrades like her and Riley would be incinerated in a blast of that magnitude. The skies had been clear before, but over the past hour they’d darkened as weather moved in; the low, gray clouds made it impossible to spot any approaching threats. The ruins of the Johannsen cabin smoldered behind them, still burning and sending sullen belches of smoke to the skies, but it fell behind quickly as she edged more speed out of the SUV on the slick, uneven road. Her neck began to hurt from the strain of driving, craning to look at the skies, and the bone-shaking bounce of the SUV on the rutted track.

She realized, about the same time as Joe and Patrick did, that they were worrying about a threat from the sky when they should have been looking out for one at ground level. As the SUV slithered over the top of a rise, and she caught a view of the town of Barrow in the distance, she also saw a glittering row of vehicles spread out in a semicircle below. Heavy SUVs, like the one she was driving. And in front of the SUVs were men, a lot of them, all armed with what looked like military assault rifles.

“Have I said we’re boned already?” Joe asked.

“Twice,” Patrick said. “Still true, though. Riley?”

“I wasn’t told there would be backup,” she said. “It was supposed to be simple. Get the formula, leave you at the cabin, and get back to Barrow.”

“I’m going to hazard a wild guess and say they intended all of the rest of us to go up with Dr. Johannsen,” Bryn said. “Then you’d run into this welcome party. They’d kill you, take the formula, and be out of here within the hour. Nice and clean.”

“Not government,” Joe said. “The drone was a time-share, probably, but these guys? No way they’re military.”

“No,” Patrick agreed flatly.

Bryn stopped the SUV. There was nowhere to go, really—heading out over the tundra wasn’t much of an option. There would likely be dips and ruts that would bury the truck fast, or break an axle . . . and a drone still circled overhead, most likely.

“They’re hers,” Patrick said. He sounded . . . empty, Bryn thought. Drained of emotion. She understood that; too many shocks, too little adrenaline left. Her body simply couldn’t be bothered to power up anymore.

Until she saw Jane.

Patrick’s ex was standing on the running board of one of the SUVs. Her parka’s hood was thrown back, and even at this distance, Bryn recognized her easily. It was something in her body language, really—a kind of infuriating confidence that made Bryn want to kick her ass, personally, never mind all the firepower.

“Well, shit,” Joe said. “Riley? You want to tell us again about the pure, holy intentions of the federal government? I’m all fucking ears.”

The men with rifles were closing them into a killbox. Even if the SUV had been hardened with bulletproof glass and reinforced steel, this would have been dark days, but it was a commercial model, and the blast back at the cabin had done for the glass, anyway. Freezing winds whipped blown snow through the openings and lashed at Bryn’s face. She couldn’t feel her ears, or her fingers. Frostbite could take hold fast, up here.

So could death.

“Options?” Joe asked.

“Don’t see much,” Patrick said, “unless you’ve got the cavalry on standby.”

“Forgot to ship in the horses. My bad. Guess we’re—”

“Giving up?” Patrick asked, and grinned. It was a manic, slightly insane expression, and Bryn’s guts twisted with sudden worry. “You really think I’m giving up to that bitch? I’d rather die in a hail of bullets, wouldn’t you?”

“Some of us don’t have that option,” Riley said quietly. “I’m sorry. This is—”

“Your fault? Yeah. It is. Fuck your apology,” Joe said. “Okay. Plans?”

“Kill ’em,” Patrick said. “What else?”

He grabbed Bryn suddenly, pulled her over, and kissed her. It was a frantic, hot, desperate kind of thing, and she knew, horribly, that it was good-bye.

That they would not walk away from this.

Then Patrick twisted away from her, raised his sidearm, and began calmly, precisely shooting the men who were advancing on the car. Bryn grabbed her own sidearm and fired through her window, counting as men fell. Her hands were shaking, from the cold and the fear, and she was dropping one only every two bullets. In the seat behind her, Joe must have armed Riley, because she, too, was shooting.

Jane’s people weren’t shooting back.

Fuck, she thought, in a cold moment of clarity. They want us alive. They were going to get the cure. One way or another, they’d get it . . . unless she hid it, fast.

She stopped shooting, unzipped her parka’s inner pocket, and unrolled the small glass vial. It wasn’t very big, but it was big enough to scare her.

No choice.

She put the vial in her mouth, shoved it back with her tongue, and forced herself to swallow.

The vial filled her throat, an unyielding, burning obstruction, and she panicked, thrashing. Swallow, you stupid bitch, swallow! She kept trying, and finally, on the fourth convulsive gulp, the glassy weight slid down.

She felt it hit her stomach, and almost vomited it up. Almost.

Jane gave a shouted order, and Patrick yelled, “Incoming!” and grabbed Bryn to yank her down under the cover of the dash—but it wasn’t full grenades, it was flash-bangs that left her weak, blinded, and dizzy. She choked on what must have been tear gas, delivered along with the flash-bangs, and retched up bile and drool as it burned in her lungs.

Her instincts were to get out, fast, and she managed to claw her way free of the truck, somehow, and rolled into the cold snow. It burned on her face, but it felt good, too. So did the relatively clear air.

The stunning effects of the flash-bangs faded, but not before she felt the bite of handcuffs on her wrists, and zip-ties binding her booted ankles. She twisted and writhed, trying to break free, and as she rolled over on her back, she looked up to see Jane’s smiling, hated face.

Jane wiped snot and drool from her mouth and nose with a gloved hand and said, “Oh, Bryn. We are going to have such fun again, you and I. After I finish saying hello to my husband.”

Bryn’s voice came out ragged and rough. “Ex,” she panted, and coughed from deep in her chest. “You fucking psychopath.”

“It’s good to get these feelings out. Feel free to cry if you need to. This is the end, Bryn. I win. We win. From now on, everything changes.” Jane gave her a calm, crazy, saintly sort of smile, and moved on to the others. Sharing her gloating in equal measures.

Please, Bryn thought. Her stomach churned, and her brain was flashing feedback, images of the last time Jane had held her prisoner. She didn’t need that. She needed to think. Liam and Annie, they were with Manny and Pansy. Still free. Manny’s paranoia would have triggered by now, and they’d be heading for safety. He had the cure. It wasn’t over.

It couldn’t be over.

But, as Bryn was picked up and carried like a still-struggling corpse to Jane’s truck, she had to admit that it felt that way.

The glass vial she’d swallowed sat heavy in her stomach. It was sealed, but the stomach acids could eat through the stopper. . . . And if they did, what then? If Thorpe was right, she’d just . . . die. Shut down.

It might not even hurt.

The guard with her was a square-jawed Hispanic man with a shaved head. He seemed too young to be doing this, but his eyes were ancient, and utterly cold as he shoved her into place in the back. She struggled, vainly. He ignored her until he’d filled a syringe from a bottle, and plunged the needle home. She felt warmth and chemical bliss spreading rapidly through her body, and tried to fight it.

Lost.

She felt cozy and calm by the time Joe was loaded in next to her, equally drugged. Then Patrick. Riley was last, dumped across their laps in a mumbling daze.

And then Bryn faded off into a sunset distance that wasn’t quite unconsciousness.

She never even felt the SUV drive away.