And he'd said he was a man of his word.
What time was it now? Panic surged through her, but she forced herself to take things one step at a time. First, a way to warn her family.
She stared down at the man she'd killed. Grunting with pain, the rake wavering as she balanced it against the concrete floor, she awkwardly searched his pockets with one hand. Contaminating the crime scene. She knew better.
As an FBI supervisory special agent, she'd be called upon to describe and defend each blow of the encounter. It wasn't often an FBI agent was forced to kill a man in close-quarters combat. The brass, the lawyers, the shrinks-they would all be dissecting every second, every decision she made, every step she took today. God, the press-they'd have a field day.
"You sonofabitch," she muttered, long past caring that there was no one alive to hear her. Once again her voice surprised her, emerging as a thin whisper, barely audible even here in the still and quiet barn. It hurt to speak, but no more than any of her other injuries. "Give me something. Car keys, a phone-"
Nothing.
She cursed and straightened, her bad foot throbbing. Red flashes strobed into her vision with each heartbeat. He had to have a phone.
His vehicle. He must have left it in his vehicle.
The cavernous barn was filled with large equipment: the combine, a smaller tractor, various blades and attachments. The door at the opposite end seemed miles away, but she had no choice. There was no phone here inside, nothing to help her reach her family.
As she limped toward the door, shivering at even the thought of returning outside to the cold, anxiety pounded through her, driving her despite the pain. Had he kept his word? Sent his men after Nick? Or had he betrayed her and sent them after Megan? Maybe her mother?
No way of knowing.
She was damned if he had, damned if he hadn't. At least, either way, he was still dead.
She didn't even know his name. A weak rumble of laughter shook her. She clutched the rake tighter, bracing her body with it. Couldn't risk falling. Might never get back up again.
The thought brought more impotent laughter mixed with tears. The sound was sharp, raspy, no louder than a whisper. Yet, despite the pain from her bruised vocal cords, she couldn't stop.
Hysteria. Shock. Not to mention a healthy dose of awe.
Who in their right mind would have predicted that a Pittsburgh soccer mom, an FBI agent with a job meant to keep her chained to a desk, a woman barely five foot five, would have ended her day killing a man with her bare hands?
Sure as hell was the last thing on Lucy's mind when she got up this morning.
Then
10:52 a.m.
Lucy shivered in the absolute darkness of the prison her kidnapper had left her in. It had been a long time since Lucy had done any tactical training involving close-quarters combat or skills like breaking free from zip ties. Her job as head of the Sexual Assault Felony Enforcement squad required a different set of talents: managing a multiagency, multidisciplinary task force, investigating cases no one else wanted, and playing diplomat to local, state, and fellow federal law enforcement agencies.
Now that 90 percent of the Bureau's resources were dedicated to counterterrorism and financial crimes, the rest of the Pittsburgh field office had dubbed her tiny corner of the building the Island of Misfit Boys. Catching terrorists was so much sexier than chasing pedophiles and serial rapists, but Lucy wouldn't have it any other way. Her people were twice as dedicated and ten times as determined as any other squad in the Bureau. They might not make headlines, but they saved lives.
Despite the long hours at the desk required by her position, Lucy made sure she stayed in shape and kept up with the latest tactics. At least she hoped she had, seeing as her life now depended on it.
Nausea roiled through her gut. Not just her life. Maybe her family's as well.
No. She couldn't think that way. If her kidnapper had Nick or Megan, he would have shown her proof, used it against her. Which meant they were safe. For now. Her only job was to get the hell out of here and keep them that way.
The tight restraints had left her hands numb. Lucy raised them as high as she could and brought her bound wrists down hard against her tailbone. Nothing. This had definitely been easier to do when she was a few years younger.
She shifted position, bracing herself against the wall. The disembodied man-oh, how would she love to disembody him for real-had threatened her family. She allowed her rage, her sense of violation, her fear to flow through her, tightened her muscles and strained her shoulders to raise her arms higher, and brought them down in one quick snapping motion.
The blow rocked through her as the zip ties broke. Free now to explore her prison, she began by walking the perimeter.
The walls and floor were all poured concrete. The ceiling was high overhead, beyond her reach. From the way sound echoed, she guessed it was concrete as well. She was against a short wall, only about four feet long. If she stood in the center and stretched her arms, she could touch both sides. The corner was a tightly formed ninety degrees, no sign of light or any crack or seam.
She explored the wall with her hands. Above her, as far as she could reach, her fingertips brushed the edge of a pipe. Not metal. PVC. Maybe three or four inches in diameter, judging from the curve. Too small to escape through if she could climb her way up there.
The pipe frightened her more than the darkness. She couldn't hear any sounds coming through it, couldn't see any light edging its way inside.
Was she buried underground? She shook away the panic that came with the thought and kept following her hands as she blindly felt her way along the walls of her prison.
The long wall was only eight feet-nothing on it that she could feel. Another short wall. Another PVC pipe, again above her head, midway along the wall, same as the first.
An almost-forgotten memory sucker-punched her as she imagined how her prison appeared in daylight. Four by eight by at least seven or eight feet high. Poured concrete. Pipes on two sides.
A small cry eluded her control, and she slumped against the final, featureless wall. The echo of her tiny sound of terror pummeled her, and she put her fist into her mouth, biting off any further sounds.
It was her childhood nightmare come to life.
Every neighborhood had its haunted house-the place kids told horror stories about, trying to spook each other with dares to trespass, test their courage. Growing up, Lucy's neighborhood had been no different, only the tragedy that echoed into her and her friends' lives was all too real: a toddler had wandered into a septic tank with an open lid and drowned.
For weeks, Lucy had had night terrors: swimming and smothering in raw sewage like quicksand, pulling her down, down …
Panic drove her pulse into a gallop so strong she felt it in her fingertips. Her breathing quickened as well, then she clamped her throat shut, holding it in. Feeling the burn of her lungs fighting for release.
Was that how it would feel? How much air did she have? Even if she found the overhead hatch, could somehow reach it, even if she got the hatch open, would she find anything except a wall of dirt or more concrete trapping her inside?
Surrendering to the need to inhale, she smashed her palm against the nearest wall. A septic tank. Where better to bury someone alive?
Lucy's childhood nightmare. How could he have known?
He didn't, she told herself, pushing away from the walls to explore the floor between them. He couldn't have. A buried septic tank was simply the perfect place to stash someone you don't want anyone to see or hear.
And what better way to dispose of a body?
The man had promised she would die. He just hadn't said how long it would take.
Now
5:24 p.m.
The barn stank of diesel and dried grass. And now death. A simple metal Quonset hut, designed to house tractors and equipment and combine attachments like the one with the wickedly sharp blades. The one with the man's body facedown, impaled against its blades.
Using the rake as a makeshift crutch and bracing herself against the galvanized-steel exterior wall, Lucy hobbled toward the front door. As she made her slow, ungainly progress, she passed the open door she'd entered through, taking one last look outside, across the snow, at the place where she should have died.
The glare of the light above the door made her trail of blood appear black against the white. Empty field-no help there. In fact the only tracks were her bloody footsteps, the man's boot prints, and the tracks of a large dog.
Christ, the dog. Where was the dog?
Terror gripped her, and she stopped, the rake shaking in her hand. She didn't-she couldn't-face the dog. Not again. Her stomach rebelled, and if she'd had anything to vomit, it would have come up. Ignoring the pain, she forced her body to keep moving.
But that didn't stop her from holding her breath, listening hard for the soft thud of the dog's footfalls, the gleeful wheeze of its breathing when it caught sight of its prey, the whoosh of its rush through the air as it prepared to pounce.
She turned her back on the field and the pit beneath it. She needed to get to her family. Now. Before time ran out.
Seven o'clock. He'd said she had until seven. What time was it now?
Her foot brushed against a stray piece of equipment, and she gasped, the pain so swift and overwhelming she almost dropped the rake.
"No time," she muttered, the thought of Nick and Megan a lifeline leading her from the pain. She resumed her circuit of the barn.
Her grip on the rake was weakening, fingers past burning to numb. Only good thing about the cold was that her feet were also numb, as long as she kept weight off her mangled left foot. The threat of the dog was a constant worry, but she'd seen no sign of it while she was dealing with its owner.