him, he would do. Yeah, he’d do it. But then he’d come right back here and shoot the next fucker who tried to drag him off his mountain.
**
“I’ll be back for lunch.”
FBI Special Agent Jackson Maddox’s voice reminded Eryn of a Jamaican steel drum. “You know the drill, ma’am,” he added. “Stay away from the windows. Keep the doors locked. You’ll be fine.” White teeth flashed against his mocha-colored skin as he sent her an encouraging smile.
Fine? She wanted to scream at the agent for using such a vague, insubstantial word. Fine? Her student Itzak had been found with his throat slit the very night he’d changed his mind about abducting her. She’d been removed from everything that was safe and familiar and brought to this sterile environment, where communication with the outside world was strictly forbidden. And she hadn’t been allowed any communication with her father since the day of the incident. How in hell did that make her fine?
Fifteen days! She’d been at this safe house for over two weeks and all the FBI had learned was that Itzak had ties to the Brotherhood of Islam, a local Muslim group with an extremist element. They hadn’t arrested anybody.
Somewhere out there lurking in the shadows, sat a killer, mocking the Bureau’s attempts to identify him, while Eryn wasted away behind locked doors and cameras, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Oh, no. She was far from fine, but if she opened her mouth to admit it, she was certain she would burst into tears.
“You okay, ma’am?” Jackson’s blue-green eyes, so startling against his dusky complexion, reflected sympathy.
Given the lump in her throat, all she could do was nod at him.
“Dial one if you need me,” he reminded her.
Hugging herself against the tremors that had started up again, she trailed him toward the door, wishing desperately that she could just walk out into the world like he did each morning. She missed her freedom almost as much as she missed talking to her father. It made so little sense that they refused her that harmless concession.
“Try to sleep,” Jackson added, stepping outside. Fresh, spring air taunted her as it wafted in.
Thanks to the prescription the FBI’s psychologist had given her, sleeping was about all she had been doing. It left her feeling more isolated, more cut off than ever. What she would rather do was to slip quietly away from here, just disappear, to someplace where neither Itzak’s killer nor the FBI could find her, ever again.
Jackson shut the door between them, waiting for Eryn to bolt all three locks behind him, just as she’d done from day one. Moving toward the window, which she’d been told never to approach, she tabbed the blinds to watch jealously as Jackson slipped into a dark green car and pulled away.
The sudden stillness in the townhouse plucked at her tautly strung nerves. The downy hair on her forearms prickled.
Why was it that whenever he left, she felt suddenly like prey?
A wet nose bumped her hand, and she looked down to see her Golden Shepherd gazing mournfully up at her.
“I know, Winston.” She stroked the dark ears inherited from his German Shepherd sire. His mother, a Golden Retriever, had contributed to Winston’s blond undercoat, as well as to his docile personality. Turning to the nondescript kitchen, she went to feed her loyal dog.
**
“Why the hell is UPS at our door?” demanded Jackson’s boss, Supervisory Special Agent Brad Caine .
The two men sat three feet apart, watching live video feed of the safe house on split-screen monitors that occupied most of the back wall of their Mobile Command Center. The giant silver RV stood at the far end of a shopping center one mile from the safe house.
Jackson barely heard his supervisor’s muttered question. He was busy studying the feed from cameras three and four at the
**
“I’ll be back for lunch.”
FBI Special Agent Jackson Maddox’s voice reminded Eryn of a Jamaican steel drum. “You know the drill, ma’am,” he added. “Stay away from the windows. Keep the doors locked. You’ll be fine.” White teeth flashed against his mocha-colored skin as he sent her an encouraging smile.
Fine? She wanted to scream at the agent for using such a vague, insubstantial word. Fine? Her student Itzak had been found with his throat slit the very night he’d changed his mind about abducting her. She’d been removed from everything that was safe and familiar and brought to this sterile environment, where communication with the outside world was strictly forbidden. And she hadn’t been allowed any communication with her father since the day of the incident. How in hell did that make her fine?
Fifteen days! She’d been at this safe house for over two weeks and all the FBI had learned was that Itzak had ties to the Brotherhood of Islam, a local Muslim group with an extremist element. They hadn’t arrested anybody.
Somewhere out there lurking in the shadows, sat a killer, mocking the Bureau’s attempts to identify him, while Eryn wasted away behind locked doors and cameras, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Oh, no. She was far from fine, but if she opened her mouth to admit it, she was certain she would burst into tears.
“You okay, ma’am?” Jackson’s blue-green eyes, so startling against his dusky complexion, reflected sympathy.
Given the lump in her throat, all she could do was nod at him.
“Dial one if you need me,” he reminded her.
Hugging herself against the tremors that had started up again, she trailed him toward the door, wishing desperately that she could just walk out into the world like he did each morning. She missed her freedom almost as much as she missed talking to her father. It made so little sense that they refused her that harmless concession.
“Try to sleep,” Jackson added, stepping outside. Fresh, spring air taunted her as it wafted in.
Thanks to the prescription the FBI’s psychologist had given her, sleeping was about all she had been doing. It left her feeling more isolated, more cut off than ever. What she would rather do was to slip quietly away from here, just disappear, to someplace where neither Itzak’s killer nor the FBI could find her, ever again.
Jackson shut the door between them, waiting for Eryn to bolt all three locks behind him, just as she’d done from day one. Moving toward the window, which she’d been told never to approach, she tabbed the blinds to watch jealously as Jackson slipped into a dark green car and pulled away.
The sudden stillness in the townhouse plucked at her tautly strung nerves. The downy hair on her forearms prickled.
Why was it that whenever he left, she felt suddenly like prey?
A wet nose bumped her hand, and she looked down to see her Golden Shepherd gazing mournfully up at her.
“I know, Winston.” She stroked the dark ears inherited from his German Shepherd sire. His mother, a Golden Retriever, had contributed to Winston’s blond undercoat, as well as to his docile personality. Turning to the nondescript kitchen, she went to feed her loyal dog.
**
“Why the hell is UPS at our door?” demanded Jackson’s boss, Supervisory Special Agent Brad Caine .
The two men sat three feet apart, watching live video feed of the safe house on split-screen monitors that occupied most of the back wall of their Mobile Command Center. The giant silver RV stood at the far end of a shopping center one mile from the safe house.
Jackson barely heard his supervisor’s muttered question. He was busy studying the feed from cameras three and four at the
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