Deep Sleep (Devin Gray #1)(10)
The man dropped to his knees and pitched forward, his head catching the corner of the rear bumper. He immediately crumpled to the pavement, lying motionless in the red glow of the car’s taillights as she slipped out of the car and searched for the second attacker. She found the assailant retreating fast, her bullets shattering glass and puncturing metal until he disappeared behind the van’s hood.
A door slammed shut behind her, prompting Helen to spin and reflex fire at a masked figure illuminated by her car’s headlights. The man grabbed his neck and screamed an obscenity before scrambling out of her line of fire. She emptied the pistol’s few remaining rounds into the pickup’s tinted windows, hoping for the best, before digging a spare pistol magazine out of her coat pocket. Everything went still after she slammed the magazine home and released the pistol slide. Too still. Nothing but humming engines and a faint ringing in her ears.
Were they holding their fire to avoid accidentally hitting Wilson? Doubtful. A moderately skilled shooter from either vehicle could hit her without endangering him. With that thought in mind, she slid back into the car and shut the door, making sure to stay low enough in the seat to see forward while presenting the smallest possible target.
To keep an eye on both threat directions at once, she engaged the parking brake and shifted into reverse, activating the backup camera and alert system while keeping the car in place. If they moved on her from the direction of the van, she’d receive an audible warning. Next, Helen locked all the doors. She spent the next several moments listening and observing. Still nothing. Even Wilson had gone silent.
“Now what?” she muttered.
They had her boxed in, and she didn’t see much hope in trying to ram her way past either vehicle. Her sedan didn’t stand much of a chance of sufficiently budging either the oversize pickup truck or van out of the way without inflicting catastrophic damage to her own car. A thorough scan of her surroundings suggested that they’d put some thought into the location of this roadblock.
A short row of redbrick buildings immediately adjacent to the road prevented her from driving right, and a metal guardrail to the left blocked her from taking her car through an empty bank parking lot. Helen concluded that the only way out of this was on foot. And the odds were stacked solidly against her. She guessed she was up against at least six aggressors, maybe more. Impossible odds if they were armed, which she had to assume.
She might have a chance if they were more interested in reacquiring Wilson than killing or capturing her. Then again, how far could she really get before they secured Wilson and turned all their attention back toward her? Probably not very far, but it beat waiting for the inevitable. Helen removed the last spare pistol magazine from her purse and stuffed it in her coat pocket. Hopefully she wouldn’t need it.
Helen took her phone off the dashboard mount and considered dialing 911—just as quickly dismissing the idea. The call was more likely to get a sheriff’s deputy killed than save her life. Instead, she opened a nameless app in one of the folders on the phone and entered a ten-digit password. The app displayed two options: a green “Activate Fail-safe” button and a red “Cancel” button.
She hated to drag Devin into this, but the future of the United States depended on it. Any and all doubt about her two-decades-long obsession had been erased over the past few minutes. She hit the green button and pocketed the phone. If Helen somehow got out of this alive, she could let him know to ignore the series of messages he would begin to receive in ten days. She’d set the delay long enough for things to settle down around her son. The kidnapping alone would put him under plenty of scrutiny. Whatever happened after she bolted from the car would only compound the attention he’d receive.
While she had the phone out, Helen swiped through the few photographs she hadn’t deleted, pausing on a family picture taken fifteen years ago, at Devin’s graduation from the University of Maryland. It was one of the last pictures they’d taken together in which everyone still looked happy. Helen had still been with the CIA at that point—two very messy years away from being escorted from her office in the George Bush Center for Intelligence. Not that the years before that had been smooth sailing at Langley, or at home. She stared at the picture until her eyes teared up. She wished she could apologize to Kari for the hell she’d put her through. Apologize to all of them for everything.
“Time to get this over with,” she said, pocketing the phone.
Helen was out of the car and halfway across the street before the panicked shouting started. A hiss passed inches from her head as she vaulted the metal guardrail, almost instantly followed by a sharp pain in her upper left buttock. She landed on both feet at the edge of the parking lot and pivoted, rapidly firing several times at each vehicle. Satisfied that she’d momentarily pinned her attackers in place, she ran her hand along her left rear side to assess the damage.
Instead of a bloody bullet wound, her hand came across a tranquilizer dart. She yanked it out and held it in front of her face, noting that the clear plastic medicine chamber was empty, its contents circulating through her bloodstream. This changed everything. They needed her alive. They needed to interrogate her—which she couldn’t allow. Helen had hit the end of her road, but she had no intention of giving them any satisfaction. At all.
She reloaded the pistol, pocketing the partially expended magazine, and rose high enough to steady it against the top of the guardrail. Her mind cleared of distractions, and unencumbered by any consequences, she methodically emptied the pistol into the sedan’s trunk area. Fifteen bullets. With any luck, a few of them hit Wilson, killing him outright or severely complicating her adversaries’ situation. She’d settle for either at this point.