Deep Sleep (Devin Gray #1)(9)

After entering the alphanumeric code on the Post-it, followed by his username, into a text box that appeared on the screen, a page containing a single link appeared: OPERATION SUMMARY. He clicked it and read the two-page document line by line—twice.

Rudd shook his head. He had a bad feeling about this one. CONTROL was essentially throwing two borderline-retired teams that hadn’t worked together in several years at a fairly complex hostage-rescue mission. In other words, a mad scramble to keep a kidnapped VIP from disappearing. To make matters worse, the target was on the move—and CONTROL wanted the teams together and moving to intercept in under two hours. No small feat, considering that the team comprised eight operatives spread across four states.

At least he didn’t have to coordinate their routes. The initial rally points had been selected for each team. He needed to be in Gadsden, Alabama, which gave him a little over thirty minutes to assemble the suggested gear and retrieve the van he kept at a nearby outdoor storage lot. He checked his watch and determined he needed to be driving out of the garage in less than fifteen minutes. Not a problem. The only question left was what to do about Jolene. CONTROL had not included her name on the roster, which meant exactly what it implied. For whatever reason, they didn’t want her involved in the operation.

Rudd resolved to tell her right before he walked out of the house, to minimize the uncomfortable scene guaranteed to unfold. Being sidelined wouldn’t sit well with her, especially since they were unlikely to see a high-stakes mission like this again. Ever. But CONTROL had their reasons—and the Rudds had never failed to obey CONTROL. On second thought, he decided the better approach would be to leave a note on the kitchen table and slip away without waking her. He’d rather face Jolene’s wrath in the morning than CONTROL’s. The latter didn’t accept apologies. Not that Jolene was the forgiving type.





CHAPTER 5


Helen Gray jolted awake, hands locked in a death grip on the steering wheel. Her car was still on the two-lane road, slightly over the center line—traveling twelve miles per hour faster than the last time she remembered checking. She eased the sedan back into the right-hand lane and slowed to match the speed limit. The last thing she needed right now was to draw the wrong kind of attention.

A staccato series of thumps against the back seat, coming from the trunk, reinforced that sentiment. Getting pulled over would radically complicate an already thorny situation. She’d face an unthinkable question, requiring an immediate answer: Was the life of a police officer worth sacrificing to prevent a national catastrophe?

Helen didn’t want to think about it. She’d already crossed at least one line that she couldn’t take back. And that was just the beginning if the man stuffed in her trunk didn’t feel like talking. She was willing to go to extreme measures to extract the information he possessed. The duffel bag in the footwell behind her seat contained everything she needed to encourage him to talk.

She was already looking at five to ten years for the kidnapping—maybe less if her theory proved correct. The contents of the duffel bag represented double that sentence, depending on how far she took the interrogation. But if she was right, the sacrifice would be worth it.

If she was wrong? She’d most likely spend the rest of her life in prison. But she wasn’t wrong. She couldn’t be. Something insidious had taken root in America nearly fifty years ago and had somehow gone unnoticed. Still, she couldn’t shake the distant but ghastly suspicion that she had wasted the past two decades chasing a delusion.

Helen caught herself staring beyond the headlights, lost in thought and close to falling asleep again. She rolled down her window, the sudden blast of humid air chasing away the drowsiness. A very temporary fix, given that she had been awake for most of the past twenty-four hours. Only a coffee refill would get her through the final few hours of the trip, the twisty rural roads demanding her full attention. A few more substantial thuds from the trunk suggested she would have to stop soon—to administer another dose of sedatives. She couldn’t pull into a gas station with her passenger creating this kind of racket.

The pounding against the back seat intensified. A quick look at the navigation app running on her phone showed a town coming up less than a mile away. If it turned out to be the sleepy little place she suspected, Helen would find a spot on the northern outskirts to pull over and give Mr. Wilson another shot of night-night juice. He’d be out cold by the time she reached the Road Star Travel Center at Interstate 40, where she could refresh her coffee and use the restroom.

A few orange-tinted streetlights appeared between the trees in the distance, followed by a blinking yellow light. The town turned out to be a handful of darkened businesses crowding Route 13, barely outnumbering the churches. Helen slowed when she reached the flashing stoplight, more out of habit than a concern for safety. The area looked so dead, she could probably park in the middle of the intersection for the next hour without having to move.

Moments after she passed through the intersection, an oversize pickup truck pulled onto the road ahead of her and effectively blocked both lanes, forcing Helen to slam on the brakes to avoid a collision. The moment her car skidded to a tire-screeching halt, mere feet from the side of the pickup, she shifted into reverse and floored the accelerator. At once the rear collision alarm sounded and a van loomed large in the backup camera display.

She hit the brakes. The camera showed two figures already out of the van, rushing toward her. How the hell had they managed to track her? She’d been so careful. There was no time to think about that right now. Helen calmly put the car in park, released her seat belt, and removed a compact Sig Sauer pistol from the purse lying flat on the passenger seat. She pushed her door open and leaned out of the car, snapping off four center-mass shots at the closest ski-masked attacker.