Deep Sleep (Devin Gray #1)(12)

Ward shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

They jogged over to the guardrail, where Gray lay facedown on the parking lot asphalt, a pool of blood rapidly expanding under her head. Ward’s flashlight revealed a small hole in her right temple, surrounded by powder burns. He didn’t see any other bullet wounds or blood. She’d killed herself, which actually worsened the situation. Gray had chosen to take her own life instead of submitting to an interrogation. She’d very intentionally chosen to deprive CONTROL of the information she possessed.

He glanced over his shoulder at Gray’s car. Walsh had already popped the trunk, examining its contents with a flashlight. He glanced at Rudd and shook his head.

“Wilson’s gone,” said Walsh. “Took two to the top of the head.”

“This is a mess,” said Ward.

“Not entirely,” said Rudd.

The original plan remained intact, despite her desperate, last-minute antics. Rudd had failed to accomplish the primary objective: capture Helen Gray alive. But he’d succeeded at the secondary objective: recover Donald Wilson. CONTROL hadn’t specified dead or alive, which meant it didn’t matter. One out of two had to count for something.

“Throw Dave in the trunk with Wilson! Don’t forget to dig the tracking device out of Wilson’s left calf,” said Rudd. “Then clean up the shell casings.”

Walsh gave him a thumbs-up before summoning the rest of his team. One of his men remained next to the pickup truck, pressing a bloodied bandage against his face.

“What about her?” asked Ward, nodding at Gray.

“Same thing. I’ll start picking up the shell casings. Grab Nate to help you move Gray.”

“Be right back,” said Ward, handing him the radio and flashlight before taking off.

Rudd picked up the pistol next to Gray’s hand and ejected the magazine. Still a few rounds left. He reinserted the magazine and stuffed the pistol into his waistband. A quick scan of the asphalt around Gray’s body revealed about a dozen shiny brass shell casings and two empty darts. He’d have to search for the rest, which probably lay hidden in the grass in front of the guardrail. The cleanup didn’t need to be perfect. With nothing more than a few reports of gunshots, local authorities wouldn’t have much to pursue. And barring any unforeseen circumstances, this compact crime scene would be long vacated by the time the first law enforcement units arrived.

He knelt next to her and searched her pockets for a phone. If Gray had called 911 at any point since they had stopped her car, he’d have to assume that she’d provided the dispatcher with a description of their vehicles. That would demand additional changes to the route they’d take to reach the drop-off point given to him by CONTROL.

The bullet-riddled sedan and damage to the other vehicles already meant they had to use back roads. An all-points bulletin for the van and pickup truck would necessitate an immediate and discreet vehicle swap. In other words—grand theft auto. A difficult feat at four in the morning in rural Tennessee. Very likely impossible without adding to the operation’s growing body count, which was the last thing he needed right now.

Failing to find anything in her jacket or pants, he rolled Gray onto her back to reveal the phone underneath one of her legs. Two bullet holes had penetrated the center of the screen, less than a half inch apart. Rudd picked up the phone and muttered a few obscenities as Ward and Nate Clark, the other operative assigned to his team, hopped the guardrail next to him.

“That isn’t good,” said Ward, nodding at the phone.

“No. It’s not,” said Rudd, backing up to make room for them. “Get her in the trunk and start looking at Google Maps satellite for some kind of semi-isolated rural property no closer than ten miles away, but no farther than a twenty-minute drive. We need to get off the road. Preferably a small farm with a few buildings. Definitely off the beaten path. We’ll be spending some time there. I want to be on the move in under two minutes.”

“I’ll find us something,” said Ward before grabbing Gray’s ankles.

Clark took her wrists, and the two of them hauled her deadweight over the guardrail. While they struggled with Gray, Rudd went to work scouring the scene. By the time the two additional bodies had been stuffed in the trunk and Walsh’s team had cleaned up the road, he’d collected twenty-five of the thirty-odd shell casings Gray had scattered near the guardrail. And two of the three immobilizer darts fired from their rifles.

Close enough. It just needed to satisfy a bored deputy creeping along and probing the darkness with a door-mounted spotlight. He pocketed the shells and made his way back to Gray’s car. Walsh lay on his stomach, scanning the pavement underneath the vehicle with a flashlight. Rudd took a look around, satisfied with the scene.

“Looks good,” said Rudd. “One of your guys will drive the car. If all goes well, we shouldn’t be on the road for more than five or ten minutes.”

Walsh rose to his feet. “Sounds like a plan. Do you want to space out the vehicles so we don’t draw too much attention? I don’t think these roads see more than three cars all night.”

“Not a bad idea,” said Rudd. “But not until we get clear of this little town.”

“All right. We’ll follow closely until—”

Walsh stopped midsentence, his attention drawn to something over Rudd’s shoulder. Their radios squawked simultaneously.