“It’s probably not a good idea,” Jake said firmly, recovering himself.

She took a step closer. He could feel the heat coming off her. One more step and what little self-control he possessed would go right out the proverbial window.

A phone rang, and Jake instinctively fumbled for his. Syd’s brow furrowed with annoyance. “It’s not yours, it’s mine,” she snapped.

She grabbed her cell from the coffee table. “Yes?” Her eyes narrowed and she glanced at Jake.

“What’s up?”

She raised a finger for him to wait. Jake tried valiantly not to notice her nipples through the filmy fabric.

“Can you defend it, or would it be safer on the move?” she asked calmly.

Clearly not her banker friend, Jake thought, settling on the arm of the couch. He sipped his coffee. From the sound of it, he might not have the opportunity for another nap. Or for anything else, he thought, as in spite of himself his eyes wandered over her curves.

“I think that’s your best option.” She listened for another moment, then shook her head. “Not possible. But we can be there in an hour or so.”

After another minute of listening, she shut the phone and turned to Jake.

“Trouble at the hospital?” he guessed.

“The Grants aren’t at the hospital anymore. I moved them to a safe house in Winters last night.”

Jake frowned. “When did we decide that?”

“I thought it was best, in case whoever took Madison wasn’t done with her yet.” She held up her hands at Jake’s expression. “Look, it was Maltz’s idea, and sounded good so I signed off on it. Then we got caught up here and I forgot to mention it.”

It bothered Jake that she hadn’t consulted him, but he decided that was a discussion for another day. In the future they’d develop a strict set of guidelines for how cases were handled. Maybe it was good they’d had this one to cut their teeth on. He was definitely coming away with a deeper understanding of what it meant to be in business with Syd. “So what’s going on?”

“During a perimeter patrol Jagerson came across a parked car with two men camped out watching the house.”

“Maybe they’re locals.”

“Maltz said that even in meth country these two stick out. No way they’re local. And they seemed to be waiting for something.”

“Reinforcements. Shit,” Jake said. He ran a hand through his hair, still stiff from sweat.

“Looks like it.” She brushed past him on her way to the bedroom. “We were pretty much done here anyway. We’ll head up there to provide support.”

“Do you have any other guys on tap?”

“Nope, those four were all I had in California. It’ll take a day to mobilize another unit and I don’t think we have time.”

“I don’t like it, Syd. We don’t know what we’re up against.”

She came out of the bedroom wearing a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt, running a brush through her hair. “So what do you want to do?”

“Call in the Feds.”

“Jake…”

“I’m serious. Whoever we’re dealing with has some serious reach and resources. There might be fifty people coming to take the girl back. Against the six of us, I don’t like the odds.”

Syd sat on the couch, clamping a hair band between her lips and arching her back as she tugged her hair into a ponytail. Jake caught himself appreciating how this maneuver displayed her breasts and cursed under his breath. Now that his mind had gone there, it was stuck. “I don’t want a swarm of Feds coming in and getting everyone killed,” she said, wrapping the band around her hair.

“Neither do I. But if we all end up dead it won’t much matter.” Jake sensed she was wavering, and pressed the advantage. “Let me call a few people I trust. They can provide backup if this thing goes south.”

“Fine, make the call.” Syd stood and grabbed her backpack. “Let’s get on the road, I told Maltz we’d be there in an hour. And don’t forget the food.”

Randall heaved again. The convulsions were so violent it felt as if his insides were being ripped apart.

Afterward he sat back, wiping his mouth and gasping. The rational part of his brain knew this was largely psychosomatic. The gamma radiation dose he’d received would induce nausea three to six hours after exposure, but it wouldn’t make him this ill. But the stress of the situation combined with the knowledge that he had, at most, weeks left to live was affecting him.

A knock at the bathroom door. “Stop stalling, Grant,” Dante growled.

Randall climbed shakily to his feet. He hauled himself over to the sink, splashed some water on his face, and rinsed out his mouth. The mirror above it was badly cracked, rending his face into a thousand fragments. Which pretty much matched how he felt.

Randall wiped his face with a rough paper towel and trudged back outside. Dante had been unable to find another volunteer for sentry duty so he was working alone. He’d been warned that if he tried to escape or dragged his heels, he’d be shot and his family would be raped and killed. Not that he needed the warning after the show of strength earlier.

As Randall worked, his thoughts focused on what he could expect in the coming days and weeks, the gradual deterioration of his body in the face of acute radiation poisoning. Vomiting was the first sign, followed by radiation burns to exposed skin. After that, a latent phase of five to ten days before he started shedding hair. The massive loss of white blood cells would weaken his immune system, inducing fatigue and leaving him susceptible to infection. If he survived that, the real fun began: uncontrollable bleeding in the mouth, under his skin and in his kidneys; sterility; internal hemorrhaging; complete destruction of bone marrow; gastric and intestinal tissue damage. Near one hundred percent fatality rate within fourteen days. Although chances were he’d take a bullet through the temple before much of that came to pass.

Randall pulled his suit back on, knowing full well that he was kidding himself. He might as well strip down and wrap himself in cellophane for the good it would do. It was warm inside the warehouse even without the heat coming off the source, and sweat poured down his back, adding to the flu-ish symptoms. Randall pictured Audrey and Bree at her mother’s house, sitting on the couch watching television, completely unaware of the threat outside their door. His darling Madison was probably already dead. He’d fucked everything up, and for what? A little money. He’d traded the lives of himself, his family and countless others for a grand total of $160,000. Pathetic.

His limbs felt heavy as he worked the robotic arms, trying to see through the tears behind his mask.

Twenty-Three

Jake clenched his jaw as Syd wove through traffic. They’d turned off the main highway onto a smaller two-lane road. Apparently Syd regarded the double-line separating them from oncoming cars as more of a friendly guideline than a mandate. Jake instinctively braced himself against the dashboard as she swerved blindly around a truck, skidding into the breakdown lane as a sedan bore down on them. Seemingly unperturbed, she jetted back across both lanes, ignoring the protesting bleats of multiple horns.

“Be nice to get there in one piece,” Jake said tightly.

“CIA driver training. Best in the world,” Syd replied, shooting him a look.

“I’m willing to bet your insurance company doesn’t agree,” Jake said.

“Relax. We’re almost there.” Syd glanced at the GPS then hit the gas, taking a curve at seventy miles per hour.

Ten minutes later they were a mile from the farmhouse. Syd slowed. An acrid smell seeped through the car vents.

“Maybe someone’s burning trash,” Jake said. Syd didn’t respond, steering onto an unpaved access road. The car bounced over sinkholes, tires kicking up gravel behind them. The smell of smoke was unmistakable now. Light glinted off a large object up ahead. When they got closer, Jake recognized it: the team’s white van. The front was crushed, bumper wrapped around a fence post, windshield shattered. A thin trail of smoke wound out the window, curling and rotating as it ascended.