Shadow of Betrayal

Tucker closed his laptop and leaned back in the chair. The only thing that stopped him from giving the order to get rid of the Dupuis bitch at that moment was the what if floating in the back of his mind. What if Quinn had actually made it this far? What if it was one of the cleaner’s team poking around outside the fence? Or better yet, what if it was Quinn himself who had tripped the motion sensor?

Tucker liked to believe he was always thinking ahead and preparing for all the different possibilities. Covering his own ass just in case. If Quinn somehow got the upper hand—which Tucker thought very unlikely—Marion Dupuis could then become a bargaining chip. Tucker could play to Quinn’s honor again, giving him the woman and walking away clean. Or better yet, he could use Dupuis to trap the cleaner, then threaten to kill the woman if Quinn didn’t tell him everything he knew. It would be an interesting experiment to see how far Quinn’s honor went.

Tucker couldn’t help but smile at the possibility.

Marion was getting worried. She’d been locked in her dark cell for hours without another visit from the Australian or the old man with the creepy eyes. From the little experience she’d had, that was unusual. Until now, they hadn’t let her go for more than two hours without another round of questioning.

She kept time by pacing the cell and brushing the fingers of her hand along the wall, letting them guide her so that she wouldn’t run into anything. She slowed her pace so that it took a full thirty seconds to make one circuit, then began counting laps, one minute for every two, an hour for every 120.

A couple of times she lost count and had to estimate, but she didn’t stop until she reached 800. By her estimate over six and a half hours. But it wasn’t her legs that stopped her. It was her fear.

Six and a half hours and no visitors?

No one had even come to see if she needed to use a toilet. She didn’t. She hadn’t drunk enough liquids in the last twenty-four hours to warrant that.

Something must be wrong, she thought. Could they have decided they didn’t need her anymore, and were just going to let her die?

Maybe everyone was gone. Maybe there was no one left here but her.

She started breathing faster as her fear took a sharp turn toward panic.

Without even realizing it, she began circling the room again, hoping to reassure herself that she’d get out of here. Somehow. But it didn’t work. She knew her life, the life she wasn’t ready to give up yet, was almost over.

No. Not just her life, she reminded herself.

“God, please,” she said out loud. “Please watch over Iris. Don’t let them hurt her. Please. Don’t let them.”

CHAPTER

27

“DAMMIT,” NATE SAID.

Quinn looked up. They had been trying to move into a position with a better view of the guardhouse. Nate had been on point, fifteen feet in front of him. He was still there, but instead of standing, he was on the ground. Quinn raced forward, his eyes darting around as he knelt down next to his apprentice.

“Are you hurt?” Quinn asked.

There was a pause. “I tripped on something,” Nate said. “A bush, I think.”

Quinn tried to give Nate a hand up, but Nate said, “I’m fine.” Then pushed himself to his feet unaided.

Nate was about to start up again, but Quinn stopped him. “Wait. Did you hear that?”

In the distance he had heard a scrape. Like a shoe slipping on rock. But the sound didn’t come again.

“What was it?” Nate asked.

“I think someone’s out there.”

“A guard?”

“Must be.” Quinn thought for a moment. “Go around the right side of that hill.” He pointed at a mound of rock rising ahead of them another fifty feet. “I’ll go left. Let’s meet back here in ten minutes.”

Nate nodded.

“And Nate,” Quinn added as Nate was about to leave.

“What?”

Quinn smiled. “Don’t trip.”

Tucker had grown impatient waiting for word about the possible intruder, so he had the guard at the gate patch all communications with the search team to his radio. Now he sat staring at the small black unit on his desk, listening to bouts of dead air between bursts of digitally encrypted transmissions.

“Base to four,” a voice said.

The two-man team had been joined by the four men Tucker had sent. The man in the guardhouse was Base, while the searchers were numbered two through six.

“Four,” another voice replied, his tone hushed.

“Status.”

“Grid H-3 clear.”

“Move to H-4.”

“Roger.”

“Base to five.”

“Five here,” the new voice said. Before Base could ask for a status, he went on. “I have a visual. Repeat, I have a visual.”

“Grid?”

“A-2. Near the fence. Looks like a male.”

Tucker couldn’t help himself. He picked up his radio and pushed transmit. “What’s he doing?”

There was a pause, then five said, “He’s prone. No movement.”

“Is he injured?” Tucker asked.

“Doesn’t appear to be. His eyes are open and active.”

There was dead air for a moment.

“Base requests instructions,” the man at the guardhouse said, his question directed at Tucker.

“Is he alone?” Tucker asked.