Echoes (24 page)

“Why does that matter?”

Mac touched the black scrunchy, feeling for the bug, and frowned as he answered. “Because the way most bug detectors work is by looking for signal. A tracking device is bouncing signal off a satellite or cell tower for location all the time. Even the ones that only check for location when they're triggered, like the car security systems, have to remain on to be found by the tracking system. That means they are vulnerable.”

Nash nodded. “The handheld scanner I used on you the other night looks for signal or electrical current, then essentially targets the bugs it finds with an electromagnetic pulse. It will work on any active electronic device. The nifty thing about these trackers is that neither of them is actually on. They can't be detected or disabled that way.”

“So how do I turn them on if I want you to be able to find me?”

“The tracker sewed into the hair tie has a physical switch. Feel for it.” Callie did, finding the button in the hard spot in the band. “When the button is depressed, it's off. So you put that in your hair and be sure the switch rests against your hair tightly, that it's wrapped inside. That will keep it turned off while he's scanning you.”

Callie handed the second tracker to Mac and pulled her hair into a tight, high ponytail, positioning the button in the hair tie between layers of wrapping so it remained depressed. “And the other?”

Nash appeared uncomfortable, staring at the device Mac was rolling between his fingers rather than looking into her eyes as he spoke. “Something entirely new. It's a heat switch. As long as it's kept above eighty-eight degrees, it will remain off.”

Callie plucked the bagel-shaped bit of foam from Mac's hand. “How am I supposed to keep it that hot?”

Nash pulled a folded square of paper out of his back pocket. “Instructions,” he said.

Callie glanced at the piece of paper and realized why he hadn't given her the details verbally. “Lovely. I'll be right back.”

In the bathroom, Callie examined the device. Under the fluorescent light, she could see the vague, gray outlines of electronics beneath the rubber skin. She washed the thing thoroughly before looking over the instructions, which seemed to have been copied, almost word for word, from the instructions for inserting a contraceptive sponge.

A vaginal tracking system. What kind of lunatics did Nash Harper employ? And how was she supposed to turn the thing on? What if they handcuffed her? Watched her constantly?

On the other hand, once inserted, the blasted bug felt really secure. However they'd come up with the idea, Nash's engineers had developed a smart product. Still, she felt horribly self-conscious when she returned to the living room, and she couldn't meet Mac's eyes.

“Ready to roll?” asked Nash.

“Not quite. How do I . . . activate that second tracking device? I mean, unless I'm dead, my body's not getting below eighty-eight degrees, and I sort of want to survive this.”

“It's a last-resort backup. Ideally, we'll be able to retrieve Erin safely before you even get off the train, and force Juarez into a confession. At that point, I'll let Carlos and Mac know and they'll bring you in. You should never have to use any of the trackers.

“But of course, nothing's ideal. So if Juarez just continues to drive around until you get picked up, we want a way to track you.

“The final tracker is in case we lose you completely. We're good, Callie. Very good. But we're not perfect. In that case, I trust you to find a way to remove it from your body. That's all you have to worry about. Do that, we'll find you no matter what.

Yeah, okay. She could do that. “How soon will you try to rescue Erin?”

“As soon as it's prudent. I wish I could give you a more specific answer, but I can't. Do not worry about her. I have men on her, and they won't let anything happen. If you get another phone call, be sure to insist on talking to her. The longer you can keep that up, the better chance we have.”

“I guess that's it.”

“Good. Get going, then.”

“No.” Mac put a hand on her shoulder. “We need a minute, Nash.” He slid his palm down her arm to capture her hand, and tugged her into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them.

“I'm going, Mac,” she said before he could speak, before he could begin to try to keep her safe while others risked their lives on her behalf. “You heard him. I have to show up. Having everyone in the same place gives us the best shot at finishing this once and for all. Otherwise, these guys can just keep doing this until they succeed. I can't live that way. I won't.”

“I won't try to stop you. But I need you to swear to me that no matter what Juarez says or does, you won't deliberately try to lose us. You have to trust me on this, Callie. Please.” The intensity of his green eyes overwhelmed her, yet she could read nothing of his thoughts in them. “We can protect you, but only if you let us.”

She laid a hand along the sharp plane of his stubbled cheek, feeling the peculiar urge to reassure him. “I do trust you. Absolutely.”

He covered her hand with his own, holding it in place, then turned his head to press a hard kiss into the center of her palm. Fire rocketed through her body.

“Good.” He let go of her hand and pulled her against him, sliding muscular arms around her waist and dipping his head to nuzzle her neck. “Because we have unfinished business, you and I.”

He bit her gently where her neck met her shoulder, and her knees went weak. “Mac. I have to go.”

“Yeah.” His mouth covered hers, driving all rational thought from her head. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on as his tongue tangled with hers. One of his hands slid from her waist to cup her butt, pressing her intimately against him, and she couldn't prevent a moan welling up from her throat. She ran her own hands blindly over his back, memorizing every line, then over smooth biceps and back up to his jaw. Her right fingers found the scar and traced it gently.

A knock at the door had him backing away from her.

“That will be Nash. Time for you to hit the road.” But his eyes held hers.

“Yes. I . . .” She didn't know what to say. “I trust you, Mac.”

His lips quirked in the sexy half smile he so rarely exhibited. “That's my girl.”

Callie arrived at Grand Central Station at 6:32. She stopped at the first ticket machine she saw and purchased her ticket, no more anxious than Mac for a conductor to recognize her face from the news. The monitor showed her train at one of the lower-level tracks, so she took the escalator down. Passing through the food court, her stomach rumbled, but even if she had had time to buy something, she was far too nervous to eat. She did grab a Coke, counting on the sugar and caffeine to keep her going.

People streamed toward her train. She stepped into the first car, spotting Carlos Herrera without a problem. His disreputable appearance hadn't dissuaded a teenage girl from squeezing into the window seat next to him. The girl wore an iPod, the music blaring out beyond the edges of her headphones and assaulting Callie even as she settled across the aisle. Callie shared a bench with an elderly gentleman who'd propped his cane against the seat next to him, probably to discourage anyone from sitting there. But rush-hour trains, even as late as this one, didn't allow for empty spots, and when Callie asked him about the cane, he removed it with a remark muttered so quietly she couldn't hear it.

Before sitting down, Callie took a minute to study the occupants of the four rows of seats behind her own. Tired, irritable businesspeople, for the most part. No one who looked suspicious, but the spot between her shoulder blades itched beneath the body armor Mac and Nash had insisted she wear, and she slouched into her seat, trying to make herself as small as possible.

In front of her, commuters clustered around the first set of doors in the train car. Beyond them came dozens more rows of bench seats, then a second set of doors, and another short run of seats. More business types filled the seats and the aisle, along with a couple of families, a few men who appeared to be day laborers, some teens, and the obligatory nutcase, who stood in the vestibule, eyeing every person who came through the doors and commenting under his breath.

The doors closed with warning bells, a few commuters squeezing aboard at the last possible moment, and the train lurched forward. The conductor worked his way through the throng, most of whom—Carlos Herrera included—carried monthly passes rather than tickets. Did Nash keep train passes for whoever needed them? It seemed a ridiculous expense, but worked to prevent Carlos from appearing suspicious. The conductor, a slight, gray-haired man, paid far more attention to both the teenager and Callie, who carried tickets, than he did to any of the pass holders. Even the vestibule lunatic, wearing his pass on a chain around his neck over his ratty and moth-eaten sweater, didn't merit a second glance.

The train squealed to a stop at 125th Street. A few more passengers crowded on, but no one got off. Callie checked her cell phone, which had shown no signal inside the station. Four bars. Good. Juarez could contact her. She twisted the cap off her soda and took a long slug, trying to calm herself.

More jerky starts and noisy stops, and slowly the car began to empty. At Riverdale, Callie's seatmate left, his spot taken by a dark-haired woman in a severe pantsuit. Two stops later, at Yonkers, both she and the teenager next to Carlos exited. He looked over and smiled, just another stranger passing the time on the way home from work. Under normal circumstances she'd have made some kind of joke, asked if he were deaf from the teen's music, but talking to him might make anyone watching her suspicious, so she nodded but remained silent.

A few minutes later, just as the train started to pull away from the platform at Greystone Station, it halted, and the engineer's voice came over the intercom.

“Sorry about that, folks.” He maintained an almost jocular tone, but Callie could hear notes of stress beneath it, even over the scratchy sound system.
Or maybe you're projecting your own nerves onto him.
“We're having a little technical difficulty. If you're in the front three cars of the train, I'd like you to walk back, because we're going to have to off-load everyone. I know it's going to make you all late to dinner, and it's hot and still drizzling, and no one's in a good mood, but it can't be helped.”

Around her, people grumbled and gathered their possessions, most appearing irritated but unsurprised. Then the lunatic began to pound on as yet unopened doors and shout.

“Terrorists! Let us out! There's a bomb on the train!” And all those people who'd watched him with bored distaste and thin tolerance suddenly found gospel in his words. The aisles filed in a rush, and a mob formed in the vestibule.

A man in the seat behind Callie tapped her on the shoulder, and she jumped.

“Help me get the window open,” he said, his eyes wild. “We can get out that way.”

“You can't be serious.” Callie tried reason, though she didn't have much hope it would work. “That guy's nuts. This is a train breakdown, not 9/11.”

Another man shoved past her and reached for the safety latches on the window. “If you won't help, get out of the way,” he snapped. “I'm not dying on this fucking train.”

Callie slid out of her seat and into the packed aisle. She tried to push through to grab the seat beside Carlos, but the doors opened and she was carried along on a panicked wave of commuters. On the platform, the single-minded surge continued as the mob headed for the stairs to the catwalk that arched over the tracks, leading toward the street. Frantic, Callie searched for Mac or Carlos but saw neither.

Something hard jammed into her waist just below the hem of the bulletproof vest.

“Keep moving, Miss Pearson,” said the lunatic. He'd removed his torn sweater and lost the ragged backpack and now fit right into the swarm. He shoved a blue waterproof poncho into her hands. “Put it on. Pull up the hood.”

Not good.
Fear permeated the crowd. One scream, one shouted “Gun!” and they'd panic, which could give her the opportunity to escape. On the other hand, it could also allow him to escape—after shooting her. After a brief hesitation, she dragged the poncho over her head as she mounted the steps to the catwalk, deliberately slowing both actions to give Mac and Carlos as long as possible to find her without resorting to the GPS trackers. Despite Nash's assurances that they wouldn't lose her, she felt a whole lot better when his men were close enough to touch, or at least see.

Neither man appeared in the interminable trip up the stairs, across the walkway, and down the steps on the other side, but as she stepped off the curb into the parking lot for the train station, she thought she glimpsed Carlos. Her heart picked up speed—how could she attract his attention? She pretended to stumble, and her captor yanked her back to her feet. A blue van pulled up in front of them, and the back door opened, but before the man beside her could force her in, someone shoved him away. He fell forward, his head slamming into the metal side panel of the van with a crunch and a thud. As she turned to run, Callie caught sight of Carlos attached to his back like a limpet, scrabbling for the guy's gun.

“Go!” he shouted.

She went. She took the stairs up from the station to the street two at a time, her hurry increasing the nervous tension in those she passed. “What happened?” she heard people call out. “Where are you going? What's going on?”

Which was a damned good question. Carlos had told her to run. Did that mean they had already rescued Erin?

Cars zipped by along the street at the top of the steps. Where to now? Apartment complexes lined the far side of the street, while her side, the station side, where the land fell away sharply toward the Hudson River, was completely barren. She dodged the traffic and crossed to the lighted apartments, then stood in front of one and pulled out her phone to call Nash. Before she could flip it open, however, the blue van squealed to a stop next to her. The door slid open and two men jumped out.

Callie ducked into the street and fled against the flow of traffic, hoping the oncoming drivers would realize what was happening. Headlights blinded her, and she heard a man curse as he passed. A driver slammed on his brakes, his car fishtailing wildly. A second slammed into him, almost knocking his car into Callie, who leapt to the hood of a station wagon parked alongside. She looked up and down the street, but the blue van was gone.

The two drivers exited their cars, both yelling. The first one pointed toward her, and she clambered down off the wagon. She couldn't afford to stick around and be recognized by the police. She had entered the country illegally, and her presence would implicate both Mac and Nash, who had done nothing but try to help her. She slid into the shadows as the two drivers progressed from words to shoves.

Just before she reached the safety of the well-lit atrium of a large condo building, she was yanked into an alley. Something sharp pierced her neck, and she looked up into empty black eyes as the light faded from her view.

***

Gasping from having run up the stairs at top speed when he realized—too late—that Callie had taken that route, Mac watched in frustrated fury as the van disappeared around a curve in the road.
Fuck.
Sirens approached and instinctively he stepped back into the shadow of the trees lining the sidewalk. He needed to get the hell out of Dodge before the media arrived and began filming everything—and everyone—in sight. He began walking down the road in the same direction the van had gone, keeping his pace slow, just another bored commuter, but his hand shook as he yanked the sat phone from its clip on his jeans and speed-dialed Nash.

“I'm two minutes from you. Carlos already called in. He tied up the man he knocked out with the help of a couple of good Samaritans and is waiting for the police. He'll tell them he saw the guy trying to manhandle a woman into a van and stepped in to stop it. He got the vehicle's plate number, but these guys are pros; they'll have new plates or a whole new van in minutes.”

“You think they changed plans when you got Erin?” Mac had been headed toward Callie's car to tell her that her friend was safe when the train stopped.

“No way to tell. I thought we'd handled it smoothly, but it's possible Juarez called in before he pulled over and told them there was a problem.”

As Mac rounded the bend where he'd lost sight of the van, Nash's black town car pulled up across the street. He'd given Nash grief about the sedan, hoping to get a rise out of him, but Nash had merely grinned and said that no vehicle was more anonymous in the New York area than a fleet car. No one paid them any mind in either rich neighborhoods or poor ones.

“Are you tracking her?” Mac belted himself into the passenger seat. With barely a glance out the window, Nash pulled back out into traffic, then pointed at a screen set into the dashboard, where a bright red dot traversed yellow roads.

“Yeah. The van must have gone around the block or something. There's a huge traffic snarl, and her trackers all stopped for a couple minutes, then started moving again. They're not that far ahead of us.” He pushed a button beneath the screen, and the image zoomed out, erasing roads but revealing a second red dot. “That's Dylan.”

“He's not moving.”

“Nope.” Satisfaction oozed around the words. “That's how we got Juarez. Nick and Dylan rear-ended him when he got stuck in traffic. They're in Westchester, not Nassau County, but a couple Nassau cops happened to be passing by and stopped to lend a hand.” Right. Dylan's family. “Erin seems to be okay, but she's on her way to the hospital under guard.”

“Where were they headed?”

“Westchester airport. Lexie has been watching flight plans and alerted me to a private flight that came in from Miami. That was the direction Juarez was headed, so we took him out before he could get there. I've got a half-dozen guys headed in that direction right now in case either Lewis or Falcone are on hand.”

Mac's eyes hadn't left the red dot that symbolized Callie, and when it split, one, dim light breaking away to remain still on the map while the brighter part continued, he cursed.

“They found one of the bugs. Probably tossed it out the window.”

As if on cue, Nash's cell phone, sitting in a cradle hooked into the dash, rang. He pushed a button, said “Go,” and Lexie's voice filled the car.

“That was the shoes. Fair assumption if they found one device, they found them all. At least, all the traditional ones. If they have enough men mobilized, they can send them all off in different directions.”

“With any luck, they'll have kept the op too small for that. Find out what's going on with Dylan and call me back.” He disconnected.

The little dot took a left. Moments later, so did Nash. Frustrated, Mac wished he had a better grip on New York's geography. In Atlanta, he'd have known where the van was headed and how to get there first, but here he was lost. Gray stone and cement buildings lined the street they traveled, but unlike those he'd seen in Manhattan, these maxed out at about five stories. Gas stations and bodegas brightened the drab residential landscape, though the deepening dusk and thick clouds leached the vibrancy from even those splashes of color. Night, which stacked the deck against the hunter, was approaching.

The red light turned right. It dimmed, blinked, then went out entirely.

“Shit,” said Nash.