Raw Edges (12 page)

Gibson dangled the vial between her and Micah.

“Clint gave me the recipe.” The strange smirk still danced across his lips. “You remember how it goes, right, Morgan? Playing with the fish he caught. So scared...those first sweet, sweet screams. He’d tell them he’d kill whoever they loved most, hunt them down and slice and dice them as the poor little fishy watched.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’ll bet you helped with that part, am I right? He told me how much you love your blades. Did he do the talking and watching while you filleted those fish, Morgan? Just a tiny slice here and there. Make them believe. Make them want to drink. I’m not as good with the knives as you are.” His gaze edged back toward Micah. “But maybe all I need is practice.”

“No.” The word came out much higher pitched than she wanted.

Gibson’s head jerked toward her as if he was a fish she’d hooked. Control, she needed to stay in control. She took a deep breath, swallowed her fear—it still strangled, caught in her throat, a fist trying to punch its way out. That was all right, because if she was going to save Micah, she needed a bit of fear. To help her play the fish Gibson thought he’d snared…even as she reeled him in.

“No,” she repeated, this time letting fear leach into her voice. It wasn’t her own life she was afraid for. Which actually only made her more frightened. The fact that she’d let someone get close enough to her that she actually felt such a powerful need to protect them. Micah. He was the center of her fear, right now the center of her entire universe. “I’ll drink it. Just don’t hurt him.”

“Good fishy.” He held the vial above her lips, forcing her to tilt her head back and open her mouth beneath it as he released the sedative. “Night-night, tiny fish. Hope and pray I keep my promise and don’t kill you both while you sleep.”

She choked down the bitter tonic. Now came the hard part, the absolute most terrifying role she’d ever played: helpless, powerless, at his mercy until she woke again.

If
she woke again.

When
she woke again, she corrected firmly, the drug already muddling her thoughts. Except for one last, crystal clear revelation. To her surprise it wasn’t a promise of revenge or image of how she would kill Gibson and enjoy watching him die.

No. Her final thought before blackness took her was hope.

Surprising because it was an emotion foreign to her. Morgan never wasted time or energy on empty wishes or dreams. She lived in the real world and made do with what was right there in front of her. She knew what she wanted and she got it—one way or the other. No wishful thinking involved.

But now, for the first time in her life, she clung to hope, sorry, weak thread of a lifeline that it was. Hope that Micah understood. Hope that he could stay strong until she woke and they were together again.

Hope that she could live long enough to save him.

ONCE GIBSON HAD
the girl subdued, the boy toy, Micah, was no problem, not at all. A bit of a letdown, in fact, how easy it was to control him with just a twitch on the noose around Morgan’s unconscious throat. They drove out past the mall, first passing some light industrial parks, then a few downtrodden mobile home communities, finally turning off the main road and heading up into forests peppered with a few scattered small farms, each more isolated than the last and most all of them abandoned, awaiting either foreclosure or demolition.

He directed Micah up the gravel drive to the house he’d found for Clint and the two brothers. It was his mom’s uncle’s before they had to put him in a nursing home two years ago, but he refused to sign it over for the family to sell, so it sat empty. As if it’d just been waiting for Gibson to put it to good use.

The car hadn’t even stopped before the door from the house banged open and the older brother rushed out, shotgun at the ready.

“Just me, just me,” Gibson called as he opened his door, one hand still gripping the two cables that tethered his prisoners. “Brought you some appetizers before tonight’s main event. Are Clint and your brother here?”

“No. They called, said you’re to meet them at the staging area. Said you should take the Toyota, they’re in the SUV.” The brother pushed past Gibson and yanked open the driver’s door, aiming his shotgun at the guy and then Morgan. “She dead? Clint’s not gonna like that.” He whirled on Gibson, the shotgun following the motion. “You better not have ruined this deal for us. If she’s dead, Clint won’t pay—”

“She’s not dead. Just a little chemical restraint.”

“What the hell you thinking, bringing her here? Clint said—”

“Think about it. If you have her, it guarantees you the money.” Gibson restrained an eye roll as he argued with the older brother. Pete. No, Paul. No, Pete. Either way they were both idiots.

The way they refused to let Clint out of their sight, hounding him for their money, always one brother with him. Wasting Clint’s time when he should be helping Gibson. After all, everything Gibson was doing, he was doing for Clint. No matter. After tonight it would all be over and both brothers dead. But in the meantime… “She’s the key to Clint, and the boy’s the key to her. Break one and you break them all.”

Pete considered that, grabbed his phone, and called his brother, filling him in. His other hand—the one with the shotgun—didn’t waver. “At least having her and the kid will relieve the boredom, if nothing else.”

Gibson didn’t need the help of a speaker to hear Paul’s answer. “So would a stick in the eye, don’t make me poke you with one.”

“I’m just saying, if Clint’s got in his head to double-cross us, no way in hell will he leave his girl behind. She’s all I ever heard him talk about. Getting back to her, having fun like they used to.” He made it sound like it was his idea to capture Morgan. Gibson bristled but held his silence. Clint still needed the brothers, which meant so did Gibson.

“Well, don’t have too much fun. She’s no good to us dead.”

“I say it’s more than time we get to have some fun. I’m so damned tired of sitting around here looking at your ugly ass.”

“At least it’s not as ugly as your fat face.”

“Just let Clint know we’re done playing around. He gets us our money. Tonight. Or his precious little girl is ours for the keeping.”

“You get the job done downtown?” Paul meant the arena where the Pitt game was being held tonight.

“Yeah, they’re all good to go. Still think I should come with the kid, back you up.” He eyed Gibson with suspicion. “In case Clint tries to double-cross us.”

“No. Now that we have the girl, that’s not going to happen. Wait there with her. Gotta go, he’s coming.” Paul hung up.

Pete pocketed the phone then swiveled his head to regard Gibson. “And what am I going to do with you? Can’t have you roaming around, playing peeping Tom while I introduce myself to our guests.”

Gibson didn’t like the glint in Pete’s eye—sometimes the brothers forgot that it was Gibson responsible for them being free as well as Clint. He wished Clint had just killed them back at the truck stop where he’d picked them up after they killed the guards. But Clint said he needed at least one of them alive to play fall guy, clear his and Gibson’s escape after tonight.

“Don’t worry about me, I’m headed out. Gotta stay on schedule. Big night tonight.”

“Better be. You know the reward on Clint’s up to six figures. Me and Paulie, we’d best clear at least that with this score of yours. Otherwise…” He didn’t finish his threat. Didn’t have to.

Gibson turned and headed toward the carport where the silver Toyota waited. He made sure he was out of Pete’s sight before he let his feelings show through. He wanted to be confident like Clint, unafraid of the risks he was taking, certain of the outcome. But so much could go wrong, and the stakes were so high.

At least he wouldn’t have to worry about Pete coming after him. Between the two hostages, he was sure Pete would be well occupied until the job was done and he and Clint were long gone.

Poor Morgan. She was in for a rough night of it. Pete might have orders not to kill her, but no one ever said anything about not killing her Sir Galahad—or making her watch.

JENNA AND OSHIRO
arrived at the school and parked outside the police cordon. Most of the kids were gone, except for a bunch who mingled with other civilians beyond the barricades. The Allegheny County bomb squad was there along with the county’s mobile command center, taking point, but Jenna also saw a Pittsburgh city K9 unit and one of their own bomb squad’s tactical vans as well as patrol cars from the Monroeville PD.

Oshiro strode through the crowd of law enforcement like Moses parting the Red Sea, Jenna bobbing along in his wake. The hopeful warm spring air was rapidly being replaced by gusting winds that carried the promise of rain and snow. Despite the cornucopia of cop cars from various jurisdictions, Oshiro led her unerringly to the two things any cop needed: intel and a hot cup of coffee.

They found both inside the mobile command center where Andre and a state trooper were briefing the locals on what they knew about Gibson. When the statie finished, Oshiro introduced her to Jenna as Corporal Harding—“Call me Liz,” she interrupted him—and handed Jenna off to her while he joined Andre at the bank of monitors focused on the search inside the school.

Jenna quickly filled Liz in on what little she knew—well, what little she was willing to share—and watched as Oshiro and Andre quickly bonded over their joysticks and gadgets, conducting an entire conversation via monosyllabic utterances and the occasional chin jerk.

“Guys,” Liz said. “Always with the tribal bonding and alpha dog sniffing.” She shrugged and sipped her coffee. “Whatever gets the job done.”

The RV was small enough that there was no way Oshiro and Andre couldn’t hear her, but the only indication that they did was Oshiro shrugging one shoulder. Liz seemed to translate that as “Come here, we’ve found something,” and the two women moved closer until they could watch the screens over the men’s shoulders.

To Jenna’s surprise, they weren’t monitoring the progress of the bomb techs but rather video feeds of security cameras dating back the past week.

“Principal said there’d been no alarms and no record of Gibson being on the premises at all this week. We had their security company give us access so we could see for ourselves,” Liz explained.

“What about the bomb?” Jenna asked.

“Oh, it’s there. Hiding in plain sight.” Andre switched something on the monitor to reveal a live feed of a long hallway that ended in a set of double doors. A robot was making its way slowly down the hall; the camera he’d accessed must have been a body cam on a bomb tech’s suit.

“Where?”

“Inside the fire extinguisher. Kid emptied out the real one, replaced it. Big question is what with,” Oshiro said.

“And what the trigger device is,” Andre finished for him. “Gibson’s shopping list included European camp stove tablets.”

Damn. The tablets were made of hexamine—a popular detonating agent among amateur bomb makers and terrorists.

“They’ll handle the bomb,” Liz told Jenna. “Our concern is when it was placed. If it was sometime in the past day, we can track the kid’s movements, maybe get a lead on where he was going.”

“Which means a lead on where Clint is.”

“Exactly. If your theory is correct and the kid is our convicts’ conduit to the outside world, then he’s the key to finding them.”

“Except we’re not seeing anything on the security footage,” Andre said.

“Not for today, at least,” Oshiro confirmed, still scrolling through the sped-up footage of the hallway.

“Go back through the entire week,” Liz ordered, but Jenna heard the sigh in her voice. Going into their fourth day of the manhunt—which no doubt meant four days without sleep, proper food, or any hopeful answers, it had to be exhausting.

“In the meantime, we should come at this from another direction. Any word on the girl?” Liz called the question to one of the other cops in the front of the RV.

“Morgan?” Jenna asked. “She’s not in custody?”

“Didn’t have a chance to tell you,” Andre answered, the blur of security footage grainy as it sped past his monitor. “She ran.”

“After we got word of the explosion you were involved in,” Liz added.

“I’d hardly call it an explosion. A few firecrackers, that’s all.” Last thing Jenna needed was the fugitive task force to think she was stupid or careless enough to set off an IED.

“Still,” Liz said, “after Oshiro and Lester called it in, the girl left. No one’s seen her since. We’re not even sure exactly how she got past us.”

“Get used to it,” Jenna said, glad she wasn’t the only one who found Morgan’s propensity to vanish in plain sight irritating. “Morgan does what Morgan wants. She probably got bored and ran off to meet up with her new boyfriend.”

Morgan thought she was being so sly and secretive about Micah—except for the part where she’d asked Andre for advice, and of course, Andre had then told Jenna. Silly man, he’d thought it a sign that Morgan could change, that she had a trace of human feelings.

Andre glanced up at that. “Not a bad idea. We should call Micah. He might know something.”

“You call him.” Jenna had met the kid after Morgan had saved his life and had been barely able to coax two words from him. “He’ll talk to you.”

Andre looked to Liz, who nodded her approval. Leaving the video console in Oshiro’s hands, he stepped to the front of the RV where it was quieter and sat down in the driver’s seat with his phone. He was only gone a few moments when all of the law enforcement comms filled with the tense voices of excited cops. Footsteps pounded past the RV, and men shouted in the distance. Liz turned the monitor feed back to the live action.

The robot had reached the bomb and X-rayed it with its portable unit. The X-ray filled the screen with wires and circuitry that Jenna couldn’t interpret. But there was no mistaking the dismay that filled Oshiro’s face—the fact that he was showing any emotion told her just how bad it was.