Recovered Secrets. Jessica R. Patch
Bogota? Isn’t Atlanta where the CDC is based?”
“She’s spent decades in South America—mostly Bogota, but before that, yes. She’s from Illinois. Went to school at Yale. She’s a genius. PhD, Genetic bioengineer. It’s crazy how smart this woman is,” Wheezer said.
“I believe this is your doctor,” Wilder said. “For one, the timeline fits and no other Dr. Sayer is missing. Bogota may be the key link. If she was there and Latino men have come looking for her, then Colombians make sense. You may be connected to Bogota, Grace.”
Grace shivered. Why would she have been there? She couldn’t even remember where Colombia was, but she sure as the grass was green could assemble a sniper rifle. “Do you have the skills, Wheezer, to find out how many female snipers are in the military?”
Wheezer chuckled. “I am flattered that you would think that...and I don’t know...”
“Some things are off-limits, Wheezer,” Wilder said with a cautionary tone. “I don’t need the military getting a red flag they’ve been breached and descending on us.”
Right. True. Grace was desperate.
“And even if I could—which I might—it would take a long time to crack through the number of firewalls and encrypted security. Do you think you might be a sniper in the military?” he asked.
No. She was afraid she was a gun for hire or something equally as terrifying. But the Colombian men didn’t think the doctor was dead. Which meant Grace hadn’t been sent to kill her. Kidnap her? She needed a paper bag to breathe in.
“She put a Barrett M82A1 together in twenty-three seconds, and that was because she was hesitating at first.”
Wilder whistled. “Well done, lady.”
Yeah. She guessed so. “What about Peter Rainey?”
“That’s where things get fun,” Wilder said. “Peter Rainey doesn’t exist. At least no one who matched the photo you sent. We called the rental car company. They weren’t missing any vehicles but when they did a check at our insistence, they did find a tag stolen along with some rental papers. They checked their cameras and sent us footage, but this guy was good. No facial image. Nothing we could even use to ping off. But it’s pretty obvious this Peter Rainey did it.”
Grace’s head might explode. What did this mean?
“Anything else?” Hollis asked.
“We ran a check on the make and model of the car. We found one reported stolen from a used car lot about seventy miles from Cottonwood,” Wilder said.
Peter Rainey stole a car, stole a car tag and papers from a rental place which was pretty smart. If he was pulled over, he’d have the papers to match the license plate and the police would assume it was legit and not a stolen vehicle. “Thanks for all the help.”
“No prob. If you need anything else, we’re a phone call away.”
They hung up and Hollis stared into the wind. He rubbed the stubble on his chin.
After several long beats, Grace couldn’t stand it. Was he thinking the worst too? Would it change the way he felt about her—as a friend that is? Hollis didn’t think of Grace romantically. “I’m going to clean out the storage shed.” She rushed to the side of the building. Hollis didn’t follow. He was thinking the worst. His good friend, sweet Grace who rescued little girls from the woods, quilted with a group of senior ladies, baked cookies with Tish and drank chamomile tea probably blew heads off human beings for cash—if she wasn’t a sniper. But why would Colombians hunt down a military sniper? That made no sense. No... Grace had a sick feeling she wasn’t the good guy at all.
She hauled open the shed door and the smell of river water smacked into her senses. A tiny crack of light pushed its way through the filthy window. As she weaved through the equipment, kayaks, canoes and paddles hanging on the walls, she made her way to the back. She didn’t even know why she told Hollis she was coming to do this. The shed was in order and would never be spotless from dirt and cobwebs. She needed a minute to think. To process the information.
Hollis must have known that—or he was too overwhelmed and unable to find the words to come find her. It was a horrible situation and Grace might be a horrible person. Maybe she was overreacting. But if she’d been in a profession as docile as a kindergarten teacher, she wouldn’t be in Bogota or know how to assemble a rifle. She searched Bogota on her phone. Capital of Colombia. Terrorists! Drugs!
Hairs on her arms rose but before she could turn, a rowing oar came around her neck and strong arms used it to pull her backward, choking her with the wooden paddle. She elbowed the attacker and instead of trying to move forward, she pressed into him, giving her some room to breathe. Grace shoved him into the kayaks stacked against the wall.
“I wasn’t expecting too much of a fight,” he said.
Challenge accepted. That same crazy sensation rushed over her and without thought, she twisted around, but he shoved her forward and pulled a gun. “You’re going with me.”
She stared at the gun, her heart slamming into her rib cage, but a memory bobbed on the edge of her consciousness. She lurched forward, disarmed him in two moves and rendered him useless. She grabbed the ropes hanging on the wall and went to work. Whoever this man was, he was going to talk. No matter what she had to do.
* * *
Hollis heard the commotion in the shed. Grace probably knocked the kayaks over like dominoes again. He headed that way to help her but his mind wouldn’t let up on what he’d witnessed. She’d assembled that rifle like a pro. Like someone who had done it hundreds or thousands of times. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but it unsettled him. Not to mention, she had a memory flash in her kitchen that she didn’t want to share, one she tried to switch subjects about with hopes he’d forget, but he hadn’t. He wouldn’t. But Hollis wasn’t one to press. He had memories he would rather not share too.
He heard another thud and picked up his pace. When he reached the shed, Grace had an oar to a man’s neck and he was bound to a rickety chair.
“Who are you?” she asked with more force than he’d heard from her before.
The man in the chair was about Hollis’s height. Two-eighty. Military haircut. Hardened ice-blue eyes and defiance all over his clean-shaven face. Maybe mid-to late-twenties.
“Grace?” When Grace turned her head, she had the look of a hungry wolf. Teeth bared, wild eyes. Who was this woman?
“What?” she demanded with an edge in her voice.
A soft answer turneth away wrath.
The proverb swept through his mind. “Hey,” he whispered. “I just want to know what’s going on. Are you all right?”
Suddenly it was like a fog cleared in her eyes. She dropped the paddle and backed away as if she’d terrified herself.
“Go ahead,” the man said. “Do what you do best, lapdog. You won’t get anything out of me.” He laughed and Hollis assessed him. He was breakable. Still young. Tough. But he could be forced to talk. Hollis had no plans to try it. This wasn’t war, but Grace’s life was at stake. Had Hollis not shown up when he had, Grace may have tried to break the man, and she probably would have succeeded.
“I—I have no... I don’t even—” Grace rushed from the shed, sprinting across the yard.
Hollis turned to Crewcut. “Why did you call Mad Max a lapdog? You know she does what she wants when she wants. Or are you the lapdog sent to fetch her? Never actually seen her up close have you?” Hollis grinned, hoping his acting skills worked. If he could use the nickname and pretend as if he knew who she was, then this guy might slip up and give him another clue. And if Crewcut knew she was a lapdog, and if doing what she did best implied—he swallowed—torture, then this kid had severely underestimated Grace, which made him stupid or he knew her only by reputation—Mad Max. Maybe.
“Max