Rising Hope by Edie James

24

Sarah screamed.The scene was still so muddled in her mind it didn’t seem real:

Enzo sprawled in front of the open van doors, obviously unconscious. Or worse.

Munson glared at her, his close-set eyes intense. He raised the tire iron again.

“Stop!” she yelled and raced toward Enzo. What had Munson been thinking?

Panetta ran behind her, his heavy footfalls close on her heels. He’d be armed. Please let him be armed, she prayed. Whatever Munson was up to, she couldn’t let him kill Enzo. She launched herself at the husky agent.

Panetta grabbed her, holding her back. “Ho, there, Walker. Back off.”

She whirled on him. “What’s going on? Enzo’s one of us.”

“He’s not one of us,” Panetta argued, her purse in his hand. “Neither are you.”

Ice hit her veins. Now it made sense. The tension. The secrecy.

Whatever the two agents had planned, it involved getting her and Enzo out of the way.

But why? If they wanted the drugs, all they had to do was drive off, like usual. Reality knifed her in the gut. This wasn’t about stealing the B3yond. Or maybe it was, but there was more.

Panetta’s next act cemented her suspicion. Rather than draw down on his partner, he shoved her closer to Enzo’s body and pointed his weapon at her chest. “Get in the van.”

She agonized. If she cooperated, they might leave him alone. It was her only play. With a last look at his crumpled body, she climbed in behind the duffle bags.

“Sit,” he ordered. “Hands behind your back.”

Though she ached to attack, she knew she had no chance against two armed agents. Not yet.

“Good girl,” Panetta said before turning to his partner. “Cuff her, then we’ll deal with the Coastie.”

Munson pulled out a set of cuffs and climbed in after her, securing her wrists to a steel shelf. Though long emptied of its original cargo, the sickly-sweet odor of bug spray remained. Her stomach heaved, but she choked back the wave of nausea.

It wouldn’t help, but she couldn’t stop herself from yanking against her restraints. Sheer desperation brought long-forgotten words of prayer to her lips. Please don’t let Enzo be dead. Please.

She had no right to ask, but Enzo trusted the Lord. He deserved every possible chance at life. And so she begged God to protect him.

Panetta threw her purse on the other side of the van. “Now him,” he ordered Munson.

Munson wiped sweat from his forehead and made a face. “The guy weighs a ton. Can’t you just end him now?”

“Not part of the plan.”

“Right.” Munson heaved a sigh. “Whatever.” He groaned, raising Enzo up by the shoulders.

Panetta holstered his weapon and grabbed Enzo’s booted feet. Enzo’s limp form sagged, his head lolling sickeningly.

Sarah moaned softly.

With a couple swings, they tossed him onto the floor next to her. He landed with a thud, coming to rest on his back, face white, lips parted, one arm laid across her satchel.

She pulled hard against her restraints, needing to touch him, to feel his pulse against her fingertips.

Please be alive. Please.

One booted foot lolled outside the open door. Panetta climbed in, nudging Enzo’s leg until his whole body was inside.

“Don’t you touch him,” she warned.

Her threat obviously amused him. “Or you’ll what?”

She looked away.

He squatted between the two of them and pressed a finger to Enzo’s neck, then grunted. “He’s alive. No worries. We only need you two for a little while longer. You’ll understand once I have a chance to explain.” He threw a glance at Munson, just returning from the helicopter with the last load of drugs. “Promise.”

His words were meant to reassure her, but they did the exact opposite. Of course, he’d want her calm. Whatever he had planned, it did not bode well for her or Enzo, that she did believe.

Her gaze skittered over Enzo’s unconscious form. Heart hammering against her ribs, she forced herself to look beyond him. There had to be something she could use as a weapon once they uncuffed her.

They would. She knew that now. Oh, they planned to kill the two of them. That was a certainty, but Panetta wasn’t lying. They’d put them in the van for a reason.

Which meant she had time. All she had to do was turn that into an opportunity.

Munson heaved the loaded duffels into the van. “That’s it,” he said to Panetta. “What do you wanna do with the chopper?”

Panetta shrugged. “Leave it.”

Munson flapped his arms. “Suits me.” He jutted his chin at the sharp ridgeline high above them. “Let’s get outta here. I got dinner plans.”

Without a word, Panetta whipped out his weapon and fired. Munson flew backwards, mouth agape.

Sarah screamed, lunging toward Enzo so hard her arms practically tore out of their sockets. The stench of cordite and blood clogged her nostrils.

She waited, tense as steel, for Panetta to finish the job, killing them both.

Instead, he grabbed a shop rag from the floor of the van, climbed out, and stood over the body, calmly wiping his prints off the weapon before holding it up to her by the trigger guard. “Lose something?”

The weapon glinted in the fading light. Her Glock.

Panetta nodded as if she’d spoken aloud. “Borrowed it from your purse. Thanks, by the way. Just a little insurance. You’ll understand when we lay the whole thing out.”

Handling her weapon with the rag, he holstered it, then reached beneath the passenger seat, pulling out another handgun. His own, she presumed. He sighted into the trees and squeezed off two quick shots.

A minute later, he climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “Might as well relax,” he told her. “We’ve got a long drive.”

He floored the accelerator, making her head snap back. The rear wheels skidded on the dirt, sending the rear of the vehicle sliding before it regained traction.

Sarah pressed her head back against the edge of the shelving and prayed for Enzo, for the dead agent, and for her own, tattered soul.