Page 74 of Secondhand Secrets

“I’m sorry.” Her apology came as a pleading cry. For the first time in her life, she wanted pity, but all he did was push her onto a seat and slam the van door shut before her very eyes.

In an odd moment of stillness, her mind latched to all the action movies she’d ever watched that had left her hugely misinformed.

Neither man bothered to tie her or Sarah up. They didn’t even restrain her with a buckled seatbelt. Only the low thunk of the van’s central locking alerted her to her narrowed chance for escape. That, and the threat of being shot.

The man who’d held her to the tree now sat in the front passenger seat, his torso turned as he pointed a gun at her and Sarah. A perpetual sleaze ball, his leering returned. Not wanting to vomit or cause any more trouble, she focused on the gray fabric seat in front of her, absorbing the first jolt of the van rolling forward.

Her incessant nausea rose again, and she pressed her eyes shut, scrambling for composure. She was being taken farther from freedom—perhaps closer to her last moments alive—the pain and fog in her head offering a louder warning.

As though her fate had already been sealed before she’d even stepped into this van.

As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t look at Sarah, a woman who’d escaped the Syndicate once before, only to gamble that escape on trying to save Ally today.

Tears trickled down Ally’s face.

Nothing about this situation was fair, and maybe she couldn’t look at Sarah, but she could reach out and offer the only thing left to give. Solidarity.

She did just that, wrapping her fingers around Sarah’s hand on the seat and imparting what would perhaps be her final words. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry that she had anything to do with Sarah being in this situation.

Sorry for the stupid fight.

Sorry for every hasty misunderstanding. That she’d deemed a decade of friendship tainted because of some panicked promise Chip had convinced Sarah to make.

Ally was sorry.

Sarah wouldn’t have come for her today if, at some point, this friendship hadn’t turned true.

Ally feared Sarah hadn’t heard her, and long moments passed before a gentle squeeze on her hand confirmed her concern unfounded. Sarah accepted the apology. For better or worse, they were in this together.

Ally’s tears fell thicker and faster, and she closed her eyes to slow the dizziness gripping her brain. She’d been so childish. So insecure and too quick to react, every perceived slight heightened because of a squabble over a man.

The van shifted and mingled her shame with fear, forcing her eyes to open to witness the road change to a long driveway leading to an abandoned farm. The Dalton farm. Empty for three years now, the Daltons long ago moved to the city. The farm so vast and far from town that it still failed to sell.

Ally’s hope fizzled to nothing, and a sob squeaked up her throat, this place one of the most isolated in an already remote town. So isolated the no one would find her and Sarah. Not for a long time. Not until it was far too late.

Thirty-Six

Chip’s hands remained cuffed behind his back, even within the lavish interior of Mark Farro’s private jet, the man’s hired goon seated across the aisle and pointing a gun Chip’s way.

Another guy sat on a tan leather seat up ahead, Chip’s confiscated laptop open on the tray holder while the man’s nimble fingers tapped at the keys.

Close to three hours passed, and this man hadn’t paused for a break, his flustered pace indicative of fear. Like his life depended on finding Stonewall’s now deleted code.

Chip could predict what went through the guy’s head. Hope that the code was in the OS temp file store. Or if that didn’t work, try to recover it from the hard drive cache. All the typical places deleted data might hide. But now, the plane’s weight shifted, and Chip’s attention fell to a stretch of field appearing below a dipping wing, Harlow’s distinctive landscape prodding the heavy feeling already pulling at his stomach.

Now, all he wanted to do was jump up and down, to cause any sort of distraction to turn this flight around, but then his focus left the trees dotting the Mirabelle River and hit the goon with the gun. The man’s lips were curled in a “try me” expression, and the promise of death wilted Chip’s will to fight.

So he slumped back in his seat, as much as he could without his hands jabbing him in the back.

Of course, Mark would take me here.

Chip thought back to his initial phone call from Mark, back when he’d pretended to be Jay Evans, Encode’s slightly too enthusiastic senior manager. He’d mentioned Stonewall’s unique capabilities and the idea of reverse engineering Chip’s program.

Now, Chip couldn’t stop thinking about all the evil things reverse engineering might achieve. Stolen identities. Broken bank networks. Untold damage…

The Syndicate wasn’t above indiscriminately ruining lives. He’d seen that through his sister’s ordeal. And people who already struggled would lose even more. Maybe everything.

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