Page 151 of Extreme Danger

One thing was for sure, though. This did not feel right. At all.

So fuck it. When he got close to Cedar Mills, he’d call the McClouds. Tell one of them to go collect Becca, and deliver her to the authorities. Fail-safe. You never knew with the FBI. She’d last until then. She was tough. She could deal.

That way he could make his appointment with death with a clear conscience. Which reminded him. He had to get in touch with Tam. He needed all the tricks he could fit up his sleeve, and she was the trickiest chick he knew. Aside from Becca, of course. Becca took the prize.

Not here, though. He got into the truck, put it in gear. He had to get some distance between himself and her. He could feel her despair, waves of it spreading out of that place, slopping over him, making him sick and shaky. He relocked the gate and took off with a squeal of tires. He hit the interstate, pulled off at the first rest stop.

First errand, lose the tag. He strolled by an eighteen-wheeler that was hauling livestock, and slid the tracker and Becca’s phone into one of the slots on the container. Let them get eaten by a pig or a sheep. That would lead those fuckers on a fun chase.

Second errand. He went back to the truck, put a battery into the digital voice recorder, ran it back, and pushed ‘play’ as he pulled back out onto the highway.

“…subject number 100023,” said a low female voice, presumably Diana Evans. “The subject is an eleven-year-old male, poorly nourished. Pulse rate 81, blood pressure 65 over 115, temperature 98.2. Listless and vacant in appearance…”

The recorded voice droned, recording vital signs, noting bruises that suggested abuse and/or vitamin deficiency. An untreated rash, a slightly enlarged liver. She spoke of tissue typing, a buccal swab. She recommended blood screening to rule out viral infections, a urine culture to rule out bladder and kidney infections. In a detached way, she noted the subject’s hygiene and state of emaciation. She recommended reevaluation before any harvest of this particular subject was considered.

Harvest?What the fuck? She wanted to fatten this kid up for—

Sweet holy Jesus. Realization clicked in his mind, like a round being chambered.

Mathes was a cardiologist. Thoracic surgeon. Transplants.

Harvest.Organs. Lab tests, blood and urine samples. They were killing kids for their organs. Filthy, ice-hearted sons of bitches.

Evans’s voice went on. Another numbered subject, ten years old. Same shit. Vital signs, dispassionate, doctorly observations about how scrawny and miserable he looked, but this kid had more spunk than the other, and didn’t like being poked and prodded and stuck with needles. He started to cry for his mama. In Ukrainian.

Evans persevered stubbornly, but her voice took on an edge, and finally, she said“shit,”fiercely.Click.The recording resumed, presumably some time later. The kid was whimpering more quietly now.

“Shut up and stop bothering the doctor, you piece of dogshit, or I’ll make you squeal like a stuck pig,”snarled an evil male voice. Ukrainian, also. The kid choked off his sniffles, and Evans’s voice continued with her report. But her voice had now begun to shake.

On and on. Child after child, number after number. The kids kept getting younger. All protested the needle. Some wept, some whimpered, some shrieked. Evans was breaking down. Her voice trembled, she stuttered, repeated herself, transposed words, got confused, had to run the tape back and start again. And if there was any ruckus, that voice was ready to intervene with his evil threats. It would have made Nick slit-his-wrists miserable even if he had not already been so.

Every last trace of sympathy he might have had for Diana Evans drained away. If she hadn’t been evil and cold enough to suit those murdering pricks, it sure as shit wasn’t from lack of trying.

For some reason, the fact that she’d tried made it worse. A psychopath couldn’t help what he was. But why would a person who actually possessed a functioning conscience deliberately try to deactivate it? It made him so angry, so bewildered. He blew out air, tried to breathe. For money? Meaningless, stupid money? How could they value it so highly? He just didn’t get it. He never had.

But fortunately, puzzling that mystery out was not his job.

“Subject 100089. Well-developed, poorly nourished adolescent female…”

He snapped to attention, pulled off at the exit and pulled over to listen more closely.

“…pulse rate 79, blood pressure 70 over 120, temperature 97.9. What appeared to be a severe skin eruption on her neck now appears to be a port-wine birthmark…”

He sucked in air, electrified.Sveti.Oh, God. Alive. Holy fucking shit. Alive. As of forty-eight hours ago, she wasalive.

And in the hands of organ pirates.

“…priority rush on these lab tests, as Subject 100089 is scheduled for harvest on Sunday the twenty-seventh…”

That was today. That was fuckingtoday.

His lungs were locked and his throat burned. Christ, he couldn’t stop breathing now. He might still have a chance to save her.

Sveti was speaking on the recorder. He recognized her soft voice, pleading for help from that worthless Evans bitch in the pidgin English that Nick had taught her. And being completely ignored.

She abandoned the English in favor of a babbling flood of high-pitched Ukrainian, but he couldn’t make out most of it because Evans was screaming.Damn it—shut up, you stupid cow, let me hear her—

The recording cut off abruptly. His body shook. He wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve. No time for feelings. No time for tears.

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