"JESUS!" Herb swears at the top of his voice. "God!"

  Relief floods her veins. If Herb can scream that loudly, maybe he’ll be all right. She pushes him off her, searching his trembling body for a dark hole. There’s nothing except that gash on his arm.

  "Herb—listen to me! Were you shot?"

  He grabs his chest and flattens his palms on his abdomen. "I think I’m okay."

  Jules looks at the sky and says a silent thank you. She thought she’d shot him. Her hands won’t stop shaking. Forcing herself to pull it together, she aims her gun for the gaps in the cars. The train grinds to a halt. She can’t see Jacob. It’ll take a few minutes to walk to him.

  "Go back," she tells Herb. "Make sure they’ve called for help."

  "Okay." Herb limps to his feet and jogs toward the stopped ACT train. Jules reaches the last car, leaping over the tracks. As soon as she peeks her head around, she sees Jacob lying there on the gravel. A trail of bright red snakes through the rocks.

  Tension knots her muscles. "Jacob, if you can hear me—hands up!"

  He doesn’t move.

  "Answer me right now!"

  His hair sways with the rushing wind, but Jacob lies still. Gritting her teeth, she edges closer. Please let him be alive. The gravel moves beneath her feet. Jules comes across the knife, and she sweeps it aside with her foot.

  With a mighty groan, Jacob rolls to his side. A dark stain spreads over the hole in his shoulder, his arm bright with blood.

  "Don’t move!"

  He makes a grimace, spittle flying through his clenched teeth as he reaches for something on the ground. It’s a small object, square-shaped, with a screen.

  Cell phone.

  "STOP!"

  He flips it open, and her gun follows the movement. She pulls the trigger as his thumb sweeps over the call button. The shot slams Jacob into the rocks. Another wound blooms from his chest. Jules surges forward, kicking the cell phone from his limp hand. It spins in a circle before she can read the screen.

  Connected.

  Chapter 17

  2:23 PM – San José

  Detective Landry is sick of this. For hours he’s been locked up in this living room from hell surrounded by choo-choo books, a dead Christmas tree, and of course, the bomb.

  How could he forget it?

  Every so often he distracts himself from words like severed limbs and gore by talking to Candace about whatever pops into his mind, but it always comes back to the IED sitting a few feet beside them. A jolt goes straight to his heart when he glances at the metal hull playing hide-and-seek under the tree’s branches. It’s doused in white foam that’s supposed to render it inert, but he’s not sure he trusts that. He listens hard whenever there’s silence, waiting for some telltale sound. A ticking, perhaps. Even though he knows modern bombs don’t do that.

  It doesn’t help that the bomb retrieval unit is a giant robot on wheels. It’s their only company besides the voices shouting from Landry’s speakerphone.

  "She shouldn’t be in there," Sergeant Whitlock says, Landry recognizing his bold tones. "Keeping her in the apartment is a huge risk."

  The negotiations expert speaks up. "I don’t disagree, but I think we should wait until we have contact with Detective Sawyer."

  "Well, Kurt, she’s not answering her phone, so I’m assuming—"

  "How could you assume anything without talking to him first? We don’t even know if he’s on that train!"

  The speaker explodes with Whitlock’s voice. "Sawyer's in the thick of it, and that’s why she’s not answering."

  "That or the connection is poor."

  "We don’t have time! There’s an IED sitting right next to a twelve-year-old girl. Do you want her death on your conscience?"

  Landry grabs the iPhone, switching off the speakerphone. Too late.

  Candace draws the towel around her legs, staring at the screen in wide-eyed horror.

  "Don’t listen to him, hon. Everything will be fine, just fine." God, he doesn’t even sound like he believes that anymore. Landry gives the girl what he hopes is a reassuring smile and stands, phone against his ear. "This is Landry, and I want to know what’s the status for the video."

  Whitlock sighs. "About thirty minutes."

  Making sure he’s out of earshot, Landry hisses into the mouthpiece. "We might not have that long."

  "There’s nothing I can do. It'll take time for our technicians to splice that nanny cam’s feed with a video loop."

  "I don’t like waiting around. That psycho could detonate the bomb any second."

  "Frankly, I agree," Whitlock says, cutting in. "Landry, grab the girl and get out."

  Kurt’s angry tones blast through the speaker. "You have no idea how often he’s checking on her. If he sees the robot in that room, all it’ll take is one ring, and it’s all over!"

  "The robot is out of range. He won't see it."

  The phone slips in his hand. He presses the edge into the divot between his ribs. It thumps hard with his pulse. He imagines the bomb going off, his ribcage cracking open like two shells of a walnut, his aorta slashed by the nuts and bolts glued inside the pressure cooker. He thinks of all the things he never said to his wife, how his kids would grow up without a father. She doesn’t even know he’s here.

  What would she say if she did?

  Landry presses the phone to his numb face. "I can’t stay here anymore. I’m leaving with the girl."

  "What? No! Detective, you need to wait!"

  "Godspeed," Whitlock says. "Just get out of there quickly. Don’t linger."

  The voices cut off when he ends the call, and he sticks the phone in his back pocket. Candace stands, the towel falling to the floor. "Can we leave now?"

  His heart jackknifes in his chest. "Yes, but we have to do it fast."

  "We’ll make a run for it."

  He can’t get over how calm the girl is. Candace looks relieved to be free from the boredom. Landry’s jaw is clenched so tight he can hear his teeth creak. The teenager walks toward the door, turning around to wave at the silent robot. Then she makes a rude gesture at the nanny cam sitting in the corner of the room, watching their every move.

  "Candace." For the love of God. "Let’s go."

  She runs across the apartment. The floorboards creak, and Landry winces. Under his weight, they make even louder sounds.

  Almost there.

  Candace reaches the door first, giving him a questioning look before yanking it open. Light spills into the apartment. She walks out, and Landry holds his breath as though he expects the whole world to blow apart.

  Then he runs like hell.

  Losing it completely, he sprints out of the hellhole and grabs Candace’s upper arm. She yelps as he half-yanks her toward the stairwell, and together they launch down the narrow steps. A pain tightens his chest.

  He hears it before he feels the heat searing up his back. An explosion pierces his eardrums, blasts him off his feet. He dives down the stairs, shielding Candace's body with his own. A cloud of fire billows out through the hole in the ceiling and licks the walls. Light fixtures explode and drown them in darkness as smoke quickly fills the stairwell.

  The girl screams. Landry yanks her to her feet, and they fly down the stairs. Landry doesn’t stop when his lungs insist he should. He doesn’t stop when they’ve cleared the landing of the first floor, and he keeps running when they reach outside. The air is acrid and thick with car exhaust, but to Landry it smells like freedom.

  He drags a protesting Candace through the wall of police officers and firefighters down the closed block, where he knows her parents are waiting.

  "You can let go now!" She yanks her elbow out of his grip.

  "I-I just." His heart won’t stop racing.

  "Geez, are you okay?"

  Deep breaths. He needs to calm down. "Yeah," he says on an exhale. "Let’s find your parents."

  "Okay."

  They continue at a less frantic pace. The moment she spots them waiting on the other side of the cordoned-off area, she sprints toward them with a gleeful cry. "Mom!"

  Landry watches them reunite, Mrs. Parker smoothing her broad hands over her daughter’s hair. The 9-1-1 responders from the waiting van gently peel her away, and once she’s in their care, Landry allows himself to relax.

  Until a familiar woman stops in front of him, arms crossed. "Detective."

  "Oh God, not you."

  Naomi frowns at the comment. "Are you feeling all right? You're pale."

  "I’m fantastic," he exhales. "Almost got blown up."

  Naomi purses her lips. "Why don’t you have a seat," she says as though he's a patient in her office. She grabs his elbow and leads him toward a park bench. They sit, somewhat awkwardly.

  "You look like you’re about to faint."

  He glares at her. "Go away."

  "Whoa, I didn’t mean it in a bad way."

  "Go away."

  "I’m not here to pick a fight."

  "Good." If she’s not leaving, he will. He stands up. So does she. Christ, why can't she take a hint?

  "I wanted to say thank you for bringing Candace out safely. When I heard the bomb go off, I thought the worst." Pain crosses her features as she glances at the girl being led away in the ambulance. "She means a great deal to me. I’m sorry if I was short with you."

  Naomi attempts a smile and sticks her hand out.

  It’s been the longest day of his career. All he wants is a hot bath and a towel over his eyes. The faster he can get rid of her, the better. Besides, there’s no use holding on to a grudge. At his age he can’t afford the cortisol increase. Exhaling a deep breath, Landry shakes her hand. "Fine. Apology accepted."

  She’s still standing there. "Aren’t you going to say something?"

  The crazy woman thinks she deserves praise for what she’s done. As far as he’s concerned, he’s already thanked her by not charging her with anything. "Thanks for finding Candace."

  "I meant more like an apology."

  "I wasn’t aware I owed you one."

  Naomi puts her hands on her hips. "Really? You never took me seriously."

  "You’re the one who picked up an amputated foot," he points out. "How am I supposed to take that?"

  "God! I’m just trying to bury the hatchet." An officer approaches Naomi, who wheels around with a rude, "What?"

  "Ma’am, you need to leave. This is the third time I’ve asked you."

  "Fine!" she says, pushing him aside. "No one appreciates what I do."

  She stomps toward the crowd of civilians, and Landry watches her go, not quite certain he’s seen the last of her.

  Chapter 18

  2:36 PM – Somewhere near Bakersfield

  The sirens of police cruisers and ambulances arrive while Jules tries to save Jacob’s worthless life. It’s not looking good, but at least the bullet went through. She found the exit wound on his back. Blood flows over her fingers as she staunches the flow. It pools in his lips when he mouths something that’s lost in the noise. Someone gives her a blanket, and she wraps it around him.

  "Stay alive, damn you."

  The ambulance drives over the train tracks and stops. Doors burst open, and paramedics rush toward them. They crouch at Jacob’s side and start packing his wounds, tearing his shirt with a pair of scissors. The sight of his pale, motionless chest fills Jules with a pang of guilt. There might be another innocent victim because she failed to stop the killer.

  Within seconds he’s strapped to the stretcher and loaded into the van, which drives off in a burst of sirens. A second ambulance rolls up, along with a California State Police cruiser. The doors open and a lean figure slides out of the passenger seat. Sergeant Detective Whitlock wheels his eagle-like gaze and immediately picks her out of the crowd of people. More paramedics disembark from the ambulance, and Whitlock points them in her direction.

  Jules fights the rising tide of vomit as they sprint toward her. She tugs at her collar with bloodstained hands. It’s hard to breathe.

  "She’s going to faint," Whitlock says, voice full of alarm.

  That arrogant asshole would love it if she passed out.

  She opens her mouth to tell him off, and a stream of bright yellow acid spews out instead. Doubled over, she clutches her stomach as another powerful surge rises up her throat. This time it splatters over her shoes. Vomit drips from her lips, which taste like fake cherries.

  Whitlock frowns. "Better out than in. I thought a seasoned cop like you would be used to violence."

  He thinks she’s fragile enough to puke from a little blood. "He drugged me, you idiot."

  "What?"

  "It’s all out of my system now. I'm fine." Jules wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

  "No you’re not," he says, turning toward the paramedic. "Take her to the hospital."

  "No!"

  The young paramedic, a man with closely cropped hair, listens to her heartbeat and shakes his head. "Your pulse is a bit slow."

  "It’s been a stressful day. Whitlock, I’m not going to the damn hospital."

  His face darkens. "This is not up for negotiation, Sawyer. What did he give you?"

  "He didn't tell me. I can manage the symptoms just fine. Taking me to a hospital is unnecessary."

  "Jesus, listen to yourself. I realize you’re scared of hospitals, but your life might be on the line. You don’t even know what he gave you."

  She waves off the paramedic, who gives her a stern look. "If you’re refusing medical advice, I’m going to need you to sign a waiver."

  "She’s not," Whitlock says. "Put her on the damn stretcher and let’s go."

  Giving up, Jules allows them to lift her into the ambulance. Whitlock follows into the van despite her protests. The sky disappears when the doors shut, the four walls tight around her.

  Like a coffin.

  "Scared?" A smirk staggers across Whitlock’s face. "So that you know, I’m not going to hold your hand."

  "Bite me," she says through clenched teeth.

  Jules knows damn well her phobia of hospitals and doctors is inconvenient for a cop. Hell, it’s dangerous. She’s not getting any younger, but every time she picks up the phone to make an appointment her muscles tense up and her heart gallops ahead.

  "I’m just kidding." He leans forward, patting her shoulder. "You did good, Sawyer."

  "Roofies," she deadpans. Jules must’ve heard incorrectly. She sits up on her elbows and stares at the doctor. "You’re saying he spiked my drink with the date-rape drug?"

  Doctor Ross is a man in his late sixties with a shock of white hair. He speaks to her in a gentle voice. "Trace amounts of Rohypnol were found in your blood, yes."

  "Great." She settles back into her pillow, hating the sterile scent of the room and its blinding whiteness. "When can I get out of here?"

  "Before we discuss that, there’s something more about your lab results. You have a slightly elevated white blood cell count, and your sedimentation rate is higher than normal."

  "How high?"

  "Enough to concern me. I’d like to run a few more tests—"

  "No."

  The doctor looks appalled. "You could have an infection."

  She doesn’t want to hear this. Jules swings her legs off the bed.

  "You really shouldn’t be moving!"

  "I can’t stand another second in this hospital."

  "I’d like to at least keep you overnight for observation."

  "No can do. My father’s expecting me, and I’m already late." Jules rips the tape off her forearm, but the doctor grabs her wrist before she removes the IV.

  Warm brown eyes meet her gaze. "You’re going to hurt yourself, Ms. Sawyer."

  "I appreciate the concern. I promise I’ll get myself looked after." One day, she thinks. Not now.

  The door bursts open as Whitlock strolls inside, taking in the scene with a scowl. "Is she being a pain in the ass?" he asks the doctor.

  "She’s—"

  "I’m fine," she says, talking over him. "They found Rohypnol in my system."

  He nods, looking unsurprised. "There was a bag of pills in his jacket. Lab’s testing it now to confirm, but that was my first guess. Is she going to be okay?"

  The doctor sighs as he pulls out her central line. "She needs to rest, but she’ll be all right."

  "Thanks, Doc."

  Doctor Ross smiles at him and shoots another concerned look at her before sweeping out of the room. As much as she hates doctors, she’s sorry to see the man go. Doctor Ross wasn’t bad company compared to him.

  Whitlock leans against the wall, raking a hand through his hair. "The ME recovered Brandon’s body. The kid’s parents are devastated."

  Thinking of that boy with his backpack full of meticulous notes makes her throat tighten. "There was a glass near him—did you find it?"

  "Yeah. The ME is working on him, but he suspects anaphylaxis. The kid’s mom said he didn’t have a nut allergy. It’s rare to have an allergic reaction to Rohypnol, but possible, I guess."

  "And Mark Nilsen?"

  "Lab won’t know for a few days, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that was his MO. Drug them to make them compliant, and then strangle them for a quick, easy kill. He’s too weedy to throttle people with his bare hands."

  "Is he dead, then?"

  "He’s hanging in there. The doctors say if he survives the weekend he has a good shot of standing trial."

  Whitlock averts his gaze when she slides out of the sheets in her underwear, his face going pink as she grabs a folded pair of sweats on the chair. The cheap, abrasive fabric almost makes her wish for her bloodstained, puke-covered clothing.

  "What about the girl—you said she’s alive?"

  "Yeah, they got out just in time. The IED detonated, but firefighters were able to contain the fire quickly. Anyway, I had a chat with the Parkers. Turns out Candace and Jacob were adoptive siblings. They kept the girl but kicked Jacob to the curb after a trial period. He was too much for them to handle, and after two stints in juvie he lived on the streets until he got into a halfway house."

  It’s a sad story. "He kept raving about his father and how all the victims were out to get him."