Marco was in full-on combat mode, but without the weapons and physical ability to get into the fight. Instead of using his brain to strategize and help plan, he was trying to figure out a way to get out of the hospital, which he knew to be something that could cost him dearly. He knew this was counterproductive thinking but with the drugs in his system, he was fighting a losing battle over his consciousness. Patel instructed he be given another sleep aid, which at first only intensified his mental wanderings.
Every single one of his mistakes came flaring to the surface. Yes, he should have told Shannon about the full conversation with Rebecca. He should have demanded someone go follow her. He should have demanded answers from Rebecca that afternoon when they visited her. There were so many things he should have followed up on and didn’t.
But the biggest regret, as he fell into a deep sleep, was that he hadn’t assigned someone to Shannon’s security team immediately. That was a fatal flaw and had the possibility of causing—he didn’t want to think about it. He’d been a dumbass, worrying about the project first, when someone was already two steps ahead of him.
And he had no clear idea who or what he was fighting.
Chapter 15
Shannon woke up with a skull-splitting headache. She was also sick to her stomach and dizzy. She tried to roll to her side but found she was fully constrained and panicked when she discovered her mouth had been taped over with duct tape. That meant she could suffocate on her own vomit!
Her legs were also bound with duct tape at the ankles, and her hands done the same way behind her back. She tried to push her feet against some surface to try to right herself since she couldn’t use her arms, but when she did so, she felt pieces of equipment moving rather than a hard structure to boost from. Her ears were buzzing with the sound of a heavy-duty diesel motor. She was in the camper shell of a diesel pickup, just like the one she’d seen at the dog park that day!
Another wave of nausea came over her. She inhaled and exhaled deeply, hoping to clear her head, telling herself she was not sick, trying to coax her stomach into submission. She did not have the ability to put her head between her knees, but the deep breathing calmed her and soon she became distracted by all sorts of ideas and visions.
Shannon took an assessment of her environment. She could hear traffic, like on a freeway. The road was smooth. The equipment her feet had encountered was small enough to slide and it rattled with the rhythm of the truck’s bouncing over occasional uneven pavement. She checked all her extremities. Nothing hurt, but the lack of blood circulation to her wrists was hurting, making her hands feel warm and swollen. But as she tried, the tape didn’t budge.
When she checked her ankle restraints, there was more movement. But after several minutes trying to pry herself free, she couldn’t make enough space to get one leg released. So, she went back to her hands, and this time, felt something sharp against her fingers. Then she smelled oil or some solvent. From the shape of the sharp metal piece, she identified it as a propeller blade, perhaps a small boat motor. Trying to push it back and forth, she confirmed that it was heavy, and began to rub the tape against the edge of the blade until she was able to slice through the tape to free herself.
Next, she removed the tape from her mouth and gasped, inhaling in gulps, and becoming sicker, her stomach gurgling in protest as she smelled and almost tasted the thick fumes from the motor in the stifling hot compartment. She didn’t have much in her stomach, so when she involuntarily vomited, all she gave up was a sickening bitter bile.
She was able to sit up at last, leaning over to unbind her ankles, rubbing them to increase circulation.
Shannon became aware that lights flashed occasionally through tiny windows in the side of the camper shell, figuring out they were streetlamps as they drove by. As the light illuminated the contents of the camper, she recognized pieces of camera equipment that looked vaguely familiar. Several heavy black electrical cords were in the corner, wrapped in coils, strapped with Velcro ties. On the side of the body of the camera was a decal. Upside down, she read the letters: TMBC.
She instantly recognized the camera and the operator from her last broadcast. The technician had made some creepy point about having her smile and look pretty for the viewers. Was this the person who had been stalking her? And could he be the bomber? Was he hired by someone else?
Scanning the area, she looked for a weapon. The cords were too thick to use for anything. The camera was too bulky, and she doubted she could even lift it. But beneath her feet she noticed two metal rods, part of a boom assembly to hold up a microphone from a ceiling location. They had been unscrewed and laying side by side and when she picked one up, it felt light enough to wield and heavy enough to do damage.
The truck was pulling off the freeway, but instead of stopping, it exited onto a paved surface with potholes, and the driver slowed down.
Who was he? Shannon had worked at the station for some time but never saw his face. Perhaps he was new, but in the environment she was in, most the surrounding area was dark when they filmed, all the lights being directed at the podium. She never had occasion to speak with the crew except Sandy, her makeup artist. In fact, she couldn’t recall any of their faces and probably wouldn’t recognize them in public.
When the truck tires thumped off pavement and onto a gravel road, Shannon’s pulse spiked. Now, if she managed escape, she’d be in a more remote area, probably some area the driver was familiar with. On a freeway or main road with streetlamps, she had more of a chance of stopping a passer-by or witness. Listening for other signs of life, she heard no other vehicles running.
Off in the distance she heard a siren, which quickly passed by without slowing down or stopping, but that gave her a directional signal back to a traveled main road of some kind. If she could somehow get away, that’s where she would head to.
Thunder clapped suddenly, and she almost screamed. It was followed by the sounds of heavy droplets falling on the top of the shell. The smell of the rain hitting hot, humid soil was the only thing familiar about her surroundings. But then, that’s what all of Florida feels like in the middle of rainy season.
Shannon felt the speed of the truck begin to slow, so she picked up the metal pole and fiddled with the back window, latched from the outside. If she launched the pole and broke the glass, the driver would know she’d gotten herself untied and would be forewarned. And the glass would be tricky to maneuver through without getting seriously cut. So, she waited.
She wondered if Marco’s team was even aware that she’d been taken, or even aware she was at the hotel in the first place. She remembered dropping the burner phone in her conversation with Judie, but the only person who knew where she was was Jared.
No, Shannon thought, she was on her own. It was by her own design. Again, another bad decision made of haste. Her lack of trust in Marco had caused this whole problem, just like his lack of trust in her exacerbated it when he didn’t divulge information he was withholding from her about Em’s death.
Playing back all the elements of today, she remembered Rebecca trying to restrain her at the hospital, desperate, clutching, and saying over and over, “You’re in danger.”
Did Rebecca hire this person, who now was going rogue? And was it even possible the two of them could be involved in Emily’s death? And what did that say about Marco, being married to a murderess for fifteen years. Wouldn’t he know she had a secret blood sport?