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He called it in. Again, he was simply told to "follow protocol." This time, that meant he was the one hitting his brakes and making a sharp left turn. The guard car continued on without us. Our driver flicked off our headlights. At the next corner, he turned again. Same with the next.
Voices came over the radio. Conversations among the drivers. The second van hadn't noticed anything amiss and was continuing on with its escort. Our escort had gone after the SUV, which had taken off the second they appeared. They were chasing it now. We were advised to continue on, with the dispatcher giving directions that seemed to take us along every street in the neighborhood.
Finally we came out on a back road in a housing development. The homes were unfinished and unoccupied, and looked like they'd been that way for a while and would continue to be that way for a while longer--another victim of the economic crunch. It was eerie seeing them in the darkness, half-completed skeletons, stark against the--
I saw the truck at the last second. I don't know whether it came from behind a house or out of a garage. One second we were alone on that desolate road. The next I heard a motor roar and looked over to see only inky blackness. Then it seemed to appear from nothing--a huge black pickup, with its lights off, coming straight for us.
Our driver swerved. The other one did, too, our front hitting their side with a crunch that threw me against my seat belt hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. The front air bags deployed. That's all I noticed in that first post-crash moment--the huge white bags billowing.
The driver started clawing at his air bag. Hayley vaulted from the backseat and grabbed his seat belt, yanking on it with all her weight to pin him as she wedged one foot into the gap to block him from hitting the release.
As he struggled, she turned to me. "Do something! God, you guys can be useless sometimes."
Rafe threw open the door. He looked first, but the truck was gone. He scrambled out. He yanked on the driver's door, but it seemed jammed. I squeezed into the gap between seats. The driver's dart gun had been propped beside him and was now on the floor at his feet.
I glanced at Dr. Inglis. She was slumped forward as her bag deflated. I crawled to the gun, tugged it back, and managed to get out a dart. As Rafe raced around to try the passenger door, I jammed the dart into the driver's leg. I followed it with a second. Rafe got Dr. Inglis's door open as the driver stopped struggling.
"She's out cold," Rafe said. He pressed his fingers to Dr. Inglis's neck. "Or . . . worse. I can't--"
"It can't matter," I said. "We only have a few minutes before they send someone. Time to move."
THIRTY-ONE
WE'D BARELY GOTTEN BEHIND the nearest house before I caught the distant roar of a motor.
"The truck coming back?" Hayley said.
Rafe shook his head. "If whoever hit the van wanted us, they'd have stayed. Whatever's going on, it's not a kidnapping. If we're lucky, that's a random passerby. If we're not . . ."
"We haven't been too lucky so far," I muttered.
He nodded. "We should split up. It's easier for one person to hide and it triples our chance that someone will get away."
"If you do, go to Stanley Park," I said. I gave them directions to our camping spot.
"Do you really think Corey and Daniel would still be there?" Hayley said.
"No, but I hope they'll check back or leave a note."
We each picked a direction and ran.
The vehicle I'd heard never materialized. I'd barely set out when I realized the engine was moving farther away. That didn't mean I headed back, though. The goal right now was simply to put distance between myself and the wreck . . . and hope Rafe and Hayley were doing the same.
I'd chosen backyards as my escape route. Easy enough, given that there weren't fences separating them. But it was too open. And piles of debris and construction holes made it far from a fast--or safe--choice.
I raced down one street, ready to dart across when I heard the squeal of tires. I hesitated. From what I could see, the next row of houses was the last one, meaning if I could get there, I'd be out of the subdivision and . . . And what? Into an actual neighborhood, where people could spot me running through their yards? Or open ground, where I wouldn't have any shelter? I couldn't see what lay beyond the next road, which meant I couldn't take the chance. I needed to get a better look.
I backed up to the nearest two-story house. It was less than half finished, with limited hiding places, but the two flanking it weren't any better.
I picked my way through the debris to the front door--or the opening where the door would be. There weren't any front steps, either, which put the doorway a meter off the ground. I grabbed the frame, swung in, and nearly fell straight into the basement. The framework for the floor hadn't been covered yet. Same for the wall studs. It was like being inside a house built of matchsticks. Absolutely no place to hide. Wonderful.
Floorboards had been added to the second story, though--or part of it. I made my way up the risers that served as a temporary staircase. The interior walls weren't finished, but if I stayed on the floorboards, no one would see me from below. And I'd be gone before they brought in a full team to conduct a complete search. This was just a way station while I got a good look at the situation.
Getting that good look meant checking every window until I found one that gave me a partial view of the street where we'd crashed. There was an SUV there now, lights on, doors opening, dark-garbed figures spilling out.
I strained to listen and caught only the faintest murmur of voices, nearly drowned out by the crack and snap of tarps caught in the wind.
I could see the tarps, too, ripped white flags of surrender dotting the abandoned houses. It was an eerie sight from up here--the rows of houses, the empty windows and doors like pits of darkness in blank faces.
