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She tapped her keyboard to get things moving and double clicked the folder that contained her guest list and venue layout. Daisy, her event coordinator, had done most of the work these past few months, booking the hotel ballroom, setting up the catering and the decor. All Hailey had to do was look through everything, approve it and write the checks.
She verified the price for the band Daisy had given her and did another count of the guests. Then she opened her email to send Daisy a message.
Before launching a new email, Hailey skimmed through her messages, deleting most of them. An email with an attachment from something called the Syrian Refugee Campaign caught her eye, and she opened it.
The message had no text except for a link. She almost deleted it, but the subject line jumped out at her. It contained a name—Andrew Reese, the British journalist who’d been captured with her.
She squinted at the date. It had been sent tonight. Maybe it was from Andrew. Maybe he’d heard something about Marten.
Her heart thumped as she clicked the link. A video filled her screen, with no sound or introduction.
The video took her down a long, dark hallway, and Hailey stopped breathing. The blood thrummed in her ears. A door came into focus, and the shaky video continued as someone reached out and opened the door with a gloved hand.
It swung open on a dark room, a single light in the corner, but the camera stayed away from the light, tracking along the shadows instead.
Hailey’s fingers curled around the edge of her sheet, bunching the material into her hands. The camera took her farther into the room, suddenly swinging toward an object in the corner under the light.
Hailey gasped at the hooded figure tied to the chair, chin dropped to his or her chest. Was this some kind of sick joke? Some snuff film?
A hand appeared in the frame and whipped the black hood from the person in the chair. The poor soul’s head bobbed, but still hung down, long hair obscuring his face.
The hand made its way into the frame again and prodded the man in the chair. Slowly the captive raised his head, looked into the camera from eyes sunken into his swollen face and in a hoarse voice whispered, “Help me, Hailey.”
Chapter Four
Joe stretched out on the king-size bed and toed off his shoes. The TV newscast hadn’t done much of a story on poor old Marten. Would his body ever wash up?
Joe regretted not getting right to the point with Marten to find out who put Major Denver’s name on his lips in the first place. He’d wanted to hold off to see where he went and who he met. He hadn’t thought the guy would wind up dead. He’d underestimated the enemy.
A tingle of fear crept across his flesh. Hailey didn’t know anything, hadn’t retracted her story about hearing one of the terrorists address Denver by name—and now she wouldn’t.
His phone, charging next to the bed, rang, and he checked the display. He’d memorized Hailey’s number, and he bolted upright to answer her call.
“Hailey, did you remember something?”
“Oh my God, Joe. It’s Andrew. They have Andrew now.”
“Wait. Slow down. What are you talking about? Who has Andrew?”
“The same people who killed Marten. I’m sure of it. They have Andrew, and they have my email address.”
Joe swung his legs off the bed. “Someone sent you an email?”
“It’s horrible, Joe. It’s Andrew. Th-they’ve tortured him.”
A knot formed in Joe’s gut. “This was a video sent to your email address?”
“Yes.” Hailey sniffled. “I didn’t recognize the email address, but Andrew’s name was in the link, so I thought it might be something he was sending. I’m sorry I clicked on it.”
“Was anyone else in the video?”
“No, just the cameraman’s gloved hand, and I’m pretty sure the video was taken with a phone. It’s shaky.” She drew in a long breath. “I—I don’t know where he is, but we have to help him. We have to call the FBI.”
“There are no hints in the video? Background.”
“It’s horrible, Joe. Andrew’s in a room, tied up. They had a hood over his head. When they pulled off the hood, I could tell they’d tortured him, beaten him, but Andrew still mentioned my name.”
