“I’m here,” O’Shea said after a minute that felt like twenty. “He torched the barn.”
“Fire. That’s my fear,” Lincoln said. “Not Carter’s.”
“Carter’s not here.”
Lincoln missed the next note, his shoulder falling against the wall, holding him up when his legs refused to do so. “What?”
“He put Larry in a basement with Barry and Trudy. He meant to kill them.”
“Claustrophobia. Trapped by the fire and the crumbling structure.”
“Meant to?” Jo said. “They got out?”
“Through the underground passage Larry told us about. It was only recently dug. Ryan didn’t know about it. Larry got them out.”
“Everyone except Carter?” Lincoln said.
“The chief thinks he’s with Ryan. He never put Carter in the basement, and there are two fresh sets of footsteps down to the dock.”
“The dock?”
“Looks like he took a boat across the lake to Barry’s place. Barry’s GMC is on the move.”
“GPS?” Jo said. “Location?”
“Five minutes out from the church.” It was showtime, and Lincoln had never felt sicker. Never felt like there was this much on the line. All those recitals, everything that was supposed to be his future, none of them had felt like this. Because until today, he’d never before played for the future he wanted.
Maybe it was the movie reference Elena had put in his head. Or maybe it was every rom-com Gabby and Trina had ever forced him to watch. Or maybe it was all the action flicks he’d binged over the years. But Lincoln had assumed Ryan would throw open the main doors of the church and shove his hostage—Carter—down the aisle toward the chancel where Lincoln played.
That visual, that certainty, had been enough to power Lincoln’s steps onto the stage, his ass onto the stool, his guitar into position as he’d adjusted the microphone. Even expecting it, Lincoln was prepared to lose what little was left of his shit when it happened. To fumble the notes and lyrics he’d begun to play, to stumble off the stage, and to bungle the tactical plan Jo and Drake had devised.
Except it didn’t happen that way. Instead, the door on the other side of the chancel opened, and Ryan emerged from the Robe Room alone. Sharply dressed in a three-piece suit, the only difference between the Ryan McCullough in front of Lincoln and the one he’d met last week was the scruff that shadowed his jaw.
Gray.
Mumblings from the congregation crested like a wave, lapping at the altar, but Lincoln registered it only vaguely, his attention on Ryan and the child’s chalkboard he held angled toward Lincoln.
Keep playing, it read. Your partner’s life depends on it.
In his other hand, Ryan held a phone, the recording app running. Lincoln wanted to work it out in his mind—what was Ryan doing?—but seventy-five percent of his brain was occupied with continuing to play and sing as directed, and the other twenty-five percent was occupied with internal screams of Where the fuck is Carter?
He found out two seconds after he played and sang the last note of “Hallelujah.” Ryan pressed stop on the recording, then motioned toward the Robe Room door. Carter emerged out of the shadows, bruised and beaten, nose broken and bloody, arms tied behind his back and chin lowered, and most terrifying of all, a vest wired with explosives strapped around his chest.
Screams and shouts went up from the congregation, loud enough to hear over the blood pounding in Lincoln’s ears. But Lincoln’s overriding thought was that stage-fright-induced nausea had nothing to do with the present roller coaster his insides were on. He wanted to run to Carter, wanted to throw up, wanted to close his eyes and pretend this was all a bad dream. Wanted to hurl his guitar at Ryan, draw his Glock, and put an end to Dr. Fear. The trigger app on Ryan’s phone screen stopped him from doing any of those things. Two glowing green lights matched the two glowing green lights on Carter’s vest.
Active.
“Don’t!” Ryan shouted at the congregation. “None of you move!”
Lincoln spared a glance their direction and terror spiked anew. For the townsfolk trapped here, and for Jo and Drake’s team who had moved into the aisles, weapons drawn. “Don’t!” Lincoln parroted as he slid off his stool. “He’s got a trigger device.”
Ryan’s gaze swung back to him. “You stay right there.”
Lincoln adjusted the guitar so it hung at his side, out of the way of his hands and his gun. He raised his hands, aiming to calm Ryan, and bent his knees, dipping slightly, aiming to get his partner’s attention. “Carter, you in there?”
Tortured green eyes lifted to his, full of doubt and self-recrimination. “I screwed up, L.”
“No you didn’t. You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”
