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“For Christ’s sake, what now?” I asked.
“Assume the position,” she said. No sense in arguing. I peeled down the waistband of my shorts. She jabbed me in the right upper glute.
“Just a little extra vitamin B,” she said. “We’ve got a training run tonight.”
Training run? That was the last thing I wanted to hear. I pulled my shorts back up and slumped against the weight rack. My head sagged. Since my kidnapping, I estimated that I’d run over a thousand miles—going absolutely nowhere.
“I’m so sick of that goddamn treadmill,” I muttered.
“Not on the treadmill,” said Meed. She nodded toward the window. “Outside.”
My heart started fluttering like I’d just gotten a puppy for Christmas.
“Outside??”I asked. “You’re serious?”
“Why not?” said Meed. “Let’s get some fresh Chicago air into those lungs.”
I looked out the window. Rain was sheeting against the glass. I wouldn’t have cared if it was hot lava. I realized that this was my chance. Outside, I might be able to flag down a cop or jump into a cab. Or lose Meed in a crowd. Or maybe just shove her down an open manhole and run for help. Anything to get away and get my life back again.
Meed picked up the shock wand and waved it back and forth. Sometimes it felt like she could actually read my mind.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said.
CHAPTER 23
Eastern Russia
15 Years Ago
OF ALL THE weapons on the firing range, Meed found the .50 BMG machine gun the hardest to handle. It could vaporize a watermelon at a hundred yards, but the recoil was enough to bruise her collarbone. Her scores on long guns overall were solid, but she preferred pistols. After firing five brain-shaking rounds, she set the big gun back in the rack and picked up a Glock 9mm. Much better.
Irina was standing on the next platform with a Beretta .22, punching hole after hole into the center of a target downrange. Meed slid a clip into the Glock and started firing at the next target over. Compared to the heavy .50, the Glock felt like a popgun.
Meed was matching Irina shot for shot. Within twenty seconds, both target centers were shredded.
All the way down the firing line came the cracks and bangs of every kind of firearm, from MIL-SPEC models to expertly hacked hybrids. Only the instructors wore ear protection. For the students, the noise was an important part of the lesson—how to think with your head pounding and your ears ringing.
In the middle of it all, one student was even more solid and unflappable than the others. His name was Rishi. He was slightly built, with a caramel complexion and thick black hair. He was also younger than everybody else on the range by a couple of years. He’d recently been moved up from a lower class, where he had no real competition.
Between clips, Meed glanced his way. Rishi was lying flat on his belly, cradling a Barrett M82, his sniper rifle of choice. His target was a small circle on a brick wall 150 yards away. Meed could see Rishi’s ribs through his T-shirt as he sent another round. There was a small kick of brick dust from the center of the circle. Another direct hit.
Meed glanced at Irina. Neither of them liked being shown up, especially by a runt like Rishi. Irina squinted down the barrel of her pistol and kept firing. But Meed was annoyed enough to take action. She flicked the safety on the Glock and set it down on the shooting stand. Then she walked over to the weapon vault anchored in cement behind the firing line. The vault was the size of a coffin. The heavy steel lid was open. Meed ran her hands over the assortment of armaments inside and found just what she was looking for.
Rishi loaded another round into his rifle. He set the crosshairs on the target again. His finger moved slowly from the trigger guard to the trigger. Suddenly there was a huge blast downrange. Rishi jerked his head up from his scope. The target was gone. Not just the circle on the bricks. The entire brick wall.
All sound on the firing line stopped. Students and instructors were frozen in place by the violence of the blast. All that was left in the distance was a cloud of dust. Meed lowered the RPG launcher from her shoulder and wiped a streak of soot off her cheek. She leaned down and patted Rishi on the head.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “They’ll give you something new to shoot at.”
CHAPTER 24
Chicago
IT WAS 10 p.m. when we stepped into the elevator for our run. Meed pressed the Down button. I heard the chains rattle and felt the car lurch into motion. I thought back to my ride up in that same elevator four months back. The day my life had disappeared.
My new red running suit was a little tight in the crotch, but otherwise it felt pretty sleek. Meed was wearing the female version. In black, of course. We both had our nylon hoodies up, ready for the rain.
The elevator door opened onto a narrow basement corridor with cinderblock walls. Meed led the way up a set of cement stairs with a narrow metal railing. We took a turn on a narrow landing and then up a few more steps to a heavy swinging metal door, the kind you’d find on a loading dock. Meed shouldered her way through, and we stepped out onto the sidewalk. My first taste of freedom. But not really. I was out in the world, but I was still a prisoner. I figured Meed had waited for weather like this so we’d be the only two people on the street. The rain was coming down so hard it sounded like white noise. She looked both ways then headed west, starting off at a quick jog.
