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“Your boyfriend’s got my money ready for transfer,” he announces with a snicker. “Let’s show him you’re still alive and well.”
I nod and say nothing. Angus never reapplied the duct tape to my mouth after our phone call with Henn and Reed, but I’m too terrified of him at this point to say a single unnecessary word.
Angus puts on his black ski mask, grabs his laptop and the knife, and strides with purpose toward me. When he reaches me, he carefully places the opened laptop on my lap, its screen facing me and displaying some sort of banking site, and then he bounds behind me and leans down like he’s posing with me for a happy selfie. “When I call Reed,” he says, “you’re gonna say, ‘I’m fine. Send him the money now or else he’ll kill me.’ Understand?”
“Yes.”
“If you say or do anything other than that, your boyfriend will get a front-row seat to me slitting your throat. No warnings. No hesitations. No do-overs. I’ll slice your head clean-off. Got it?”
I’m trembling. “Yes.”
He reaches down and presses a couple buttons on his computer’s keyboard, and Reed’s scowling face appears in split-screen with the banking site.
“Are you okay?” Reed asks.
“Yes,” I confirm. “Send the money now, or he says he’ll kill me without a warning.”
To emphasize the point, Angus presses the knife into my throat with force, causing my flesh to sting at the point of impact and a loud whimper to lurch from my throat. Angus barks out, “Send it now or she’s dead!”
“Wait, don’t hurt her! I’m sending it now! Hang on.”
“She’s dead in three . . . two—”
A loud popping noise rings out, like a firecracker, only louder. At what seems like the same time, Angus suddenly keels over before finishing his countdown. As his large frame clatters to the floor, simultaneous crashing noises—one emanating from the far window and another from behind me—fill the space and bounce off the walls. Was that a gunshot? Sheer terror compels me to throw my weight to one side to avoid more gunfire, if that’s indeed what that popping noise was, and my chair crashes onto its side with me still bound to it.
As I hit the ground, there’s no mistaking the sounds of multiple sets of energetic footsteps. Shouting voices. A male voice yells, “FBI! Hands where we can see them!”
They couldn’t possibly be talking to me, right, since my hands are still bound behind me? Just in case, I yell, “My hands are tied up!”
Another male voice yells, “Got him right between the eyes. Instant karma. No pulse.”
More footsteps abound. More yelling. From Angus’ laptop on the floor, Henn’s voice shouts my name frantically, so I scream over the din, “I’m okay, Henny! I’m not hit!”
“Oh, thank God.” He’s sobbing. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, Henny! Come to Seattle! I need you.”
“I’m already on my way, baby. I’ll be there soon. I love you so much.”
“She’ll call you back,” a male voice says. And that’s it. Henn’s voice is gone, without either of us being able to say goodbye or I love you one more time.
I feel hands gripping me. My body being tilted upright in the chair. I look down and discover Angus lying motionless on the floor. His ski mask is off—it’s been cast off on the floor near him. His eyes are wide open, and a puddle of dark, maroon blood is gushing from a nasty-looking hole in his forehead. Like the voice said, the hole is right between his wide-open eyes. Damn. I’m no medical examiner, but even I can tell that’s a dead man. He’s dead as a door nail. Holy shit.
Someone kneels before me. “Let’s get you free, huh? Look here, Hannah. Don’t look at that.”
I wrench my shocked gaze away from the empty eyes on the floor. The oozing blood and brain matter. “Thank you,” I choke out, blinking back tears. “Can I have some water, please?”
“You can have anything you want.”
“I want my boyfriend, Peter Hennessey. And my mom and sister, too. Please.” It’s the last thing I say before bursting into loud, uncontrollable sobs.
45
HENN
I look up from my phone. “Hannah’s taking a bathroom break from giving her statement. She says she’s almost done.”
I’m sitting with Reed in the back of a car. We’re being driven from the airport to the FBI office in downtown Seattle, where I’ll finally see my Hannah. From the scene of the crime, Hannah was whisked by helicopter to a downtown hospital, where she was given IV fluids and food and examined from head to toe. Thankfully, it was all good news. Physically, anyway. The rape kit turned up no evidence of sexual assault, and she suffered no broken bones, either on her face where the bastard punched her, or on her arm from when she fell onto her side while strapped to a chair. In a matter of weeks, all Hannah’s physical injuries will all be completely gone and forgotten. The real question is how long it will take Hannah’s mental injuries to follow suit, if ever.
