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“What the fuck does that mean?” Joe shouted into the phone as he stalked around the kitchen. “Call me when you get your heads out of your goddamn asses!” He disconnected the call, looking about two seconds away from hurling his phone across the room. Composing himself—mildly—he tossed it on the island instead.
“They fucking lost him,” he spat.
“Where?” Quinn asked. The one word was so foreboding, it had goosebumps prickling her skin.
She stepped even closer to him, and he pulled her back to his chest, wrapping his arms around her from behind.
Rubbing the back of his neck, Joe let out a sigh. “They tailed the car south from the airfield. About an hour and fifteen in, the car stopped at a gas station. The female driver and a male passenger got out. The agents got a good look at the male passenger and it wasn’t Woodsworth. His coloring and height were right, but the guy wasn’t big enough.
“The two immediately lawyered up and aren’t talking. When the agents checked the car, they found body padding and a fucking face mask that looked like Woodsworth. They’re talking high-end,Mission Impossible-style shit.” He shook his head. “They have no fucking idea where Woodsworth is.”
They stood in silence as they absorbed the news. Joe’s cell rang again, and he answered immediately.
Nausea swept over her as Joe mumbled into his phone. The minutes ticked by like hours. Joe went still, and his jaw clenched moments before he hung up.
“What do they know?” Fear made her words curt.
“The person they thought was Woodsworth hopped into the car at Boeing Field, right?”
They nodded, and Joe grabbed a tablet out of his briefcase. Setting it on the table, he pulled up a map of Washington. As they gathered around, he zoomed in on the Puget Sound.
“So, the mystery guy gets in the car here, and they drive south. Our guys tail them for about ninety miles to here.” His finger indicated a spot on the map. “Ninety miles, and then they purposely pull off the road and let our guys figure it out. That’s about an hour and a halfthat Woodsworth’s unaccounted for...”
Her heart raced, and bile climbed up her throat.Holy crap.Preston could be anywhere. She hugged her arms around her middle and looked between the two men.
Quinn eyed Joe. “You’re thinking Woodsworth hopped a plane at Boeing Field, then?”
“Yeah, but to which airfield?”
Quinn studied the map. “If you look at the three closest airfields to Hudson Island, with a ferry ride or private boat—we shut down helo access aside from medical, so those are your only ways onto the island—they’re all about forty-five minutes away, give or take.”
“Right.” Joe’s brow furrowed. “The problem is that according to the agent on the phone, all of those airfields have taken in at least one small plane during the last hour.”
“So, we still don’t know where he is.” Alex’s voice trembled, betraying her nerves.
She took in a deep breath, but it didn’t calm her. Falling onto a chair, she sat in silence, stomach turning, and listened as they hashed out possible scenarios.
After a while, she grew restless. She had to do something.Anything. She couldn’t just sit here and wait. She rose from the table.
“I’m going to go check on Roxie,” she said.
Walking toward the back door, she slowed when the sound of feet stumbling on the back porch caught her attention.
“Found her,” Joe muttered, exasperation dripping from his words. “Sounds like someone snuck into the liquor cabinet and threw back a few.”
“And whose fault would that be, Joe?” she tossed back in irritation.
“Touché, Alex,” he said. “Touché.”
Seconds later, the back door exploded. Splintered wood and shattered glass flew through the air.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-EIGHT
Quinn’s heart stopped. He lunged for Alex. Grabbing her, he used his body as a shield and quickly moved them backward through the kitchen archway into the living room.
“Stay,” he commanded. He ran to the side table, retrieving the holster and Glock he’d placed there earlier. “Joe?”
“Clear,” Joe called out.
