Sarah slowed the Jeep as she neared the old church. It was very old, constructed of stone and timbers that had weathered brutal Atlantic storms for probably a hundred years or more. Yet the cross atop the steeple was still straight, even if most of the windows were gone and vegetation had encroached on the building.
It looked deserted, an appearance Sarah knew was deceptive. There were no other buildings close by, though piles of stones here and there indicated where there might have been other structures once, and a forest of tall trees reared on one side of the property so that the church stood facing the woods with its back to the sea.
Isolated by miles from the nearest habitation, it was a perfect spot for clandestine activities; a bomb could go off here and the widely scattered neighbors in the surrounding countryside would probably not even notice.
It looked bleak. And lonely. And with every sense Sarah could lay claim to, it reeked of decay.
Shadows.
She could feel them all around the place, feel their attention, their eyes on her. Feel them like the certain knowledge of something twisted and dark hiding among the rocks. And terror crawled over her flesh like the cold touch of a dead hand.
She actually stopped the Jeep and sat there for several minutes gripping the wheel. Trying to breathe evenly, to get control of her fear. Being here physically felt radically different from being here in spirit had felt, the threat to her more direct and far more deadly.
All her instincts were urging her to run, to get away. If it had been anybody but Tucker inside, she thought she would have.
Sarah drew a deep breath and, steadily, sent the Jeep forward once again. No matter what, she couldn’t allow any of them to touch her. Or Tucker. Even Brodie conceded that if they could get Tucker out of there and escape themselves, the other side would back off at least for the moment, but if Duran even guessed what Sarah was capable of, she and Tucker were dead.
The raw memory of Cait’s blood staining her hands was proof enough of an enemy that wouldn’t hesitate to kill.
She guided the Jeep to a level place near the church where a parking area might once have been and cut the engine. She got out, trying not to look too conscious of being watched. Not that it really mattered. They had to assume she knew it was a trap, particularly since she had been bluntly invited to come after Tucker. If they were as good as Brodie said they were, they would be looking past her even now, searching for the others they had to assume would be following.
It was a classical tactical move, Brodie had told her. She went in, seemingly alone, and when the enemy closed in behind her to seal the entrance of the trap, her backup would close in behind them—catching them in their own snare.
Of course, they would expect the tactic. So they were going to get it.
Sarah opened the hatch to get out the kerosene lamp she’d brought with her, then brushed her cold hands down her thighs one at a time, took a deep breath, and concentrated on enclosing her mind with the strongest walls she could build. Then she walked steadily into the church.
There was nothing easy about picking a door lock in pitch darkness, even with a lockpick. In fact, it was difficult as hell, especially with chilled, nearly numb fingers. Tucker had the feeling it was taking him too damned long to do it, but he gritted his teeth and kept working on it.
He was conscious of Sarah on the edge of his awareness, a spot of warmth he wanted to pull around him like a blanket, but kept his attention fiercely on what he was trying to do. He had no clear idea what Sarah had been through since he had left their bed at the hotel, but that brief glimpse into her mind told him that it had been rough for her, and he wasn’t about to add to her burdens.
So he had to get his ass out of this room before somebody came back here to check on him, and he had to make damned sure none of those bastards got their hands on him.
Simple enough.
But the reality made the odds against those simple goals rather high. He was still fighting his way out of the drug-induced haze, for one thing, so concentrating or even thinking clearly was a problem. He was also stiff from lying immobile for such a long time, and strength was only slowly returning to his muscles.
Dexterity was also a problem; he dropped the lockpick twice and had to feel around on the cold stone floor for it. It occurred to him that if he lost the thing he’d really be up a creek, so he tried to be more careful.