The action of a pump shotgun being cycled, ten feet away in the pitch black of the alley.
A woman’s voice. “Don’t move. You swing the sidearm toward me, I’m going to shoot you.”
No hint of a bluff in her tone.
Dryden kept still.
Rachel was standing right up against him. Any shotgun blast that hit him would hit her, too, if the weapon was loaded with buckshot.
“Eject the magazine,” the woman said. “Then eject the chambered round. Then drop the gun.”
Out in the broader space between the rows of buildings, boot soles came down hard on the concrete. Someone had just dropped off the apartment balcony.
“Do it,” the woman said.
Dryden ejected the magazine. Then the chambered round. In the darkness beside him, he heard Rachel’s breath escape. Like hope. He let the SIG fall to the pavement.
Footsteps ticked toward the alley from beyond its mouth. They came to a stop just out of sight, the newcomer staying clear of the shotgun’s line of fire.
Something metallic jingled behind Dryden.
“Turn toward me,” the woman with the shotgun said.
Dryden turned. In the dull light he saw the glint of handcuffs. The woman threw them; he caught them out of the air.
“Cuff yourself. Behind the back.”
Dryden still couldn’t see the woman’s face. In the bleed of light from the wider alley he could just make out Rachel. Beyond the fear in the girl’s eyes he saw deep confusion, though at what, he couldn’t tell.
“Behind the back,” the woman said again. “Do it.”
Dryden put the cuffs behind his back and closed them around his wrists. A second later a flashlight came on, probably mounted to the shotgun’s barrel. Its beam played over Dryden’s lower back.
“He’s secure,” the woman said.
The newcomer stepped into view at the front of the alley. Another woman. Dryden got only a sense of her in the shifting beam of the flashlight.
Rachel was turning back and forth, her gaze going from one woman to the other.
“I can’t hear your thoughts,” Rachel said. “Either of you.”
“Of course not, sweetie,” the newcomer said.
She grabbed Dryden by the shirt and pulled him forward off balance, tripping him and shoving him down hard, chest-first onto the concrete. She sat astride his back, and he heard something plastic click open—some small container, it sounded like.
“What are you doing to him?” Panic saturated Rachel’s voice.
“Relax,” the woman said.
Rachel didn’t relax. She screamed, “What are you doing?”
The last word got cut off to a muffle; the other woman had clamped a hand over Rachel’s mouth.
An instant later Dryden felt a needle penetrate his neck. Heard the plunger slide down. Felt the rush of heat beneath his skin.
“Stop it!” Rachel screamed, pulling away the woman’s hand. “What are you doing to him?”
The second woman was already clambering off of him. Getting to her feet. Helping the first woman restrain Rachel back there in the dark. Dryden heard it all receding away as if into a fog. A place where all sounds were hollow and sourceless. He felt the heat spread up through his neck, across his scalp. Felt the pavement beneath him draw open into a kind of darkness. Rachel’s muffled screams followed him down into it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
At times he felt almost awake. Up near the surface of sleep, where he could hear. Where he could feel.
He was inside some kind of container. The lining felt like smooth cardboard against his cheek. Someone was carrying it, saying, Lift with your legs, easy, easy.
*
Something was whining. A steady droning sound. Jet engines, it sounded like. Small ones. A moment later there was movement, the container seeming to slide while his body wanted to hold still. Inertia, he thought, and the word seemed funny to him, though he couldn’t say why. He slid a few inches on the cardboard until his feet thudded up against the container’s end. A few seconds later the world seemed to pitch and tilt sickeningly, and something thumped dully beneath the floor. Landing gear folding up, he guessed, and then he was out again.
*
He’ll be fine. He’s coming out of it. Give him another thirty minutes.
Are you sure?
I’m sure, honey.
*
His throat felt like he’d been eating dryer lint. His head pounded like hell. He ran his tongue over his lips. It scraped.
“Drink this.”
Rachel’s voice.
He opened his eyes and saw a juice box six inches from his face, a little pink bendy straw stuck in it and aimed at him. Rachel pushed it forward, and he got his mouth closed around it. He pursed his lips and drank. High fructose corn syrup and artificial flavoring. Same way they’d made it when he was a kid. He sucked down the entire box, saw its sides cave in, let it go, and rolled onto his back.
He still had the cuffs on, but he was out of the container. He was lying on a couch somewhere. A little study. No windows. Bright, pale light washed in through the door, but from his angle he couldn’t see the room beyond.
“Where are we?” Dryden asked.
“Home,” Rachel said.