Carter Rutledge stepped out the driver’s door with a tired grunt. At five-foot-four, he rivaled Owen Nettles as the shortest man in the unit. He battled his stature with a ferociously overpumped build. Even his loose wool blazer flaunted the pneumatic bulges of his biceps.
Like Ross Daley—his colleague, gym partner, and current copilot—Carter did not like having an eccentric female foreigner as his supervisor. They certainly didn’t enjoy driving a tug through the sticks in the wee hours, all because their batty new boss was jumping at shadows.
They closed their doors and examined the fracas on the highway, a gaggle of emergency lights in the dark middle of nowhere. A fourteen-wheel bread truck had flipped onto its side, spilling across both lanes at a forty-five-degree angle. A young paramedic pushed the injured driver on a squeaky-wheeled stretcher while three doughy state troopers chatted beside their cruisers.
Ross smirked at his teammate. “I love flashing my badge at these country duffs.”
“Careful,” Carter teased, “I hear they shoot duskers on sight here.”
“In that case, maybe we should bring the boss out.”
They laughed and approached the policemen. Ross held up his ID. “Excuse me, gentlemen . . .”
The cops kept conversing, oblivious. Ross cleared his throat and raised his badge higher.
“Excuse me, gentlemen . . .”
Still no response. Ross looked to Carter in outrage. “Can you believe this?”
“I can understand why they wouldn’t see you in the dark . . .”
“This isn’t funny anymore.”
Ross moved to the nearest officer and reached for his shoulder. His hand passed right through it.
“Oh shit.”
The entire accident scene disappeared in a blink, leaving nothing on the road but a lone female figure. In the light of the moon and the tug’s distant high beams, they had no trouble recognizing Hannah Given and the deadly .44 she aimed at them.
Zack’s open sketchbook dangled in her left hand, a large message scribbled in thick marker ink.
ON YOUR KNEES.
HANDS ON YOUR HEADS.
NOW.
Though she had no way to measure it, Hannah was shifted a speed just shy of 22×. She had over a dozen prefabricated messages written out in Zack’s pad, one for nearly every anticipated occasion. She would not slow down for purposes of comprehension. She would not take her eyes off their hands. Though her weapon experience didn’t go beyond stage pistols, she was ready to fire a warning shot before they even touched their guns.
The Deps processed her ferocious expression, fueled as much by acting as it was by adrenaline. She impatiently shook the pad at them.
Carter raised his palms. “Okay, look, you don’t want to do this . . .”
“She’s shifted, you idiot. She can’t understand you. Now do as she says. This is your last warning.”
Ross and Carter looked around, unable to see the young Australian who just spoke in their ears. David’s command was a ghosted echo of words he’d uttered fifty-five minutes ago. He’d created some prefabricated messages of his own.
Stymied, the agents grudgingly kneeled on the pavement, their palms on their scalps.
“Now if you value your lives,” said David, “you won’t move a muscle.”
He emerged from behind the rocky embankment and seized their guns and radios. Ross clenched his jaw as he watched his pistol fall into a knapsack.
“I don’t care how young you are, boy. I’ll tear you open for this.”
“Yes, we’re all impressed by your manliness. Put your hands behind your back. Hurry.”
Melissa’s tinny voice crackled through the fabric of David’s bag. “Carter, what’s going on? Report.”
David motioned to Mia, who’d been watching from behind the rocks. The moment she reached him on the asphalt, he passed her two pairs of handcuffs.
“I need to help Zack. Will you be all right taking over?”
She glanced at the men, then gave David a shaky nod. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Don’t worry. Hannah will keep you covered.”
He stood behind the two agents and hissed a whisper into their ears. “Stay still and do exactly what the girl says. You touch one hair on her head, I’ll kill you with your own guns.”
Mia could only watch in slack-jawed stupor as David dashed toward the truck. Between the shock and concern over his murderous threat was a savage thrill that would haunt her for the rest of her life. She existed in a dreamlike state, only half-present. Only half-scared.
She studied the handcuffs in her grip, then squinted at the Deps. Her voice fell two octaves.
“All right. You heard the man. Hold still. Don’t fuck with me.”
—
Melissa scanned the road through the three-inch crack in the trailer gate. She raised it four more feet and climbed down to the dirt. Howard followed her out.
“Keep them quiet,” she told Owen. “Watch Amanda closely.”