I tailed Greg as he exited Ozumba Mbadiwe Avenue for a side street, still keeping my distance, but perhaps not as diligently as before. Both the truck and the old Ducati stuck out like sore thumbs, hugely conspicuous against the surrounding backdrop of privilege and wealth.
Greg pulled onto the road adjacent to the consulate, and I was relieved. Now that we were both here, we might as well walk into the building together. I didn’t even care at this point if I were arrested. So be it.
I might even yell upon entering, Arrest me for treason! And please point me toward a bath and a blessedly air-conditioned jail cell.
I was so tired. He was safe. I was in one piece. The adrenaline I’d been running on for the last twenty-four hours—heck, the last four days—was almost depleted.
Therefore, imagine my confused astonishment when, instead of parking near the consulate, he parked three blocks away. I switched off the ignition and eyeballed my husband as he exited the truck and stood stretching in front of it. He then glanced back and forth down the road. He sauntered in the opposite direction of the consulate, crossing to the wrong side of the road, then leaned against a lamppost.
I frowned, watching him.
It was as though he were in no hurry to leave the streets of Lagos—which was crazy because the longer he dawdled, the more opportunity he gave anyone and everyone who might be staking out the building to pick him up off the streets.
If any of his captors were milling about, hoping he’d show up and be stupid enough to loiter, then they would not be disappointed. He would be easy to abduct . . .
And the longer he loitered, the more I became certain he wanted to be abducted.
. . . that motherfucking sonofabitch.
My mouth went dry and my heart was lodged back in my throat. Determination to force him on the back of my motorcycle, or die trying, flooded through my veins with a new overwhelming violence. I wished he’d left me the Ketamine dart gun, because I’d give him a thorough poking.
I moved to start the motorcycle with shaking fingers, intent on beating him senseless, when two strong hands grabbed me from behind and yanked me off the bike.
Obviously, I hadn’t been paying enough attention to my surroundings as I’d been so entirely focused on my dumbass husband, strolling around in front of the US consulate in Lagos, Nigeria, dressed in a godforsaken alternate reality St. Louis Cardinals 2004 World Series Champions T-shirt!
THAT MOTHERFUCKING SONOFABITCH!
Regardless, the man now holding me with a muscled arm around my waist and a large palm over the front of my helmet was about to be the recipient of my frantic rage. Quite easily, I hooked my leg around his and kicked forward, tripping him and bringing us both to the ground. As a consequence, his hold on me faltered and I used the opportunity to whip my head back, bringing the hard surface of the helmet to his nose with a satisfying crunch.
An unhappy and sharp curse met my ears as the man’s hands flew to his face. I turned, intent on breaking his nose if it wasn’t already broken, or delivering a tight throat punch, but then faltered when I identified my assailant as none other than Dan the Security Man.
“What the hell?” I breathed out, frowning at him and pushing the windshield of my helmet up so I could see him better. Blood was gushing from his nose and his eyes were closed tight.
“I think you boke my nose,” he groaned, laughing a little. “Fuck a duck, that hurts!”
My eyes moved over his form as I knelt next to him, checking for additional injuries; two pedestrians walked around us like we weren’t even there. “Dan? What were you thinking? And what the hell is going on?”
“I was thinking I needed to stop you from swooping in and trying to save Greg.” His voice was tight and nasally as he tested his nose. “I was also thinking I need to get you off the street as soon as possible, but I forgot you’re a fucking ninja.”
Remembering the original source of my fury, I twisted over my shoulder looking for my husband. I turned just in time to see a black Mercedes SUV pull away from the sidewalk where he’d been standing and speed away.
He was no longer there.
I gasped for air. Tears of frustration gathered in my eyes as I desperately searched the now-empty corner.
But it was no use.
I felt it in my bones.
He’d been taken. Again.
He’d left me behind. Again.
CHAPTER 18
Dear Wife,
The thought of losing you is unbearable; please believe in me. Always remember that no matter how dark things may seem, there is always a little sunshine for you in my heart. Love you today, tomorrow, and forever.
-J
Letter
California, USA
Married 29.5 years
Present Day
Fiona
“Talk to me, Quinn. Tell me what’s going on.”
If Quinn had been surprised by my sudden presence in the surveillance vehicle, he made no outward sign of it. For my part, I was incapable of being shocked or surprised by anything as my mind was singularly focused on one goal: finding Greg.