Chapter 4

Harrison was taken away by federal agents for questioning.

Three days after the storm passed, the lab arranged a car to take me to the airport.

I was flying to Minnesota. A team of specialists at Mayo Clinic would take over my surgery.

Halfway there, a black SUV swerved out of a side road without warning.

My driver reacted fast. But they'd come prepared.

The door was ripped open from the outside.

Two masked men dragged me out. Fast. Efficient.

A black hood came down over my head. I was shoved into another vehicle.

Nothing but the roar of the engine. And the suffocating cough that came from struggling too hard to breathe.

I don't know how long it took. The vehicle stopped.

I was pushed forward. Then I heard it—the thunder of helicopter rotors.

They hauled me into the cabin and yanked off the hood.

The space was cramped. Baker sat across from me, wiping his fingers with a wet cloth. One by one. Like he'd just signed some routine paperwork.

"Sadie. You've been so uncooperative."

He lifted his eyes to mine.

"I told you. When I want something done, it gets done."

I leaned back in the seat, steadied my breathing, and stared at him.

"Baker. Unlawful detention. You do know what kind of crime that is, right?"

"Crime?"

Baker let out a soft laugh. He pulled a document from his briefcase and tossed it onto my lap.

"The surgical team is already on standby in international waters. These people take money and deliver results. They assured me—out there, no one's laws apply."

"Once the procedure is done, you'll recover overseas. You won't have to go back to that desert lab."

"You can also refuse to sign. But tell me—do you think you'll make it to shore?"

I looked at the consent form. My hand slipped quietly into my coat pocket.

Inside the lining, sewn into the fabric, was a chip the size of a fingernail.

I pressed it through the cloth.

Three short. One long. The highest-level emergency signal. Direct line to the U.S. Marshals Service Witness Protection and Emergency Response Center.

The helicopter lifted. The force of the ascent crushed against my chest. I coughed violently.

Baker frowned, like he'd caught a whiff of something unclean. He gestured for one of his men to hand me a bottle of water, as if this were some great act of generosity.

Then the aircraft jolted hard.

The pilot's voice came through the cabin, tight.

"Mr. Morrow! We've got fast-approaching aircraft—two of them!"

Baker's expression shifted. He leaned toward the window.

Through the clouds, two law enforcement helicopters, dark paint, closed in from both flanks.

Their spotlights were already on.

The public radio channel was forcibly cut. A woman's voice, calm and steady, filled the cabin.

"Aircraft ahead, this is the U.S. Marshals Service. You are suspected of kidnapping a federal employee. You are currently committing a federal felony. Follow us down immediately. Refuse to comply and you will be forcibly intercepted."