Don't Turn Around Page 2

  That was pretty exotic for a financial company; they tended to have a penchant for testosterone-driven names like “Maximus” and “Primidius.” Peter scanned the page, but all he could tell was that whatever Project Persephone was, it consumed a hefty chunk of AMRF’s significant annual budget. As in, almost all of it.

  Something about the name, though, struck him as familiar. Peter keyed up Bob’s laptop, typing in the password when the box appeared on-screen: his mother’s birthday, of course. He did a quick web search for Persephone, and realized where he’d seen the name before: When they studied Greek myths back in middle school. Persephone was the girl who got kidnapped and dragged down to Hades, but her mom cut some deal where half the year, she returned to live back on Earth.

  Peter sat back in the chair, puzzled. His eyes fell on the clock across the room: nearly seven thirty, SportsCenter would be on soon. The Bruins had played a game earlier, and he wanted to see the highlights. He debated closing the drawer and going on with his evening, but something nagged at him. Peter sighed and ran his fingers back over the keyboard, instituting a basic search on AMRF.

  A long list of organizations went by that acronym, including the Algalita Marine Research Foundation and Americans Mad for Rad Foosball. Skimming the list, none of them jumped out as the kind of company Bob would invest in. Peter hesitated, then decided to dig further. He shut down Bob’s computer and went to retrieve his laptop.

  Twenty minutes later, he was pretty sure he’d found the right site. From the look of things, it was some sort of medical research company, although whatever they were researching was buried under a string of code names. He dug around some more, but the majority of the company’s files were locked behind firewalls that resisted his first attempts to throw a ladder over. Peter knew that given enough time, he could surmount them—in the past, just for fun he’d hacked unnoticed into the Pentagon, FBI, and Scotland Yard databases. The question was, could anything Bob was involved with possibly be worth the time commitment?

  Probably not, Peter decided. With a yawn, he powered down the laptop.

  A minute later, his front door was kicked in.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Noa found herself in a corridor identical to the one where she’d left the doctors. She raced down it, the guard’s footsteps pounding behind her, joined by the sound of others giving chase. The crocs flapped against her feet, slowing her down. She finally gave up, kicking out of them as she hit the corner. No point keeping her feet warm if it meant getting caught.

  She glanced back—the guard had just rounded the corner, huffing hard, his face beet red. Just ahead of her, another set of double doors. No padlock, but one of those red signs that warned of an emergency alarm hung above the exit.

  Noa ignored it and pushed through. The alarm sprang to life, blaring in her wake.

  Outside, it was dusk. Freezing cold air hit her immediately, penetrating her thin cotton scrubs. Noa quickly scanned the surrounding area: It was some sort of warehouse complex, battered-looking, dust-colored buildings lining a narrow road. The pavement was uneven and scored with potholes. No cars or people in sight.

  Noa broke right, aiming for a narrow gap between the buildings on the opposite side of the road.

  Behind her the door slammed open against the wall, and she heard the guard shout.

  The space between the buildings was narrow, barely wide enough for a single car to pass. A few Dumpsters, but otherwise no signs of life. Noa tore by a set of doors identical to the ones she’d escaped through. Too dangerous to go back inside a building, though—she had a better shot out in the open.

  The part of her brain that was geared solely toward survival was screaming at her to go go go … it was a familiar voice, and listening to it had gotten her through bad situations before. Noa shut down the rest of her mind and let it take over, pushing aside the other distracting thoughts flitting through. Like the possibility that there might be more kids like her in each of these buildings, laid out on cold steel tables with bandaged chests.

  A sudden sharp pain in her right foot nearly sent her sprawling. Noa staggered to the nearest building. Leaning against it, she lifted her foot and dug out a jagged piece of glass embedded in her heel. She bit her lip as blood flowed freely from the wound. She could hear them getting closer. Ignoring the throb in her foot and the matching one in her chest, she pushed off the building and started running again. The alley crossed another road before continuing on between an identical pair of warehouses. Everything looked abandoned; there wasn’t a vehicle or person in sight. Where was she?

  Noa chanced a look back over her shoulder. The original guard had fallen back, but five others in the same uniform and much better shape were gaining ground. At the sight of them, Noa started to despair. She didn’t even know if she was still in Boston. And there didn’t seem to be any end to this warehouse complex.

  Noa shoved those thoughts away. She wasn’t the type to give up, not even when it was probably the smarter choice. She ignored the pain in her chest and foot and the shouting voices behind her. Warehouses streamed past, punctuated by more narrow alleys. She abruptly broke free of them and nearly stopped dead.

  She was facing an enormous parking lot, the blacktop so shiny it looked like a pond that had iced over. The air was thick with salt and oil, the wind tugging at her now that there were no buildings to catch it. As far as she could see, there were rows of boats perched on trailers.

  Noa realized where she was: a marine shipyard, dry-dock storage for boats. Off in the distance she was relieved to recognize the Boston skyline, a cluster of dark brown buildings aspiring to be skyscrapers but falling short, tapering off as they slouched west.

  As if on cue, a plane roared past a few hundred feet above her head, making a final approach. Her heart leaped: South Boston, then; somewhere near Logan Airport. An area she knew relatively well, thanks to six months spent in a City Point foster home.

  The realization spurred her onward. Noa darted between the boats. They were parked close together in narrow slots. Some were battered workboats, with barnacles and algae smearing their hulls. As she progressed, they increased in scale until she was threading between daysailers and trawlers, cabin cruisers and sloops. Glancing back again, she realized with relief that, at least for the moment, she’d managed to lose them.

  The voices sounded like they were spreading out—the search would slow them down. And it was unlikely they’d be able to check every boat for her.

  There was also no way she could keep running. As her adrenaline reserves dissipated, her muscles started to protest. She felt weak, exhausted. The pain in her chest had escalated until it felt like someone was punching each breath into her, and her foot killed. She finally slowed to check it: bleeding, but not too badly. Despite the core heat she’d built up running, she was shivering. She needed to find real clothes, and some shoes. And if she kept going, she risked charging straight into one of her pursuers.

  Noa scanned the boats, looking for one that would suit her purposes. A hundred feet away towered a miniyacht, with a sleek cherry hull and a dive platform hanging low over the back of the trailer.

  She raced toward it.

  Without breaking stride, Noa grabbed the rung of the ladder leading to the dive platform. She slung herself up and over the gunwales and dropped to the deck. She lay there, keeping very still as she tried to control her breathing.

  Footsteps approaching. They suddenly slowed. Noa stopped breathing entirely as they paused. The deck of the boat was ten feet off the ground; she could hear someone panting just below her.

  “Where the hell did she go?” a guy gasped.

  “Damned if I know.” The second voice was deep and guttural, the accent more Rhode Island than Boston. “Wicked fast for a little girl. How’d she get out?”

  “Jim was supposed to be watching her.”

  A snort in response. “Figures.”

  “Cole is gonna go ballistic when he finds out.”

  At that, they f
ell silent. Out of the corner of her eye, Noa saw a smear of blood on the gunwale where she’d stepped on it. She must have left other traces on the blacktop and ladder. She silently prayed that they wouldn’t notice.

  A radio crackled.

  “I’ll get it,” Rhode Island muttered. After an electronic chirp, he said, “Yeah?”

  “We’re meeting in the far east quadrant to regroup.” The voice coming through the radio was authoritative and deadly serious. Cole, Noa guessed. He didn’t sound like someone you’d mess with.

  “Roger that,” Rhode Island replied. Another chirp, and he laughed. “You believe this guy? ‘Far east quadrant,’ like we’re back in Haji-land.”

  “No kidding. Man, I hope this doesn’t take long. I wanted to catch the end of the game,” the other guy said.

  The voices started to move away. Noa waited a few moments, then released her held breath. She was ten feet from the door to the main cabin. She crawled forward quickly on her belly, then reached up to turn the handle. The door was locked. She fell back against the deck and gritted her teeth. Finding it open would have been too much to hope for.

  Noa scanned the deck for something to pick the lock. She knew from past experience that boat locks were designed more to stymie problem teenagers than experienced burglars. Luckily, she just happened to be both.

  The deck was clear except for a small tackle box tucked beneath one of the benches lining the railings. As quietly as possible, Noa eased over and got it open. Scrounging around inside, she found a small fishhook: not ideal, but it would have to do.

  It took five minutes to pick the lock. It would have been quicker, but the throbbing in her chest and foot was distracting. Plus she was forced to work at an odd angle, reaching up with her arm. Twice she had to yank it down as more guards passed the boat.

  Noa waited another minute, straining to detect anyone nearby, then slowly opened the cabin door and slid inside, shutting it behind her.

  Blinds were drawn over the tinted windows, shadowing the interior. She could just make out a plush living room set, leather captains’ chairs, and a solid table. Everything was bolted to the floor, but otherwise could have been straight out of any upscale furniture catalog.

  Noa got to her feet and went down a few steps to the lower deck. She was in a narrow hallway, four doors off either side and one at the end. The first door on her left accordioned open to reveal a tiny bathroom. She went in and unhooked the latch for the medicine cabinet. She was in luck: It was fully stocked; apparently the owners didn’t bother clearing the boat out for winter storage. She sat on the toilet seat and examined her foot. A gouge ran along the heel of her right foot: It was long but didn’t look deep. She awkwardly held her foot over the sink, biting her lip as she poured antiseptic over it. After the wound stopped fizzing, she dabbed it with Neosporin and bandaged it with gauze.

  She took a deep breath, which sent another spasm of pain through her chest. Reluctantly, she eased up her shirt.

  Noa had seen the bandage when she changed into the scrubs, but there hadn’t been time to check under it. Plus, part of her was terrified to look. The oversized bandage was large, rectangular, a few shades darker than her skin. She forced herself to peel back a corner of it.

  What she saw made her gasp. There was a three-inch-long incision running down the center of her chest. Small red marks on either side where sutures had been tugged out—she’d had stitches before; she recognized the aftermath. The cut had already scabbed over, but the skin around it was swollen and red.

  Slowly, Noa pressed the bandage back into place and lowered her shirt. She frowned at her reflection in the mirror. In the light of the tiny fluorescent bulb above the sink, she looked much paler than usual. Dark blue circles under her eyes, hollow cheeks, lips cracked and peeling. She ran a hand through her jet-black hair and it came away greasy, as if she hadn’t showered for days.

  Had the doctor been telling the truth? Had she really been in some sort of car accident? Noa shook her head—that didn’t make any sense. Otherwise she would have woken up in a regular hospital, and there wouldn’t be guards after her. No, this was something else.

  Not that she had time to figure out what, exactly. She still had to get out of this shipyard somehow. Which wouldn’t be easy—she had no idea where the exit was, and wandering around looking for it was a bad idea.

  Noa splashed some cold water on her face and dabbed it dry with a corner of the shirt. Feeling slightly better, she limped across the hall to a tiny bedroom with taupe curtains drawn over the portholes. The queen-sized bed against the bulkhead was stripped down to the mattress. Noa slid open the drawers built into the wall, but they were all empty.

  She got lucky in the next bedroom. It was similarly barren, but on the closet floor she found a ratty, faded Wesleyan sweatshirt, baggy black sweatpants, and a pair of rubber fishing boots. Based on the smell, this must be the owner’s designated fishing outfit. Digging through the drawers produced a pair of mismatched sweat socks and a black knit cap.

  It wouldn’t really be enough to combat the cold, but it was better than what she had on. Noa changed quickly, then sat on the edge of the bed to puzzle out her next move.

  If she stayed on the boat, there was a good chance they’d find her. The shouting had diminished, but that didn’t mean anything. For all she knew, they’d called another hundred guys and were planning on searching every boat.

  Why they were devoting so much energy to looking for her was the larger question. Her fingers went to the bandage on her chest. What had they done to her? Noa had heard stories, kind of the foster-kid version of the bogeyman: street kids getting drugged by a stranger and waking up without a kidney, that sort of thing. She’d never put much stock in it—even if the stories were true, she considered herself too smart and experienced to have to worry about it.

  But she was wrong. Someone had taken her, and she couldn’t even remember how or when. Besides, the cut was on her chest, not her back. It wasn’t like they could have taken her heart, right? What else was in there?

  She might not make it through the next few hours anyway, Noa reminded herself. So worrying about that now was probably a waste of time.

  She’d gotten lucky once, though. Maybe it would happen again. Motivated, she got up and went back into the hallway. Next was another empty room, this one with bunk beds. The final door at the end of the hall opened onto the ship’s bridge. It was stocked with an elaborate array of marine equipment and controls. Unfortunately, no sign of a phone or computer.

  Then her eyes alit on the ship-to-shore radio. Noa turned the dial, and the receiver lit up. A smile slowly spread across her face.

  Peter was choking on a mouthful of carpet. One of the men who’d stormed into his house was driving his knee into Peter’s back while simultaneously pressing his face into the rug. The cloying sweetness of rug shampoo was making him gag, which helped allay some of the shock.

  “What do you want?” he asked, trying not to sound as scared as he felt. “There’s no money here.”

  No one answered. He started to struggle. The guy on top of him increased the pressure until it felt like he was being driven into the floor like a nail, and his head might actually go through the rug and pop out the other side. Peter went limp. He was terrified. He’d heard about home invasions before. His friend’s dad worked at a bank, and when they were younger two guys held the whole family at gunpoint overnight, then forced the dad to help them rob the bank in the morning. Was this something like that? They seemed official, highly trained. Or maybe it was a kidnapping? His parents were rich; he’d heard about stuff like that happening, too.

  The scary thing was that he wasn’t so sure his parents would pay a ransom for him.

  It was hard to see, but Peter was pretty sure there were three guys in the room, all dressed identically in black. When they’d first stormed in they had guns drawn, but from what he could tell they’d tucked them away. At least he hadn’t been shot yet, which was probably a good s
ign. There were others with them; he could hear them moving from room to room, muttering to one another in low voices. They seemed to be waiting for something. Or someone.

  “Get off me!” he managed, the words muffled by piling.

  A set of loafers entered his line of sight. Black leather buffed to a shine, black suit pants, cuffs broken in a sharp line at the heel: the mark of a pricey tailoring job. Peter followed them up. A tall guy loomed over him, dressed in a full three-piece suit with a red tie. A lawyer, if Peter had to guess; everyone at his mom’s firm looked and dressed like that. That provided a measure of relief. A lawyer wouldn’t let them hurt him. And the guy seemed to be in charge; the mood in the room had shifted when he came in.

  Still, he looked peeved, like Peter was an annoyance he’d prefer not to deal with, a piece of gum he’d just discovered stuck to his heel. He was probably in his thirties, dark hair cropped short, cold gray eyes. “Let him up,” the guy said.

  Peter felt the pressure release. He got to his feet, trying to hide the shakiness. His back ached where the knee had pushed on it. He tried to sound confident when he said, “Get the hell out of my house, or I’ll call the cops.”

  The man in the suit eyed him. After a beat, he said, “You’re the son.”

  His voice creeped Peter out; it was completely flat and toneless. Disinterested.

  “I’m going to say it one more time. Get out.” Peter went to the phone on the desk and picked up the receiver. Held his breath the whole time, waiting for them to stop him.

  The suit appeared amused. “There won’t be a dial tone. We cut the line.”

  Peter pressed the on button to double-check. He was right; there was no dial tone. He went for his cell phone, which was tucked in his pocket—hopefully it hadn’t been damaged when they threw him to the ground.

  But the suit held up a hand to stop him. “That signal is being jammed, too.”

  Jamming a cell signal was no mean feat—as far as he knew, it required the kind of military equipment only governments could afford. Peter left his phone in his pocket. “Who are you?”