Page 11 of The Heir
I'll do anything to get my spitfire of a wife back.
A black SUV pulls up outside, and I watch five men pile out of the vehicle, approaching my front door. They're all dressed in black fatigues. Good. We're going to war.
I open the door before they can knock. As I acknowledge the men with a curt nod, they position themselves in the living room in a half-circle. Roman sets up his laptop on the coffee table and waits for me to review the plan.
"Thank you, gentlemen, for joining me here this evening." I clench my fists at my side, trying to calm my frantic heartbeat. "My wife is to begin transport this evening. Interstate travel from the detention center to Cook County, Illinois. Our role is simple: obstruct transport. Kill everyone there, save for Melody. Extract her. Get out. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," all of the men reply—except one. A muscle twitches in his jaw, and he averts his eyes.
"Let me make myself exceedingly clear. They are dead men walking. The instant they took that job, they were dead. I don't care how many there are. I don't care how heavily armed they are. You are here because Roman assures me you are the best of the best. If you have any qualms about our mission tonight, you may leavenow." I glare daggers at the silent man.
He opens his mouth as if to say something but closes it again with a shake of his head. He casts his gaze to Roman and offers a deferential nod before turning to leave. My hand is on my gun before he takes the first step.
Bang!
He slumps to the floor, gurgling and wheezing. The other men flinch but otherwise don't react. I slide the gun back into my inner pocket.
"What the fuck was that?" I turn to Roman with fury flooding my veins.
"My apologies, sir. I'm afraid I don't have an answer for you." He stalks over to the man and rolls him over, studying the bullet's exit hole. The dead man takes his last breath and goes still.
"Anyone else?" I bark out. Roman sizes the men up, then looks back to me with a grim nod. "Excellent. Let's go."
We split up into groups of three. Roman picks a man—Melnyk, he calls him—and we take Roman's SUV. The other three pile back into their own vehicle. The detention center isn't very far, but that's not where we're intercepting. Oh, no. Too many eyes. Too many ears. But there are several hundred miles of open road between Philadelphia and Chicago. That beautiful open road, without any cameras, will be nearly deserted in the middle of the night.
Roman idles the car a few blocks from the jail. The bus is more of a modified van, emblazoned with the prison bureau's logo on the sides, silently waiting for the prisoner. My wife. The last time I saw her, she was dressed in an elegant pantsuit. Dressed to show the world—and the jury—that she is a respectable woman. But now? Now, she'll be in khaki scrubs. Ill-fitting. They're not meant to accentuate the luscious curves of her body but to hide them. To anonymize her. To repress her beauty.
"There she is," Roman grunts. He points to a gaggle of uniformed guards, surrounding a woman I barely recognize. She has those god-awful khakis on, her wrists bound and chained to her waist. Another chain shackles her ankles together as she shuffles forward, head tilted down, hiding behind her wild brown mane of hair.
A painful ache erupts in my chest as I watch her slowly climb into the van. Two guards hop in after her, I assume to secure her in her seat for the next fourteenhours. I squint into the night and whisper, "Hold on, love."
"They're on the move." Roman shifts the car into drive and slowly follows a few car lengths behind the van.
"Don't worry, sir," Melnyk pipes up from the back seat, speaking with a thick Ukrainian accent. "We will get her back."
The dashboard clock reads 3:08a.m.. We followed the van through the winding mountain roads of Appalachia and past numerous rest stops. Melnyk tracks our route on a tablet in the back seat, occasionally announcing various milestones.
"Sirs," he taps my shoulder. "Ten minutes from construction site."
"Thank you, Melnyk," Roman mutters. It's almost time.
Highway construction has ceased for the night, leaving piles of dirt and heavy machinery on the side of the road. It's perfect for our needs. We'll shoot out the tires, kill the guards, and set fire to the wreckage. It'll look like an accident. We'll stage the prison van against one of the steamrollers. The gas tank will ignite and burnwith all the road tar. There won't be any bodies left to identify.
Like I said, perfect.
I unbuckle myself and crawl into the back seat with Melnyk to retrieve my rifle. He already set it up perfectly for me, adjusted the sights and everything. Roman really does pick the perfect men. Well, with the exception of the man currently seeping his blood into my polished hardwood floors. That will be dealt with at a later time.
"Five minutes," Melnyk announces.
With a nod, I anchor myself in the back seat, aiming the rifle out the window. The highway is riddled with bumps and potholes. I grit my teeth and let out a whispered curse as I attempt to lock my sights on the van's rear left tire. This is my chance. This is my one chance. If I fuck this up, Imightget another shot off before they call for help—but I can't count on that. Melody can't count on that.
"Two minutes," Melnyk says, and I grip the rifle stock harder. My pulse quickens in my ear. The sound of the road fades away; the car seems to glide effortlessly over the asphalt. This is it. I have to save my wife.
I will save my wife.
"Now!" Melnyk shouts and I pull the trigger with a heavy exhale.
The van swerves instantaneously. Roman slams his foot down on the gas pedal, catching up to the vanand crashing into it. Keeping a death grip on the seat's headrest, I brace myself for another impact. Roman laughs as we push the van into the construction zone, pulling away from it at the last second—with a sickening crunch, it crashes into a tall pile of dirt and gravel.
