Page 58 of The Shadow Friends

As it rolled to a stop, her heart accelerated, pumping fresh fear through her arteries. The engine shut off. A moment later, the back door swung open. The driver reached in and sliced apart the duct tape binding Maggie’s ankles, then hauled her out. As he set her down on her feet, she quickly took in their surroundings. Saw an empty parking lot, a building looming in the darkness. Some sort of warehouse. They were in an industrial area, deserted at this time of night. The lights of Amsterdam were only a faint glow in the distance.

Lloyd was dragged out next, but he was so unsteady he stumbled to his knees. Remained there, unable to rise, his hands bound and useless behind his back. The gunman hauled him back to his feet and gave him a shove toward the warehouse.

“Go,” the woman ordered Maggie.

Frantically, Maggie considered her possible moves, calculated the odds of survival. If she tried to run, she’d get maybe a dozen, two dozen yards before a bullet would take her down. That was a gamble with a 100 percent chance of failure. No, choose another move. Cooperate. Talk. Delay. Give them a semblance of what they wanted and wait for a different opportunity to escape. This was a warehouse, so it might have tools. Hammers, screwdrivers, something she could get her hands on. It might bring their chance for survival up to a whopping 1 percent, but if she didn’t fight back, there was no chance at all. She’d take that 1 percent because it was all she had.

They stepped into the warehouse. The woman flipped the wall switch and lights came on overhead, illuminating a concrete floor, walls of corrugated metal. A cavernous building with rows of storage shelves that marched into the distant shadows. The gunman yanked the tape off Maggie’s mouth and shoved her to her knees. She sank, joints protesting, onto the concrete floor. With a moan, Lloyd flopped down beside her.

The woman held up the ID’s she’d pulled from their wallets. “Margaret Bird, from Purity, Maine. Lloyd Slocum, also from Purity, Maine. You’re both a long way from home.” She focused on Lloyd. “Who sent you?”

Lloyd shook his head. “No one sent us.”

“The truth!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Who do you work for?” The woman kicked him in the knee. “Tell me!”

Lloyd cried out and crumpled forward, over his battered knee. “I don’t work for anyone.”

The woman handed the ID’s to her companion. “We’ll have the answer soon enough. Our people are checking your identities.”

“Look, you’ve made a mistake,” groaned Lloyd. “I’m retired. I’m only here to find my wife, Ingrid.”

“Your wife? Then why do you have Dmitry’s photo in your phone?”

“Dmitry?”

“You showed it to me this morning.”

Lloyd shook his head. “You told us his name was Willem Dekker.”

“That’s the name he now uses. Where is he?”

“I don’t give a bloody damn about the man. I told you, I’m just looking for—”

“We’re searching for Dmitry too,” Maggie cut in.

The woman’s gaze snapped to Maggie. “Why?”

“Probably for the same reason you are. But he’s a hard man to find.” Maggie shot Lloyd a warning glance. Don’t say a word. Let me handle this.

The woman paced over to the gunman and murmured to him in Russian, then paced back to Maggie. “Who sent you?”

“People who are willing to pay.”

“And they hired you?”

“No one ever notices us.” That much, at least, was the truth.

“No one will notice when you go missing either.” The woman nodded to the gunman.

He raised his weapon and aimed at Maggie.

“If we’re all searching for Dmitry,” Maggie said coolly, “we should work together, don’t you think?”

The man hesitated. Cast a quizzical glance at the woman.