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“No idea. Last-minute switch. He asked me to cover for him since he was stuck in Berlin.” Of all the times she’d covered for David, why did she end up with this one? To say she regretted answering his text message last night was a gross understatement. In a parallel universe which hadn’t exploded in disaster, she’d be in Paris with her best friend Sophie now, enjoying French cuisine and abundant amounts of cabernet sauvignon. She imagined the buttery smell of fresh-baked croissants, but the truck bed’s cold metal under her legs ruined the fantasy.
“How unfortunate you are the vice president.”
“You wouldn’t believe how unlucky.” Dead fiancé? Check. A year of crushing grief? Check. And now, witnessing her mentor gunned down, and being taken hostage herself? Double check. A year so terrible, she almost dissolved into macabre laughter so she wouldn’t cry instead. Given the kidnappers’ arsenal, she’d prefer to be stuck with a US Navy Seal instead of a doctor but took comfort she wasn’t alone. Statistically, two people kidnapped had a better chance of survival than one. “I’ll bet they want us for ransom. David’s wealthy, but plenty of richer targets exist elsewhere.”
“Is David in legal trouble? Gambling, affairs, sketchy deals?”
“No way. He’s an inventor, an engineer. Not someone who’d ever do anything illegal.”
“Jealous competitors?”
“Sure, but CEOs slay each other with words, not guns.” Bristling against being trapped, she slammed a fist onto the truck’s metal floor. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“I don’t know if this helps you, but the gunman shot Riku by accident. Yuri was furious at the shooter for his mistake and called him an idiot.”
“Christ. Riku died for nothing. Goddamn fuckwits.” Ready to launch a tirade of expletives, she stopped herself. “Wait, how do you know?”
“I speak some Russian.”
“I didn’t peg you as Slavic.”
“That’s because I’m Norwegian. I spent three years on an international medical mission in Ukraine, near the Russian border.”
“In the conflict zone?” She remembered Russia’s annexation of Crimea, after rebels ousted President Viktor Yanukovych in Ukraine’s 2014 revolution.
“Yes, I’m a trauma surgeon. We treated both Ukrainians and Russians. The languages share similarities.”
“Stressful work.”
He stifled a grim laugh. “Yeah, but not dangerous like medical consulting for Timberline’s corporate board. Turns out this is a risky job.”
“True.” The cruel irony of his choice struck her as bad luck of epic proportion. “So, you’re not practicing medicine?”
“No. Pro-Russian militants bombed our field hospital in Ukraine a few months ago. I injured my hand in the explosion, and I can’t perform surgery until the nerves regenerate.”
“You’ve survived two terrorist attacks in a year?” She dropped open her jaw and debated whether his luck was even worse than her own.
“Technically, only one. We haven’t survived this one yet.”
“Fair point.” She monitored the truck’s movement by the sound of the pavement. “Why’d they kidnap you? You’re not in cybersecurity.”
“No, but one of the gunmen is injured. I’m guessing they need me to provide medical care.”
“Pretty unlucky night to be a doctor.”
“Indeed.”
“The gunmen are taking us north. Ocean’s west, mountains east, Washington state south. They wouldn’t dare cross the US border with hostages.” Anxiety poured through her veins, and she struggled to wrest control of their predicament.
“We’re not returning to Vancouver,” he said.
The finality of his statement echoed her unspoken fear. “Afraid not.” Her shirt stuck against her skin in sweaty clumps, and she shivered. Fatalism overtook her for a moment. “If I don’t survive, please find my parents, Phil and Maggie Bennett. He’s in Virginia, and she’s in Boston. They’re divorced. Tell them I love them.”
“Stop it. We’re not dead yet.”
“Given they gunned down my mentor, I’m realistic. Had the gunshot been a few inches to the right, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” The recent flashes of gunfire replayed in her mind, but she kept her voice even.
Mark paused before speaking again. “How about we aim to survive?”
