Dying for Love (28 page)

“Did Jake agree to this?” Amelia asked.

“Yes. It took some doing, but Sadie convinced him.”

Of course. Jake would do anything for Sadie.

She’d started to fantasize that she and John might have that kind of love. Stupid on her part. Six might have been mentally ill, but at least in his own way, he really did love her.

Before her interview, Brenda gave a recap about the Bayler couple being found dead.

Then she escorted Amelia to two chairs set up in front of the camera, and they both took seats.

“We’ve been following the story about the investigation into the Slaughter Creek experiments and the crimes that resulted from them,” Brenda said after introducing herself. “Today, we have one of those subjects with us.” Brenda angled herself toward Amelia. “This is Amelia Nettleton. She suffered at the hands of Commander Blackwood, but Miss Nettleton has undergone therapy and made great strides in recovering from the drug therapy and abuse she endured. That said, there is a new development to the story.” She hesitated. “I’m going to let her tell you why she felt the need to speak up today.”

Nerves fluttered in Amelia’s stomach, but she’d come too far to back down. There had to be someone in Slaughter Creek who knew something about her baby. Someone who wouldn’t be afraid to come forward now that the Commander was dead.

“Hi,” Amelia said, forcing a smile at the camera. “Miss Banks is right, I have worked hard in my recovery. The process has also triggered memories that I’d lost years ago.”

She barely resisted tapping a rhythm on her leg. “In fact, I recently learned that while I was locked in the hospital, I gave birth to a son. It seems impossible, but I have proof that it’s true.” Sorrow and fear clogged her throat, but she swallowed them back. “Commander Arthur Blackwood took my baby away from me at birth. My son would be six years old now.

“I’ve traced his disappearance to a local church and The Gateway House, but haven’t determined where he is at this moment.”

“Do you think Arthur Blackwood used him in another project?” Brenda asked.

“That’s a possibility,” Amelia said, shivering at the horrid thought of her baby being subjected to the same kind of abuse she’d suffered.

But she latched onto another possibility. “It’s also possible that a couple may have adopted him. That couple, the Baylers, were found dead. But their adopted child was not with them and is missing.” Amelia swallowed hard. “If you have any information about this child, please contact the police. Mark’s life may be in danger.”

Mark Bayler rocked himself back and forth against the wall of the room where the bad man had locked him.

Red flashed in front of his eyes. So much red.

Blood. His mommy’s and daddy’s. A scream sounded in his head. His mama’s. His own . . .

The bad man had shot them in the back of the head. Killed them for no reason.

Then tossed them over the mountain like rag dolls.

Now they were gone forever.

Mark stared down at his ragged nails. He’d tried to scratch the bad man and make him stop. But it hadn’t done any good.

The man slapped him so hard he’d flung him across the floor.

Tears leaked from his eyes and ran down his chin. Snot bubbled in his nose. His throat hurt from screaming for help.

But no one had heard him.

He wanted to go home. Wanted his parents back. Wanted to make the bad man go away forever.

The door screeched open. A scraping noise sounded. The man walking.

He was half dragging his leg like something was wrong with it.

Mark looked at the gun. It was shiny and big. That gun had killed his parents.

If he could grab it, he’d make the bad man die, too.

The man knelt in front of him and held up the gun. “You want to shoot me like I shot your mother and father, don’t you?”

Even his voice sounded mean. And his smile was evil like the monsters he’d seen on TV.

The man pressed the gun to Mark’s temple. Mark tried to be still, but his legs were jumpy.

“You do, don’t you?” That nasty smile again. “You want to blow my brains out.”

Mark hated him so much that he nodded.

“Good,” the man said with a laugh. “You’re going to be perfect.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

J
ohn and Coulter slipped through the crowd, studying the faces in search of a potential bomber. Nick had gone to the roof of a nearby building to get a better view.

A gloomy gray settled over the area, shadows plaguing the sidewalks and streets from the storm clouds while the wind roared around them.

Unfortunately the rally was composed mostly of young people, hundreds of college students, which made picking out a teenage boy even more difficult. John recognized campus security and the numerous local police, but there were supposed to be dozens of undercover cops and security teams working the scene as well.

Groups of protestors shouted that the government needed to be changed, that new leaders needed to be put in place.

An argument erupted somewhere in the crowd, and John saw Coulter move closer to check it out. One of the local police noted an abandoned backpack, and John’s breath hitched as he watched the officer kneel and slowly unzip the bag.

Seconds later, the officer gestured that the bag was clear.

A young man with shaggy brown hair wearing a denim jacket walked up to the podium. Perspiration beaded on his forehead, and his hand trembled as he reached for the microphone.

John inched forward in the crowd, eyes glued to the podium.

To the left, a popping sound erupted. John spotted a scruffy young guy in a denim jacket aiming a gun into the crowd.

Coulter jumped the guy from behind. They dropped to the ground in a fight, and several cops rushed to surround them.

John jerked his gaze back to the podium, his pulse stuttering when he saw the young man on stage lift his hand and push his coat to the side. A maniacal smile curved his mouth.

Dynamite was strapped to his chest.

Damn. The boy was going to blow himself up onstage. Judging the distance between him and the crowd, he’d take several lives with him.

John spoke low into his mic, his voice crackling in the wind. “Suspect on stage has a bomb. Clear the area immediately.”

The boy’s eyes suddenly latched onto John.

A black emptiness hollowed out the boy’s face, yet his gaze didn’t waver as he slid his hand toward the inside of his jacket.

“Don’t,” John mouthed.

“Bomb!” someone shouted.

Panic ensued, and students began running in all directions, screaming and pushing and shoving in their haste to escape.

The last thing John wanted was to kill this kid. He’d probably been brainwashed for years.

But he couldn’t let him take out the crowd.

He aimed the gun at the boy’s head. “I said don’t do it.”

For a brief second conflicting emotions flashed on the young man’s face, but another heartbeat and his fingers touched something that looked like the trigger.

John had no choice. He gripped his gun and fired.

Everything was unraveling. All the lies and secrets . . .

Except John still hadn’t figured it out.

Helen Gray sat outside Amelia Nettleton’s house, her heart in her throat. The storm outside raged violently just as the one inside her took root and built in intensity. All those years ago, she’d done what she had to do.

More than anything she’d wanted to fight Arthur Blackwood. But that had been impossible. He had been too strong, had too much authority.

He was ruthless.

He was dead though, and it was time for her to tell the truth. To come out of hiding.

Sister Grace had contacted her, frightened, saying Amelia was asking questions. Then she herself had run out of fear.

Amelia’s heartfelt plea on the news had torn Helen up inside. The poor girl had suffered unbearable torture at the hands of the Commander, yet she’d survived.

And she was still suffering.

Helen was a mother herself. She knew exactly how it felt to lose a child. To have the baby ripped from her arms, because Arthur Blackwood had done the same thing to her. He’d taken her son from her and destroyed her life.

Amelia was begging for help, and she had to step up, even if it got her killed.

Mass pandemonium reigned as the crowd raced for cover, and campus security and local police worked to clear the area.

John ran up to the podium and caught the young man before he collapsed onto the floor of the stage. He’d shot the kid in the shoulder, just enough to take him down. Quickly he secured and handcuffed him before the teen could trigger the explosive.

The bomb squad raced over to dismantle the homemade device. John stood by while the team worked, and within minutes, they’d removed the dynamite from the boy.

John zeroed in on the tattoo on the boy’s wrist—a string of
B’
s. What did it mean?

Nick joined them, his expression full of rage.

The kid looked up at them, dazed and confused, blood seeping from his shoulder. “You aren’t going to kill anyone today,” John said.

“There are others to carry on the mission.”

John dug his hands into the boy’s arm. “What mission?”

“I am a loyal soldier,” the boy said, a deadness to his eyes.

“You’re not a soldier,” Nick said. “And the people here are not terrorists.”

“Everyone needs to take notice. We are important. Changes have to be made.”

John shook the young guy. “Killing innocent people is not the way to make change.”

“But we have to make people wake up, make them see the breakdown of the family. Teenagers having babies, hookers getting pregnant, families throwing their kids out on the street.”

John growled in disgust. “You may think you’re delivering a message, but you aren’t saving families. You’re murdering kids and innocents.”

“We had to get attention. No one cares about family anymore. The whole government needs to be burned down.”

It was useless to argue with him.

Nick gripped him by the collar. “Who sent you?”

“Our father. He saved us and now we will save others.” Then the boy clamped his mouth together as if he’d said all he was going to say.

John cursed again. When he looked up, he saw Coulter approaching, shoving the other young man toward them. He was handcuffed and secure, his eyes flaring with the same kind of dead look the other boy had.

“He was a diversion,” Coulter said in disgust.

Dammit. How many more were there?

Nick shook the kid again. “Where are the others? Where’s your leader?”

The boy jerked his head up, eyes spitting rage. “We will never betray him.”

John and Coulter pushed the boys toward the police van. Except for a few curious stragglers, the area had cleared. “I’ll take him in and interrogate him,” Nick said. “He’ll break.”

But John spotted an older man in the group, watching, his face grim, his features hidden by a hat. Something about the man struck John as familiar.

Maybe his military stance.

“Put them in separate cars,” John told one of the officers. “And separate them when we get to the station.”

The officer nodded, and John released the kid to him, then sprinted toward the man in the crowd.

Their gazes met, and a sinister smile creased the man’s face as if he were sending a message that he’d enjoyed the mass chaos. The suspect broke into a run, but his limp slowed him down.

John picked up his pace, but the suspect darted around a building. Adrenaline surged through John, and he elbowed his way through the onlookers in pursuit.

John spoke into his mic, alerting security and locals that he was chasing another suspect. “I think I may be onto the leader. White male, forties, dark-gray trench coat, a limp.”

John lost sight of him, and climbed the steps to one of the campus buildings for a better look. He scanned the area, and spotted the suspect duck into the dining hall. The man’s limp grew more pronounced as he picked up his pace.

John took a shortcut through a walkway to a clearing, then entered the building. He rushed through a maze of hallways, then to the central cafeteria. Anger slammed into him when he saw the man in a low conversation with another teenage boy. The kid looked nervous and was fiddling with his fleece jacket as if he might also be wired. A tattoo encircled his wrist, a row of several
B’
s connected together. The other teen had had one, too.

John gripped his gun at the ready as he approached from behind.

“Watts and Samuels failed,” the man said to the kid. “It’s your turn to step up, Bluster.”

“Yes, Father,” the boy said.

John spoke into his mic again. “Request backup in the dining hall asap. We have another bomber. Repeat: We have another bomber.”

He inched up behind the older man and shoved his Sig Sauer into his back. “It’s over. Tell the kid to call it off.”

A sinister laugh rumbled from the man’s chest. “It will never be over.”

The kid tensed, eyes wide with fear as he realized they’d been caught.

“Yes, it will,” John snarled. “You’re going to stop it now.”

He dug the barrel of his weapon deeper into the man’s back. Instead of complying, the man motioned for the boy to trip the bomb. The teenager slid one hand inside his jacket, and John spotted the dynamite strapped around him.

Coulter and one of the bomb experts approached slowly from behind.

“Do it,” the man ordered.

Coulter attacked the kid from behind, sliding his arm around the boy’s throat in a choke, immobilizing him. Seconds later, Coulter yanked the teen’s arms behind him and snapped handcuffs around his wrists.

John searched the dining hall for an accomplice, but the room was empty.

The bomb expert hurried to dismantle the bomb while John handcuffed the man with the limp and dragged him outside to another police car.

At the station, he would get some answers. Between this bastard and the three teens, one of them had to talk.

Amelia found another disturbing canvas when she entered the guesthouse. Anger suffused her. She hadn’t even been gone long this time.

And that security system was supposed to be foolproof. But obviously it had failed.

This painting depicted a small grave with a teddy bear in it.

More vile words had been written on the wall in red paint.
Whore
.
Tramp
.
Lunatic
.