Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 108242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll get it. I need to call Nix’s dad now, but keep us posted.”
“Okay,” Vivienne says, a tremor in her voice. “You really think we’ll get them back?”
“Damn right we will. And the son of a bitch who took them will be the one who pays.”
“Hang in there, girl.” Kimba says. “Love you.”
She disconnects the call with Vivienne and holds the phone to her chest for a second.
“God, I’m dreading this call,” Kimba says, her brown eyes solemn. “I can’t believe it’s happening to Mr. Hunter again. This is exactly what he’s dreaded since her mom disappeared.”
“Nothing is happening again.” I refuse to even consider that Mr. Hunter will never see Lennix again. That I won’t. “Call him. I need as much information as quickly as I can get it.”
Kimba nods and dials, keeping it on speaker.
“Kimba?” Concern weights the man’s voice on the other end. “I was just about to call. Someone has Lennix.”
“Viv told us,” Kimba says, blinking at tears. “What do you know?”
“Not much. CamTech called to say they’d been contacted by a group in Costa Rica holding Wallace hostage, and they have Lennix, too.”
“Did they give you a name for the group?” I ask.
The line goes silent, and I practically hear the cogs turning in the professor’s quick mind.
“Sorry, Mr. Hunter,” Kimba says hastily. “I should have told you. I have you on speaker so Maxim can hear, too.”
“Maxim?” he asks. “Maxim who?”
“Uh, Maxim Cade, sir,” I reply.
“The environmentalist?” he asks, obviously confused.
“Uh…yes?”
“How are you involved with my daughter’s case, Mr. Cade?”
He doesn’t know me. It stings for a second that I met Lennix when she was seventeen and I’ve never come up in a conversation with her father.
“I’m—”
“He’s a friend of ours,” Kimba interjects, stretching her eyes at me warningly. Later, she mouths.
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Hunter says, understanding in his voice. “I do remember her saying she was managing your brother’s campaign, but it wouldn’t be publicly announced until February.”
My brother. Wow.
“Yes, sir. Nix is, ahem, a close friend, and I want to help.”
“Nix?” He laughs weakly. “I’ve never heard anyone call her that before.”
Good. That’s mine. She’s mine.
“The group?” I press. “Did they give a name?”
“No, on the video—”
“Can you send us the video?”
“Well, the CamTech rep said I can’t share it with anyone,” Mr. Hunter says, his words dragging like he’s unsure of what to do.
“Maxim’s got lots of connections, as you can imagine,” Kimba says. “Of course, we won’t share it with the media or anyone else, but we need it if we’re going to help her.”
“Okay.” A rule keeper’s reluctance still lingers in his voice. “I’ll send it, but I need to warn you. The video… It’s bad, and they’ve hurt her.”
My blood freezes in my veins.
“What do you mean they’ve hurt her?” I ask, my words blunt, curt.
“You’ll see on the video,” Mr. Hunter says. “Her throat… God, what if they…if she—”
“I’ll get her back.” I smooth my voice into false confidence. I’ve never been more afraid in my life.
“You still have my email, Mr. Hunter?” Kimba asks, pulling the iPad from her bag. “Just send it there.”
“Yes,” he replies. “The video’s not long. I’ll just stay on the line while you watch and you can tell me what I should do next.”
In moments, Kimba receives the email and clicks the link to the video.
A face—or, rather, a mask—appears. A tall man, ripped with muscles and wearing a Kurt Cobain T-shirt and an Abe Lincoln mask, adjusts the camera. They’re in some dark space, illuminated dimly with a few lights strung along the back wall.
“Hi,” he says, his voice as American as the president he’s hiding behind. He waves, and the mask shifts with his grin. “Don’t be thrown off by the mask. I know it’s kind of”—he touches his chin like he’s searching his mind—“comical, but I assure you I’m completely serious.”
He tips his head, beckoning someone off camera to come forward. Wallace steps into the frame, his steps reluctant and his eyes darting nervously from the camera to the hulking armed man.
“State your name,” Abe says.
When Wallace doesn’t respond right away, Abe taps his head with the butt of a semiautomatic weapon. Wallace winces.
“Name,” Abe commands again.
Wallace glances at the camera from beneath a heavy frown, his eyes anxious, hollow. “Wallace Murrow.”
“As the team at CamTech knows,” Abe says, “Dr. Murrow here has been up to some revolutionary things with that vaccine of his.”
Kimba and I exchange a quick look. I lift my brows, silently asking if she knows what-the-hell vaccine. She gives a swift negative shake of her head and returns her attention to the video.
“I want to keep this simple,” Abe says. “You want your wonder boy back, it’ll cost you ten million dollars and the formula for the vaccine he’s been developing.”