A Marriage of True Minds: A Sasha McCandless Novella Page 3

  Leo felt himself getting ready to explode, so he clamped down on his temper and managed to spit out the sentence in a semblance of a reasonable voice.

  “Leo, I know—”

  Leo waved off the apology he knew was coming.

  He’d told them, the whole freaking multi-agency team that handled Bricker’s failed attempt to bring the country to its knees through the release of a killer superflu. He, and Sasha, and Aroostine Higgins, had argued and reasoned and insisted that Bricker should be housed in a federal maximum-security penitentiary far from Pennsylvania and Bricker’s army of deluded survivalists.

  Leo personally thought that Florence ADMAX—the supermaximum-security institution in Colorado that Mafia boss Nicodemo Scarfo, John Walker Lindh, Timothy McVeigh, and countless Al-Quaeda operatives, Libyan bombers, and homegrown white supremacists called home—was just about perfect. But the federal agencies had claimed that a high-profile trial and incarceration would only serve to strengthen the prepper network, which had been in some disarray after Sasha and Leo spent their holidays bringing down Bricker.

  What the feds didn’t say, but Leo knew was part of the calculus, was that they also didn’t want to admit to the American public just how close they’d come to a global pandemic of truly apocalyptic proportions. They were in a hurry to sweep Jeffrey Bricker and everything he meant under the nearest rug.

  So, in the end, over the objections of the people who truly understood Bricker’s cold-blooded zealotry and megalomania, the Bureau of Prisons been processed him into a medium-security penitentiary located in Northeastern Pennsylvania. A man who had executed a former sheriff’s deputy in furtherance of his plans to release a killer flu was housed with white-collar criminals who’d been running small-time financial frauds, wise guys with loose ties to organized crime, and the occasional small-time drug dealer.

  And, now, almost exactly one year later, Bricker had managed to escape, apparently with the help of one of his local followers. Shocker.

  “How?” Leo said simply.

  Hank rubbed his temple. “We’re not sure.”

  Hank’s hand moved from his temple to his collar, and he scratched his neck awkwardly. He looked uncomfortable and ill at ease—and that chilled Leo’s blood. He’d never seen his former colleague display anything other than a command presence.

  “What?” Leo demanded, his heart racing.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s something else, Hank. I can tell. What aren’t you telling me?” He would never tell a fellow law enforcement officer something so flaky-sounding, but he felt a threat—to Sasha, to the wedding, to their future—he felt it deep in his bones.

  Hank cleared his throat, stalling. “I don’t know the details, but the Criminal Division believes he has specific plans for further violence. I have Aroostine checking in with her office. She’ll be able to get the specifics faster than I can—”

  “Spill it.”

  He exhaled loudly. “During the search of Bricker’s cell, the Bureau of Prisons found some materials of concern—”

  Leo’s patience was near its end. “Hank,” he said, injecting a warning into the name.

  “The Bureau of Prisons wouldn’t tell me what they found; but they think he may be planning to come after you and Sasha.”

  No.

  Hank put up a cautioning hand. “Now, don’t go jumping to any conclusions until we have the full picture, Leo. Aroostine’ll be here in a minute and she call fill—”

  Leo charged out of the kitchen before Hank finished the sentence. He had to find Sasha. Now.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sasha told herself not to panic. She took a deep cleansing breath—or tried to—but the newly taken-in bodice of her dress gave her room to expand her lungs to half-capacity, if that.

  She searched Aroostine’s face. “What reason do they have to believe that?”

  The younger woman was pale but otherwise looked calm. She didn’t bother to sugarcoat the news. “They found a stack of newspaper clippings about the incident with the preppers last winter. Also included in the stack was your engagement announcement, the announcement that Will was joining your firm, and all of the press coverage about you during the Champion Fuel scandal over the summer, including a picture that was taken of you in the hospital after you’d been stabbed. That didn’t come from a media report, by the way. We don’t yet know how he obtained it, but it appeared to be an official photograph from the investigating officer’s file.”

  Reflexively, Sasha glanced down at her bare arm, and Aroostine’s eyes followed hers.

  The scar didn’t look that bad, considering that her attacker had severed the brachial artery in her left arm. It was a pale, raised slash tracing its way across her tanned and toned bicep.

  What wasn’t visible was the fact that she still hadn’t regained full strength on her dominant side. Daniel knew, of course, because he was her instructor. She couldn’t exactly hide the fact from the man with whom she engaged in hand-to-hand combat on a regular basis. He’d prescribed a series of strengthening exercises, and she’d been performing them faithfully. She was getting stronger, but it was slow going. Even Connelly didn’t know. She didn’t want him to worry. As it was, he’d spent a full month treating her like a porcelain doll after the stabbing, and it had nearly driven her insane.

  “Oh,” she said, too loudly, drawing Aroostine’s eyes back to hers.

  “He also had older clippings about the Hemisphere Air crash a few years ago and our case together.”

  Their case together. The murder of a small town’s only judge in an effort to cover up two greedy sisters’ efforts to profit from the hydrofracking boom at any cost. Aroostine had gotten involved in the prosecution of the Pennsylvania Attorney General for his role in the scandal. And Sasha had been her star witness.

  The two had immediately liked and respected one another. Friendship had come later—after Sasha and Connelly had recommended Aroostine as a local liaison for the team of federal prosecutors who tried Jeffrey Bricker for the murder of a former sheriff’s deputy and the attempted mass murder of, well, the entire Eastern seaboard.

  Aroostine had wowed the feds and earned herself a job offer as an Assistant United States Attorney at Department of Justice Headquarters. Had she also earned herself an enemy?

  “Our case? Bricker’s not gunning for you, too, is he?”

  Aroostine shook her head. “I don’t think so. He seems to be focused on you. Obsessed, actually.”

  Despite the warm night air, a chill ran through Sasha, and her arms sprouted goosebumps.

  She gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing that we’re two thousand miles away from home at a remote resort, then.”

  Aroostine smiled back warmly, but her smile couldn’t clear the worry from her eyes. “I guess so. I just wish the Bureau of Prisons had paid attention to us when they assigned him. Housing him so close to his base of support was a terrible idea from the start.”

  Sasha nodded her agreement. Over Aroostine’s shoulder, she saw Maisy watching them with a wrinkled brow. She turned to Naya and lowered her voice. “Don’t mention this to anyone else, okay?”

  Naya, who’d been strangely silent, swallowed hard. “I won’t.”

  She gave Sasha an unreadable look.

  “What?”

  “I don’t like this one bit. This is your wedding.”

  Naya rarely panicked, but Sasha could see her worry mounting.

  “Naya, it’s going to be okay. I’m sure the entire federal alphabet soup is out looking for him. And there’s no way he could even know we’re here, right?”

  Naya nodded uncertainly. “I guess.”

  “I’m sure of it. Look, you’re my maid of honor. Your biggest concern is going to be pouring me back into this dress tomorrow. Because if I so much as look at a piece of bread, all bets are off.”

  Sasha forced herself to laugh, and Naya and Aroostine joined her.

  It’s
going to be okay, she told herself. Nothing and no one—especially not a demented survivalist with a grudge—was going to suck the joy out of this wedding.

  She reached out to hug Naya.

  And then the lights went out.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Someone screamed—a high-pitched, breathy scream that could only belong to one person.

  “Maisy? Are you okay?” Sasha called across the room.

  Beside her, Aroostine activated her phone’s flashlight app and aimed it toward the sound.

  Maisy was clutching Sasha’s mother’s arm. Both Maisy and Valentina were wild-eyed. Riley and Jordan seemed calmer but not unshaken.

  Sasha minced across the room, her ivory ribbons trailing her like a shadow.

  “I’m sure the lights go out here all the time,” she said in her most soothing voice.

  “We’ve been here for days, and they haven’t lost power until now,” her mother retorted.

  “Mom, they must have a generator. Let’s just give it a few minutes, okay?”

  “She’s right,” Maisy announced loudly to no one in a clear effort to get a grip on herself.

  Sasha rubbed her friend’s arm reassuringly.

  Sasha, her four bridesmaids, her mother, and Aroostine looked at one another in the glow of the iPhone.

  Sasha smiled. “I hear it’s good luck for your third-world resort to lose power the day before your wedding.”

  Jordan giggled first. Then Riley joined her.

  And, despite the joke not being all that funny, their overexcited nervous systems reacted to the humor, and soon all seven of them were doubled over with laughter, gasping for breath, and wiping away tears.

  “Shh!” Naya suddenly demanded, straightening up.

  The laughter stopped like someone had lifted the needle from a record.

  And they heard the screaming. A babble of shrieks rising above a series of foreign, guttural shouted commands. The clomping of booted feet along the long hallway. A door slamming. And the sound of a pleading, feminine voice, speaking rapidly in Spanish. Marisole.

  Sasha locked eyes with her mother.

  Valentina’s violet eyes were huge with fright and something else. Sadness, maybe.

  “Mom? Are you okay?”

  Her mother clasped Sasha’s hands with hers. Her skin was ice cold but she didn’t tremble.

  “I’m not worried, honey. You’re very smart and very strong. And your dad and brothers and Leo won’t let anything happen to us.”

  Sasha bit down hard on her lip, drawing a drop of blood, but managed not to share her thoughts. Based on the sounds coming from outside the room, the men would be fully occupied taking care of themselves.

  “I love you, Mom,” she said instead.

  “I know. I love you, too, Sunshine.”

  Valentina hadn’t called her ‘Sunshine’ since she was nine years old. Maybe younger. To her surprise, Sasha felt tears gathering behind her eyes.

  No time for that now, she told herself firmly.

  She turned her head, and Aroostine was at her side, tense but cool.

  “What’s the plan?” Aroostine asked.

  Sasha was about to break the news that there was no plan when the door flew open, and Marisole and Charlotte stumbled across the threshold, roughly pushed by a thin, dark man. More of a boy, Sasha realized as her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she noticed his smooth skin, and round, babyish face.

  He was followed by an older, bigger man. Both men wore ragged army green t-shirts, dirty cargo pants, and heavy boots. Both had machetes glinting at their sides. They were wild-eyed and sweating. Nervous.

  Nervous was bad. Nervous was unpredictable.

  Naya was either swearing, praying, or both under her breath.

  They marched through the door and closed it firmly. The older man, who appeared to be in charge, stepped forward and surveyed the room.

  Sasha stared at him, her brain refusing to accept the reality of the situation.

  This wasn’t happening. Not this weekend. Not at her wedding.

  The leader spoke in rapid-fire Spanish to Marisole.

  “¿Quién es la novia?”

  The only word Sasha understood was la novia, or bride, but judging by the way he swept his arms over the room, gesturing at everyone, it was clear what—or who—he wanted.

  Even as tears streamed down her face, Marisole clutched her sewing bag to her chest, gritted her teeth, and shook her head.

  “No se,” she lied, giving an exaggerated shrug.

  He raised an arm, as if to backhand her, and Charlotte darted between them.

  Sasha stepped forward.

  “Hey, Einstein. I’m la novia. It’s understandable that you’d be confused, what with the poofy white gown and all.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Naya shake her head and Aroostine stiffen.

  The man turned to the young boy, who flashed Sasha a nervous look and then translated. She could see him weighing whether to clean it up or not, but she heard “Einstein” mixed in with the stream of Spanish, so she assumed he decided not to risk it.

  That was fine by her. It was her personal belief that bullies had to understand from the initial interaction whether a person was going to stand up or be pushed down. She had no intention of being pushed down, ever. It was a fine line to balance that philosophy with Krav Maga’s tenet that fighting was always a last resort.

  But, Sasha told herself, she hadn’t gone looking for this fight.

  The leader narrowed his eyes and stared at Sasha with a hard, angry look.

  She stared back neutrally, while he tried to decide how to deal with her.

  He broke eye contact first and focused Aroostine, whose fingers hovered over her phone, ready to call for help.

  He lunged like a cat and snatched the iPhone from her hands. In one uncontrolled gesture he hurled it against the wall. It thumped to the floor, undoubtedly smashed beyond repair, but he took no chances. His hard boot crunched down on the rectangle repeatedly. He ground his heel against the metal and flashed a wicked grin at Aroostine.

  Then the man turned and rattled off some orders to the boy, pointing to each woman in turn.

  Sasha wondered if she should feel insulted that he was going to leave one teenager to guard nine women or just thank her lucky stars that his machismo was so strong that he would underestimate them so thoroughly.

  He turned to leave and Charlotte placed a tentative hand on his arm.

  “Por favor, señor, let me go to the ballroom to help calm the guests. They do not speak the language, but I will help them understand so they can comply with your demands.”

  He looked down at her hand on his forearm with disgust while the kid quickly translated the request.

  He raised his eyes to meet her gaze and nodded. “Sí, bueno.”

  She flashed Sasha a tremulous smile and then walked through the doorway with him, dignified as ever despite the firm grip he had on her upper arm.

  As soon as the door closed behind him, Sasha turned to Marisole.

  “What did they say?”

  Marisole glanced nervously at the boy.

  “Ignore him. Just tell me. Hurry, please.”

  The boy was inexperienced at ... whatever it was this ragtag band of mercenaries did. Kidnapping, she decided. He bobbed his head uncertainly and shifted from side to side, unsure how to stop them from talking.

  “The leader told him,” she bobbed her head at the kid, “to stay here and guard us. He said he was going to check in with the men who are watching the guests—he called them hostages—and then join in the search for the groom. There must be a lot of them, I guess.”

  Sasha shook her head. Maybe, maybe not. A group to guard the dinner guests, a group to look for her, and a group to look for Connelly? That could be at least a dozen men. Or it could be three or four. There was no way to ballpark it. She’d prepare for a dozen and hope for a handful.

  “I don’t know, maybe not. Did he say anything else?”


  “And, then he said, yes, Charlotte could go to the ballroom to help translate, so your guests don’t panic.” Marisole stopped, and choked back tears. “She’s so brave.”

  “Yes. She is. Do you have shears in that thing?” Sasha jutted her chin toward the sewing bag. She needed some sort of improvised weapon.

  Marisole’s eyes darted to the guard, and she swallowed hard. Before she could answer, he reached over and wrenched the bag from her hands. He dangled it in front of Sasha and laughed.

  “Scissors? You think you will overtake me with scissors?”

  His English was thickly accented, but perfect.

  “Who taught you English? Padre Alexander?”

  His eyes widened at the lucky guess.

  “I wonder how he’ll feel when he learns what you’re doing here?”

  “Sasha—” her mother hissed in warning.

  The boy’s dusky skin reddened with anger and shame. He dropped the bag and balled his hands into fists.

  “You should take care,” he warned, gesturing toward the machete at his side.

  She shuffled closer in small steps, restrained by her gown, and leaned forward as if she were inspecting the weapon, then she laughed. “That dull thing? Looks like it needs to be sharpened.”

  Confusion flashed in his eyes.

  She waited.

  He bent his head to look at the wickedly curved blade.

  When he raised his chin to tell her she was wrong, she was ready. She swung her right elbow, up and out. It crashed into his cheekbone and propelled him sideways into the wall.

  She moved with him, fisting his t-shirt into a ball in her left hand, and drove her forearm into his windpipe.

  Behind her someone screamed.

  He struggled and flailed, reaching for the knife. She pushed harder.

  His eyes bulged.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will,” she told him in a soft voice.

  He continued to squirm. She stood on her toes and wrapped her left arm around his neck, pressing the crook of her elbow against the carotid artery on the side of his neck. She pushed her bicep hard against his throat and clasped her hands together, applying equal pressure to the other side of his neck.