Quinn drove north on A82, pulling off the highway when he saw a BP with a good-sized convenience store. “Stay in the car while I fill up, and then I’ll go wi’ you.”
He didn’t want her going anywhere by herself, not after that guard had photographed their license plate.
He refilled the tank and then walked into the convenience store with her.
“You’re not embarrassed to be seen with a woman buying tampons?”
He chuckled, slid his fingers through hers. “A man would have to be a right wee prick to feel embarrassed about that.”
He opened the door and followed her inside, his gaze searching the place. Apart from the cashier, who had his face buried in a comic book, they seemed to be alone.
While Elizabeth went off in search of tampons, he looked for Scottish Blend. The boys from British Intelligence had stocked the kitchen, but they’d left him with English Breakfast tea. Clearly, the bastards had no taste at all.
He found a box of Scottish Blend with eighty bags on the lower shelf and grabbed it. Then he looked over the top of the aisles to find Elizabeth. He didn’t see the top of her head, but she was probably bent over. “Are you findin’ what you need, love?”
No answer.
He strode the length of the store, looking down the aisles, spotted a box of tampons on the floor.
His pulse tripped. “Lilibet?”
Still no answer.
Quinn turned to the cashier—and his heart gave a hard knock, a thud of pure dread. The boy lay on the floor behind the counter, still breathing but unconscious.
“Elizabeth!” Quinn ran to the restrooms, threw open the door to the women’s room. “Elizabeth?”
Empty.
He checked the men’s room, too.
Then he saw it—the door that led to the back of the store.
He pushed through it, found the back door wide open, and saw a white van speeding away. He drew his Glock, ran after the van, but knew he couldn’t fire without risking hitting Elizabeth—if he managed to hit anything at all.
“Fuck, no! Goddamn it!”
They’d taken Elizabeth. She was gone.
19
Quinn holstered his weapon, pulled out his phone, and ran through the store and out the front door toward his car, dialing the emergency number. “There’s been an abduction and an assault at the BP off the M8 about five kilometers north of town. Elizabeth Shields, an American citizen, was taken by someone drivin’ a white Ford van, and the clerk is alive but down.”
He gave them the license plate number. “The van was headin’ north on the M8. Get your asses up here—now. I’m goin’ after the van.”
He opened the driver’s side door, threw himself into the seat, dialed Corbray’s home number.
Corbray answered.
“They’ve got her. They took her right from under my nose.”
How thefuckhad he let that happen?
He gave Corbray the whole story as he tore out of the petrol station parking lot and drove as fast as he could toward the highway. “I’m headin’ after them.”
Corbray swore in Spanish—a string of words Quinn didn’t understand. “I’ll get Tower’s ass out of bed, and we’ll have a team in the air within an hour. We’ll track her phone, coordinate with the British government, and see if we can’t get them involved. Keep me updated—and don’t get yourself killed charging in on your own. Got it? Shields is tough. She’ll make it through this.”
“They killed Jack. They’ll kill her, too, if we dinnae stop them.” Quinn ended the call, speeding up the highway, looking for that white van.