“Mary. Was Mary with Isaac? With the Prophet?” Mal shook George violently.
“Yes. He took her with him.” George shuddered. “She doesn’t even like him. Why would Prophet take her and not me?”
“Where? Where were they going?” Mal slammed George back against the vehicle, no longer feeling the pain. “Tell me.”
“I don’t know.” George sobbed. “The Prophet didn’t tell me. I helped put the backpacks on them, and then they left. I would’ve worn a backpack. I’m a believer, you know?” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Why? Just why?”
Mal punched George across the jaw with his good arm, seeing red at the wordbackpack. “What was in the backpacks?”
“Prophet said something about pressure cookers,” George said, his voice defeated.
Oh God. Mal grabbed the phone out of George’s hand and dropped the papers to the bricks, spreading them out. Parts were burned, and some ink had run. He quickly dialed the phone.
“Force here.” Thank God Force had answered the call, despite the unknown number. “Who are you?”
“Angus, it’s Malcolm.” Mal pored over the different maps. “Send in everyone—the mansion is on fire. Isaac is gone. So is Pippa.” Just saying her name was like a kick to the balls. He looked up at George, who was crying against the van. “When did they leave? How long ago?”
George shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe an hour?”
They could’ve already landed. Mal shoved the first sheet over and then paused. He recognized a street corner and peered closer, his blood humming. “They’re in DC, Angus. They’ve probably already landed.”
“Okay. I’ll be right there to extract you,” Force said, his voice calm. “I have a helicopter on standby ten minutes away, just in case.”
Malcolm glanced at the different diagrams on the map. “I think I can determine where the bombers are planning to stand.” Then he glanced at the clock on the phone. “What time is the parade in DC? The women’s march planned for today?”
“Let me check.” The phone was silent. Then Angus returned, his voice dark. “It starts in thirty minutes.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Pippa continued arguing with the other women as a plain white van drove them toward Washington, DC. They’d ignored her on the helicopter and had continued doing so in the van. A man she didn’t know drove it, while Isaac sat in the back, on the floor with them.
“Mom—” Pippa started.
Isaac unsnapped her backpack and shoved it to the side.
She blinked. That could only be good.
Then he grabbed her and yanked her over onto his lap. She struggled, panic infusing her, but he held tight. He even locked one of his legs over hers to keep her still. “I’ve had enough. Oliver, did you bring me what I requested?”
“Yep.” Oliver handed something back.
“Mom, help me,” Pippa begged, shoving against Isaac as hard as she could. He was surprisingly strong. She’d forgotten how often he worked out.
“Hold her,” Isaac ordered.
The two nearest women grabbed on to Pippa’s shoulders and pushed them back against Isaac.
He released his hold. “Extend her arm.”
Pippa’s eyes widened. Her chest heated. “No.” She tried to struggle, but the three of them were too strong.
Without any care, Isaac plunged a needle above her inner elbow and depressed the plunger.
Heat and pain instantly sparked beneath her skin. “Wh-what?” she asked, her breath panting out so quickly her vision fuzzed. “What did you just inject me with?”
“Release her,” Isaac ordered.
The women moved back to their places along the sides of the van. The floor was wood, and one woman’s pants tore along the knee.
