Eliot pulled up behind Jo's truck and took off his helmet.

"Found it," he said. "Two blocks from the shelter." And under a streetlight, which was helpful—neighborhood watches were funny about flashlights. Not that there were many people to watch him; the house across the street had a faded For Sale sign on its overgrown lawn, and this side was park land.

Perfect place for an ambush.

Since she'd been headed toward a known location, Hardison had plotted Jo's probable route and speed—direct and high—and confirmed it with one or two traffic cameras along the way. It had taken longer to convince Ron and Dougie to stay behind. Eliot was glad Sophie had been there, though the others —even Parker—had agreed with him without needing everything spelled out.

All the things that might have happened. All the things that happened every damned day to people who didn't have criminals for friends and didn't help rescue the victims of vicious monsters with hair-trigger tempers. Carjacking was off the list now, but that was it.

There was no way Eliot was going to let Jo's husband and son near this truck until he checked it first.

Eliot glanced into the truckbed in passing, not expecting any surprises, and not seeing any. He steeled himself as he walked along to the driver's side, Ron's spare key in his hand.

His steps slowed. He'd seen things in his life, things that had scarred him, some of them, or changed him in ways that didn't always make him proud. But nothing had broken him. A week ago—hell, six hours ago—he might have said nothing could.

This could. Because Jo was family, as much as Sophie and Hardison and Parker and . . . and he would give the last untarnished piece of his soul to know that he wasn't about to find—

He looked through the window.

"Eliot?" Ron's voice was taut.

He closed his eyes and exhaled. "Truck's empty. She's not here."

"Is that . . . good?" asked Parker.

"Maybe." He unlocked the door and pocketed the key. "No blood," he said, hearing a collective sigh in his ear. "No struggle."

The cab was clean, except for a half-empty bottle of water in the cupholder and a small plastic box on the passenger-side floor. He reached for it and saw that it held a piece of packing foam with a deep impression in the middle. A distinctive impression.

"Found an empty earbud box in here," he said.

"That's good, right?" asked Dougie.

"Well, yeah," said Hardison. "Except I can't track it until she turns it on."

"Which means she can't," said Ron in a flat, heavy voice. Eliot winced, though Dougie was more than smart enough to figure that one out.

"Maybe it fell out," said Sophie.

"My earbuds don't fall out," said Hardison.

"No, they don't." Eliot knew from personal experience that it took a hard blow or two to knock one out. He hoped Jo hadn't lost hers the same way. "She could be restrained, or maybe someone took it."

Or she was past caring—but he'd bite through his tongue before he said that out loud.

"If someone did," said Hardison, "let's hope they get curious and start messing with the little blue tab."

"Is her bag there, Eliot?" asked Sophie.

"No. Wait a minute." He got out, slammed the door, and checked the bed again. "Someone tossed it in the back." He snagged it by a strap. "Wallet's in here. And her keys."

"Bring it in," said Sophie.

"Right. Wait a minute." He took the tailgate down and climbed in. "I got a mask here, too—looks like they gassed her."

Ron swore.

"Any idea what it was?" asked Sophie.

Eliot caught an odd sweet-sour whiff from the mask, like . . . "Xenoflurane."

"You sure?" asked Hardison.

"Yeah. They put an additive in it that smells like bitter oranges."

"And you know this because—"

"I had some dental work done in Europe once or twice. Dentists there use it when nitrous oxide won't do the job. Would have knocked her out quick."

"For how long?" asked Sophie.

"Depends on how much she got." He glanced over at the base of the streetlight. Yesterday's rains had made mud out of the ground between the street and the sidewalk, and the pavement was full of tracks.

Eliot put the mask in Jo's bag and vaulted over the side to take a closer look.

It would have taken at least two strong people to hold Jo so a third could clamp the mask over her face—though she might not have fought too much, because of the baby. "There's at least four sets of tracks here near the passenger's side. If the sneakers are Jo's, she must've come around the truck on her own."

"A set up," said Ron.

"Be my guess." Eliot noticed another set of footprints off to the side. It looked like the owner had been crowded off the walk and had backed out of the way. The prints were small, smaller than Jo's.

Eliot saw a white rectangle floating in a nearby puddle. He scooped it out and found a number written in black ballpoint on one side. Jo's cell number. "What was the name of that woman Jo was supposed to talk to?" he asked.

"I don't know," said Ron. "And it's not going to be easy to get it out of Maya. She takes victim privacy very seriously." He chuckled without humor. "I still agree with her, but . . ."

"I'll talk to her," said Sophie.

"Good," said Eliot, sticking the card in his shirt pocket. "And if that don't work, have Dougie do it."

"We'll have him try first, right now" said Sophie. "Come back and we'll suss it all out."

Eliot looked across the street. "I'm gonna check something first."

"All right. Dougie? Let's go into the kitchen. You, too Ron—" Sophie's voice cut out with a beep. Hardison had probably switched to his headset.

Eliot locked the bag in the truck and headed over to the darkened house.

"Hey, Eliot," said the hacker, his distracted voice accompanied by the sound of fingers racing over a keyboard, "spell Xenoflurane for me."

Eliot spelled as he passed the For Sale sign and slipped around to the back of the house.

"Thanks, man." Hardison's voice was serious. "Hey, you know we'll find her, right?"

"Yeah," said Eliot under his breath. "We'll find her."

The deadbolt on the back door had been jimmied recently and it took Eliot ten seconds to do the same. He entered the kitchen and listened for a full five minutes before bringing out his flashlight and moving through.

The place looked like it had been staged for an open house once upon a time and not dusted or vacuumed since. The musty air clogged his nose and mouth. But some furniture in the living room looked like it had been moved out of place on the carpet. The downstairs bathroom showed signs of recent use, too: the ragged end of the toilet paper roll was hanging low and a hand towel was crumpled.

He touched the sink drain—still wet. "Least they washed their hands," he muttered.

"What?"

"Never mind."

He went upstairs. The master bedroom was untouched. The toilet paper roll in the bathroom was brand new, but the toilet seat was up, so who knew? Moving down the hall, he found an empty linen closet . . . and a closed door with an impact crater in the center. He turned the knob slowly and eased it open.

Pieces of a broken chair were scattered over the gouged carpet and the quilt on the twin bed had been dragged off the mattress. The flashlight caught a gleam of something long and white half under the pillow. Eliot pulled it out. A broken zip-strip.

Something had happened in here.

Eliot let the light play over the spindly writing desk in the corner. The middle drawer was open and empty, except for a small, plastic stapler. He bent to look underneath and caught a flash of silver.

He knew what it was before he picked it up. A piece of wire, about four inches long.

"Jo was here," he said. "In the house across the street."

"She was? You sure?"

"Yeah." One end seemed tarnished, and he rubbed the stain and examined his fingertip. Blood. "Found a used paperclip."

"A used—oh. Oh, man. Gimme the address."

"Don't bother, Hardison. They broke in, same as me." Eliot tucked the wire into his pocket with the zip-strip and Jo's telephone number. "They're long gone by now." He turned to the closet. Might as well be thorough.

He pulled open the closet door and leapt back as a body fell face-first onto the carpet.

For a split second he thought it was Jo. He might have said her name.

"What? What? Eliot, man, you gotta talk to me—"

"We got a dead guy. Zip-strip on the wrists." He did a quick search. "No ID. I'll send you a picture of the face."

"The—that's . . . great. Thanks." The hacker paused. "Kidnapper or victim?"

"Kidnapper. There's a puncture wound."

"A punct—right." Hardison cleared his throat. "That can't be good. Jo wouldn't, I mean, unless she had to . . ."

"I know."

"And if she did have to—"

"I know. Strange, though." He rolled the body completely over. "Looks like she only got him in the . . . well, damn."

"Damn? What damn?"

Eliot shook his head, relief fighting with anger and confusion. " Jo didn't kill him."

"Then who did?"

He looked at the hole just above the clouded eyes. "Whoever shot him."

OOOOOoooooOOOOO

The smell of fresh coffee welcomed Eliot when he arrived at the apartment and he followed it back to the kitchen. On his way, he noticed that the dining room table had gained two more place settings, but the food had been put away.

Sophie was sipping from a coffee mug and looking over Hardison's shoulder as he stared at the screen of his laptop. Ron was going through a stack of legal pads, the restless tapping of his foot the only sign that he wasn't as calm as he seemed.

Dougie was rearranging the fridge while Parker stood nearby holding the dutch oven. The soup probably wasn't cool enough, but Eliot didn't say anything.

"We're going to wait for Jo," said Parker. "Potato soup is good for breakfast." Her eyes warned him not to argue.

As if he would. He set the bag on the table in front of Sophie. "Mask's inside." He went to the cupboard and got a mug. "Any calls?"

"None," said Ron. "I'm going through Jo's case notes—the special ones—but she didn't use any identifiers." He tossed the last pad on the pile and rubbed his face with both hands.

"I'm not surprised," said Eliot, as he filled the mug. He'd helped with some of Jo's special cases over the years.

Sophie put the mask aside. "Eliot? What did you do with the, um . . ." She glanced at Ron and Dougie.

"Don't try to protect us," said Ron, his voice flat. "We deserve to know everything. If Dougie wants to opt out, he'll say so."

"I don't," said Dougie, slamming the fridge door. A couple magnets hit the floor. "It's not fair to be kept in the dark. People say it's for your own good, but it's really for theirs."

"You're right," said Sophie, staring at her cup with a familiar expression of anger and loss. "It isn't fair."

"Amen," said Hardison, still staring at the screen.

"Besides," said Dougie. "Parker already told us about the dead guy."

Sophie sighed. "So. What did you do?"

"I wiped everything down and put the body back." He sampled the coffee and grimaced. "Don't want anyone connecting Jo with it."

"You seem sure Jo didn't shoot him," said Sophie.

"I am. He was restrained and probably unconscious when he was shot. Jo wouldn't do that."

"Who would?"

"I don't know." Eliot thought about the broken chair and the puncture wound. "Maybe this guy tried something he shouldn't have and they made an example of him." Eliot caught Ron's eye. "That would mean they want her alive and in one piece. And that means we have some time."

Ron nodded, his shoulders easing a little. Dougie looked at his feet, but didn't change expression.

"They do seem to be going to an awful lot of trouble," said Sophie, sorting out the contents of Jo's bag. "Any idea who our dead guy is? Was?"

"Not yet," said Hardison. "Facial recognition searches take time, even without the broken nose."

"Anything from Maya?" asked Eliot. A foot hit him in the rear, the jolt sloshing hot coffee over his hand. He shook off the burn and scowled at Parker, who frowned and kept swinging her feet from her perch on the island counter.

Dougie scoffed. "Maya says she can't tell us anything. She can't violate anyone's privacy. It's a matter of trust." He folded his arms. "Mom trusts her, and all she said was that Mom would understand."

"Jo would," said Ron. "I don't like it any better than you do, Doug, but I get it." He put a hand on the kid's shoulder. "I think you do, too."

Dougie didn't say anything for a second or two. Then, "Parker could break into Maya's office and find the records. All we need is a name, right? She doesn't have to look at the personal stuff."

"Sure," said Parker, hopping off the counter. "I'll go now."

"No," said Sophie. "We don't even know if Jo's client was even there."

Eliot took out the card with Jo's number on it and slapped it on the table. "A woman was there. She was the bait."

Sophie looked at the card. "Not until we've exhausted all the options," she said, looking at everyone in turn. "There has to be a line."

Parker sat down again. "What other options?" she said.

"What if I told you that only two places in Boston use Xenoflurane?" said Hardison, hitting a key. "There's only one American distributor and the stuff is seriously pricey. Worth it, though—no long term side effects." He glanced up. "The Lancet recommends it for pregnant women who can't wait for major surgery. I've got the studies right here, if you want to check 'em out."

"I trust you," said Ron. "Thanks, Hardison."

"Swhat I do." The hacker typed something and turned the screen around. "Dr. Tandarts, DDS, and Beau Vous cosmetic surgeons. Which do we hit first?"

There was a pause, while everyone waited for a familiar voice to tell them to steal something.

"We could pose as patients," said Parker, in a small voice. "Kick up a fuss while the others check the inventories?"

"That's good . . . "said Sophie, tapping a finger on her cup. "But since time is of the essence, I think we'll have the staff help us out." She thought a moment and started to outline a plan.

Eliot listened. It was a good scheme, slick as anything Na—as anything the team had done in the past couple years. He just wished there was something he could do tonight. From the tension in his big frame, Ron was holding onto his patience with his fingernails. And Dougie had the same expression Parker got just before she—

A phone rang and Sophie cut off mid-sentence.

Ron picked up his cell, which had a cable snaking from it. Hardison held up a finger and plugged the other end into his laptop. "Go," he said.

Eliot gripped Ron's shoulder. "Proof of life," he said.

Ron nodded and took a deep breath. "Hello?"

"Ron?" said the speakers. "It's Maya. Any news?"

Ron closed his eyes. Dougie's face twisted and he ran, followed closely by Parker.

"Maya. No, we don't know anything yet. I'm sorry, but we have to keep the line open, so—"

"I understand. Is Eliot there?"

"Yes, but—"

"Have him call me, please. Ron, I'm . . . I need to talk to him. As soon as possible. Thanks." There was a click.

Eliot took out his phone and went into the living room as the planning resumed behind him. He punched in a number. "Maya."

"Eliot. Look, you know I can't give out any information about our people—even if I wanted to."

"Yeah. I get it. I really do. But—"

"But . . . I can ask you for a favor." She cleared her throat. "I have a message from a young woman who needs our help. Could you escort her to the shelter in Roxbury?"

"I think that could be arranged. Any details?"

"Not from me. I couldn't even tell you if she asked to talk to a specific counselor and then walked out just when that counselor was supposed to arrive. You'll have to ask her—gently, please. She may be a victim, too."

"I'll remember that. Got her name and address?"

Maya gave both. "I appreciate this, Eliot."

"No, problem. When did she call?"

She paused. "It's hard to tell with these old machines. . . she could have left the message this afternoon or a few days ago. But we have to follow through. You know how I feel about the rules."

"I know how you feel about Jo. I'll make sure Dougie does, too."

She might have sniffed a little. "Do you want me to call Mike? He's due back Thursday, but if you need him, he'll take the next plane back."

"Not yet. But I'll let you know."

"You do that. Buena suerte, Eliot. Bring her home."

"Te prometo, Amalita."

He ended the call and strode back into the kitchen. "Ron. Grab a jacket."

Ron got to his feet. "Where are we going?"

"We're escorting Tiana Cooper to the Roxbury shelter. By the scenic route."

It was good to have a plan.

Thank you again for all the comments and alerts! You lovely people are the reason I keep going with these!

Please tell me what you think!