Katie gets to her feet and reaches for her flashlight.
“Oh my god, Matt?!” she whispers back in what sounds like pure disbelief.
The flashlight clicks on, and a stream of light casts out across the trees. A disheveled man in dirty clothes stands twenty feet away. A smile spreads across his face, and Katie bursts into relieved laughter. Emily lets out her breath and steps out from her hiding spot. They begin walking toward one another, letting their guards down. Jeremy shakes his head at their insipidity and raises his Glock, aiming it toward their gathering spot.
“I can’t believe we found you!” Katie runs forward to jump into a hug with Matt, who grimaces in pain.
“Yeah, I was sure I wouldn’t be able to walk on this knee, but I guess adrenaline took over.”
Emily looks down at Matt’s right knee, crusted in old blood and fresh mud. Her eyes betray her terror, suddenly compounded by a loud pop that seems to come out of nowhere. A bullet from Jeremy’s handgun rips into Matt’s temple, spraying drops of blood onto Katie’s face. He drops to the ground like a bird that’s been shot mid-flight, and Katie screams. But before Katie can process the grisly scene, Emily grabs her arm and starts running.
“Best of luck, ladies and … well, actually, just ladies now.” Jeremy grins, tucking the handgun back into its holster.
CHAPTER 16
ALL AT ONCE, LIKE AN unpredictable hemorrhage, Wren can smell it.
It’s subtle. So subtle that she wonders if it is just an olfactory hallucination, a result of too many morgue hours. To an untrained nose, it could smell like a foul plate of festival food or a street meat experiment gone awry. But Wren knows it is the unmistakable stench of early decomposition in stiflingly hot weather.
The smell always starts like a rotting onion. But as soon as you think you can handle it, it changes. It morphs like a crowded apartment building in which everyone is cooking something different, the smells tangling together to form something foul. Then it becomes heavy and smothering. The layers of rancid aromas explode like baby spiders from an egg sac, and they attack. A physical assault on the senses. The smell of death is unrelenting when unleashed.
One of her technicians is standing beside her, nervous and overly chatty.
“I know there are police everywhere, but I am still a little nervous. I have to be honest with you. This seems insane now that we are here. The bomb-sniffing dogs were dispatched, right?” she asks, speaking more loudly than she should.
“You have got to stop mentioning the police,” Wren warns, keeping her voice at a low volume. “The whole point of this is to avoid pandemonium, not to incite it.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“You have to keep it together. Things may get intense, and I can’t have you falling apart on me.”
“Of course. No, I’m ready.”
For a moment, Wren feels like maybe she has been too harsh.
“It’s normal to feel nervous. I’m nervous too. But our job is to ignore that and get to the task at hand. Now, what do you smell?” Wren asks.
The young woman’s nostrils flare, and her eyes widen.
“Is that?”
“Bingo,” Wren replies.
“Shit.”
“Don’t panic. We have to be smart about this,” Wren instructs. She locks eyes with Leroux across the thick sea of people. He is trying to appear casual but sticks out like a sore thumb in his neatly pressed suit. “Stay calm and follow me.”
Together, Wren and the young technician cross the barrage of festivalgoers.
“What the hell are you eating?” A woman holding a plastic cup cranes her neck to look at the paper plate her companion is foraging through, and he shrugs his shoulders before pulling it away defensively.