The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

out and opened the backseat door for her. “Welcome aboard. I’ll put your suitcase in the trunk.”
    “Thank you.”
    She slid into the car and gave a tired sigh as she leaned back against rich leather. Outside, horns blared and tires skidded in the pouring rain, but the world inside this limousine was blessedly silent. She closed her eyes as they glided away from Logan Airport and headed for the Boston Expressway.
    Her cell phone rang. Shaking off her exhaustion, she sat up and dazedly dug around in her purse, dropping pens and loose change on the car floor as she hunted for the phone. She finally managed to answer it on the fourth ring.
    “Rizzoli.”
    “This is Margaret in Senator Conway’s office. I made the arrangements for your travel. I just wanted to double-check that you do have a ride home from the airport.”
    “Yes. I’m in the limo now.”
    “Oh.” A pause. “Well, I’m glad that was cleared up.”
    “What was?”
    “The limo service called to confirm that you’d canceled your airport pickup.”
    “No, he was waiting for me. Thank you.”
    She disconnected and bent down to retrieve everything that had fallen from her purse. The ballpoint pen had rolled beneath the driver’s seat. As she reached for it, fingers skimming the floor, she suddenly registered the color of the carpet. Navy blue.
    Slowly she sat up.
    They had just entered the Callahan Tunnel, which burrowed beneath the Charles River. Traffic had slowed, and they were creeping along an endless concrete tube, its interior lit a sickly amber.
    Navy-blue nylon six, six DuPont Antron. Standard carpet in Cadillacs and Lincolns.
    She remained perfectly still, her gaze turned toward the tunnel wall. She thought about Gail Yeager and funeral processions, the line of limousines slowly winding toward cemetery gates.
    She thought of Alexander and Karenna Ghent, who had arrived at Logan Airport just a week before their deaths.
    And she thought of Kenneth Waite and his OUIs. A man who was not allowed to drive, yet took his wife to Boston.
    Is this how he finds them?
    A couple step into his car. The woman’s pretty face is reflected in his rearview mirror. She settles back in smooth leather seats for the ride home, never realizing that she’s being watched. That a man whose face she has scarcely registered is, at that very moment, deciding that she is the one.
    The tunnel’s amber lights glided by as Rizzoli built the theory, brick by brick. Such a comfortable car, a quiet ride, the leather seats soft as human skin. A nameless man behind the wheel. All designed to make the passenger feel safe and protected. The passenger knows nothing about the man behind the wheel. But the driver would know the passenger’s name. The flight number. The street where she lives.
    Traffic was stalled now. Far ahead, she could see the tunnel’s opening, a small portal of gray light. She kept her face turned to the window, not daring to look at the driver. Not wanting him to see her apprehension. Her hands were sweating as she reached into her purse and grasped the cell phone. She did not take it out but just sat with her hand around it, thinking about what, if anything, she should do next. So far the driver had done nothing to alarm her, nothing to make her think he was anything but what he claimed to be.
    Slowly she took the phone from her purse. Flipped it open. In the dim tunnel, she strained to see the numbers so she could dial. Keep it casual, she thought. As though you’re just checking in with Frost, not shrieking out an S.O.S. But what would she say? “I think I’m in trouble, but I can’t be sure?” She hit the speed-dial for Frost. Heard ringing, then a faint “hello” followed by static.
    The tunnel. I’m in the goddamn tunnel.
    She disconnected. Looked ahead to see how close they were to emerging. At that instant her gaze flicked involuntarily to the driver’s rearview mirror. She made the mistake of meeting his eyes, of registering the fact that he was watching her. That’s when they both knew, they both understood.
    Get out. Get out of the car!
    She lunged for the door handle, but he had already triggered the locks. Scrambling to override it, she clawed in panic at the release button.
    It was all the time he needed to reach back over the seat, aim the Taser, and fire.
    The probe hit her in the shoulder. Fifty thousand volts pulsed into her torso, an electrical jolt that shot like lightning through her nervous system. Her vision went