Vanish: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

defense contractor?” said Gabriel, his voice perfectly even, revealing no hint of the skepticism he surely felt.
    “Not just
any
defense contractor. We’re talking about the Ballentree Company. Direct ties to the White House and Pentagon. We’re talking about executives who make billions of dollars every time we go to war. Why do you think Ballentree lands almost all the big contracts? Because they
own
the White House.”
    “I hate to tell you this, Joe, but this isn’t exactly a new conspiracy theory. Ballentree is everyone’s bogeyman these days. A lot of people are itching to bring them down.”
    “But Olena can actually do it.”
    Gabriel looked at the woman, his gaze dubious. “How?”
    “She knows what they did in Ashburn. She’s seen what kind of people these are.”
    Jane was still staring at the ceiling, trying to understand what she was now seeing. Needle-thin lines of vapor were streaming silently from above.
Gas. They are pumping gas into the room.
    She looked at her husband. Did he know this was about to happen? Did he know this was the plan? No one else seemed aware of the silent invader. No one else realized that the assault was now beginning, heralded by those fine streams of gas.
    We are all breathing it in.
    She tensed as she felt another contraction. Oh god, not now, she thought. Not when all hell is about to break loose. She gripped the couch cushion, waiting for the contraction to peak. The pain had her in its jaws now, and all she could do was grip the cushion and hang on. This one’s going to be bad, she thought. Oh, this one’s really bad.
    But the pain never reached its climax. Suddenly the cushion seemed to melt away in Jane’s fist. She felt herself being dragged downward, toward the sweetest of sleep. Through the gathering numbness, she heard banging, and men’s shouts. Heard Gabriel’s voice, muffled, calling her name from across a great distance.
    The pain was almost gone now.
    Something bumped up against her, and softness brushed across her face. The touch of a hand, the faintest caress on her cheek. A voice whispered, words that she did not understand, soft and urgent words that were almost lost in the banging, in the sudden crash of the door. A secret, she thought. She is telling me a secret.
    Mila. Mila knows.
    There was a deafening blast, and warmth splashed her face.
    Gabriel, she thought. Where are you?

TWENTY-ONE
    At the sound of the first gunshots, the crowd standing in the street gave a collective gasp. Maura’s heart froze to a standstill. Tactical Ops officers held the police line as fresh gunfire thudded inside. She saw looks of confusion on the officers’ faces as the minutes passed, everyone waiting for word of what was happening inside. No one was moving; no one was rushing the building.
    What are they all waiting for?
    Police radios suddenly crackled: “Building secure! The entry team is out, and the building is now secure! Roll medical. We need stretchers—”
    Med-Q teams rushed forward, pushing through the police tape like sprinters crossing the finish line. The breaking of that yellow tape touched off chaos. Suddenly reporters and cameras surged toward the building as well, as Boston PD struggled to hold them back. A helicopter hovered overhead, blades thumping.
    Through the cacophony, Maura heard Korsak shout: “I’m a cop, goddammit! My friend’s in there! Let me through!” Korsak glanced her way and called out: “Doc, you gotta find out if she’s okay!”
    Maura pushed ahead, to the police line. The cop gave her ID a harried glance, and shook his head.
    “They need to take care of the living first, Dr. Isles.”
    “I’m a physician. I can help.”
    Her voice was almost drowned out by the chopper, which had just landed in the parking lot across the street. Distracted, the cop turned to yell at a reporter: “Hey, you! Get back
now.
”
    Maura slipped past him and ran into the building, dreading what she would find inside. Just as she turned into the hallway leading to Diagnostic Imaging, a stretcher came barreling toward her, wheeled by two EMTs, and her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. She saw the pregnant belly, the dark hair, and thought: No. Oh god, no.
    Jane Rizzoli was covered in blood.
    At that instant, all of Maura’s medical training seemed to abandon her. Panic made her focus on the blood, and only the blood.
So much of it.
Then, as the stretcher rolled past her, she saw the chest rise and fall. Saw the hand