by Ed James
Holliday pushed past Carter, heading out into the corridor.
Carter followed him out, keeping an eye on his movements.
Nguyen stood at the end of the hallway, her forehead creased as she offered kind words to Megan Holliday. Local police brass stood around, dark-navy Seattle PD uniforms weighing heavy on their shoulders.
Megan ignored them, focusing her frosty smile on her husband as he approached.
Nguyen walked over to Carter. Short, dark-haired, skin heavily lined around her eyes, the toll that years of service took. “I need a summary, Max. Now.”
Holliday sloped back into the family room and sat on a sofa, wrapping an arm around his wife. She nudged herself away.
“We need to be wary of him. I believe he’s met the kidnapper. He might still be in touch with him.”
“That’s a strong accusation, Max.” Nguyen followed Carter’s gaze, her eyes widening. “He’s a US senator, for crying out loud.”
Carter settled his focus back on her, raising his eyebrows. “That doesn’t mean he’s above the law.”
Chapter Sixteen
Mason
Sitting on the edge of the tub, all I can do is stare at the piece of shit burner.
Holliday hung up on me. Actually hung up on me. Guy has balls, that’s for sure.
And keeping his cell when we met. What was he thinking?
How do I play this now? Wait for him to call back? Or do I call him back?
Shit, this wasn’t in the script. We hadn’t planned for this. Abduct his kids and he’s our drone, ready and willing to do what we need. Drones don’t hang up on you.
A glance at my smartwatch tells me my heart rate’s at one-ten. My resting is fifty-two. I need to keep it cool.
I pocket the cell and look around the small bathroom, trying to give myself some space and time to calm down.
“You look like someone who’s kidnapped some children.” Layla is standing in the doorway. “Put these on.” She holds out some fresh clothes. A frat-boy polo shirt, salmon pink with a lime sash. A pair of chocolate chinos, like it’s still the nineties.
But she’s right, again. I need to change my appearance before I do anything. Whatever else happens, a kid got shot because I kidnapped him. They’ll have a description out there of me. Just cutting my hair and beard isn’t going to be enough. I need to become someone else.
I take off the hoodie and the plain tee in one go.
She looks me up and down as I let my jeans fall to the floor. They’re covered in mud, splash marks all the way up both legs. My socks are soaked through. “Holliday came to meet you. He was there when his son was shot. He’s implicated in this now. He’ll comply. We still go through with this, as if there had been no distractions.”
“Layla, Brandon getting shot isn’t a distraction.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Call Holliday and set up another meet.”
“Sure you shouldn’t be doing the outdoors stuff?”
“You know that’s your skillset. And Holliday knows you now. He’ll freak out if someone else contacts him.” She grabs the clippers and plugs them in above the sink. “And stop overthinking things. Our plan is still good. Have a little faith.” She sets the clippers running and attacks my hair, the vibration drilling through my skull. A big tuft of orange falls into the sink.
I lock eyes with Layla in the mirror. “You’re right.”
Another long tuft drops to the floor, another patch of pale stubble revealed. “What were you swearing at earlier?”
“I wasn’t swearing.”
“I heard you.”
The call. Didn’t even notice myself swearing out loud. I squat to fish the burner out of the pants pocket and toss it to her. “I called Holliday. He hung up.”
“What are you playing at?” She flips it open and snaps out the battery, then flushes the SIM down the toilet. “They can trace us, you idiot! Trace us here!”
“I saw it and thought—”
“Stop!” She jabs a finger in my sternum. “We’re in this together. You do not make decisions on your own. Am I clear?”
I’m standing there in my jockey shorts, cold and wet. But she’s right. She’s always right. “Okay, I screwed up. No more maverick bullshit, okay? I’ll run everything by you.”
“Good.” She hands me the pants, and I slip them on. I zip up the fly and start slipping my belt through the loops. I slip on the polo. She tugs at my collar, making it stand up like a frat boy’s. “You need to get a new burner. And stop being so stupid.”
The rain is back, softer than earlier. I walk past the beat-up old car for the third time and stop. A ’98 Chevy Malibu, the gold paint job hiding the rust. Just about roadworthy, but super anonymous. Bought as a pair from a junkyard for cash, spared from death row. I could see in his eyes that it was touch and go deciding whether the three hundred bucks in cash was better value than chucking them both in a compactor. Saving the effort and hassle swayed him in the end, I guess.
Nobody’s watching me, so I unlock it and slump low behind the wheel. Another look, mindful of SUVs swooping in, but also of just about everything else. Thirty seconds of nothing, just worrying about that stupid-ass phone call I made.
And about the matching gray Malibu, parked up near the Holliday home. The car I drove from the mall but left there. Only a matter of time before that FBI agent’s goons find it and start checking the history. The paperwork’s still in the wind, so neither car will trace to me or Layla without going to that junkyard and negotiating with a guy who doesn’t want to negotiate. And all they’ll find is an address that doesn’t exist.
The front curtain in Layla’s place twitches, just like the nerve in my wrist.
It’s all planned out. Even the problems. We can still do this. We can still get answers.
One last look, and it’s clear. I twist the key in the ignition.
I scan down the store’s small selection of burner phones, 2002’s models still on sale to drug dealers and kidnappers. And the powers that be don’t do anything to stop it. Gotta love the free market.
I take the cheapest clamshell up to the counter and hand it to the guy. An old dude, wearing a Seahawks cap, old enough to have suffered the long years before that first Super Bowl. Doesn’t even look at me as he scans the barcode, just waves a shaking hand in the vague direction of the TV set next to the register. “You see this, son?”
A composite photo of my face fills it.
And I panic, adrenaline starting to fizz like aspirin. The old bastard’s trolling me. Saw me pull up, already called the cops.
But I realize it’s my old face. Long hair, thick beard. Pretty good likeness too. That cop had it down pat. I run a hand over the stubble on my head, checking I didn’t dream shaving it off. Coarse and sharp. Can’t stop playing with it.
The TV cuts to a photo of Brandon and Avery, artfully zooming in on the boy’s smiling face.
“Sickening, huh? Some vermin shot a kid. A senator’s son too. Time was, people had respect for this country.”
The news switches to an Asian woman in downtown Seattle, talking to camera. “Some minor controversy this morning at the congressional hearing taking place in Seattle, looking into the military exercise known as ‘Operation Opal Lance.’ Richard Olson, CEO of GrayBox Industries, was dismissed after pleading the fifth.”
Then it cuts to inside the building, and Olson is sitting in front of an array of politicians. Rubbing his hands, grinning, smug.
I get a cold sweat from seeing the filthy degenerate. The psychopathic piece of shit doesn’t care. Can’t care. But I bet he sleeps like a baby, every single night.
After what I’ve done, I’ll never sleep again. I haven’t since what happened, but I know I’ll never be able to shut my eyes again. The things I’ve done, though—I used to think nothing could ever be worth that, but now I know different.
“These rich dudes think they can get away with what they want.” The dude in the cap taps the burner packet and holds out a h
and. “Twenty bucks, son.”
I get back in the Malibu and open the Wendy’s box, tearing at the wrapper and biting into the burger, barely tasting it. It’s just fuel. I power up my smartphone and take a second mouthful, chewing slower this time. The burner is on the passenger seat, waiting. On the smartphone, I fire up Signal and the app goes through all the usual checks and says I’m secure.
I tap on Bob Smith and our chat appears, the history long since deleted, but there’s one unread message:
So?
Sent just now. I type a reply:
You’ve seen the news?
I saw.
Collateral damage or mission over?
You tell me.
We’re still in play.
Unless you think otherwise?
I’m still going. We’re still going.
Good
Did you have to kill Brandon?
It wasn’t me.
A cop did it by accident.
Proof?
He stopped me.
Minor SNAFU.
I ran, he shot.
I got away clean.
We still have Avery.
What now?
He’s silent, not even the icon showing him typing. I force down another bite of burger, getting most of the pickle.
What now?
I keep telling you.
Holliday is the key.
He will yield.
Be patient.
Keep the faith.
Keep the faith? Keep the FAITH? We need more than Bon Jovi songs to get through this.
Asshat clown.
I finish the burger in one angry bite, mayo and ketchup smearing my lips. I pick up the burner and make the call.
Chapter Seventeen
Holliday
Holliday sat on the sofa in the family room, facing the hallway outside. The leather was cold against his legs.
Megan slipped out again, maybe to spill all to an FBI agent. But she knew nothing.
He glanced out into the corridor to watch her. Carter, the lead FBI agent, kept glancing at him, but he was sidelined by a stern-looking woman. Probably his boss, enforcing the chain of command. Now they had an injured child, and they were complicit in the shooting it was ass-covering time.
Senior police officers stood next to them, trying to look useful, black ties done up to the chin. Holliday didn’t recognize any of them, certainly not the chief, and nobody from the mayor’s or governor’s offices. Yet. They’d be here soon enough, shaking his hand, patting his back, making promises of vengeance. And it would all come at a price—they’d look for payback the next time cuts loomed.
Carter looked over at him again, his expression darkening.
Holliday felt his iPhone thrum in his pocket again.
Less stuck between a rock and a hard place, more between an FBI agent and a madman who has your daughter. And who knows what the agent will find if he starts digging?
There was an accessible restroom down the hall from Carter, a wide oak door with a handrail. The phone gave another buzz, so Holliday got up and walked over, his heart thudding as he kept his pace even. He grabbed the handle and tried the door. It opened. He pulled it wide.
“Senator?” Carter was frowning at him. “You okay?”
“Sorry, I must’ve eaten something that disagrees with me. That or the stress.” Holliday walked inside the room, yanked the door shut behind him, and twisted the lock. Tried it twice to make sure that fed couldn’t sneak in. He sat on the toilet and got out the phone, still ringing on mute.
A puff came from the air freshening unit above him, and pretty soon he could smell the sweet perfume.
He answered the call, his hand shaking.
“Never hang up on me, Senator. Am I clear?” The guy sounded pissed.
“You don’t know what—”
“Shut up. I know you want your daughter to stay alive, so I’ll assume there’s an innocent explanation.”
“The FBI agent. He’s… He’s onto me.”
“So, just like me, he sees smoke and starts looking for the fire, huh?”
“Tell me what you want.”
“First, I need your undivided attention. I seem to have that. Second, I need your assistance. Something only you can do. Do I have your word?”
Holliday swallowed through the silence. “Is Avery still alive?”
“She’s fine as long as you do what I say. No deviation, no improvisation. Am I clear?”
Holliday leaned forward, nibbling at his thumbnail. “Okay, but I won’t be able to get away from the hospital for a few hours. At least.”
“Your son’s shooting, I get it.” Sounded like he was smiling. “I sympathize, Senator. Believe me, I do. This wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t yours either. You didn’t call the feds.” He left a long pause. “Did you?”
“Of course I didn’t.”
“Then your conscience is clear, Senator. Unless you didn’t ditch your cell when I told you.”
“You son of a bitch!” Holliday regretted it as soon as he said it.
Another long pause. “Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to meet. I’ll text you the location. And you know what’ll happen to Avery if you bring the feds. And I don’t like waiting. Thirty minutes or she’s dead.” And he was gone.
Holliday held out his phone, staring into space. The stale bathroom smells were twisting his already broken guts. The air freshener could only mask so much.
The phone vibrated again, a long buzz. A text appeared on the screen, a pair of long numbers. Coordinates.
Holliday frowned. Is he ex-military? Is that what this is about? He plugged the numbers into Google Maps on his iPhone. It pulled up a strip mall a couple of blocks from the hospital, centering over a Starbucks open until ten, rated 4.3 out of 5.
Not far from here, but my face is all over the news. I need transport. Can I risk taking another cab?
Holliday looked at himself in the mirror and didn’t like what he saw. Sweat dotted his brow, exhaustion lined his eyes. He took slow, deep breaths and used a towel to dry his forehead. Then he splashed cold water on his face. Didn’t do anything, no sharp shock, no flood of adrenalin.
When we met, he flashed his lights at me, but I didn’t see him. If I meet him, then I’ll at least see who he is. It’s got to be someone I know.
One final breath and Holliday opened the door a crack.
Carter was in the family room, sitting with his superior. Megan was opposite, sitting next to a female agent.
Holliday left the bathroom and walked the other way, acting like he owned the place.
As the elevator descended, Holliday gripped the rail behind him, taking deep breaths as he thought it all through. The elevator ground to a halt, rocking slightly as it settled, and the doors slid apart, revealing a face Holliday didn’t expect to see.
Wyatt Duvall, his tanned forehead creasing as he frowned. Then a wide smile spread over those perfect teeth. “Senator?”
“Wyatt.” Holliday thrust out a hand, slapping Duvall on the back as he shook it, like they’d done so many times. “What are you doing here?”
“I saw the news about your kids.” Duvall went back to frowning. “You trying to tell me you don’t want the state governor in your corner? Help you whip those useless FBI idiots into shape?”
“Right. I appreciate it.”
“C’mere.” Duvall grabbed him in a hug, tight and close. “You got this, Chris. You hear me?”
Holliday broke off and stepped away.
Duvall wrapped his arms around his Armani suit. “Anything I can do to help?”
“The FBI are running the show.” Holliday swallowed hard, sucking down the bitter taste of making a decision. “Megan’s upstairs.”
A frown twitched on Duvall’s forehead. “You going somewhere?”
“Need some fresh air.”
“No reporters out there yet, Chris.” Duvall patted him on the arm and gave a tight smile. “Who’ve the feds sent?”
&nbs
p; “Nguyen, I think?”
“She’s admin. Who’s lead? Carter?”
“Right.”
“Ignore what I said. They’re good people, Chris. They’ll find your girl.”
Holliday felt his bottom lip go. “I don’t know to do, Wyatt.”
Head upstairs. Tell the FBI. Give them the whole truth.
“Stay strong, Chris. For Megan. For yourself. And for your kids.”
“That’s good advice, Wyatt. I appreciate it.” Holliday patted Duvall’s arm with a smile. “I’ll see you up there in a few.”
“You want company?”
“I need to be alone.”
“Sure. I get that.” Duvall nodded like he understood everything Holliday was going through. “See you up there.” And he stepped into the lift.
Holliday set off through the foyer, keeping his head low as he passed two agents talking on their cell phones. Didn’t recognize either of them. He pushed the revolving door and stepped out into the cold air. He dumped his iPhone in the trash and walked off.
Chapter Eighteen
Carter
Carter sat down on the sofa. “The description the cop gave is out there. Should’ve been all over the news half an hour ago.”
SAC Karen Nguyen didn’t look very hopeful, her shoulders slumping. She clung to the settee’s arms like it was a life raft. “You think we’ll get anything from it, Max?”
Carter thought it through, but couldn’t find anything to help with her buoyancy. “Probably not. We’re dealing with an organized individual or individuals. One step ahead of us so far. Maybe he got lucky at that parking lot, but…” He felt the sofa tighten underneath him. “Holliday was there when Brandon got shot. It’s possible he’s involved in this. Might be—”