by Greg Cox
“I remember that part,” Parker said. She laughed out loud. “That was hilarious.”
Everyone stared at her. Denise looked baffled.
“What?” Parker asked, noticing the funny looks she was getting. “It was a comedy, right?”
“Moving on,” Nate said. “Eliot, you ever had any dealings with this guy?”
It was a reasonable question. Even more than the rest of them, Eliot had dealt with some pretty questionable characters in his day, people who didn’t mind hurting people—and worse. Eliot didn’t like to talk about it, but they all knew he had cracked more than safes and software. And knew people for whom life was all too cheap.
“Not that I remember,” he said. “This Beria guy may have been too far back in the shadows. Just to be clear, I was always more of a hitter, not a spook or assassin.”
Denise regarded him warmly, a sad smile on her lips. “I never doubted it.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any point in reporting Brad’s kidnapping to the police?” Parker asked. “A crazy idea, I know, but maybe Bonanno can do something?”
Detective Patrick Bonanno was an honest Boston cop who had worked with the Leverage crew before. He had been known to look the other way when it came to bringing down serious bad guys.
“Not his jurisdiction,” Nate said. “But even if we could convince the authorities that Beria is still alive, and that’s a seriously big if, he’s probably untouchable.”
“More than probably,” Sophie said. “A man like that, with friends and connections in high places, can get away with murder… and kidnapping.”
“Which means it’s up to us,” Nate said. “As usual.”
“Truth,” Hardison said. “Too many bad guys are getting away with too darn much. We should probably think about franchising.”
Nate tabled that suggestion for now. He walked over to Denise.
“What about you?” he asked her. “You ever catch a glimpse of Beria? He look familiar to you?”
She stared at Gavin’s killer. “No. Absolutely not.”
“You sure about that?” Eliot asked gently. “You never saw him around? With Gavin… or anywhere else?”
“No,” she repeated. “Not once.”
Hardison watched Nate and Eliot question Denise, curious to see what happened next. There was a definite undercurrent to the discussion, almost as though they were interrogating her. Sophie observed the exchange with interest, too.
“Okay,” Nate said, letting up. “I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.” He turned back toward the video wall, and the shots of Anton Beria, past and present. “Take a good look at him, people. We have a new target.”
“Just point me at him,” Eliot growled. “Any idea where this slimeball is hiding?”
“Not really,” Hardison said. “His last known location was the bottom of the ocean, remember? In a body bag.”
That wasn’t what Eliot wanted to hear. “Great. So we still don’t know where Beria and his goons are holding Brad.” Frustration practically radiated from him. “So what are we supposed to do now?”
As always, Nate had an answer.
“Now we write a book.”
| | | | | | ELEVEN | | | | | |
MANHATTAN
“But we can’t write an entire book in less than forty-two hours,” Sophie protested. “It’s impossible.”
“No, just an exercise in teamwork,” Nate said with a smirk. He had it all figured out. “A decent-size thriller is—what?—one hundred thousand words?” He swept his gaze over his crew. “There’s four of you. That’s approximately twenty-five thousand words apiece. And we already have the first three chapters, so that gives you a head start.”
The cut-and-paste job they used to fool Brad wasn’t going to pass muster in this case. That patchwork manuscript was never meant to bear close inspection; it had just been a glorified prop in their plan to entrap Brad. But Beria and his crew were different. Unlike Brad, who had been more interested in selling the sequel than in reading it, Beria actually cared about the contents of the manuscript. They had to assume that he would examine the text more closely—which meant they needed a real book.
“But we’re not writers, Nate,” Hardison pointed out. “We can’t just churn out a spy thriller overnight.”
“Are you sure about that?” Nate asked. “I’ve seen all of you, even Parker, invent entire characters and backstories on the fly.” He walked around the table, singling them out one by one. “Sophie, you’re a master at that. You can spin new identities and narratives out of thin air, often at a moment’s notice.”
“It’s a gift,” she admitted.
“And, Hardison,” Nate continued, “you have an extremely active imagination when it comes to crafting cons. Remember all the effort you put into developing your persona as a master jewel thief, ‘the Iceman’? Or that whole Snake River Massacre treasure hunt you devised to fleece those gold swindlers?”
“But you didn’t like either of those,” Hardison reminded Nate.
“No,” Nate insisted. “I just thought they needed a little fine-tuning. You have a tendency to go overboard sometimes, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have a highly creative mind.”
Hardison beamed at the compliment. He looked around to make sure the others were listening. “See, that’s what I keep telling y’all.”
Eliot snorted and rolled his eyes.
“But I don’t know anything about stories,” Parker objected. “I’m a thief, not an author. I barely know what makes real people tick, let alone made-up ones.”
“You’re underestimating yourself,” Nate said. He knew Parker was going to be a hard sell, but he figured he could convince her if he reminded her of all the progress she had made over the last few years when it came to relating to people. “Remember when you had to pose as that meth-head heiress? Or as Alice, the friendly juror? You were creating there, improvising on the spot. Now you just have to do it at a keyboard.”
And quickly, he added silently.
Finally, he turned to Eliot, who maintained a poker face. His stony impression made it clear that he wasn’t about to be conned himself.
“You got a pep talk for me, too?” Eliot asked.
Nate shook his head. “Don’t need one. You and I both know how quick you are at thinking on your feet. And you already helped Denise produce those first three chapters.” He winked at Denise. “Nice work, by the way. Very convincing.”
“If you say so,” she muttered. “We did our best.”
“And you will again,” Nate said confidently. “And for even bigger stakes: a man’s life.”
“I’m sure we all appreciate your faith in us,” Sophie said. “But what on earth are we supposed to write about?”
He had the perfect response, straight from the writing handbooks.
“Write what you know.”
He spelled it out for them.
“Sophie, you’ll handle the characterization. You write all the emotional, character-driven scenes. As a grifter, and a great one, you have a flawless grasp of what motivates people—and how to push their buttons. Just apply that same understanding of human nature to our characters.”
“Fine,” she agreed. “But nobody dare cut my love scenes.”
I wouldn’t dream of it, Nate thought.
“Hardison, you’ll handle all the high-tech business. This is a spy thriller. I’m sure we can work in plenty of wiretapping, electronic surveillance, hacking, and so on. Feel free to show off your expertise and the latest, cutting-edge, state-of-the-art spy tech. Give the book a real air of authenticity.”
“Real tech done right?” The hacker’s eyes lit up at the prospect. “You’ve got the right man there. Did I ever tell you about the time I impersonated the technical consultant on Aliens vs. Terminators?” He sighed. “They really should have listened to me.”
“I’m sure,” Nate said, hoping to head off a lengthy postmortem on the movie. “This time the technobabble is all yours. Go to town.”
Nate let him brainstorm away. He hadn’t been worried about Hardison; he’d known the enthusiastic young hacker would get into the spirit of the thing. The only challenge was going to be preventing Hardison from getting too far-out. I’ll have to keep an eye out for time machines, Nate thought. And wormholes.
“Eliot, you’ll do the fight scenes, of course. You know better than most what actual hand-to-hand combat feels like. Put the reader in the middle of the fight, describe what it’s like to take a punch or take down an opponent. Do it blow by blow and the fight scenes will ring true.”
And fill up plenty of pages, Nate thought.
“Fine,” Eliot said. “But I’m not giving away my best moves.”
Nate moved on to Parker. She eyed him warily.
“Parker, you’re the pro when it comes to heart-pumping stunts and action scenes. Let Eliot handle the fisticuffs. I’m counting on you for exciting scenes of people diving off buildings, scaling walls, and breaking into maximum-security facilities. Maybe even a high-speed motorcycle chase or skydiving sequence.”
Parker nodded, looking a little less apprehensive.
“What about Tasers? Can I write about Tasering people?”
“Knock yourself out,” Nate said. “You’re our adrenaline specialist. Give the reader plenty of jolts.”
“We’re not still talking about Tasers, are we?”
“Stick to words this time,” Nate advised. “They can be pretty shocking, too, if you use them right.”
With any luck, he thought, Anton Beria has a big shock coming…
“What about you?” Sophie asked him. “You’ve laid out the division of labor very neatly, but what exactly are you contributing to this proposed opus?”
“That’s easy,” he said. “I’m the editor.”
“Of course you are,” Sophie said drily.
“I’ll provide you with a basic outline,” he elaborated, “so that we’re all on the same page, as it were.” He already knew one crucial plot point that needed to be included in the book. “Then we’ll divide up the book according to your respective specialties and pass the chapters back and forth as each of you fleshes out the parts assigned to you. I’ll be reviewing the work in progress throughout, to make sure that the story stays on track.”
And that nobody gets too “inspired,” he thought.
“Just remember, this is a collaborative effort. We don’t have time for creative differences or outbreaks of artistic integrity.” He made a point not to look directly at Sophie, or Hardison, or anyone in particular. “So check your egos at the door. We have a sequel to write… and a killer deadline.”
“What about me?” Denise asked. “Where do I fit in?”
“You’re the last stop on the assembly line,” Nate said. “You’ll do a final pass on the finished manuscript, smoothing out any stylistic inconsistencies and making it read like it was truly written by the author of Assassins Never Forget.”
Denise nodded. “By Gavin, you mean.”
“No,” Nate said. “By the real author.”
He gazed pointedly at Denise.
“What?” She sat straight, feigning confusion. “I don’t understand. What are you implying?”
Eliot turned toward her.
“It’s time, Denise,” he said softly. “We can’t afford to play games anymore. You need to come clean.”
“Games? What are you talking about? I don’t—” She slumped back into her seat, unable to deny it any longer. She looked at Eliot. “How long have you known?”
“I started getting suspicious when we were writing those early chapters together,” he confessed. “Like I said, you have a very distinctive style. Then, when I saw you hold your own against that goon squad, I guessed that you weren’t just an ordinary temp.”
She smiled weakly. “Didn’t buy that YMCA story, huh?”
“Not for a second,” Eliot said. “I didn’t say anything, because I figured you had your reasons, but things are becoming too complicated. It’s probably better if we get everything out into the open.”
She glanced around the table. “What about the rest of you? When did you figure it out?”
“Eventually,” Nate said. “The pieces were all there. You just had to assemble the puzzle.”
“It all made sense,” Sophie said. “Once you knew what to look for.”
“Hold on.” Parker was still confused. “If Gavin didn’t write the first book, who wrote the sequel? And why do we need to write another one?”
“Because it’s all part of the con,” Nate told her.
“Okay,” Parker said. “That works.”
Denise look embarrassed at being exposed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, mostly to Eliot. “I didn’t want to lie to you, but…”
“Gavin was your front,” Nate supplied. “He posed as the author, making public appearances as such, so that you could fly under the radar.”
“That’s right,” she confirmed. “He was a photographer, not a writer. I did all the writing and let him take the credit.” Her voice cracked and she wrung her hands. The guilt came pouring out of her. “It’s my fault he was doing that stupid book signing. It should have been me.”
Parker cocked her head. “So why wasn’t it?”
“Because Denise Gallo doesn’t exist,” Nate said, unable to resist showing off how much he had already figured out. He had a reputation as a mastermind to maintain. “Isn’t that right, Hardison?”
“You called it,” the hacker said. “Don’t get me wrong. You did a pretty good job fabricating a new identity.” He tipped an imaginary hat to her. “But once Nate pointed me in the right direction, it wasn’t hard to figure out that ‘Denise Gallo’ came out of nowhere a few years ago.”
“In 2007, to be exact,” Denise said. “I guess I should’ve seen this coming. Eliot said you were good.”
“He did?” Hardison grinned at Eliot. “Hey, thanks for the props, man.”
“I have no idea what she’s talking about,” Eliot said.
“See, that’s your problem, man. You need to own your feelings. Get more comfortable expressing yourself.”
“How about I express you out the nearest window?”
Nate cleared his throat. “Focus.”
“Anyway,” Hardison said, getting back on point, “the only thing I couldn’t uncover was who you were before.”
“Someone else,” Denise said. “Tarantula.”
FIVE YEARS AGO:
“I don’t like it, Okata. Why so hush-hush?”
“Because you’re an assassin?” her handler quipped. Daniel Okata was a stocky, silver-haired operative in his late fifties. A patch covered his left eye. Old burns scarred his left cheek. A lightweight black jacket fit him snugly. “A certain degree of cloak-and-dagger comes with the territory.”
Vicki Rhodes, a thirty-year-old brunette with striking green eyes, was staked out on the roof of a Paris office building. She wore black as well. It was a clear summer night and the City of Light shone all around them, but this particular rooftop was comfortably dark and inconspicuous. It also overlooked the offices of Le Monde, a leading French newspaper. Although it was almost midnight, lights were still visible on the upper floors of the newspaper building, where workaholic editors and reporters were burning the midnight oil and racing to make their deadlines. Vicki had taken a few journalism classes in college; she knew how consuming it could be.
This doesn’t feel right, she thought. A Parisian newspaper office hardly seemed like a breeding ground for terrorists, so what were she and Okata doing here?
“I understand about keeping secrets,” she said. “I don’t understand why secrets are being kept from me—by my own people.
” Months of frustration spilled out of her. “It doesn’t make sense. Why haven’t I been briefed on the target yet? I don’t like being kept in the dark.”
Okata shrugged philosophically. He was not one for drama. She wasn’t sure she had ever heard him raise his voice.
“This is an unusually sensitive matter,” he explained, without really doing so. “Our superior felt that this time around, things were best handled on a need-to-know basis.”
“I’m about to kill someone,” she said. “Don’t you think that constitutes need to know?”
“Soon,” he promised. His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized his balky protégée. “What’s really bothering you? Don’t tell me you’re having doubts about the work?”
That’s putting it mildly, she thought.
Okata had recruited her right out of college. In the aftermath of 9/11, and the anthrax mailings and the London bombings, it had been clear that America—and the world—needed protecting from some seriously dangerous people. Okata had appealed to her patriotism and sense of duty, as well as, to be honest, a certain restless yearning for excitement. A championship marksman, with a talent for languages and creative thinking, Vicki had struck the older man as having the potential to become a world-class sniper—and one without any military record or paper trail. Perfect for covert operations conducted off the books.
Okata had personally supervised her training. He had been a master sniper himself, until a booby trap in the Philippines cost him an eye and his depth perception. For the last five years, he had aimed Vicki at a series of terrorists, conspirators, warlords, rebels, pirates, and insurrectionists, all of whom, she had been assured, posed significant threats to American lives and security. She’d never had any direct contact with Okata’s shadowy superior, but she knew she was employed by a private black-ops group that did contract work for the U.S. government and its allies. Plausible deniability was their stock-in-trade.
At first, the work had been exciting and fulfilling, if occasionally messy. She had really felt she was making a difference. But doubts had recently undermined her resolve and troubled her conscience. Some of her targets—victims?—had not struck her as clearly identifiable threats. Her assignments seemed to be drifting into some uncomfortably gray areas. Unsettling questions kept her up at night.