“—madre de Dios, ruega pro nosotros pecadores ahora—”
Francisca was still in there, praying and weeping.
“—the hell happened?” It was a bull-like bellow from the living room.
“Damn truck hit me! In the house! My arm’s broke!”
“What’d you have in your fucking car?”
“Nothing! Some beer!”
“It blew the fuck up!”
“Not my fault!”
“Truck’s in the fucking living room!”
“Would you look at my arm?”
“Shit, you hear that? It’s the cops!”
“Of all the—”
“Let’s get out of here!”
“Grab the dope! Stuff it down your damned pants if you have to!”
“—my arm!”
“Would you shut up? Nobody gives a shit about your arm!”
Those shouts from the junior punk cartel reached Bianca even as she turned off the earwig, grabbed the awl and punched through the window just above the lock.
The escalating wails of the approaching sirens, the cheery melody of “Pop Goes the Weasel,” the snap-crackle-pop of the burning car, plus the commotion inside the house, added up to so much noise that even she could barely hear that one small pane of glass shatter.
In a flash her hand was through the broken pane and she was unlocking the window. Seconds later, she was inside. Speed was of the essence. The junior punk cartel could remember their captive at any second. Plus, the cops were coming.
Francisca lay curled in a fetal position on the mattress. She was petite, dressed in jeans and sneakers and a purple satin bomber jacket, with what seemed to be yards of glossy black hair tangled around her. Zip ties secured her wrists and ankles. Her eyes were tightly shut and her lips were moving: “—de nuestra muerte—”
Bianca kept her voice low. “Francisca!”
The girl’s lips stilled. Shaking the hair out of her face, Francisca looked up, her eyes full of fear. As she focused on Bianca, who was leaning over her, her eyes widened even more. “Orale. Are you, like, Batgirl or something?”
Bianca was momentarily taken aback. Then she remembered the balaclava.
Too bad she hadn’t thought to accessorize with a cape.
“No. Shh.” Bianca grabbed her hands—they were soft and ice cold—and cut the zip tie. “I’m here to get you out. Sage sent me.”
“Sage?” Francisca sat up, rubbing her wrists and blinking away tears as Bianca sliced through the tie binding her ankles. As Quincy had said, she was a pretty girl, with big brown eyes now swollen from crying and plump red lips. Her round cheeks were damp and flushed. “Oh, I knew he wouldn’t leave me to los bastardos!”
“Are you hurt? Can you walk?”
“Nobody hurt me—yet. They were going to—”
“Tell me later. Come on.”
In the background, the shouts from the junior punk cartel continued unabated as, from the sound of it, they stampeded into the kitchen.
“Move it! Go!”
“Damn pants are falling off! This shit’s heavy!”
“You got to get me to a doctor. My arm—”
“What about the bitch?”
“I forgot about her. Go get her.”
“You go get her. I’m outta here.”
“What the fuck are you doing? Open the damned door already!”
“I can’t! It broke!”
“What broke?”
“The door!”
“What?”
“The doorknob came off! Look!”
Bianca had no time to enjoy the dumbfounded note in the basso profundo voice of the guy who’d apparently tried to be first out the door, no time to picture an oversize punk staring blankly down at the doorknob in his hand.
She was too busy hauling Francisca, who seemed to be having trouble walking, to her feet, pushing her toward the window, helping her out, getting out herself.
“What’s happening? Did the house blow up? Is it on fire?” Francisca whispered, panic lacing her voice, as Bianca dropped down beside her. The girl crouched, trembling, in the bushes. Her eyes darted all around. Bianca could understand her confusion. The night was alive now with sound and color. Screaming sirens and screeching tires and shouts from arriving cops or neighbors, or maybe both, overlaid the steady roar of the fire. Incongruously cheerful, “Pop Goes the Weasel” kept on keeping on. The orange of the blaze flickered through the bright blue flash of the lights on arriving patrol cars. The smell from the burning car was strong.
“What’s that music?” Francisca sounded even more frightened.
“Never mind.” Bianca wasn’t up to explaining “Pop Goes the Weasel.” “See that car over there?” She pointed to the Acura. “We need to run for it.”
“I don’t think I can. My feet are asleep.”
“You have to. We have to.”
Grabbing Francisca’s arm, Bianca half pulled, half carried her toward the Acura. They’d no sooner gotten inside the car than a pair of cops raced around the corner of the house, flashlights in hand, shining them over the side of the house and the hedge and the ground.
“Oh, no.” Francisca looked petrified. “If the pinche Hura get me, I’ll be deported. So will my mom and—”
“Shh! Duck!” Bianca pushed the girl’s head below the level of the dashboard and followed suit.
Careful as always, she’d closed the bedroom window after exiting. Apparently missing the smashed pane, the cops didn’t stop, but ran on around back.
Bianca took advantage of their absence to start the car and go, heading around the back of the nearest apartment building. If the Acura was seen leaving, it would be better if it looked like it was coming from somewhere not so close to Ground Zero.
Francisca sat up and looked toward the house. “Are they after me?” Her voice shook. Clearly she was every bit as afraid of the cops as she was of the Bloods.
“No. They don’t even know you exist. They’re here for the drugs, and the pushers.”
“Good. Los bastardos deserve it.” Francisca sniffled, then eyed her warily. “Who are you?”
Fair enough. The girl had just been kidnapped, after all. Trust issues were to be expected. And then there was that balaclava.
“A friend of Sage’s.”
Francisca didn’t look reassured. “Where is he?”
“I’m taking you to him.”
Much as Bianca disliked letting anyone get a look at her under these types of conditions—when she’d just done her thing, so to speak—and especially disliked it given the current harrowing circumstances, she had to admit that driving around in a black cloth helmet that revealed only her eyes and mouth looked suspicious, to say nothing of weird. She could see why Francisca was having doubts. Cops seeing her like that would have more than doubts: what they’d have would be probable cause.
Which would be bad.
Besides, there was no way of keeping Francisca from finding out who she was. Sage and Quincy would spill everything they knew the minute the three were reunited, she was sure. Fortunately, Sage and Quincy actually knew very little about what had gone down. None of the three of them had directly witnessed the exploding car, or the ice-cream truck being driven into the house. All Sage and Quincy knew was that Bianca had promised to rescue Francisca. All Francisca knew was that Bianca had broken a window, climbed through it, cut her free and gotten her out. As for the rest, anything could have caused the truck crash and exploding car. It wasn’t necessarily her. Since no one knew for sure, a hundred different stories would probably spring up. Bianca thought—hoped—she could limit any potential gossip or social media posts—that linked her to any of it by impressing on all three kids the importance of keeping their mouths shut. She would do that by pointing out how much trouble they would be in with the Bloods, the cops
and their parents if any word of what had really happened tonight leaked out.
In her experience, self-interest was a supereffective motivational tool.
She popped out the earwig and pulled off the balaclava and tossed both in the backseat.
“Oh.” Francisca sounded disappointed at discovering that Bianca was a perfectly normal-looking human being.
“If we should pass a police car, just sit there,” Bianca warned. “Don’t duck or try to hide your face or anything.”
Francisca nodded. Bianca turned on the headlights as they rounded the building because leaving them off would attract more attention than having them on if anyone should happen to notice the moving car. As she drove decorously toward the exit, both she and Francisca looked toward the trap house.
A giant bonfire still engulfed the scorched black skeleton that remained of the Impala. At least half a dozen silhouetted figures raced around it; Bianca couldn’t tell what they were doing. Four patrol cars, rack lights flashing, filled the street in front of the house. Their sirens were turned off now. “Pop Goes the Weasel” had been shut down, as well. Two cops shone flashlights through the portion of the ice-cream truck’s serving window that wasn’t embedded in the house. Their body language made it obvious that they were excited about what they saw. As Bianca watched, the junior punk cartel marched into view. Four cops escorted them toward the patrol cars. Except for the punk bringing up the rear who was holding his arm, their hands were cuffed behind their backs. The one in the lead seemed to be wearing boxer shorts. Remembering the conversation (shouts) she’d overheard, Bianca wondered if he’d been the one to stuff what she had to assume were the foils down his pants. If so, it obviously hadn’t worked out so well for him.
Snake was third in line, his hulk-like size making him impossible to mistake even at that distance. His head was down and his shoulders slumped. Every step he took embodied dejection.
“Are they going to jail?” Francisca sounded like she hardly dared to hope.
“Looks like it,” Bianca said. “Probably for a long enough time that you won’t have to worry about them anymore.”
“Gracias a Dios.” Francisca’s tone was devout.
There was only one way into and out of the parking lot. The combined entrance-exit was closer to the trap house than Bianca would have liked, but the only alternative—hide in the car until a better moment to escape presented itself—was riskier than leaving. A curious cop could decide to check out the parking lot and spot them inside the car, or someone could make a note of her license plate, or the street could get cordoned off. All kinds of things could go wrong. Plus, the sun would start to rise in a little over an hour.
But—they were the only car moving in the parking lot. Some nimble-brained officer could easily see them and make the connection with what was going on at the trap house. If that happened, if they were stopped and questioned, Bianca reluctantly rejected making a run for it in favor of bluffing it out. She could say—what? She was busy concocting what she hoped would be a believable story when two fire trucks raced into view, turning a corner and barreling down the street toward the blazing Impala. The clamor of their sirens and the pulsating vibrancy of their lights could have been custom-made to serve as a distraction.
Fortune favors the bold. Also, apparently, the felonious and fleeing.
Bianca pulled out into the street, heading away from the scene. In a matter of minutes she reached a cross street, turned west and left the excitement behind.
Step five: save the girl.
Check.
As they drove through the sleeping city, Francisca talked nonstop, telling her everything that had happened from the moment Snake and the others had pulled her into his car, along with all her thoughts and feelings related to it. Bianca registered just about every third word. Her attention was increasingly focused on her surroundings. Funnily enough—or not—the closer she got to home the less safe she felt.
Whoever had taken down Groton was still out there.
If he or whoever had sent him was looking for her, if they found her, while she was entering or exiting her building would be the perfect time to stage an attack.
Take a sniper, for instance. Once he knew where she lived, all a sniper had to do was lie in wait.
The thought made Bianca’s stomach tighten. Her pulse quickened until she could hear it drumming in her ears.
The ten-minute drive home felt twice as long, because she spent it keeping a wary eye out for tails and possible ambush sites and, oh, yeah, speeding vehicles that might potentially ram hers in an effort to make her dead or unconscious so she could be grabbed, because that particular gambit had been used on her before. Every minute or so found her glancing nervously into her rearview mirror, checking upper-level dark windows for a glint that might warn of a rifle, scanning rooftops for movement or a shape that didn’t fit. All while she murmured “mmm-hmm” and “really?” at suitable intervals as Francisca chattered on.
Bianca didn’t realize how tense she was until she’d made it into the parking garage of her building and was surrounded by solid concrete walls. No one had shot at her. No one had tried to kidnap her.
Didn’t mean she was safe.
Tired as she was, she was totally juiced on adrenaline.
She did a visual scan of every vehicle, every pillar, every shadow in that parking garage.
Nothing that shouldn’t be there.
Quincy and Sage were sitting in Sage’s car. They came running as she pulled into her space and parked. Francisca scrambled out of the car and fell into Sage’s arms.
* * *
As Bianca got out of the car, she saw that Sage and Francisca were locked in True Love’s Kiss. The sight did not fill Bianca’s heart with twinkly stars and dancing unicorns. Instead it made her grimace.
“You da man, Miz Guardian,” Quincy greeted her, beaming.
Sage looked up from his lip-lock to say, “Yeah, I owe you. Big-time.”
“I owe you, too. Thank you,” Francisca chimed in, looking around.
“You want to pay me back, stay out of trouble.” Bianca pocketed Mrs. Pack’s revolver before retrieving her own belongings from the backseat. The Win Mag she would carry up later, when there were no witnesses around.
“How’d you do it? They give you any trouble, Snake and them?” Sage asked. His arm was around Francisca’s shoulders now. She had both her arms wrapped around his waist.
All right, so maybe they looked kind of cute together.
“They were distracted by a car accident, so I was able to get Francisca out a window without running into them,” Bianca said. “It was actually pretty tame. She can tell you all about it.”
Francisca shuddered. “It was not tame at all.”
She started to tell Sage her version of events.
“You didn’t have to ninja them?” Quincy asked Bianca, clearly disappointed.
“Nope. Shouldn’t you go to bed? Don’t you have school in about three hours?”
He shrugged. “I can sleep at my desk.”
Go, local school system.
“What time does your mother get home?”
“Seven.” He looked at her anxiously. “You’re not going to tell her, are you?”
“I’m thinking about it.” Even though she probably should—she was reasonably certain it was the adult, responsible thing to do—Bianca already knew that she wasn’t going to tell Angela Pack about the night’s events. If she broke the kids’ trust and told on them, the next time they ran into trouble they might not turn to an adult, and given their track record they might very well get themselves killed trying to handle on their own whatever mayhem they managed to stir up. Not that they were her responsibility, and not that she meant to make a habit of getting them out of trouble, but still.
Breaking into Francisca’s chatter, she gave the happy couple, and Quin
cy, the spiel she’d prepared about keeping the night’s events to themselves. They promised. She was as sure as it was possible to be that they understood and would do as she told them.
Self-interest was a wonderful thing.
Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead. That was Benjamin Franklin, by way of her not-father, talking in her head. Since she wasn’t about to kill this trio of kids, she ignored it. All she could do was hope that in this instance at least the pair of them were wrong.
“Hey, what about my gun?” Sage called after her as she headed for the elevator.
Bianca threw her answer over her shoulder. “It’s your mom’s gun. You want it, you get her to ask me for it. Good night.”
“Ah, hell. That’s not—”
Fair, was her guess as to how that protest ended, but she didn’t stay to hear it. Reaching the elevator, she stepped inside, punched the button for the eighth floor—and stepped out again. The elevator went up. She took the stairs.
For the first time ever since she’d come to live in Savannah, she was in full-on self-preservation mode. Instinct and training had kicked in. It was unlikely that there was an assassin up there watching the floor numbers as the elevator rose, waiting for her to reach eight and step out, but using the stairs instead was an elementary precaution. Elevators were a death trap: if an enemy knew you were in one, all they had to do was wait for the doors to open and you were toast.
Emerging cautiously out into the eighth-floor hallway, Bianca was relieved to see that it was empty. Still, she felt the weight of unease settle around her like a blanket. She didn’t expect to be attacked inside her building. She’d chosen the building with its restricted access, thick walls and absence of security cameras, and her condo with its strategic location in the eighth-floor corner that came with multiple sight lines and avenues of escape, with her specific protection needs in mind. She’d subsequently modified her condo and the approach to it to make the logistics of an attack difficult. But difficult didn’t mean impossible, and so she kept a wary eye out, evaluating the quiet, softly lit hallway for any sign of intrusion. Her stomach tightened and her heart rate increased with every step she took. That didn’t abate even as she reached her own (steel reinforced beneath its traditional-looking six-panel oak facade) front door, unlocked the pick-proof, drill-proof and kicking-in proof dead bolt, and stepped inside.
The Moscow Deception--An International Spy Thriller Page 6