by Diane Capri
Simply put, he didn’t want to worry about it. He was feeling claustrophobic anyway. A bit of exercise couldn’t hurt.
He located the dedicated burner Kim had given him and left everything else with a tracking beacon in the room. He left the cane, too. A few minutes later, he was on his way downstairs. He moved as quickly as he could, which was to say not very fast. He’d already swallowed too many Tylenol today, and they didn’t make a dent in the pain anyway. The only thing to do was press forward.
At the bottom of the escalator, the line for rides was too long. On a cold night in January, no one wanted to walk. He shrugged, turned up his collar, and took the plunge. The Starbucks he wanted wasn’t too far. Damn, it was cold out here, though. His Miami overcoat wasn’t heavy enough for this weather.
A number of pedestrians wandered the sidewalks along with him. Many were talking on cell phones, and the others probably had at least one phone in their pockets. Lots of tracking beacons lighting up the scanning screens, which was good.
He pulled the burner cell out and fired it up. After a few seconds, the phone connected to a cell tower. He saw a voicemail notification and figured it had to be from Otto, probably not too long ago. Instead of listening, he called her back. Her phone rang several times and kicked over to voice mail. He waited for the tone.
“Call me when you get this message. I’m headed for coffee. You know the place. We need to talk. Important stuff. I’ll wait for you there.”
He disconnected and then opened Otto’s earlier voice mail. The recorded message was less than one second of silence. She must have hung up when the call kicked over.
Gaspar kept the phone in his hand so he could feel the vibration when it rang. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and struggled to cover the distance while he waited for her to call back.
He’d stopped to rest several times. Hypothermia threatened constantly. Eventually, he arrived at the crowded coffee shop, chilled to his bones.
Dozens of New Yorkers had piled into the warmth. Few were actually talking to each other or talking on cell phones. Instead, they were connecting in cyberspace using numerous devices, exactly as he’d expected. This particular shop reliably confounded surveillance when he wanted to be a needle in a haystack. The effect was temporary but lasted long enough.
He made his way to the coffee line and ordered the largest espresso breve with heavy cream. He added a few cookies and a couple of pastries to his order. After he picked up the food and coffee, he stopped to collect a handful of sugar packets. A couple of guys were packing up to leave and offered him their small table.
After an hour of waiting for Otto’s call, he began to worry. After the second hour, he forced himself to call Finlay’s private number.
On the fourth ring, Finlay picked up. “Yes.”
“It’s Gaspar. Is Otto with you?”
“She left a couple of hours ago. Where are you?”
Gaspar ignored the question. He clenched his jaw and felt the muscles tense. “Did she go to meet Reacher?”
Finlay paused too long. Gaspar’s grip on the phone tightened. He felt the cheap plastic flex and eased off. This phone was his lifeline to Otto. Crushing it would be counterproductive.
“She didn’t say where she was going, and I didn’t ask,” Finlay replied. “I assumed she was headed back to her hotel. If you’re calling here, that must mean you can’t find her.”
Gaspar pressed his lips into a firm hard line to suppress the anger Finlay ignited without trying. “You have access to CCTV in your hotel, I assume?”
“Let me get that started,” Finlay spoke without covering the phone’s speaker. “Russell, please check the video and locate Agent Otto.”
Gaspar had met Russell. As a species, Secret Service agents were adept. Russell was exceptional. Gaspar breathed a bit easier, confident Russell would produce the expected results swiftly.
Finlay said, “Why did you ask me if she went to meet Reacher?”
Gaspar cocked his head. A satisfied smile lifted the corner of his mouth. So she hadn’t told him about Reacher’s phone call. She wasn’t quite as certain that Reacher was some kind of white knight as she’d argued back in the hotel. Ambivalence was good news, as far as Gaspar was concerned. There was a better chance that she’d remain wary of Reacher that way.
He enjoyed Finlay’s discomfort for a couple of moments before he said, “He called her tonight. Left a voice message. She thought he got the number from you.”
Finlay breathed heavily into the phone. “Why did she think I gave Reacher her number?”
Gaspar smiled. Too bad he wasn’t in the same room with Finlay now. He’d love to see that bastard sweat. Just once. He didn’t trust the guy at all. He was way too slick. Guys like Finlay always had things to hide. Sooner or later Gaspar would learn Finlay’s secrets. Until then, keeping Finlay at arm’s length was the best strategy.
Russell returned, and Gaspar overheard snatches of his report. Enough to understand that Otto had joined the line of people waiting for cabs. She’d left Finley’s hotel in a black Mercedes. Pretty high-end vehicle for a New York cabbie. But a lot of the private car services lined up at the better hotels hoping to pick up longer, more expensive fares. The Mercedes was probably one of those.
“Thanks, Russell. Find out where the Mercedes dropped her off.” Finlay exhaled loud enough to be heard on the cheap burner cell in the crowded coffee shop. “She entered a Mercedes about two hours ago. Russell’s chasing it down now. He’ll trace the sedan on the traffic cam videos. We’ll find her. I’ll call back on this number.”
“One more thing. Otto asked you for satellite surveillance of Farid Petrosian’s Garrison house. Did you show it to her?”
Finley paused for a couple extra beats. “We discussed the Petrosian situation. At that time, I did not have the video.”
Gaspar didn’t believe that for a minute, which raised his blood pressure again. “But you’ve seen it now.”
“Yes. Most disturbing.”
“That’s one way to put it. The guy who altered the FBI surveillance video to delete the woman leaving the house in Jacob’s car will pay for it with a long stay in federal prison. I don’t suppose you know who it was?”
“We’re looking into that.”
“Have you identified the woman?”
“It’s probably Jacob. Looks like her. And that’s most likely her car. She owns one like it.” Finlay paused. “Which doesn’t necessarily mean the bathtub victim is Jacob.”
“Doesn’t prove the victim ID either way. But the FBI’s operating theory that Jacob went into the house and never came out is patently false. Which the FBI would have known.” Gaspar paused. “Meaning Deerfield would have known.”
Finlay breathed into the phone for a moment. “Are you sure the false intel is unknown higher up the food chain?”
Gaspar clenched his jaw as his temper flared again. Finlay knew damn well that Cooper had seen the satellite video. Gaspar and Otto were deliberately being kept in the dark. Which were only two of the things that pissed him off about the whole situation.
Finlay said nothing more. They understood each other. People inside the FBI couldn’t be trusted. Who were the bad guys here?
Gaspar asked, “Have you identified the driver who reversed the black SUV into the garage two days after the woman’s visit? Do you know what he did for the sixty-three minutes he was inside?”
“Again, not yet. But the same uncertainties apply, do they not?”
Had Finlay been in the room, Gaspar would have decked the pompous ass. Wrestling his Latin temper was like wrangling a swamp gator. The only thing that kept him on the leash was that he couldn’t reach through the cheap cell phone and choke the life out of the bastard.
After a few deep breaths made it possible for him to speak without expletives, Gaspar said, “If you call me back within the next twenty minutes, it won’t be necessary for me to ask the same questions of Cooper. We both know how well he’ll respond.”
“I was not thinking that. But it’s interesting that you’re trying to rule it out.” Gaspar all but sneered. He didn’t know exactly what game Finlay was playing with Cooper, but he damn sure wasn’t going to let Otto get killed in the middle of it. “So you know she’s Cooper’s bait. Deployed to lure Reacher. If that worked tonight, Cooper would be delighted. But when Reacher comes in from the cold, you won’t be pleased at all, will you?”
Finlay remained quiet for a moment. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something to share, Agent Gaspar.”
Gaspar’s nostrils flared. His voice hammered hard. “You do that. But don’t forget what I said. Twenty minutes. If anything happens to Otto, that’s on you. You’ll pay the price. Count on it.”
“Plenty of blame to share here, Gaspar. You’re her partner. Where were you?” Finlay disconnected without another word.
Gaspar spent two full minutes tamping his white-hot anger down to a controllable blaze. He’d wait twenty minutes. No more.
He stretched his legs in front of the chair to relieve the constant pain and crossed his hands over his stomach to watch the clock.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Sunday, January 30
7:45 p.m.
New York City, New York
She noticed the transport license posted behind the driver’s seat on the thick partition separating the front from the back of the Mercedes sedan. His photo showed an attractive young black man with long dreadlocks. The back of the driver’s neck made him a middle-aged white guy with red hair.
Kim looked through the partition into the rearview mirror mounted on the windshield. The driver’s freckled forehead and blue eyes were looking back at her in the reflection. Sandy red eyebrows matched the hair poking beneath his cap and teased her memory somehow.
Maybe the regular driver was sick. Maybe he was an extra in a big Broadway production and he got a chance to perform tonight. A dozen innocent explanations were possible.
But the tiny hairs on the back of Kim’s neck stood straight up, and her stomach churned like a blender.
Something was wrong here. She reached into her pocket for a bill to pay the fare and prepared to jump out the next time he stopped the car. As the driver slowed for the next red light, she reached for the door handle.
He stopped behind two cars already waiting.
She pulled the handle to open the door.
The handle moved easily, but the door was still locked.
She pushed the unlock button on the armrest, and nothing happened.
The manual lock was recessed, flush with the top of the door panel. She couldn’t grab it.
She glanced at the manual lock on the door behind the driver, which was also recessed too far.
She slapped her palm on the thick partition between the seats and raised her voice to be heard through it. “Let me out here! Let me out!”
The light changed to green, and the driver rolled forward with the flow of traffic. She looked into the rearview mirror again. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners as if he was laughing at her puny efforts to escape. Which he probably was.
She pulled one of the burner phones from her pocket and punched 911 without looking at the screen. The call failed to connect. She hit the end call button and waited a second for the connection to establish. She tried again with the second phone and got the same result.
After another block, she made another attempt. She tried three more times after that. Both phones failed to pick up a signal at each location. In a city where everyone was connected every waking moment, the only way both phones could be offline was a blocked signal.
She scanned the city as the cab passed, looking for a landmark she recognized, but identified nothing familiar. Most street signs were outside her line of vision. Because the driver hadn’t turned again, they must still be traveling north.
The cab had been making slow progress. They couldn’t have traveled more than a couple of miles. But the traffic ahead was thinning out as the driver increased their distance from midtown Manhattan.
Her slim margin of opportunity to escape narrowed every second. What were her options?
The phones didn’t work. The doors couldn’t be opened.
Only one remaining choice. Her weapon rested snugly in her shoulder holster. She assumed he had a gun, too.
She couldn’t disarm the driver from her position in the back seat, but she could shoot through the rear windows. Standard vehicle windows were both laminated and tinted. Which meant that when she shot through, they wouldn’t send razor-sharp shards back to cut her.
Frigid temperatures discouraged sidewalk strollers but shooting into any pedestrian area was extremely dangerous. To limit the risks, she could damage the glass enough with two rounds, and then knock the pieces to the ground and climb out.
The driver might try to stop her, but if he came out of the cab, she’d have a clear shot at him. Which was sounding pretty damn good at the moment.
Before they reached the next red light, a speaker mounted on the back deck crackled. The driver had picked up a handset and held it close to his mouth. She could hear his breathing.
As if he’d read her mind, he said, “This vehicle has been modified in several respects. The body, including windows and the partition between us, are Type III and Type IV Ballistic Resistant Protective Materials. Type IV prevents penetration from armor-piercing rifles. Type III stops shots from a .44 Magnum.”
He paused, watching her in the rearview mirror for two full seconds.
“I’m sure you understand, Agent Otto?” When she didn’t reply, he said, “Discharging your 9mm weapon inside this vehicle will definitely cause more harm to you than to anything you might aim for. But feel free to test my prediction for yourself, if you must.”
Kim looked as closely as the variable ambient light entering intermittently from the city’s streets permitted. The partition was significantly thicker and more opaque than the windows. She was able to confirm that each of the four windows, the rear window, and front windshield were also distorted.
The driver was right. Demonstrations in the field proved multiple 9mm rounds wouldn’t penetrate or destroy this glass. Bullets would deflect into the cabin unpredictably. Thick particle dust would spray everywhere. The noise of gunshots in the small, enclosed space would be deafening.
In short, shooting inside the car was a spectacularly bad idea. She was more likely to end up dead or maimed than the driver. And the vehicle itself would be practically unscathed.
Reluctantly, she accepted that she couldn’t escape from confinement by brute force, which didn’t leave many options. “Abducting a federal agent will send you to prison.”
He smiled. “You weren’t abducted. You entered my cab voluntarily. Dozens of witnesses saw you do it.”
“I’ve been abducted since the moment you refused to let me out of this vehicle,” she replied.
He cupped his hand to his ear. “What? I can’t hear you.”
She said nothing.
“You have only one choice at the moment, Agent Otto. Relax and enjoy the ride.” He returned the handset to its cradle and focused on his driving.
Kim fell back against the seat and remained alert for an opportunity to escape.
The chance never came.
The taxi left the city along a route that took them from New York to Connecticut. He’d transported a kidnapped federal agent across state lines. He wouldn’t get the death penalty for that, but his maximum sentence could last the rest of his natural life. She vowed to make sure it did.
Farther north, he returned from Connecticut to cross into New York again. After a while, he drove through a suburban community. Large, upscale houses on spacious lots were set back from the roads on both sides.
He drove for another hour. Each mile away f
rom Manhattan seemed more rural than the last. In the distance, she heard a train approaching. She watched the freight train running parallel to the road, and when it passed, the light on the last car faded into the distance.
Under the snow, Kim imagined rolling hills and agricultural fields, like she’d find if she drove so far from downtown Detroit.
She had no idea where she was. She hadn’t seen a comprehensible sign for miles. The running rail fences along the roadside suggested they’d entered an equestrian area, but no visible horses or horse barns. Just the fences establishing pastures and property lines.
Up ahead, she saw a wide gap in the fence on the right side of the road. A driveway. They turned in and traveled half a mile across open land toward a mansion posed at the opposite end. The headlights illuminated the magnificent colonial farmhouse, which was probably more than two hundred years old. Rows of windows across the front suggested two stories and a loft or attic room in the center at the gable. A wraparound porch and double front door gave the place a homey, welcoming feel, even in the darkness.
The driver pulled up at the circular front entrance and stopped parallel to the steps leading to the porch. The handset crackled when he used it to relay her orders. “Field strip your gun and leave the components on the back seat.”
She looked at his eyes in the rearview mirror. “No.”
“You think you’re a real firecracker, don’t you? That wasn’t a request, and you’re in no position to refuse.” He shook his head, but his eyes crinkled a bit as if he might be smiling. His voice was harsher the second time. “Disassemble your weapon and leave it on the seat.”
She said nothing, and she made no move to follow directions.
“Use your head, Otto. You can’t shoot me through the armor. We’ve been over all that. I’m dropping you off. Not sticking around. You won’t have a chance to kill me anyway.” His eyes watched her reflection as steadily as she watched his.
She remained seated, wary, alert to an opening.
He sighed and shook his head again. “Let me be clear. You’re not leaving this vehicle while in possession of your firearm. I’m prepared to sleep in this seat. So we can stay here all night if you like. Or you can be out of the vehicle in less than ten seconds, where you’ll have room to do whatever it is you think you can do. Your choice.”