by Stephen Frey
The president ran a hand through his dark hair. “All right,” he said softly.
“Are you okay, sir?”
Dorn shook his head. “It’s ironic, isn’t it, Stewart?”
“What is, sir?”
“I’m the most powerful man in the world. But I can’t do a damn thing to get my daughter back.”
KAREN’S HANDS and ankles were tied tightly together as she sat in the wooden chair. The blindfold had ridden up a little on her nose during the trip to wherever here was, and by tilting her head back, she could probably see around a little.
But she didn’t do it yet. She assumed that if one of her captors was in the room and saw her tilting back, they would quickly readjust the blindfold—or worse, they’d punish her. She couldn’t hear anyone else nearby, but she didn’t want to take the chance of being beaten. The men who’d taken her were animals. They didn’t give a damn that she was physically incapacitated. They’d made that obvious in the last hour.
All of this had to have something to do with the Jensens and Red Cell Seven—which she knew a little about. She’d gone to Alaska last fall to help Jack save Troy, and Jack had told her about the cell then.
Karen wondered if these people had Jennie, too. She hadn’t dared to call out for her, but it seemed logical to assume whoever these people were had taken Jennie at the Manhattan deli at the same time they’d kidnapped her.
At first the screaming sounded far away to Karen. A small child, what sounded like a little boy, screaming for help in a shrill, terrified voice, and it was getting closer.
Suddenly, to her horror, the screaming sounded all too familiar.
“Little Jack!” she shouted. “Little Jack, is that you?”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
Karen tilted her head back as far as she dared. She could see Little Jack across the room now. A huge man was grasping him roughly, and the little boy was hysterical, trying desperately to get away. “It’s Aunt Karen, honey, I’m here.” She prayed they wouldn’t hurt him. “Everything’s gonna be—”
“Shut up, bitch!”
A hand smacked her face so hard it sent her tumbling from the chair to the ground. Two men picked her up as she moaned in pain, carried her to another room, and then forced her face-first against a wall.
She felt the needle prick her skin and then go deeply into her arm, but she couldn’t defend herself. She was exhausted, and her condition wouldn’t have allowed it, anyway.
Thirty seconds later she was unconscious.
CHAPTER 30
“ELEVEN DAYS ago, Wayne Griffin made a big deposit into his only checking account,” Troy said as a black pickup emerged from a grove of trees at the far end of the long gravel driveway.
“How big?”
“Two hundred fifty grand.”
Jack and Troy were crouched behind a stand of bushes overgrowing a barbed-wire fence thirty yards from Charlie’s parked pickup and forty yards from the farmhouse.
Jack peered through the brush, which hid them well, but he could see through when he pulled a few of the honeysuckle vines slightly apart. The fence was built on the crest of a small ridge overlooking the farmhouse, so he had a good view of the vehicle coming up the driveway toward them. It looked the same as Charlie’s truck, except it was black.
“As soon as that check cleared Griffin bought two pickups,” Troy continued. “Both of them were F-150s, one red, one black.” He pointed at the truck coming toward them, then at the one down the hill. “He bought one for himself and gave the other to Charlie, probably as a carrot to stay quiet about what they were doing. Probably right after he’d told the kid he’d kill him if he said anything to anyone.”
The truck was still a football field away, but it was coming fast, kicking up loose stones against the undercarriage. Jack took a deep breath. He was nervous as hell.
“Griffin paid for the trucks with a certified check made out to a Ford dealership in Stamford.”
“You found out all that while I was gone?”
“It wasn’t hard.” Troy gestured at the farmhouse with his pistol. “All the records were in a desk drawer on the second floor. Griffin had less than five hundred bucks in his account before he made that deposit. He hadn’t made a deposit into the account for seven months before that. That one was for just eight hundred bucks. Griffin was basically broke two weeks ago. Then, boom, he hit the lottery.”
“Maybe he did.”
“Come on, Jack.”
“Maybe he has other accounts.”
“There were no records of another one I could find.”
“He must have some money. He owns this farm.”
“I found cancelled checks with notations on them indicating that he rents this place. Besides, it’s not like it’s that great, right? Even if he owns it, he might be upside down on the mortgage or way behind on the payments. Come on, Jack, you’re the finance guy. Griffin was out of work and digging down to his last dime two weeks ago. He was desperate. He probably jumped at the chance to kidnap L.J. and get a big payday.”
“Have you figured out who wrote the big check he deposited?”
“No, but I’ve got my guy at NSA working on it. The money transfers will probably end up running through a numbered account somewhere, and that’ll be that. But he’s still trying to run it down. One more thing,” Troy said. “Griffin closed that account last Friday and swept all the money out of it after paying for the pickups. That was more than a hundred and ninety grand.”
“You think Griffin’s about to run?”
“I think Wayne Griffin, the other guy who Charlie told us is with him in that truck right now, and Charlie grabbed Little Jack from Mom this morning off that side street in Greenwich. I think Griffin and his buddy just finished dropping L.J. off to someone. And yeah, I definitely think they’re about to run. I think we got here just in time, right before they probably disappear forever.” Troy nodded at the truck, which had almost reached the house. “Or they’re killed by whoever put them up to grabbing Little Jack so there aren’t any trails for people like us to follow. I don’t think these guys are sophisticated enough to hatch and execute a kidnap-and-ransom mission. I’m betting these guys are just patsies for whoever’s really pulling the strings.”
The black pickup skidded to a stop on the gravel beside the red one, and two men wearing dark, hooded sweatshirts and jeans hopped out of the truck, ran for the farmhouse, and disappeared through the front doorway.
“They know something’s up,” Troy whispered as he tapped his pants pocket. “They’ve been calling Charlie’s phone over and over. It’s been vibrating like mad. And the ID that keeps coming up on the screen is ‘Dad.’ ” He glanced over at Jack. “You ready?”
“Yeah, what’s the plan?”
“We go down there and hide behind the trucks. When they come back out of the house, we take them.”
“That’s it?”
“Simple’s always best when it comes to this stuff,” Troy muttered as he stood up. “Come on.”
With the Glock clasped tightly in his right hand, Jack climbed the fence, dropped to the other side, and raced after Troy. Moments later they were crouched at the back of the black pickup, Troy on the driver side, Jack on the passenger side.
“Follow my lead,” Troy whispered, “and remember, Jack, shoot to kill.”
Shoot to kill. The words rattled around in his head, over and over.
“Here they come. Get ready, Jack. Watch me. Go when I go. Don’t hesitate.”
Jack’s hands shook, sweat poured from his body, and his heart felt like it would explode. Troy was trained in this stuff. He knew how he’d react at that critical moment. Jack had no idea how he would.
God, he thought to himself, what the hell was he doing here?
“Go!” Troy hissed.
Jack burst from behind the truck, both hands wra
pped tightly around the composite handle of the gun, barrel raised so he could stare down the top of the sleek weapon.
As Troy shouted from the other side of the pickup for someone to get their hands up high, Jack came face-to-face with a man who’d been about to hurl open the passenger door. He was about forty years old, Jack judged, with dark, curly hair, dark eyes, and desperation spray-painted all over the face.
For several moments they stared at each other without moving, and as the moments passed, all objects in Jack’s peripheral vision slowed down until nothing seemed to be moving. At the same time all sounds faded away and his sense of touch evaporated, so that he could no longer feel the gun pressed to the fingers and palm of his hand. The only thing he was aware of was his heart beating loudly and rhythmically, though, oddly, not that fast anymore.
The silence surrounding Jack was shattered by a single gunshot. But it seemed to come from far away, as if it were echoing to him gradually from the other end of a cave. At the same moment he was aware of a movement in front of him, though he wasn’t immediately certain of what was moving.
Then Jack realized what was happening. The man standing in front of him reached behind his back.
In an instant all sounds hurtled back to Jack’s ears; once more he could feel the smoothness of the Glock handle; and the scene before him raced from stone-still to fast-forward.
Jack lunged forward as the man brought a revolver up, grabbing the guy’s right wrist and then the gun as he swung his own pistol at the man’s head.
Again everything slowed down, so that Jack saw the man’s index finger and the purple bruise on the guy’s nail squeezing the trigger, so he actually saw a puff of white smoke explode from the barrel even as he slammed the barrel of his own gun into the man’s face just below the left eye. He expected instant and terrible pain, but felt nothing as the man tumbled backward to the ground in front of him.
Another one of those faint gunshots echoed from the far end of a cave as Jack leaped at the man, who was already struggling back to his feet. As the man glanced over his shoulder, Jack spotted a deep gash below one of the man’s eyes, gushing blood. Then the guy was aiming his gun again as Jack tried to slam his gun to the side of the man’s head to put him down for good.
He missed and clipped him on the shoulder and neck, and this time there was a sudden, scorching pain in Jack’s left side as another gunshot blasted the afternoon. Despite the bee-sting-on-steroids feeling tearing at his side, he grabbed the man by the front of the sweatshirt and nailed him with a right cross, aided again by the Glock.
The man tumbled backward. This time he didn’t get up.
“Hey!”
Jack whipped around toward the voice and the feeling of a hand on his shoulder, bringing his gun up as he turned. Everything was in fast-forward once more.
Troy grabbed Jack’s wrist and stopped the Glock before Jack could shoot. “Hey, it’s me! Stop!”
Troy’s image came into focus, and the pain in Jack’s side kicked in hard. “Jesus,” he gasped.
Troy pulled Jack’s shirt out of his belt and up, glancing at the wound, which was a few inches beneath the armpit. “You’re lucky, Jack. It’s just a graze. Half an inch in and I’d be rushing you to the hospital right now. Any farther in than that and I wouldn’t need to take you anywhere but the morgue.”
“I’m all right,” Jack muttered.
“Why the hell didn’t you shoot?” Troy demanded angrily. “I swear to God you’re going to get—”
“What happened?” Jack snapped. “I heard shots.”
“I shot Griffin twice.” Troy gestured angrily at the man lying in a heap behind Jack as he let go of his brother’s shirt. “The same way you should have shot that guy.”
“Is Griffin dead?”
“No, I hit him in the leg both times. Can’t you hear him?”
As things slowed down, Jack became aware of moans rising from the other side of the pickup. “I thought you said ‘shoot to kill.’ ”
“I said for you to shoot to kill.”
Troy brushed past Jack and knelt down beside the unconscious man sprawled on the ground. He pulled one boot off the guy, removed the laces, and bound his wrists behind his back. Then he bound his ankles together with the laces from the other boot.
“There,” he muttered as he stood up again. “He’s not going anywhere.”
Troy moved around the front of the pickup and disappeared as he knelt down beside Griffin.
As Jack followed Troy around the front of the truck, Griffin screamed in pain. “What are you doing?” Jack demanded.
“Getting answers,” Troy said as he pressed his knee down hard on Griffin’s thigh. “Where’s my son?” he demanded, lifting his knee from Griffin’s leg. “Where’s my little boy? Tell me right now, or it gets worse.”
Troy had been pressing his knee directly onto one of the bullet wounds. There was blood everywhere, including on the knee of Troy’s pants.
“What little boy?” Griffin gasped. “I don’t know anything about a little—”
Griffin howled in pain as Troy dug his knee into the wound again and pressed down harder this time.
Jack grimaced. “Troy, you can’t keep—”
“Shut up, Jack. We need to find my son as fast as possible. And damn it, we need to find Karen, too.” The man on the other side of the truck started moaning as Troy bounced up and down twice on Griffin’s leg. “I’ll kill you if you don’t answer me, Wayne. I’ll shoot you, I swear,” Troy shouted, pulling his pistol from his belt and aiming it down at Griffin.
“Troy!” Jack yelled. “You can’t just shoot this guy in cold blood.”
Troy pointed his gun at Griffin’s head, ignoring Jack. “Who gave you all that money?”
“What money?”
“The two hundred and fifty grand.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ll give you one more chance,” Troy said loudly but calmly as the man lying on the other side of the pickup began to whimper and wail. “Then I shoot you. Then I go do the same thing to your pal on the other side of the truck.”
“Stop,” Jack pleaded. “For God’s sake, Troy, stop.”
“Where’s my son, Wayne?”
Griffin gazed up at Troy and smiled smugly despite the pain. “You won’t shoot me, you bastard. And we both know it.”
“Don’t do it,” Jack warned as Troy pressed the barrel of his gun directly to Griffin’s forehead.
“Where is my son, Mr. Griffin?” Troy asked loudly, ignoring Jack again. “Answer me now, or you die.”
ESPINOSA SAT in his home study staring down at the cell phone that lay on the desk in front of him. It looked so harmless lying there. But it held a horrible secret, a secret that could destroy him in seconds on the Internet.
The study curtains were drawn tightly across the windows, and all doors and windows were locked tightly now that Camilla had gone out to meet friends for a drink. He’d double-checked, even the windows on the second floor. He’d even engaged the home security system.
Espinosa picked up the phone and gingerly tapped the small screen at the spot that brought up videos saved on the device. The specific video he was making his way toward had shown up anonymously two months ago, sent from a number he hadn’t recognized as he sat in his Supreme Court office.
He’d deleted the text when it appeared the first time, because he hadn’t recognized the digit string starting with a 202 area code.
Five minutes later it had appeared again, as he was rising from his chair to put on his robe to go into session. That time he’d noticed an attachment, which he’d viewed.
He’d hardly been able to focus on that day’s case, stumbling badly when Chief Justice Bolger asked him a question. It had been a brutally embarrassing moment, and he’d heard the surprised, hushed whispers rustling aro
und the great courtroom.
“Jesus,” he murmured as he pressed the last place on the screen required to start the video. “How could I have been so stupid?”
It was all he could do to watch as the video began to play. But at the same time, he couldn’t take his eyes off it.
He was sitting naked on the edge of the king-sized bed in the dimly lit bedroom of the young woman’s Arlington apartment as she stood before him and slowly began to disrobe. As she had every other time he’d watched this, and as she had when this actually happened and the video was being taken without his knowledge.
The short dress dropped slowly down her body and legs to her ankles. Then the undergarments were sexily removed—she turned around and bent over to bring the thong slowly down her legs. And finally those beautiful black heels slipped off, and she was standing there before him, just as naked as he was, long blond hair falling down around her full breasts.
Espinosa closed his eyes and inhaled deeply in his desk chair as she knelt before him on the video. He still couldn’t shake the memory of the incredible physical pleasure she’d given him that night—and the two nights before the one on the video, when he’d been forced to tell Camilla those terrible lies about where he’d been and why he’d come home so late.
When Espinosa opened his eyes again, he was lying back on the bed and she was riding him slowly and wonderfully, pulling his hands to her breasts as she moaned loudly.
How had Stewart Baxter gotten this video? The tension in Espinosa’s body ratcheted up as the final seconds of the video played. He put the phone down on the desk so it was standing up, folded his arms across his chest, and hunched down in the chair. Only seconds away now.