If I could just break this side piece off, I’d be golden, Vaughn thought. If he could somehow detach the corner pole from the shelves, he could slide the cuffs free from the pole and escape. His hands would still be linked together, but that was an easy fix. Chloe had a handcuff key back upstairs at HQ, as did the dozens of cops patrolling the street outside the hotel. He yanked at his cuffs again to see if he could even rattle the two-inch-thick bar he was cuffed to, but it didn’t budge. Still, he knew it wasn’t unbreakable. Nothing was.
He needed leverage. Something to pry it off with. Unfortunately tools were not an option. Vaughn was just starting to feel helpless when he was hit with an idea. Gravity. Gravity was good.
Vaughn crouched to the ground, his arms above him, and reached out with his leg, kicking heavy bottles of detergent and bleach and fabric softener off the bottom two shelves. Bottles rolled across the floor and piled up under the table across the room. Once the base was cleared off, he strained to knock the boxes off the third shelf, jumping up and kicking out with his legs. It was slow going. Controlling his jumps and kicks was difficult with his arms tied together in one place, but eventually the boxes tumbled to the ground, spilling smaller boxes of fabric-softener sheets and stain removers.
Once the shelves were clear, Vaughn leaned back to catch his breath, gazing toward the top of the shelves. They were still packed with towels and sheets, but that was fine. He was going to need a little weight up top for his plan to work. Vaughn took a deep breath, braced his feet again, and pulled, letting out a groan against the effort. The shelves shimmied slightly, and Vaughn’s heart leaped. A sheen of sweat formed over his skin and his wrists screamed with pain, but he ignored it all and sent every ounce of his strength to his arms.
Finally something gave. There was a loud screeching sound and the shelving started to fall forward. Vaughn jumped to the side at the last moment, and the heavy metal shelving smashed down, slamming into the side of the table. The sheer volume of the crash was surprising even though he had known it was coming. Vaughn was yanked to the ground, and he closed his eyes for a split second, praying his plan had worked.
When he stood up again, he saw mass destruction. The shelves were a mess, and clean white linens were piled everywhere, hanging from the top shelf and flung across the room. Just as Vaughn had predicted, the side pole that he was tethered to had been ripped free from the shelves, having hit the corner of the table at a perfect angle to pop the screws loose.
Vaughn slipped his cuffs along the pole until he was at the top of the shelf, which was jutting out at an angle toward the ceiling. He yanked his arms free, grasped the doorknob with both hands, and ran.
The basement of the hotel was a deserted labyrinth of concrete walls and flickering fluorescent lights. Dark corridors split and turned and opened up onto the dead ends of boiler rooms and electrical fuse boards. With each wrong turn, Vaughn’s tension level rose—each second was another second in which Marianna had succeeded and Vaughn had failed.
Finally, Vaughn heard voices, and he took a left, bursting into a long white room that served as an employee cafeteria. A few workers looked up from their trays, startled, and Vaughn saw them noticing his handcuffs.
“I need an elevator,” he said, just hoping they wouldn’t ask for an explanation.
“Uh . . . go back the way you came . . . make a right at the end of the hall . . . then the next right,” a woman in a maid’s uniform told him, rising slightly from her chair.
“Thank you,” Vaughn told her before tearing out again. He found the service elevators easily and debated for a split second before hitting the button marked L for lobby. He didn’t have time to go up to HQ and fill Chloe in on everything. Marianna already had a good head start. He had to get to the UN.
Vaughn jumped out of the elevator into a hallway off the lobby and headed for the front door. He caught the startled stares of a few people as he traversed the gilded, gleaming entrance hall, but he just kept moving. Out on the street, he jogged right over to the nearest police car and pounded on the window.
The female officer behind the wheel started, then rolled down her window.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.
Vaughn held up his cuffed hands for her to see. “I need your key,” he said.
Not surprisingly, the officer stepped out of the car and pointed her gun directly at Vaughn. He held his hands up in front of his face and looked her in the eye.
“Listen to me. I am a federal agent, I was kidnapped, and I broke free,” Vaughn said quickly. “I will get up against your car so you can check my back pocket for my ID.”
“Damn straight you’ll get up against the car,” she said, waving her gun toward the hood.
Vaughn stepped over, spread his legs slightly, and leaned his elbows on the car’s warm hood. The officer slipped his wallet from his pocket and flipped it open.
“I’m CIA Officer Michael Vaughn. I was assigned to protect Marianna Toscana, but she . . . got away from me,” Vaughn said, trying to keep it as simple as possible. “I need you to uncuff me and let me borrow your vehicle so I can get to the UN. There’s an assassination attempt in progress, and I’m the only one who can stop it.”
“I don’t know,” the officer said, hesitating. She looked fairly young and was probably just out of the academy. Vaughn could sympathize with the fact that she didn’t want to do anything wrong, but he couldn’t sit here and coddle her either.
“Look, Officer, you have a choice,” Vaughn said. “You either help me and end up with a commendation when I tell everyone how I couldn’t have saved the day without you, or you don’t help me and a very important man dies.”
Vaughn looked over her shoulder as she holstered her weapon and took out her key. He turned and held his hands out for her so she could work the lock.
“Thank you,” he said, rubbing his wrists when the cuffs fell free. “Now I need you to do me one more favor. . . .”
* * *
Vaughn jumped out of the police car in front of the UN, clutching his wallet, and ran up the steps, past loitering limo drivers, security guards, and camera-toting reporters. The instant he was through the door to the brightly lit building, five tuxedoed men descended upon him, out for blood. In his casual sweater and pants, along with the throbbing welt on his face from Emilio’s punch, he didn’t exactly look like he belonged at a UN banquet.
“Where do you think you’re going, sir?” a man the size of a tank asked Vaughn while others gathered around him.
Vaughn raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, holding his CIA badge up in front of him. “CIA. Official business.”
“Uh-huh,” Tank Man said, leaning forward to check his ID. “What kind of official business?”
Vaughn clenched his teeth as he heard a round of applause explode from inside the banquet hall. He was so close. All he had to do was get in there and get Marianna out before she did anything. The police officer who had uncuffed him had undoubtedly alerted Chloe by now, telling her about Marianna and the identity of the ponytailed suspect, so backup was on the way. Unfortunately Vaughn didn’t have time to wait for it. He glanced at Tank Man and his stony expression. Vaughn was not supposed to divulge his mission to anyone outside the CIA, but time was of the essence here. He had no choice.
“I was assigned to protect Marianna Toscana because there have been threats on her father’s life,” Vaughn told him. “Tonight I found out that the assassin is going to be here, at the banquet. I have to get into that ballroom now.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Until you pass through the security checks, I can’t let you in,” the man said, folding his hands in front of him and widening his stance as if he was going to grab Vaughn if he tried to bolt by. “Even the CIA has to comply with that.”
Vaughn’s nostrils flared slightly as he stared the man down. “Fine, then at least go tell Toscana’s security people to keep him away from the podium. He’ll be too exposed out there. Tell them Agent Vaughn sent yo
u. They know me.”
Tank Man eyed Vaughn for a second, deciding whether to believe him, and Vaughn glared back, just daring him not to take him seriously. Finally the man nodded tersely and jumped into action.
“All right, Bobby, take the agent to security checkpoint A,” Tank Man said to the smaller guy over Vaughn’s left shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”
Vaughn was escorted to a set of metal detectors, which he passed through with no problem since Marianna and her brother had relieved him of his weapon. A woman behind a low desk checked his ID against her computerized list of expected attendees and quickly found his name. Bobby shot Vaughn a chagrined look when he saw that Vaughn was supposed to have complete access to all areas of the building.
“Is Marianna Toscana inside?” Vaughn asked the woman.
She hit a few buttons on her computer and scanned the screen. “Yes sir,” she said, nodding. “She arrived at seven-fifteen.”
Vaughn clenched his fists to keep from lashing out. It wasn’t this woman’s fault that Marianna had been able to smuggle her weapon through security. Lacing into her wouldn’t solve anything. But when he got back to Langley, he was going to tell whoever would listen that the security at the UN had to be dealt with.
“So, total clearance,” Bobby said with an embarrassed little laugh. “I guess you can go in, then.”
A sizzle of adrenaline shot through Vaughn. He whipped off his sweater and tossed it aside, looking Bobby up and down. He was a little bit broader and pudgier than Vaughn, but it would have to do.
“What?” Bobby asked warily.
“I need your jacket,” Vaughn said. “I can’t go in there like this—I’ll draw too much attention.”
“Right,” Bobby said. Suddenly he seemed to grasp that there was something big going on here and he’d just been asked to be part of the solution. Vaughn could sense his rush of excitement as he slid out of his tuxedo jacket. He handed it to Vaughn, who pulled it on over his white T-shirt and black chinos. It was hardly perfect, but it was good enough to go unnoticed.
“I need your piece too,” Vaughn said, holding out his hand.
Bobby looked down at the sleek silver gun in his shoulder holster, his eyes wide. “I can’t relinquish my gun, sir.”
At that moment, Tank Man appeared from around the corner, followed by Agent Roscoe, who was pulling at the collar of an ill-fitting tuxedo shirt. Tank Man’s cold demeanor had shifted, and he now looked mightily disturbed, as if he’d just been told he and his team had let an armed assassin into a meeting of world leaders.
“Bobby, relinquish your weapon to the man,” Tank Man said.
“What’s going on?” Vaughn asked as he shoved the gun into the back of his waistband.
“Toscana refused to stand down,” Roscoe explained, catching his breath. “He said he wouldn’t be deterred by terrorists. He said he trusted that the CIA would take care of things.”
“Damn,” Vaughn muttered. He was all for standing tall in the face of threats, but Toscana had no idea what he was dealing with. He looked at Roscoe, his expression grim. “The assassin is inside.”
Roscoe blanched, and Vaughn could see his Adam’s apple moving as he attempted to swallow. “Who is it?”
“It’s Marianna Toscana.”
There was a split second of silence as a pall of dread fell over the small group of men. Then, inside the ballroom, the audience erupted in cheers and applause once again. Toscana had just been announced. Time was running out.
“Vaughn!”
He turned to find Chloe running into the lobby, followed by a team of agents.
“Officer Rodriguez told me everything,” she said.
“You have the photos of Emilio?” Vaughn asked.
An older agent stepped forward and handed him a small stack of photos—copies of the shot from outside the car dealership. Vaughn quickly handed them out to the security men and the other agents.
“He just cut his hair, so forget the ponytail,” Vaughn said. “The best identifying mark is the small, X-shaped scar on the left side of his chin. He’s here somewhere. Find him.”
The agents fanned out, heading for separate entrances to the ballroom and various other points throughout the building. Vaughn looked down at Chloe.
“I’m going after Marianna,” he said.
“Be careful,” she told him.
“She’s at table ten with her mother,” Roscoe informed Vaughn. “They’re right in the center of the room, two tables back from the dais.”
Vaughn took a deep breath, and Bobby opened the door to the ballroom for him. He stepped inside to a different world. The ballroom chandeliers were turned low, creating a dim yellow glow in the huge chamber. On each table flickered tall candles surrounded by an abundance of fresh flowers.
Moving slowly, carefully, Vaughn wound his way around tables and chairs, passing by countless women in couture ball gowns and men in designer tuxedoes. Silver clinked against china, and guests whispered in hushed tones here and there as he headed for the front of the room. He watched Toscana delivering his speech from behind the podium—a dynamic orator, he had the room riveted. Vaughn respected the man, but he wished he had just agreed to stay behind the scenes for the night.
Doors on either side of the room opened, and Vaughn saw agents entering unobtrusively, keeping to the walls. They were checking the room for Emilio. Vaughn hoped the man wasn’t anywhere near the ballroom. If he did succeed in stopping Marianna, there was a good chance Emilio would snap and try to finish the job himself.
Up ahead, Vaughn caught sight of Marianna’s back—her full head of soft curls. She sat in her chair, turned toward the stage, watching her father like the good daughter she was always pretending to be. Her mother sat across the table from her between two unfamiliar men, smiling up at her husband.
Don’t turn around, Vaughn willed silently as he stepped within twelve feet, ten feet. Just don’t turn around.
If Marianna saw him coming, it was all over.
Then, just as Vaughn was slipping around the last table that separated him from his mark, he saw Marianna shift in her seat—saw her reaching for her weapon. His heart flew into his throat and he stumbled between two chairs, jostling an older woman and causing a slight commotion. A few people noticed Vaughn and grew alarmed, but he didn’t stop. Marianna was starting to stand. She was drawing her weapon. Vaughn was too far away to stop her. He did the only thing he could possibly do.
“Gun!” he shouted. “She has a gun!”
Screams erupted from around the ballroom. China crashed; glasses were knocked over. Vaughn saw Toscana look down into the audience and spot his daughter. He saw the man’s eyes widen in terror and shock as he took in the small weapon now aimed directly at his head.
Toscana gasped. “Marianna?”
Vaughn threw himself over the last few feet, and just as he tackled Marianna to the floor, he heard the gun go off. There was an explosion overhead, and sparks sizzled and popped, showering down from above. Vaughn landed on top of Marianna, hard, as feet stampeded all around them, thousands of petrified people heading for the doors. Vaughn pinned Marianna to the marble floor with his knee. Beneath him, she started to cry.
“Did I get him?” she asked, turning her head to the side. A trickle of blood slipped from her nose as she coughed through her tears. “Is he dead?”
Vaughn looked up at the dais and saw Agent Roscoe helping a shaky President Toscana to his feet. Marianna’s mother stood nearby, her hand to her throat, staring down at her daughter, at the gun that had flown from her grasp and lay a few feet away in the middle of the floor.
“No,” Vaughn told Marianna. “Your shot hit the chandelier.”
Suddenly Marianna’s sobs grew severe, racking her body as she gasped for breath. Vaughn hauled her to her feet and she hung her head, turning her face away from her gaping mother. Chloe appeared at his side with a pair of handcuffs, which he quickly secured around Marianna’s wrists. Her parents watched, dumbfounded, as Va
ughn and Chloe led their daughter away.
Marianna cried all the way through the ballroom and lobby, down the steps, and into the car. Vaughn tried not to let himself be taken in—tried not to let his heart go out to her. As he stood on the curb and closed the door to the police car, locking her into the backseat, she looked up at him through her watery eyes. He had thought that he knew her so well, but in that moment he realized he had no idea what she was thinking. He never knew if her tears were inspired by relief that her father was still alive or frustration that her plan had been foiled.
14
VAUGHN SAT IN THE DEBRIEFING ROOM at Langley, wondering if he was ever going to stop feeling like a moron. Chloe stood next to him in front of her chair, giving Betty a rundown on everything they had found out in New York.
Marianna had been acting as the figurehead for La Rappresaglia while Emilio stayed behind the scenes. She had personally recruited several of her father’s security personnel to the cause. She had engineered the kidnapping using four of her most incompetent men, knowing they would be caught and figuring it wouldn’t be much of a loss—and threatening to kill their families if they breathed a word about her involvement.
Thankfully Chloe left out Vaughn’s confessions about the Saturday night date and the kiss. She left out the clinging Marianna had done on the street and the fact that Vaughn had held her. She left out all her suspicions about exactly how involved Vaughn’s feelings for Marianna had become.
“Thank you, Agent Murphy,” Betty said. Chloe tucked her skirt under her legs and sat down, glancing hopefully at Vaughn. Maybe everything hadn’t gone so smoothly in New York, but they had ultimately stopped the assassination, caught one of the top two people in La Rappresaglia and four of her men, and come home alive and well. All in all, it was a success. Now they just had to hope that Betty would see it that way.
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