The Tomorrow Heist

by Jack Soren

  “What’s the verdict?” Lew said.

  “There was a lot of blood at the scene,” Jonathan said, wishing he’d started somewhere else when he saw Lew’s face fall. “The good news is that while there was some blood at the scene that belonged to a female, it was only trace amounts. Most of the blood was male. Enough for a ­couple of corpses.”

  “Corpses? She killed them?” Lew asked, hope obvious in his wide eyes.

  “No idea. And it was enough blood for a ­couple of corpses, but no bodies were found at the scene. And while the place was riddled with bullet holes, most of the brass and slugs had been cleaned up. But they were in a hurry and missed a few. Looks to be P90 fire. From the bullet trajectories, at least two shooters.”

  “What the hell did she get herself into?” Lew said. “Wait, the good news? What’s the bad news?”

  “Well, just like the corpses, Emily was nowhere to be found when the locals got there. I’m guessing whoever took out the attackers and cleaned up must have taken her with them when they Casey Jones’d out of there.”

  “Shit. What else?”

  “They found a cell phone and a computer tablet at the scene. Both have already been sent to computer forensics for analysis. It’s a good guess that the phone is Emily’s. Did she have a tablet?”

  “No idea,” Lew said. “I guess we better make that call now.”

  Jonathan knew he was talking about Natalie. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that. I’m not sure we should. I mean—­”

  Lew marched over to Jonathan, reached in his pocket, and pulled out his phone. He took Jonathan’s hand and slapped the phone in it.

  “Call her, or I’m going to make you look like I feel,” Lew said. Jonathan thought about saying something clever like “oh yeah?” but gave in and dialed his daughter’s cell phone. He wasn’t as worried about endangering her now as having to face her anger for not calling sooner. When it started to ring, he pushed the speaker button and put the phone down on the table between him and Lew.

  Jonathan took a deep breath and was getting ready to say “Hi, Baby,” when she picked up the line and immediately took a strip off him. For the first minute, she cursed more than Lew on a bad day, but even as her boil seemed to slow, he could feel her wrath coming through the line.

  “If it wasn’t for Emily and Lew, I don’t know that I’d ever talk to you again, Dad. I’m serious. I mean, a year? Don’t you care about me at all anymore?” That last was punctuated with a crack in her voice. It hurt, but it was also the best thing Jonathan had ever heard. She was hurt more than mad. He was starting to think about ways he could fix things between them but remembered that that would have to come later. There were other priorities right now.

  “I’m sorry, Natalie, I really am, but we—­”

  “Don’t call me that,” she said abruptly.

  “Call you what? Natalie? Uh, that’s your name, honey.”

  “Not anymore. Everyone here calls me Nina now. That’s my name.”

  Jonathan looked at Lew and mouthed Nina? Lew shrugged and nodded.

  “Fine, Nina, just try to remember everything you heard—­”

  “I don’t have to. When the phone banged to the floor, and I heard the men yelling, I started recording the call. Hang on a second, and I’ll play it for you.”

  Despite the name nonsense, which Jonathan would deal with later, he felt pride at his daughter’s ingenuity. A moment later, muffled voices emanated from the phone. His skin prickled when he recognized Canton George’s voice demanding to know where he and Lew were. Then the convincing started, and Jonathan saw Lew wince with every smack that echoed from the speaker.

  Then, with a wooden crash, the fight was over. Emily begged for Natalie’s safety and a male voice said he thought Emily had killed someone named Neill. Lew actually clapped his hands at that. But his attitude fell when George ordered the man to kill Emily. The few seconds of silence that followed seemed to last forever. It was finally broken by a tremendous crash. And gunfire. Even without the police reports, Jonathan would have recognized the unmistakable sound of P90s’ rapid firing. Again, silence stretched out, and Jonathan and Lew held their breath and waited. Someone yelled “Clear!” and then a strange man’s voice was heard.

  “Are you all right, Ms. Denham?”

  “Yes! She’s alive!” Lew shouted, jumping to his feet.

  “Lew!” Jonathan chastised, trying to listen to every sound.

  “Sorry,” he said as he sat down with a huge grin on his face.

  “She’s out.”

  “What’s her condition?”

  “They worked her over pretty good, missing a ­couple of teeth and definitely some broken ribs, but I think she’ll recover.”

  Lew seemed to have trouble catching his breath as they heard the prognosis.

  “Get her patched up, then I’ll meet you at the Gallery. I’ve delayed the locals, but not by much. Get a move on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Gallery?” Jonathan and Lew said at the same time.

  After some rustling, the room grew quiet. Then the man spoke again, but it was loud and clear, unlike before.

  “If you’ve listened to this, you know we saved Ms. Denham. We have her, but she’s not a prisoner. We are making sure she gets the care she needs. You just need to come and get her.”

  A tingle started at the base of Jonathan’s spine and slowly scampered up into the back of his skull. Realization was setting in.

  “Yeah, like we’re just going to walk in there,” Lew said.

  “Lew.”

  “What? Why the hell would we trust this guy?”

  “Lew!”

  “What?”

  Jonathan took a deep breath and leaned down toward the phone.

  “Where do you want to meet?” Jonathan prayed he was wrong. Hoped against hope that “Nina” would get on the line and start chastising him again.

  “What are you—­”

  “The Sandstrom Gallery. I’m texting you the address. I look forward to meeting you, Mr. Hall. You too, Mr. Katchbrow. Oh, and come unarmed.”

  The line went dead.

  And so did Jonathan’s hope.

  “I KNEW WE should have killed that guy instead of just locking him in his own vault,” Lew said.

  Lew’s head was spinning with all the revelations in the past few minutes. Not to mention the thumping hangover. But what he did know was that Emily was alive. Or, at least, she had been after the attack at her flat. Regardless, it was a hundred times better than all the scenarios that had been rifling through his brain since seeing the blood on her floor last night. On the other hand, Natalie was now an unknown. Which made Jonathan an unknown. They’d tried to call Natalie back after the voice had hung up, but the call wouldn’t go through.

  “You’re right about that,” Jonathan said. He walked to the window and pulled open the bench where Lew kept his weapons stash. He took out one of the Beretta 9mms, pressed the eject button, and examined the clip.

  “Uh, what are you doing?” Lew asked, though he knew.

  “The same thing you should be doing. Getting ready,” Jonathan said as he slammed the clip back in the gun’s grip. He took a shoulder holster out of the window seat and slipped it on.

  “He said no guns,” Lew said. He had to find a way to manage Jonathan, or he was going to blow this thing, including Lew’s chance to get Emily back in one piece. Not to mention Natalie, whom he loved like a niece. Lew knew he was no good at this kind of stuff. This was usually Jonathan’s forte, but right now, Jonathan was doing a pretty good Lew impression.

  “I think I gave you too many pills last night,” Jonathan said, staring at Lew incredulously. “Even if you buy what that guy was selling, we have no idea what happened to Natalie. I hesitated last time, and it almost got her killed.” Jonathan shoved the gun into his holst
er, then took another Beretta out of the window seat and held it out for Lew. “I won’t make that same mistake again.”

  “No, you’re making all new ones this time.”

  “Lew, think about it. How the hell did that guy get to Switzerland and find Natalie so quick? Hell, how did they find Emily just in time to save her from George’s men? And if they know where we are, and they have Emily, why wouldn’t they just bring her here?”

  “Well, because . . . because—­” Why the fuck, indeed.

  “It’s a ruse,” Jonathan said. “Hell, he probably works for George! I’m not sure of all the fine points, but I do know we have to go in hard, or we’re not coming out.”

  Lew hated to admit it, but Jonathan was making sense. And walking into traps seemed to be their specialty lately. After a few more moments rationalizing, Lew sighed and grabbed the weapon. “You know those were P90s we heard in the recording. Why do you think these peashooters are going to be of any use against machine guns?”

  “Because we’re going to be Han Solo this time,” Jonathan said.

  Lew just stared at him blankly.

  “Han Solo. You know, Star Wars?”

  “How I became best friends with a nerd is beyond me.”

  “Whatever. The point is, we’re going to shoot first.”

  “Now that reference I get.”

  Chapter Nine

  Toronto

  4:30 A.M. Local Time

  HANK HAD NEVER actually been to the Toronto research facility and was fairly dazzled by the building when he walked Per in. The Crystasis Foundation’s main laboratory was housed in what had once been a steel mill on the outskirts of Toronto. The smelting hardware and blast furnaces had been replaced with state-­of-­the-­art labs. Several levels of catwalks still ran along both sides of the vast, football-­field-­sized main chamber, but now they were painted a gleaming white and washed down several times a day to avoid contaminants. Along all the catwalks were floor-­to-­ceiling glass walls with offices and small labs clearly visible. The center of the room was still wide open and almost a hundred feet from the floor to the peaked roof. Where the blast furnaces once used to run hot for months at a time, spraying molten metal high into the air, showpieces now sat—­modern art and sculptures to impress investors.

  The lab was a poster child for excess and spoke to the man who had created it. A man who, ironically, couldn’t bring himself to leave his home to visit his monstrosities. He had to settle for pictures and webcams showing him the daily routine of his workers. Who, unbeknownst to them, all toiled for a single reason—­to extend the billionaire’s life. Indefinitely, if possible. Oddly, even at four in the morning, it hadn’t been that difficult to find someone to take Per on a tour of the facility. Though it was partly because of the company-­wide memo that had gone out telling everyone that when they were speaking to Harcourt’s newly hired investigator, they were speaking to him.

  Hank let Per go on the tour alone and snuck into one of the upper offices to use his cell phone in private.

  “I think we made a mistake,” Hank said into the phone, his back to the door. Per was several floors down, but even at that distance, Hank found himself lowering his voice. There were no shades of gray; Hank was terrified of the man.

  “What are y’all talking about,” Harcourt said. “You’ve barely been gone a day and a half. Give him a chance.”

  “Listen, I’m telling you he’s not right. In the head,” Hank said, checking over his shoulder. “Or anywhere else, neither.”

  “Jesus, is it the arm? Get ahold of yourself. It’s . . . well, let’s face it, it’s weird. But it’s just a prosthetic. Other than that, he’s just—­”

  “It ain’t the arm!” Hank said, louder than he meant. He took a second to get himself in check. “It’s not his arm. His arm is about the most normal thing about him. It’s the way he talks, or worse, the way he don’t. And the way he looks at stuff. ­People too. When he looks at me I feel like . . . like he’s pulling me apart and trying to figure out what all my bits are for.”

  “Look,” Harcourt started, but Hank knew if he let him speak, he’d end up talking Hank out of what he wanted. He always did.

  “No, I don’t want to do it no more. Get someone else. You got a ­couple of hundred ­people on staff here. Get one of them to do it. Or better yet, just fire his ass. I can get you a dozen investigators a day for half of what we’re paying this guy.”

  “Wait a second,” Harcourt said, his voice sounding confused. “A ­couple of hundred ­people? Jesus, you took him to Toronto?”

  “Uh, yeah. You told me to take him wherever he—­”

  “I didn’t mean there! Christ, Hank, don’t you get it? That’s where Reese worked. If someone there knows that Reese didn’t just disappear—­”

  “Oh, shit,” Hank said. He hadn’t even thought of that.

  “Listen and listen good, Green. You get his ass out of there, and I mean now. You understand me?”

  “Uh, yes. Yes, sir. But about accompanying him—­”

  “Just get him out of there and babysit him for a few more hours. I’ll make some calls and get someone else there to take over. I don’t want Broden running around on his own. And for God’s sake, don’t tell him what you’re doing. He doesn’t seem like the kind of fella that takes kindly to ­people’s making decisions about him.”

  “No shit,” Hank said. “Thanks, Jim. And sorry about this.” Hank hung up, took a deep, breath, and headed out of the office.

  How could I have been so stupid? Well, just get him out of here, and you’re done in a few hours. No big deal. A few more hours won’t kill me.

  Distracted by his screwup, Hank walked out of the office just as someone grabbed his arm, wrenching it up behind his back. The pain was instantly replaced by fear as he felt cold metal press against his carotid artery.

  “Take me to Per Broden. Now!” a woman with an Asian accent hissed into his ear. Hank, could see her reflection in the glass. The woman was just average height, but incredibly strong—­though nowhere near as strong as Per’s robotic arm. He couldn’t see her face because she was wearing a black hoodie, but what he did see was the glint of the knife against his throat.

  “Sweetheart, I don’t think that’s such a great . . . AH!” Hank yelped as the knife slit into his flesh. He felt warm blood drip down onto his clavicle.

  “Jesus, all right, all right. He’s down there, lower level. But we’ll never get all the way down there like this.” Hank saw the reflection of the hood tilt down as she looked where they had to go. There were only a handful of ­people between here and there, most in lab coats, but the lab’s open concept meant Hank and the woman would be on display the whole time.

  The woman said something in a language Hank didn’t understand, then, “Fine. Then we make him come to us.” She turned Hank and pushed him back into the office he’d just come out of.

  “We’ll do it any way you want. You’re the boss.”

  As Hank stepped into the room, he pushed her arm away from his throat and spun around to shut the door on her, but she was fast. Like lightning. Before he’d moved the door an inch, she’d plunged the knife into his abdomen. He clasped his hands to the wound as pain ripped through his stomach muscles, and he fell back onto the office’s carpet. His attacker hung on to the knife as he fell, and more pain assaulted him as the blade slid out. Then he was being dragged across the floor, behind the desk, every bump like his guts were being scooped out. He distantly realized she was hiding him.

  Afraid of more pain, he couldn’t bring himself to lift his head or call out. He carefully raised his hand up so he could see the blood on his fingers as he gasped for breath. It was dark, almost black. A lifelong rodeo rider, Hank knew about puncture wounds. Every rider knew that if you were gored and the blood was black, your liver was hit and you were done.

  He carefully put h
is arm back down and stared at the white lift ceiling tiles above him as his life slowly spilled onto the carpet. He heard the door close, then the woman knelt beside him. He winced as she ripped the sleeve of his shirt off, balled it up, and pressed it against the wound. “Press here. Hard,” she said.

  He didn’t see the point and just lay there, a numbness starting to take him. It eased the pain, but he knew he was going into shock. She took his hand and pressed it against the make-­do bandage when he didn’t respond. She sat back on her heels, looking at him. “Why did you do that? I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

  “My . . . my neck begs to differ, sweetheart.”

  “That’s a scratch. Nothing. You would have—­” She stopped talking as Hank started laughing, then coughing. “What are you laughing at?”

  “I thought he was going to kill me. I just made arrangements to get away from him. If I’d just stayed with him, I probably would have lived to be a hundred.”

  “No one’s going to live to be a hundred anymore,” she said with a faraway look.

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” she said, getting up and taking her hoodie off. She made a pillow out of it and eased it under Hank’s head. She was young, Asian, and had flaming red hair.

  “Jesus, you’re a kid.”

  “I haven’t been a kid for a million years . . . what’s your name?”

  “Hank.”

  “I’m Tatsu,” she said, and he knew she thought he was going to die too. He felt her pat his pockets until she found his cell phone. She took it, got up, and moved out of his view. When she came back, she was wearing a lab coat she must have found in the office. “Look, just keep pressure on that. I . . . I don’t think I hit anything vital. Somebody will find you and . . . you’ll be fine.”

  “You’re a terrible liar, kid,” Hank said before another coughing fit began. The room was starting to swim.