Fifth Victim

by Zoe Sharp

  ‘I know this looks bad.’ For the first time, she hesitated slightly. ‘We can’t afford for the media to get a hold of the story,’ she added, flattening any hopes I might have had that this was a sign of surfacing maternal instinct.

  ‘We are not in the habit of revealing details of our clients’ private lives,’ Parker said stiffly, more insulted by that, I think, than by the pass she’d made at him. ‘Unless they’re engaged in illegal activities, we’ll protect them any way we can.’

  She paused at that, shifted her stance. ‘May I be totally honest with you, Mr Armstrong?’

  I doubt she knows how. I didn’t say the words out loud, but from the look on Parker’s face, I didn’t have to.

  He inclined his head politely. ‘Of course.’

  She took a breath, flicked her hair back, then said baldly, ‘I am not convinced that my husband will go the extra mile to ensure my son’s safe return. I want to be kept appraised of the situation so I can … step in, if I see the need. Whether you believe me or not, I do have my son’s best interests at heart. Like I said, I’m not convinced Brandon feels the same way.’

  ‘He said he hates giving in to threats – is that all there is to it?’ Parker asked, hitching his hip onto the corner of his desk and folding his arms. ‘Or does he have financial problems?’

  She laughed at that. ‘Oh, no, Mr Armstrong. His only problem is that he really doesn’t want to give it away to a bunch of crooks. Not for—’

  She broke off suddenly. Honesty, it seemed, only went so far. The lines around her mouth deepened as she frowned.

  ‘Not for what?’ Parker asked. He sighed. ‘Mrs Eisenberg, you’re asking my operative to risk her life making this ransom drop for you. I’m willing to let her do that, but only if you level with us,’ he said, his voice gentle, persuasive. ‘If you know something that affects how far your husband – or you – are prepared to go to ensure your son’s safety, we need to know, and we need to know right now.’

  She brought her chin up, arrogant, defiant. ‘Torquil is not my husband’s son,’ she said. ‘He wanted an heir but couldn’t give me a child, so I made … alternative arrangements.’ She waited, furious, for our condemnation. When we stayed silent, she went on, clear and bitter, ‘And knowing it would not be his genes that carried on, he had that damned necklace commissioned in a bid for immortality – the Eisenberg Rainbow.’ Her lips twisted, derisive over the name. ‘Let’s just say, given a straight choice between that and Torquil, Brandon wouldn’t be heartbroken if he ended up with the jewels.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Two hours later, just as I was leaving the rehab centre, my cellphone buzzed in the inside pocket of my leather jacket. As I pulled it out, I checked the display and saw the number for Parker’s office line.

  ‘Boss,’ I said, hanging my bike helmet on the mirror of the Buell while I dug for my keys. ‘Any news?’

  ‘Our new clients are fools of the highest order,’ he said, and even filtered through layers of traffic in the background and the deficiencies of the phone’s tiny speaker, I heard the anger tightly compressed into his voice.

  I stilled, a cold pool forming at the base of my skull.

  ‘What have they done?’

  ‘The … vendors just called them about the sale,’ Parker said, knowing I would catch exactly what he meant and highly sensitive to electronic eavesdropping on an open line. We could have been talking about anything from property to shares in a racehorse. ‘They agreed to pay the asking price.’

  ‘Shit,’ I muttered. ‘In full? Just like that?’

  ‘Apparently, things got a little heated during the negotiations, and there was some screaming and shouting down the phone,’ Parker said in a matter-of-fact tone that made all the hairs riffle along my arms. I could guess exactly what kind of screaming he was talking about. ‘They reckoned they couldn’t afford to lose the sale, so … they caved.’

  ‘That’s … unfortunate,’ I said, struggling to stick to the same neutral language. Completely on autopilot, I stuck the Buell’s key in the ignition, turned it far enough to release the steering lock. ‘Where does it leave us?’

  He sighed. ‘They went directly against my advice, Charlie, and put the whole deal in mortal jeopardy. I had no choice but to withdraw the agency’s services.’ I heard the forced lightness in his voice. ‘Can’t win ’em all, I guess.’

  ‘Oh,’ I murmured. Mortal jeopardy. Not words chosen lightly, I knew, and I could feel his anger and anguish at the risks they were taking with Torquil’s life.

  ‘My gut tells me this whole thing is gonna fall apart real fast,’ he said. ‘And when it does we can’t afford to be anywhere near it if they’re not prepared to work with us.’

  ‘I do understand – completely,’ I said. ‘All they want you to do is stick around to take the blame for their cock-ups. I suppose I would have made the same decision, for what it’s worth.’

  ‘Thanks, Charlie, I appreciate that.’

  ‘What about … taking this further?’ I asked carefully, knowing Parker would realise I meant the authorities, the police and FBI.

  I could almost hear his head shake. ‘Considering the direction things are moving, nothing would make me happier, but you know as well as I do that we can’t betray confidentiality like that.’ He paused. ‘I do need you to stop by the office on your way back, though,’ he said, apparently casual, but there was something off in his voice that caught at my senses.

  ‘Of course. Problem?’ Even as I spoke I knew, with a rising sense of dread, what he was going to say.

  Oh, you have to be kidding me …

  ‘They still want for you to handle the … exchange of contracts,’ he said, ‘but it’s been arranged for tomorrow morning. I have explained to them you may not be available at that notice—’

  ‘No, I’ll do it.’

  Another sigh, a long pause, anguish. ‘They don’t deserve such loyalty, Charlie. Like you just said, all they want is a scapegoat.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ I agreed. ‘But I’m not doing it for them.’

  As I snapped the phone shut, I checked my watch. It was two-thirty in the afternoon. Torquil had been at his kidnappers’ tender mercies for twenty-nine hours.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  By 6.00 a.m. the following morning, after a restless and largely sleepless night, I was beginning to question the wisdom of my decision.

  Parker and I were sitting in the large office suite in the basement of Brandon Eisenberg’s gothic mansion just outside Southampton, up towards the eastern end of Long Island, drinking coffee with Gleason, who turned out not simply to be Eisenberg’s bodyguard, but also his head of security.

  Gleason’s attitude did not seem to have softened towards me since the night of the charity auction. I don’t think she’d forgiven her boss for offering me a job, or Parker for failing to extend the same courtesy towards her. But, she was professional and polite, dressed in a mannish dark-blue suit with wide lapels. To me, the outfit screamed authority and insecurity in equal measure.

  Now, Gleason ran us through the detailed instructions the kidnappers had left, including playing the recording made of their last telephone conversation with Eisenberg.

  She played the whole thing in full, including the part where they brought Torquil to the phone and persuaded him to speak. As I listened to the boy’s gargled screams, I felt Gleason’s cool gaze soaking up my reaction. I was careful to show her nothing more than a frown of concentration. It took effort to hold it in place. Parker’s expression, I noticed, was a mirror of my own.

  ‘We’ll call again at six-thirty tomorrow morning,’ said the mechanised voice. ‘Have the girl ready to answer. She’ll be given precise instructions on where to go first. She comes alone and I hope she’s in shape, because if she misses one single rendezvous by more than half a minute, the kid’s dead.’ Then, with a click of finality, the line followed suit.

  Gleason sat back in her executive swivel chair, rocking slightly, and re
garded me over the steam rising from her insulated coffee mug. ‘So, Charlie, you in good shape?’

  ‘I manage,’ I returned equably. ‘And besides, there’s the Buell.’

  The only bit of personal information the security chief had shared with us was that she was from East Troy, Wisconsin, where Erik Buell had his motorcycle factory and, in Gleason’s voiced opinion, it was a damned shame they didn’t make them anymore.

  At that moment my Buell Firebolt sat in one of the garages that lined the motor court to one side of the house, rubbing shoulders with two Lamborghinis, three Aston Martins, a Ferrari, a classic Morgan, and a Bugatti Veyron. I could see the lowly little Buell among them on one of the many monitors Gleason’s people were watching down here.

  Parker wasn’t happy about me using the bike, but there were a lot of arguments in favour, not least of which was the time restriction the kidnappers had stressed. Logically, it was the only way to guarantee cutting through traffic to make what promised to be the first of many rendezvous points. Keeping me constantly on the defensive and operating at full stretch was standard procedure for these people.

  The Buell’s engine was warmed through and it had a full tank of fuel. Sean’s Glock 21 was taped securely behind the front fairing, just as a backup.

  I’d hesitated, when I’d gone to the gun safe in the apartment, about taking Sean’s gun. Apart from cleaning it, unloading it, and putting it away, the last time I’d handled it in anger was three months ago, when I’d taken it from his hand and come within a hair’s breadth of using it to kill the man who’d shot him. When I’d lifted the Glock out of its case yesterday evening, an echo of that time and place had shivered through me.

  Forsaking my usual line of sober suits when coming into contact with clients, this morning I’d put on my leather bike jacket and Kevlar-reinforced jeans, which would be easier to move in than full leathers if I had to run. Under the jacket, in place of its winter lining, I wore the latest covert body armour, complete with thin polycarbonate sheets for an extra layer of protection. For the sake of mobility and stealth, I had rejected the optional ceramic trauma plates front and back. If we were up against weaponry of a calibre heavy enough to warrant them, I was probably fucked anyway.

  For weaponry of my own, I had my usual SIG 9 mm in the small of my back, and a KA-BAR combat utility knife taped, hilt downwards, to the outside of my boot. The kidnappers had not specified that I should go unarmed, and I intended to make full use of that oversight.

  Gleason had already explained to me how their comms system worked, but I’d taken in no more than I needed to in order to operate it on the fly. The dual in-ear earpieces fitted neatly underneath my helmet, small and comfortable, and she produced a tactical throat mic to go with them. This had the advantage that I could use it hands-free on the bike, and it would stay with me if I was forced to go walkabout.

  The throat mics I’d used in the past had all sat high and tight under my jaw, but we checked this one would pick up acceptably when it was placed down nearer my collarbone instead. At first glance it would be hidden there by the tube scarf I usually wore on the bike to prevent both wind and wildlife from disappearing down the neck of my jacket.

  It was high-grade ’ware and they reckoned the range was plenty good enough to reach back to the situation room here, unless the kidnappers were planning on taking me practically out of state. Gleason had assigned four mobile teams. This would allow them to track me while hanging back far enough not to make themselves too obvious.

  Gleason fitted my gear herself, under Parker’s watchful eye. I saw the security chief’s eyes flick over the last remnants of the scar around the base of my throat as she was adjusting the mic, but if she recognised the old knife wound for what it was, she wisely passed no comment.

  ‘OK, you’re all set,’ she said when she was done.

  I checked the clock again. ‘So, where’s the glitter?’

  ‘Here.’

  I turned, found Brandon Eisenberg standing in the doorway. The billionaire looked a lot less urbane than he had done on the night of the charity auction, but I couldn’t hold that against him under the circumstances. He did seem genuinely scared for the boy who bore his name, if nothing else. Gripped tightly in his fist was an expensive-looking rucksack, as though he couldn’t bear even to deliver a ransom in some cheap tourist luggage.

  ‘It’s in there,’ he said, his voice an unhappy mix of defiance and strain.

  From the way Gleason stared at her boss, I assumed there had been words between them about the wisdom of paying what they asked for, and that she hadn’t approved this tactic. I suppose that Eisenberg had succeeded for so long by throwing money at a problem until it went away, that he now couldn’t conceive of any other course of action.

  For a moment, I thought he was going to say something profound to all of us, but in the end he just handed over the rucksack, turned on his heel, and departed.

  Gleason unzipped the bag and checked inside. The Eisenberg Rainbow was in a flat padded box, lined with black velvet that separated the individual strands and set off the stones to their most alluring sparkle. It still looked like paste to me. It seemed a very small box to be worth so much money.

  The sudden buzz of the designated phone on the nearest desk made me start, even though we’d been expecting it. I waited a couple of rings, took a deep breath, and picked it up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘You the English bitch?’

  You better believe it, sunshine. ‘Oh, hell yes.’

  The laugh sounded like two rough metal plates grinding together. I winced. He mentioned somewhere called Turtle Cove at Montauk Point. ‘Just south of the lighthouse. You know how to get there?’

  I glanced at Gleason. She nodded. ‘I’ll find it.’

  That unnatural laugh again. ‘You better. You’ve got thirty minutes.’

  Click.

  As I put the phone down and hit the stopwatch on my wrist, I was already on my feet, reaching for my helmet. Parker was by my elbow all the way. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t have to. It was, I realised, enough to have him there. Gleason was on the other side, giving me immediate instructions and telling me they’d guide me to my location.

  I glanced at her. ‘GPS tracker in with the necklace?’

  She nodded. ‘And another in your comms gear, just in case the two of you become … separated.’

  ‘I thought that was the whole idea?’

  ‘The teams will keep station in a rolling diamond formation around you,’ she said, ignoring the question. ‘They’ll stay at least a half mile from your position at all times.’

  I shrugged. ‘Just make sure they don’t scare this guy off.’

  ‘They won’t.’

  Parker helped me into the rucksack and tightened the shoulder straps in place. I checked I could still access the SIG beneath it.

  ‘Good luck, Charlie,’ he said softly.

  I grinned at him, threw my leg over the bike, twisted the key and hit the starter. ‘Just be ready to intervene if some bloody traffic copper decides to pull me over for speeding,’ I said, and toed the Buell into gear.

  I rolled out through the open garage door and down the driveway, taking a moment to settle myself, then hit the street and caned it.

  Torquil had been taken forty-five hours, just short of two full days. With any luck, we’d have him back before that milestone was reached.

  Through the earpieces, I could hear the tense comms traffic, the brief relayed instructions to the chase teams, who had started out wide and were now converging on the location we’d been given as the first rendezvous point. Gleason’s directions were calm, clear and concise, to keep straight or turn, as one set of traffic lights or another flashed past. The four teams had to hustle to keep pace and maintain the gap around me. Well, that was their problem. I wasn’t going to miss a deadline waiting for them to play catch-up.

  I was moving through the middle of Southampton village, the leafy streets lined with upmarket
boutiques and bistro cafés. I even passed a sign warning all persons they were required to wear proper attire on the streets. I had two guns, a knife, body armour and a bike helmet. That sounded like proper attire to me.

  Ahead of me, a set of traffic lights at an intersection hopped up to amber, then red. The street was still quiet at this hour, but I eased off anyway.

  ‘We have you slowing down, Charlie,’ Gleason’s voice said in my ear. ‘Problem?’

  ‘Just traffic lights, just traffic lights,’ I said, making sure the voice-activated mic caught my words. ‘If you want me to jump them, you’re going to have to pay my tickets.’

  ‘No need to attract any unwanted attention if you don’t need to,’ Gleason said. ‘You’re looking good on time. Just—’

  A voice I didn’t recognise cut straight across whatever she’d been about to say, louder in my earpieces. ‘All teams, hang back. Repeat, hang back!’

  ‘Who gave that order?’ Gleason snapped. ‘Identify yourself!’

  I heard an engine turning lazily along the street behind me, glanced over my left shoulder and saw a big four-door family Dodge roll up slowly towards the lights, which were still on stop.

  I turned back facing front, toed the Buell into first gear with the clutch in, ready to make a clean getaway as soon as red dropped to green.

  Come on, come on! What’s taking so long?

  And then all hell broke loose in the form of high-frequency white noise flooding the comms network. I let go of the clutch and the bike lurched and stalled under me, but that was the least of my worries. I was too busy scrabbling for my helmet strap, my only thought to get the pain out of my head.

  Even above the horrendous volume in my earpieces, though, I heard the rising howl of the Dodge’s engine, felt the rumble through the road surface. I opened my eyes and jerked my head round, just in time to see the car pick up speed and swerve straight for me.

  ‘Ambush, ambush!’ I yelled into my useless radio. Then all I could do was hope to survive.