“Hmm. Unless she’s after South American commissions,” Becka speculated.
“Or hiding out.”
“Have Holden run a check on her.”
Mike arched a blond brow. “You think it’s worth the time?”
“I do.” She nodded as Mike took out his phone and typed in a text. “She was never….”
“What?”
“A legitimate artist. She had moments of creativity. But she would never apply herself.”
“You were close friends?”
Becka tipped her head one way and the other. “We had a few classes together. History of French art and architecture. A basic sculpting class.”
“You sculpted?” Mike sounded full of appreciation.
“I tried. That was the extent of it.” She laughed. “I’m better as a theorist or a critic. Or a detective. Even better as a sales person.”
They stood there for a few minutes, finishing their drinks, closing their eyes to enjoy the breeze, their backs to the railing and the river flowing past.
“What do you say?” he asked her. “Ready to explore?”
“Yep. Do you recall the layout of the rooms from the plan I drew for you?”
He gave her a quizzical look as if to say, Are you kidding me? “Right. Remember what I said. Touch nothing anywhere. When—if—you find a computer, slip on the gloves I gave you before you try anything. And if—“
“If I get scared, fly.” Becka nodded, acting cool and collected.
“All right. Nice and easy now.”
They pushed away from the railing and strolled inside, past Maurice and a group of others. Placing their glasses on a nearby tray, Mike followed her down the hall and stopped before the powder room.
“Go,” Mike said nodding toward the room at the end of the hall. But directly opposite the powder room, a door stood open and inside the walls were lined with paintings of all sorts, large and small. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
When he winked, she gave him a little smile of agreement. That was the plan and the dialogue they’d agreed upon for this part of their subterfuge. He’d get lost and pretend to find her.
He disappeared inside the powder room.
She spun for the room that was Vince’s home office. Inhaling a huge breath, she took hold of the knob and thrust open the door. The room was dark. Very dark. Too dark. She leaned against a wall switch and turned on the overheads with a move of her shoulder. Blinking, she saw a well-appointed office. Rows of books on in-laid walnut shelves. A huge TV on one wall. Small sofa facing it. A desk, covered in papers and folders. So unlike his desk at the gallery that was pristine, orderly to a fault. Why? How could a man be two different types of people?
Because he was?
Because he was.
She snapped open her little purse, dug out the two black gloves. Made of some miracle fiber that did not leave prints or material residue, the gloves slid on easily and clung tightly to her fingers and palms. She moved to Mayhew’s desk and riffled through his papers. Nothing pertinent jumped out at her. Just this month’s bank statement.
A laptop sat closed on the desk. She stared at it, her pulse pounding. Reaching inside her purse for the special USB flash drive that Mike had given her, she picked it up. But it was so tiny, it slipped through her fingers and fell to the carpet.
“Damn.”
She bent, picked it up and straightened.
She felt in back of the laptop for the USB slot, inserted hers and—
Heard the door click open.
“What are you doing?”
Chapter Six
Mike emerged from the powder room. No one was in the hall. Good.
Becka was still in the back room. Wincing, but glad that she must’ve found a computer to hack, he strolled across the hall into Vince’s study. It was a combo of sitting room, TV room and private art gallery.
He didn’t know as much about art as Becka but he did know that what he was looking at was a mélange of good to poor paintings.
The works that merited his attention were three Impressionist-type paintings on one wall. Of Paris in the rain, Montmartre’s main square and a street scene near the Invalides, the paintings struck a note of melancholy in him. They brought back memories of his time in Paris with Becka last summer. Good memories, yes, they were. But they’d been shattered by his own abandonment of her. He kneaded his hands. He wouldn’t make that same mistake again.
He stilled.
A door clicked open.
He faced the doorway and saw no one in the hall.
Until Maurice stepped into his sight.
“May I help you, Monsieur Lyons?” He cocked his head to one side.
“No, thank you. I wait for Mademoiselle Tierney. She was going to explain all the credentials of the art in this room.”
“I see. And where is she?”
Mike shrugged. “The powder room?”
“I was just there, Monsieur. She is not.”
“Hunh.” He shook his head once. “Don’t know then. Maybe she went back to the party.”
“But she did not,” the under-butler said as he smoothly pulled a gun from his pocket and pointed it at Mike. His hand shook. A good sign that this takeover might be easy.
“Hey, hey.” Mike waved a hand in front of him as he gave the servant a jaundiced eye. The man had a late model Sig Sauer on him and the dude might be seventy or more, but who knew how well he could handle his weapon? He was clearly nervous about it. “Put that away.”
“I think you need to come with me.”
“Wrong. I’m here to look at art.”
“C’est des conneries. You are here to—what is the word? Snoop.” He flicked the gun to one side. “Come with me.”
“Hey, I’m just looking at the art and—“
Maurice took a gadget from his pocket and pressed it.
At the sound of a whir, the far wall slid slowly aside.
“Wow.” Mike gazed at the spectacle before him. “That’s quite a feature. Must have cost Mr. Mayhew quite a penny to get that contraption installed.
Before him spread a room now double its previous size. And in this extra space stood shelves of perpendicularly lined compartments. And on one wall, by itself, illuminated by indirect pale lighting hung a spectacular medieval portrait of a beautiful woman. She stood in half-profile, blonde, blue-eyed, angelic, smiling as if bemused, dressed in a ruby gown that draped her flawless creamy shoulders. The painting was exquisite and Mike didn’t need an art degree to know, deep in his guts, that this was a priceless work painted by an artist long dead and much revered.
He directed his gaze back to Maurice, but too late, because the man squinted at him. He’d noted Mike’s surveillance of the portrait.
Maurice walked sideways into the area and motioned with the gun for Mike to come forward. “S’il vous plait, Monsieur. This way.”
“Look. Call your boss, Maurice.” Mike walked right up to him.
But Maurice backed away. “No, no. You may not come close. I will shoot you.”
“Terrific. Just what I need on a Friday night.” He took a step closer to the old man. If he kept him talking, occupied, he’d get within striking range. One thing for sure, he’d be faster than Maurice. Unless old Mo had a trigger finger.
“What’s going on here, Maurice?”
Mike snapped his attention to the hall doorway where Vince stood, asking the question that Mike himself wanted an answer to.
Mike kept his cool. “Vince, your servant has a funny idea I’m dangerous. Call him off.”
Vince took a few steps into the room. “Why are you pointing that at him, Maurice?”
“He is investigating us, Monsieur Vincent. I could not let him.”
Mike sighed. “Tell him, Vince. You told me I could come view your collection.”
“I did.”
Maurice grimaced. “Then why did Robert just now open the door to your back room office, Monsieur, and discover Mademoiselle Tierney in there?”
“She just chose the wrong door,” Mike said, nonchalant.
“In my hall?” Vince scoffed and turned to close the door to the hall.
Mike shrugged. “Hey. Women like to see other people’s homes. I know she does.”
“Really?” Vince asked.
“Where there’s art, Rebecca will look. I know.”
“You do know. You’ve looked at it with her often enough, haven’t you?” Vince said.
“We’ve known each other for years. So, yeah, we’ve looked at plenty of pictures. What of it?” Now he was pissed. And needed Vince to come a little bit closer. The way to take down two targets at once was only if both were in range. “It doesn’t merit a gun.”
“I say it does, Mike.” Vince was getting cocky now.
“I say mere possession of a gun in the Federal military district of Washington merits you a stay in a federal prison. No questions asked.”
“You won’t be asking,” Vince said and motioned Maurice toward the back wall.
Keeping the Sig trained on Mike, Maurice did his boss’s bidding and backed toward a far door.
“Someone will ask,” Mike said. “Especially if I don’t post tomorrow morning.”
“Post where? How?” Vince asked, a snarl on his thin lips as he paused. “You were vague about your employment.”
“I have friends.”
“I bet you do,” Vince said. “Aside from Rebecca, you have a whole team of friends.”
Enough of this cat-and-mouse. “Been investigating me?”
“As a linebacker at the Naval Academy football team and son of the famous columnist Eric Lyons, you show up quickly on search engines. Google likes you.”
Mike sniffed. “My life is an open book.”
“Not completely.” Vince extended a hand toward the door that Maurice had just opened to a dark stairway. “Allow me to offer a different party.”
“And if I don’t come? You can’t shoot me with your living room full of people.”
“But Mike,” Vince said between his teeth, “I think you’ll want to join Rebecca.”
This dude was not thinking straight. Whether Vince thought he could spirit away Becka and him, too, or not, he wouldn’t get far. He, Maurice and the butler would get caught. “Save us all some wear and tear, and don’t do this.”
“I can’t take the chance.” Vince motioned for Mike to descend the stairs. “Maurice, did you take his phone?”
“No. I did not want to get too close.”
Mike grinned. “Smart.”
“Put it on the table, just there,” Vince said.
Mike unsnapped his phone, punched the screen hard with his thumb and held it down. His emergency signal to Holden was silent, unique, activated by his thumbprint and the length of time on the screen. Three seconds was what he needed. Three. Had he had enough?
“Okay.” Vince said. “Let’s go.”
Mike sighed.
“For a SEAL, you’re slow as shit.”
“Gee. Sorry. I’m disabled.”
“So is my aunt Minnie. Go.”
Down the winding stairs they went for two floors until Maurice stopped before a freight elevator. Maurice pushed the wall button and the doors swished open.
“In you go,” Vince said.
“Won’t your guests miss you?”
“They’ll entertain themselves.”
Mike nestled in the far corner as the elevator descended. “So who painted the lady in the ruby gown in your secret room up there?”
Vince smiled like a wolf. “Leonardo.”
Mike’s brows shot up. “Didn’t know DiCaprio could paint.”
“Smart ass.”
Mike tsked. “Where are we going?”
“A ride on the river.” Vince motioned for him to exit the elevator and walk into the underground garage. “I don’t suppose you get seasick, do you, Captain Lyons?”
“Depends on the company I keep.”
“A certified smart ass,” Vince said again. “Pull the van around, Maurice.”
Maurice handed over the Sig Sauer to his boss and strode down a long line of parked vehicles.
Mike heard Maurice hit a button and unlock a car. In a minute, he drove it up to the two men.
Vince walked around to the back, opened one of the doors and motioned with the gun. “Hop in.”
No cuffs. No ropes. That was a gift. But he wasn’t mentioning stuff like that and giving these guys any bright ideas.
Wordless, he crawled inside, took a seat on the side bench and waited.
He knew this town like the back of his hand. Growing up here, he’d learned the streets and the river as a boy playing hide and seek with his friends. Walking to school or to judo lessons, meeting his dad at the Air and Space Museum or hitting the bars when he’d come home on leave, he knew every inch of this city. He’d read the history books that recounted tales of those who had run through the tunnels of the Underground Railroad. He knew what tunnels still existed. He’d jogged from Kennedy’s grave up the hill in Arlington Cemetery and knew exactly how long it would take him to fight the Potomac’s current downstream to swim upstream one mile. Even in the not-so-tip-top shape he was in now, he’d make it. He wasn’t that disabled. Or that weak.
So he just needed to know where they’d taken Becka and he’d be fine. So would she. He’d find a way because he always did.
Except the last time when your mission went belly up. Analysis said that failure wasn’t all his. Still he felt it like ice picks in his fingers and toes.
He scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
Stop that.
He’d get her.
Had to.
Would.
He sat straighter. Closed his eyes and memorized the direction of the van.
Up and around. Over a bump. So. We’re out in the street. Which way?
He sniffed the air. Stuffy August evening air.
If they really were going for a boat ride, then traveling north along the Potomac did not seem logical. Not much traversed the Potomac going upstream. Folks usually traveled downstream in canoes and occasionally, a few very small houseboats, all of which had to use the locks in the Canal to get around.
Most who owned vessels docked them south of the city in the port of Alexandria. But the docks were few and the dock master was known for his rigid rules and short temper. If you wanted to sail in or out, you had to notify the dock master in writing well before. Going out at night—and Mike bet that’s what they wanted to do to get rid of his body—would not be welcomed on short notice. So if they were moored at Alexandria City marina and Vince and Maurice thought they were going to pull out their boat tonight, that wouldn’t be happening. And too, depending on how big their vessel, Alexandria might not be able to accommodate them in size.
If they were headed beyond Alexandria, Mike would say they were going for a private marina farther south. One where the master was not so finicky that he’d prohibit a sailor from leaving port at night—and venturing on to dump a few bodies out into the Chesapeake Bay.
Though before they hit the Bay, they’d sail past Quantico, the Marine base.
Mike smiled.
Just the thought of a few Marines close made him feel brighter. He bet Grey Holden had a few buddies who lived nearby.
If the little tracking device he’d tucked inside his trouser waistband sent out a strong enough signal for Grey Holden to find him, he’d hit pay dirt.
And if the similar tracker he’d dropped inside Becka’s bra was as good—and her attacker hadn’t found it, they’d be golden.
* * * * *
In the backseat of an SUV, Becca steadied herself to gain serenity for the challenge ahead. She avoided straining at the ropes around her wrists because she wanted them as loose as Valmont had so ineffectually made them. She could not untie them, but she had a good chance at sliding out her thumb and then a finger,
and another. Given enough time. And that was the problem. She had no idea how much she had because Valmont had been tight-lipped about where they were headed. And they’d been riding for at least two hours.
She inhaled the tangy salt air, a whiff of grilled seafood and the fumes of gasoline as the Range Rover she rode in pulled to a stop. Valmont pulled into a parking space on the pier of a dock. At least a hundred boats lined the marina. The boats bobbed in the water. Most of the residents were inside their cabins, a few lights twinkling inside, lighting up the starry August night.
There was no one around that she could call out to.
No one to help her.
She bit her lips to stop a shiver. She would not show them fear. Would not.
Keep your cool.
They’d driven for so long that this could definitely not be Alexandria City marina.
She was out of her comfort zone.
And where are you, Mike? She wished she had a crystal ball.
Valmont got out of the driver’s seat and slammed the car door. He paced back and forth.
The man next to her did not move. She had tried to get him to talk to her, but each time she prodded him, John Corman only sneered at her and told her to shut up. He’d been the one to follow Valmont into the back room and help him tie her up. Why he was participating and what part he played in any of the moving parts of this scam was a mystery to her.
Outside the car, Robert Valmont cursed and fished out a phone from his pants pocket. He punched in a number and waited.
“Oui. And where are you?” he asked someone in French. Then he proceeded to bawl them out in some rather graphic French blasphemy. “Hurry!”
Corman and Becka sat there another few minutes.
When a dark red Beemer rounded the far end of the pier, Valmont muttered, “About fucking time.”
Whoever this was, Valmont wanted him here to see the proceedings. If they were going to kill her, wouldn’t fewer witnesses be better than a whole damn hockey team?
Her one hand was nearly free. If only she could hide it from Corman she’d be fine. She’d find a way to get free. Find a weapon, something, anything. She was rusty.
She’d courted too much danger on this case. More than she should have. And she was very grateful for the person who had sent her Mike Lyons.
The Omega Team: The Lion (Kindle Worlds Novella) Page 8