Nash sighed and rubbed the back of his neck again. He took a drink of coffee, then pulled a club sandwich off the tray of food, took a bite, and chewed it slowly. He seemed disinclined to speak until Mac prompted him.
“What aren’t you saying?”
“I pulled you out of there. And as much as I’ve followed Falcone, he’s followed me. If he wasn’t sure whose helicopter chased his men off, a quick check of the records of ownership for the building his man bombed in Tribeca would give it away. I’ve caused him a fair number of problems over the years, both during my stint with the DEA and in my work with HSE.
“Falcone doesn’t have friends. He had a wife and daughter, but they were killed in a DEA op gone wrong. His allegiances are . . . temporary and expedient. It wouldn’t occur to him I might have sent someone to get the two of you without having been in touch all these years. He’ll assume Mac’s been working for me, that I somehow organized his placement at the Paradis in order to poke around in the arms business. He no doubt considers the two of you far more dangerous and knowledgeable than you are.”
“Well, that’s just fucking great,” Mac muttered.
“You’d rather I’d let him blow you to smithereens out there in the middle of the Caribbean?”
Again, Callie wondered at the apparent tension between the two men. It prickled along her skin, a nagging reminder of how little she really knew about either of them. She needed both, but they were operating with diverse agendas. Could she trust either of them?
“We appreciate your help,” she said in as diplomatic a tone as she could muster.
“You do,” Nash corrected, but the left side of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “But I am not insensitive to the fact that I’ve complicated an already difficult situation. Still, I don’t see any other way to have handled it.”
“No. But what do we do now?”
“Unfortunately”—the half smile disappeared—“all we can do is wait for them to call.”
“What do I say when they do?”
Mac took over. “First, you tell them you want to speak to Erin. You tell them you will be asking her three questions that only she can answer. If the answers are wrong, you’ll know it’s not her and you’ll hang up.”
“It doesn’t need to be such a production. I’ll recognize her voice.”
“The questions are security,” he explained. “You have to have an interactive conversation, not something they can prerecord or get someone to imitate her voice for. But it’s more than that. You need to show them that you have some idea of what they’re up to, that they can’t fool you. I know you feel powerless, but you can’t afford to let that feeling show. They have to believe you’ll hold up your end of whatever deal they propose; that will only happen if you let them think you think you’re in control. They won’t mind dealing with a difficult negotiator, but if they consider you some kind of emotional wildcard, they may . . . choose a different path.”
“You mean they’ll kill her.”
Mac didn’t answer, but when her hands started to shake, he pried the mug from them and laced his fingers with hers, lending her his strength. She couldn’t look at him but held tight as she turned to Nash.
“You think this Sonny Juarez is the one who took Erin?”
“It’s possible, though kidnapping is out of his usual comfort zone. The real question is who gave the orders. There’s no doubt in my mind Falcone’s men—whether Juarez or someone else—did the actual work, but he may have lent them to Lewis. If we could figure out who was pulling the strings, we’d have a better idea what they might want. And if we had a handle on that before they called, we’d be in a better position.”
The prepaid cell sitting on top of the television rang. Mac retrieved it, looking at the caller ID, and handed it to Callie. “It’s a local cell. Maybe Erin’s.”
Callie recognized the number and nodded. With a deep breath, she accepted the phone and hit the button to answer the call.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Miss Pearson.” The faintest hint of an accent colored the man’s voice.
“Where’s Erin?”
“All in good time.”
“No.” Callie steeled herself, remembering Mac’s words. She had to appear in control, no matter how she felt. “I want to speak to her now.”
“It doesn’t matter what you want, Miss Pearson.”
“Yes, it does, or you wouldn’t have bothered to call. So put Erin on. Or I’ll hang up.”
A short silence, and then Erin’s voice came on the line.
“Callie?” At the subdued, tremulous quality of Erin’s voice, so out of character, Callie’s eyes prickled with tears.
“Erin! Are you okay?”
“I don’t know what these guys want.”
Mac mouthed the word “questions” at her, and she nodded.
“Erin, I am going to ask you three questions. It’s for security. Tell the guy who called that I am going to ask you three questions every time we talk so I know it’s really you and you’re okay, all right?”
She heard Erin repeating her words to someone in the background.
“What flavor do I hate?” she asked once Erin’s captor had agreed to the stipulation.
“Curry,” Erin replied promptly.
“What do I always order at the Indian restaurant?”
“Tandoori salmon.”
“And what do you always tell me?”
“That you’re boring, and should try some curry on your tandoori.”
“Erin, I promise—” But she heard a scuffle on the other end of the phone, and the man came back on the line.
“You have asked your questions, Miss Pearson. Miss Campbell is well. If you follow the instructions we give you, she will remain so. My employer requires some information from you. He would have preferred to avoid involving your friend, but since you seemed determined to hide, it was necessary to take certain measures to find you.”
“Look, I’m happy to tell you whatever you want.”
“My employer requires . . . assurances. We will allow Miss Campbell to go free once you come to us. Don’t call the police. Don’t talk to Brody or Harper. If you do, your roommate’s usefulness will come to an abrupt and very painful end. We will be calling back with details.” He disconnected, but Callie hung on for a long moment, the dial tone buzzing in her ear.
“What did he say?” Nash’s question pierced the fog creeping across her mind.
“Nothing.” She considered the conversation. “Really, it’s weird. He didn’t say much of anything—they had Erin, they wanted me, they’d trade, and they’d call back with more details later. Why wouldn’t he just go ahead and tell me what he wants now?” She left out the admonishment about withholding information from Mac and Nash, unsure how far she planned to obey it.
“Stalling,” Mac said slowly. “Maybe he’s waiting for his boss? Where does Falcone live?”
“Anywhere he wants to,” replied Nash with a grimace. “He has a villa in Tuscany, a private island in the Grenadines, the coffee plantation in Colombia, and a pied-à-terre in Miami. He’s also part owner of a horse-training facility outside of Brussels. He’s been active this summer, in and out of the US, though he usually spends summers in Europe. Let me check something.”
He walked over to the desk and sat down at the computer, his fingers racing over the keys as he used some program Callie had never seen—probably written by his own people, she thought—to connect to the mainframe at HSE.
“Your buddy Lewis is on the move,” he said after a couple of minutes. “Bobby, who took over for you two on the Lady, has been doing his best to keep an eye on him, but he says Lewis left his house late last night and never came back. Travis went back to the island, and he’s asking around, since it’s easier for him to do so without looking suspicious, but hasn’t heard anything yet about w
here Lewis might be headed.”
“Is there any question? Obviously, that’s what the guy who called is waiting for.”
“Nothing’s ever obvious in cases like this,” Mac said. “Jumping to conclusions leads to mistakes. But if we run with the idea that Lewis is headed to the US, the next question is: Where? It’s certainly easy enough to get into the country, but getting into New York itself is a little harder. He’d probably take the same route we did—quick hop to Puerto Rico, which gets him into the country, then some kind of transport from there. Or maybe he goes through Florida. It’s not such an easy trip from St. Martin, but it could be done. Chopper to a boat anchored offshore somewhere, then smuggled into the country by some rich friend of Falcone’s?”
“Possible,” agreed Nash. “If he’s using Falcone’s allies, he’ll go through Miami rather than Puerto Rico. Falcone has an enormous network in Florida; he’s practically untouchable there. It’s, what, a thousand miles from Miami to St. Martin? If Lewis left last night, took a speedboat out to a bigger boat somewhere nearby with a helipad, he could have been in Florida early this morning. Plenty of private jets fly between Miami and New York on legitimate business every day, so Lewis wouldn’t have to go commercial; he could borrow one of Falcone’s partner’s planes.”
“What could John possibly want to ask me? The man I spoke to said he wanted ‘assurances,’ that that was why he was insisting on meeting me in person. And why bother sneaking into the country when he could just fly into JFK and meet with me?”
Mac and Nash shared a glance, totally in sync for once. “The only assurance Lewis wants,” Mac said, “is that you won’t live to reveal his secrets. Before he kills you, he would prefer to find out just how much you’ve uncovered and how many people you’ve told so he can estimate how much damage control he has to do, but that knowledge isn’t essential. What’s essential is that he prevent you from learning or telling anything more than you already have.”
Nash spoke up. “Which is also why he won’t fly commercial. He wants you for some reason, but he can’t afford to leave a trail back to him once you’re gone.
“I assume the man you spoke to threatened Erin’s life if you consulted me?”
Callie stared. Mac hadn’t been kidding about Nash’s ability to know everything.
“It’s only logical,” he explained. “The whole object of this exercise is to limit the scope of what must—to both Lewis and Falcone—appear as an impending disaster. HSE has formidable resources, so you have to be cut off from them.”
Fine. If he wanted to put it all out there, she would. “Involving you could get Erin killed.”
“Not involving me will almost certainly get both you and her killed.” Nash’s gray eyes reminded her of ice floes on the Hudson in winter. No warmth, no softness showed in them, just implacable chill. “If you hope to survive this, you’ll inform me and Mac of your every move before you make it.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, Lexie should be here soon with tracking devices and some items Mac requested last night. We’ll get you outfitted with them soon enough.”
“Not that you’ll need the GPS,” said Mac, “since there’s no way in hell you’re meeting with these guys, but it’s best not to take chances.”
Callie took a deep breath and called on the diplomatic skills she’d absorbed listening to her father negotiate day in and day out to keep her manner calm and relaxed despite the churning in her belly. “I appreciate all you two are doing, have done. But it’s me they want, so you can’t keep me out of this altogether. I’ll wear whatever electronics Lexie brings, but I doubt the men who have Erin are going to turn her over without at least seeing my face.”
Nash cut off Mac’s incipient protest. “She’s right.”
Mac propelled himself from the sofa and stalked over to the window to stare down at the insanity of Times Square. Callie wondered what was going through his head. She poured herself another cup of coffee and picked up half a ham sandwich. Nibbling it, she waited out the two men’s silence. Mac finally broke it.
“You said Lexie was coming here?” Nash nodded. “Then I’ll shower while we wait for her. If you have a phone, I’d like to call Vince, see whether he’s heard anything from the feds, though he says they’re keeping him in the dark.”
“You can call through the HSE switchboard. If they are tracking your partner’s calls, they’ll be able to trace it back to HSE, but no further. He can tell them I called to ask about you. In fact, I’ll make the call myself in case he’s not the one who answers.”
“That’ll work.”
Callie thought “Thank you” might have been a better response, but whatever was between the two men seemed to inhibit gratitude. With a brief nod, Mac disappeared into the bedroom, leaving her alone with Nash.
“Travis didn’t have a high opinion of Nicole Lewis,” he remarked the moment the bedroom door closed. “I believe the term he used was ‘skank.’”
“It’s not polite to speak ill of the dead,” Callie replied automatically. What was Nash’s object with this line of conversation?
“Oh, she wasn’t dead at the time. He called me the day she and Mac got married. Of course, by then it was too late for me to check up on her. Not that it would have done much good anyway. Mac doesn’t listen particularly well, especially to me, and Trav is too honest not to tell him where the information came from.”
“What happened between the three of you?”
“A . . . breach of trust.” He shrugged, as if the topic were of little importance, but would not look at her. When he did, his pale eyes were carefully blank. “Aidan Macmillan Brody is not a forgiving man. If your relationship is important to you, I suggest you don’t lie to him.”
“We don’t have a relationship.” But her cheeks heated. Aidan. She’d slept with a man without even knowing his first name. She turned the conversation back on Nash. “Is that what you mean by a breach of trust? You lied to him?”
His smiled lacked even a trace of humor. “I lie to everyone.”
Before Callie could process the statement, Lexie knocked and identified herself. Nash opened the door and she swept in, an enormous backpack dwarfing her slender frame. She’d applied her makeup strategically, but nothing could hide the red rims of her eyes. Had she and the dead Hal been friends? Lovers? Callie could not come up with a suitable way to express her sympathy, so she ignored the remnants of the other woman’s distress, allowing herself to be drawn into a discussion of the items Lexie was removing from the pack and laying on the coffee table.
“Is that what you’re planning on wearing for the next couple of days?” Lexie’s bloodshot eyes swept over her, leaving Callie squirming like a guest on the television show What Not to Wear.
“Actually, I need to buy some jeans. I planned to do that today. The ones you got for me were too small.”
The other woman snorted, the sound a startling contrast to her professional air. “Told you,” she said to Nash. “Moreland gave you the sizes he’d want to see her in, not the ones she’d want to wear.” Her expression brightened and she winked at Callie. “Travis is such a guy.”
“You know him?”
The grin disappeared. “I did. Years ago. He was a friend of my brother’s.” She focused on the items on the table. “If you’re going to buy jeans, we won’t sew a transmitter into the skirt. Do you have any experience with firearms?”
“Guns? You want me to carry a gun?”
“Only if you know how to use it.” The voice came from behind her. Mac had emerged from the bedroom, shirtless, hair still shower-damp. She couldn’t help ogling just a bit as he reached into the shopping bag he’d left next to the desk and withdrew a clean T-shirt, but by the time he’d pulled it on, she had herself back under control.
“My father taught me to shoot when I was in high school. He believed in physical activities, so he took me hiking, riding, waterskiing, target
shooting, whatever was popular where we were living. I kept up the shooting—both guns and archery—through college, but I haven’t picked up a bow or a pistol in more than five years.”
Mac grunted. “Fair enough. At least you won’t shoot yourself in the foot. Target shooting—were you using a revolver or a semi?”
“Revolver.”
He cocked an eyebrow at Lexie, who nodded and dug a weapon out of the backpack, along with a carton of bullets.
“It’s a .357,” she explained as she handed it to Callie. “I brought .38-caliber loads for it. Plenty of stopping power, but it won’t kick too hard.”
“It’s not exactly a purse pistol.” Callie turned the gun over, getting a sense of the weight, then loaded it, relieved to feel the muscle memory of the actions returning.
“Snub noses aren’t accurate enough. And a .22 won’t do anything but piss off a serious attacker. Besides, no gun is small enough to hide if someone’s searching you. The idea is to keep them at a distance, and for that you need heft. If you’re going to be wearing jeans, you can use a belt holster.” She passed one across, and Callie snapped the revolver into it. “Just buy a peasant blouse or something to wear over it.”
“The holster is tagged,” Nash said, “as is the gun. We’ll also put trackers in your purse, shoes, and clothes. The more devices we can stash on you, the more likely they are to miss one in a search, if it comes to that.”
“Which it won’t,” Mac growled.
Chapter Thirteen
A half hour later, Callie had been outfitted with multiple tiny electronic trackers. Mac had consented to wear one himself, and he suspected Nash had slipped a second into the handgrip of the Sig Sauer P228 he’d turned over to Mac and probably a third in the grip of the knife he now wore strapped to his ankle. Nash preferred to keep track of all his assets, human and otherwise. Tracking software had been installed on a fresh sat phone Nash had brought for Mac’s use, and the bugs registered to it. The same software resided on the computers at HSE.
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