by Brett King
Brynstone was starting to like this woman.
McHardy crumpled against her before she flipped him over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry. She disappeared out the door, taking the professor with her.
Damn.
Brynstone had to move fast. The Indian woman had the Roman facemask.
He rose up in the chair and crashed it against the wall, the impact breaking the arms. Not as clean an escape as in the movies, but it gave him the freedom to wiggle free from the busted chair. Dropping to the floor, he slid his bound wrists beneath his butt and brought them out in front. Brynstone took the throwing weapon and worked on the handcuff knot. The stainless-steel teeth cut the rope, sawing it open.
Snapping the severed cords, he dropped them and moved to Véronique. He touched his fingers to her throat and discovered a faint pulse.
He found her cell. Back in the Paris cemetery, Nessa and her thugs had taken his phone. It was tempting to borrow this one, but he decided against it.
He dialed 999, the United Kingdom’s emergency phone number, and growled into the phone, “Get an ambulance over here. I have a woman in her early thirties with possible internal bleeding.”
Ignoring the operator, he placed the phone on the floor beside her, so they could trace the call.
The air outside the warehouse carried the fresh scent of rain. Looking down, he found two guards slumped on the wet ground. Like Véronique, the men had faced the Indian woman and lost. He pulled a handgun from one guard but didn’t check to see if they were alive. An ambulance would arrive soon.
He heard a car door.
Looking across the parking lot, he spied the woman with shoulder-length black hair shoving Math McHardy inside a black Alfa Romeo Spider.
Brynstone sprinted toward them.
It would be tough to catch her. She was already opening the driver-side door and he was still half the distance across the parking lot. That’s when he noticed a red 1967 MGB roadster parked nearby.
Things were looking up.
Chapter 18
New York City
6:42 p.m.
“Cori,” Jared Cassidy called from another room. “Better get in here fast.”
Standing in the bathroom of the Resnick apartment, she had finished weaving Shay’s hair into a waterfall twist braid. Cori hurried down the hallway as the girl stayed behind to line up small bottles of nail polish along the counter.
Turning the corner, Cori found her brother watching television. On the screen, a female reporter with a sweep of golden hair stood outside the Brandonstein Center for Gifted Children.
Jared turned up the volume.
“Bill, authorities are reporting that eight teachers and staff members were sent to a local hospital. We’re told that one parent—a woman named Kaylyn Brynstone—was injured during the firefight. Sources tell our Eyewitness News team that her injuries are not serious and she should be released sometime tomorrow. Her daughter attends the school behind me. The little girl was picked up by her grandmother and is excited for her mother’s release. The cause of the shooting is still unknown at this time.”
The reporter signed off as the network cut to the coanchor.
Jared punched the Mute button. “Shayna’s mom is okay.”
“That’s not right. Kaylyn was on the stairs behind me. They said her injuries weren’t serious, but I swear she was hit near her heart.”
“Maybe you didn’t see it right.”
“Jared, don’t you believe me?”
“Look, everything happened fast. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I know everything happened fast. I was there. I saw the blood. Kaylyn was behind us.” Her voice trembled. “They shot her. It was terrible. And what was that crap about the grandma? Shay’s in the other room. They got that totally wrong.”
He crossed his arms. “Yeah, that’s weird. They talked to a cop before you came in. He confirmed what they were saying.”
Cori rubbed her forehead and started walking away.
“Where’re you going?” her brother called.
She didn’t answer. She returned to the bathroom, kneeling beside Shayna.
“Sweetie, I have a question. Have you talked to your grandma today?”
She scrunched up her nose. “I have two grandmas. One lives with God now.”
“Your other grandma. Where is she?”
“Grandma Brynstone? She’s in that place.”
“What place?”
“Um, I can’t remember. It’s super far away. She just went there on a jet plane.” Shayna maneuvered a bottle of eggplant-colored polish, positioning it with others into an S shape.
“Know what state?”
She shook her head. “That other country across the ocean. It’s hard to pronounce.”
“But you haven’t talked to her in a while?”
“Nope. I miss her, but I really miss my daddy.”
London
11:43 p.m.
Driving the black Spider, Rashmi Raja glanced at the passenger slumped in the seat beside her. Watching Math McHardy rub his head, she decided he didn’t have much fight in him.
As she drove on First Avenue, a London Ambulance Service vehicle blazed past her. Raja looked in the rearview mirror and saw red reflective chevrons on the ambulance’s back doors. It was headed in the direction of the Kilburn warehouse.
She noticed headlights and saw a little red sports cloth-top trailing her.
Another glance at McHardy. His silver hair was disheveled. Midfifties, was her guess. He had a long bony nose and narrow suspicious eyes couched in darkened wrinkles. The man looked dazed. She checked the street ahead before stealing another look at the mirror. The MGB roadster stayed with her.
Interesting.
Hitting the accelerator, Raja turned onto Herries Street. The other driver seemed intent on tailing her around west London. She had taken out two male guards plus a woman back at the warehouse before abducting McHardy. Was a bodyguard chasing her? If so, he wasn’t getting paid enough.
Raja took it faster, passing a primary school and a blur of shops. Earlier, she had seen a police station in Paddington Green. Thankfully, there hadn’t been any sign of law enforcement so far.
The car behind closed in.
She swerved hard, cutting in front of the roadster. She smiled. On the rain-swept streets, the car slid as the driver overcorrected. Her smile vanished as the other driver managed to regain control. He was right back on her tail.
“What’s going on?” McHardy called, his face all hard angles. He no longer slumped in the seat, but was braced upright.
“Put on your seat belt,” Raja ordered. “People in the car behind us want to kill you,” she lied, hoping to win his trust. “I’m trying to save you. Shut up and let me do my job.”
She punched the accelerator again.
McHardy turned back to look at the roadster. He got the message and buckled his seat belt.
Raja tried a quick maneuver. She pulled the Alfa Romeo Spider onto a dirt strip behind a garage in Westbourne Grove. Bad move. The roadster caught up and collided with her car, pushing it against the wall of the metal garage. Her tires kicked dirt high into the air as she pulled away, but the other driver read her move. He cut in front, forcing her to swerve hard to avoid him. Beside her, McHardy scrunched back down in his seat, raging in a Scottish brogue. She didn’t understand all the words, but they had the sound of profanity. It all turned ugly for her when a tire ruptured on the Spider. The disintegrating tread slowed the car as she headed for another street. The other driver took advantage, pulling in front again, this time to block her escape.
Enough games. It was time to kick some butt.
“This guy is after you,” Raja shouted. “Wanna live? Stay in the car and stay low. I’ll handle him.”
She opened her door as McHardy crou
ched on the floor. She went into a stance and aimed her Beretta at the other car. She stared at the roadster, then blinked. There was no sign of the driver.
Where’d he go?
Made no sense. It was like a ghost had been driving the car. Maybe the guy had ducked beneath the dashboard. Outside the car, she stood on tiptoes, trying to see.
From behind, a gun barrel nuzzled Rashmi Raja’s neck.
Chapter 19
New York City
6:43 p.m.
Jared Cassidy paced the kitchen.
“What’s the name of the researcher who lives here?”
“Tina Resnick.”
“Maybe she was injured in the shooting.”
“Maybe so,” Cori answered. “When she ran into the hallway back at the school, I heard gunfire.”
“We can’t stay here, Cor. We need to go.”
“Where? The police covered up the truth about Kaylyn’s shooting. I’m glad I waited before contacting them.”
She dropped frozen pastries into the toaster’s twin slots. Shay was eating the first batch in the other room. Never in her life had Cori owned a reliable toaster. She wasn’t the only one. The Resnick toaster branded the pastry’s hide with black stripes. She took a big bite, then recoiled as the pastry burned her mouth.
Her brother leaned against the counter. “Let’s say Dr. Resnick was murdered. Now you’re in her house? Doesn’t look good, Cor. Plus, you got into that fight with Kaylyn Brynstone, then you take Shayna, and now you’re hiding out. NYPD is gonna think you worked with the bad guys to get the kid.”
“Thanks, Jared. I feel so much better now.” She blew on the pastry.
“The woman on TV said there were no serious injuries. I know that’s not true about the mom, but it might be true about Resnick. She might be on her way home.”
Cori hadn’t thought about that.
“Let’s get Shay out of here. Then we’ll decide where to go.”
A few minutes later, they were in the stairwell. Jared was on the phone, making hotel reservations. Cori raised her tongue, exploring the inflamed ridges where the toaster pastry had burned the roof of her mouth. Good thing Shay hadn’t bitten into that one.
“Is he calling about my mom?” Shay asked.
Cori frowned. “He’s finding us a new place to go. We need to get you safe; then we’ll find out about your mom.”
“I wish Daddy was here.”
“Me too, sweetie. Me too.”
Outside, the August sunshine was still dazzling. Cori slipped on sunglasses, then noticed Shay squinting. She made a mental note to buy her a pair. By the time they’d stepped outside, Jared had made hotel reservations on Broadway at Forty-Seventh Street.
“We’re all set.”
“Why Times Square?”
“You told me one time locals stay away from that place.”
“It’s a tourist destination.”
“Well, you live in the city. They wouldn’t expect you to go there.”
Right now, Cori had to admit that she didn’t have a better idea.
Emerging from the subway, they walked by a vendor parked at curbside. Shayna looked up pleadingly at Jared. “Can I have some ice cream?”
She took his hand and led him to the vendor. He glanced back at his sister.
“Girl knows how to get what she wants.”
Cori nodded. “I know.”
Shayna chose a SpongeBob SquarePants popsicle, the frozen treat molded as a yellow wedge with a grinning red mouth and black gumball eyes. Cori grabbed a raspberry sorbet cone sculpted into two uniform mounds. Inspired by Shay’s choice, Jared bought a Batman popsicle, the superhero’s horned mask and lantern jaw impaled on a flat stick.
“Thanks, Jared,” the child said, patting his arm. “Can my imaginary friends get some ice cream?”
“Friends?” he asked. “Most kids have one. You must be popular. How many do you have?”
“Twelve,” Cori answered for her. “Only eleven are here.”
“There’re all here,” Shayna corrected.
“The one you don’t like is here, too?”
The girl nodded.
Jared made a puzzled look. Cori could tell what he was thinking. Why would you spend time with an imaginary friend you didn’t like?
“Why don’t you like him?” Jared asked.
“He’s super mean. His name is Monkey Guns.”
Jared laughed.
Shayna looked hurt. “I don’t like to talk about him.”
“Sorry, kid. Didn’t mean to upset you.”
A melting corner from SpongeBob’s head dropped onto her shirt, leaving a yellowish stain. A tear welled in her eye.
“Is my shirt ruined?” she asked in a quivering voice.
“It’ll be fine,” Cori assured her, distractedly wiping the fabric with a napkin as she glanced down the street.
A man at the corner watched Shayna. The light changed. He remained on the sidewalk, not crossing with the others. Wearing a knit cap and a scraggly beard, he didn’t look like an agent. At the last minute, he decided to move into the crosswalk.
He still managed a look over his shoulder at Shayna.
Cori whispered to her brother. “Shay’s had a tough day. It’s catching up to her.” She looked in the direction of a tchotchke shop. “Let’s get her a new shirt.”
New York City
7:05 p.m.
Stephen Angelilli lingered in the kitchen of Tina Resnick’s apartment. He knew her. Every six weeks, Angelilli consulted with Resnick at the Brandonstein Center. The school psychologist had worked one-on-one with Shayna Brynstone.
“No sign of them,” Patrick Langston reported, coming into Resnick’s kitchen.
“Maybe not, but they were here.”
“Think so?”
Angelilli nodded. Everything in the kitchen was unplugged. The Vita-Mix blender. The coffee pot. The cell phone charger. Everything, that is, except the toaster.
He examined it.
Smelled like something had burned. Tina Resnick’s husband was in Japan, and she was in the hospital. Their adult kids had all moved out. So, who was using the toaster?
He glanced across the apartment to Resnick’s office, where he’d seen a computer. Had Cori Cassidy searched it for information relating to Wonderland?
Langston checked his phone. “Something interesting came in, sir. Cassidy’s brother is in town. He called her earlier today.”
“Track the signal,” Angelilli ordered. “Maybe he can help us find his sister.”
Chapter 20
London
12:05 a.m.
Brynstone aimed the handgun at the Indian woman’s head, the barrel pressing against her long black hair. With liquid speed, she spun around, kicking the gun from his hand. He’d let his guard down.
Stupid mistake—it wouldn’t happen again.
Facing him now, she tried another capoeira move, this one a forward punch known as the asfixiante. He seized her wrist before she connected. Clutching her now, he sensed the vibrancy of muscles packed into her forearm. She was serious about the attack and he could tell the woman wanted to hurt him. She brought a swift palm strike. He snatched her left hand, holding both wrists now.
The woman seethed.
Brynstone sensed her foot raising, moving in for a thrusting kick from the front. He twisted her arms, spinning her away as if executing some violent tango, then wrapped his arms around her to draw her back close to his chest. Embracing her. Energy sizzled inside her taut body. She didn’t like a man controlling her.
Brynstone unfurled his arms, flinging her toward the car. She caught herself before hitting it. She curled as she rebounded, then straightened and fixed her piercing gaze on him.
“You were at the warehouse,” she said. “A prisoner. How did you es
cape?”
“With your help.” He held up her throwing weapon.
She sneered and balled her hand into a fist.
“You tried that already,” he said. “We both know hand-to-hand combat isn’t working for you right now.”
“At least I didn’t draw a gun on a defenseless woman.”
“You’re not defenseless.”
“Glad you noticed,” she purred.
“Why do you want Math McHardy?”
“He’s a brilliant thinker.”
“You in the habit of kidnapping smart people?”
“If they have something I need.”
“What do you need?”
She took a step forward. The woman reached up and clenched his chin, holding it with a firm grip. “What are you offering?”
He turned his head, pulling free from her hand. He glanced at the car. Still dazed from his abduction, McHardy was watching them as he held his head.
“He’s not young,” Brynstone said. “You were rough on him.”
“He didn’t come peacefully.”
“Give me the Roman facemask.”
“It’s in the car.”
“Get it.”
“I have a feeling,” she said, “we might be looking for the same thing. Maybe we want Math McHardy for the same reason.” She flashed a sexy smile. “Wanna partner up for this job?”
Brynstone didn’t answer. Muscles tightened around his jaw. Was this a game? He couldn’t be certain.
All at once, he had the feeling he had cornered a black widow spider.
New York City
7:15 p.m.
Shay tried on sunglasses, looking heartbreakingly adorable the whole time. Her current pair were rimmed in Sleeping Beauty pink and adorned with sparkles. She cocked her head as she studied her look in the mirror, posing like a little movie star.
“What a cutie,” a white-haired woman said. With red lipstick and an aggressive floral-print dress, she stood out among the tourists crowding the Times Square shop. “How old? Seven? Eight, maybe?”