by Elle Gray
“So, do you guys have a plan?” she asks.
I give her a grin. “We’re working on that.”
“Yeah well, you better work faster,” she remarks. “It feels like the avalanche of crap is heading downhill and I don’t want you guys caught up in it. I expect that when we get back, the three of us are going for mimosas—many mimosas—because I am looking forward to getting to know you better, Kit Wilder. We have a lot to talk about.”
Kit gives her a warm smile. “It’s a deal. And I’m looking forward to getting to know you as well.”
A wan smile touches my lips. The vibe in the air is good and there are a lot of smiles around the table. There’s a real sense of hope and optimism crackling in the air between us. But this op could go sideways in a million different ways. I want Kit and Astra to have a chance to get to know each other. I think the three of us would be great together.
So I hope we come through this intact. All of us. And I hope an endless mimosa brunch together is a deal we can keep.
Twenty-Nine
Kit’s Safehouse; Overlake District, 41872 E. Whitecap Street, Redmond, WA
After coordinating with Rosie—I make sure to loop her in this time—we get Astra and Benjamin squared away with the Marshals service and on a plane pointed at Southern California, we stop by my apartment before taking a circuitous route back to Kit’s safehouse just to make sure we weren’t followed. We get inside and Kit locked the door then set the alarm.
Once we’re safely squirreled away inside the house, a nervous energy fills the air around us. I start to pace the living room as I think about our next steps. From the corner of my eye, I see Kit doing the same thing and I turn to her. Our eyes meet and we both burst into laughter. It’s not that it’s all that funny—it’s more of a tension breaker—and we both needed the laugh.
“That’s a Mom thing,” Kit says.
I nod, remembering the way our mother would pace through the house when she was stressed out or trying to solve a problem. It’s something we both obviously picked up from her without realizing it. I take a seat at the dining room table and try to focus my energy on the task at hand. Kit drops into the chair across from me and waits to hear what I’m going to say.
I do my best thinking when I’m not thinking of the problem. I find that the answers usually come when I let my subconscious unravel the Gordian knot inside my head rather than trying to do it myself. What I need is something else to think about. Something else to focus my direct attention on. So, I figure delving into the past might be a good way to go.
“So, tell me something,” I start. “You said you were collecting information for all those years, right?”
She nods. “Yep. I sure did.”
“Why did the Thirteen kill Mom and Dad?” I ask. “And their whole working group, actually. Why was everybody murdered?”
“From what I’ve found, Mom and Dad’s working group tumbled onto the Thirteen. They were doing their thing even all the way back then,” she says. “They were putting together a case and somebody tipped off the Thirteen. Fearing they were going to be exposed, they acted. They sent out assassins to… ‘resolve the problem’,” she says with a note of disgust in her voice.
“Resolve the problem. It sounds so cold. So clinical,” I muse.
“It’s the lingo they use,” she replies. “You can’t rightly say I murdered those two people over an open phone line.”
“Yeah, I guess not.”
“I found Mom’s original files,” Kit says. “I’ve been using those as a basis for my own research and I’ve built out on it from there.”
“Where is it all?”
“Hidden,” she tells me. “Safe. Secure.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” she replies. “And for your own safety, I don’t want to tell you.”
“Fair enough. I’m fine with that,” I nod. “But we are going to need to produce something if we want to get Mangold to the bargaining table.”
“Worry not. I have copies on data sticks,” she replies. “Everything I’ve collected over the years is on a pair of them. Plus, you have yours, with the photos of his mass grave down in South America. It beats lugging around the boxes full of paper you were.”
She gives me a small grin then laughs. I cock my head and stare at her, unsure of what the joke is. That only seems to make her laugh even harder.
“What?” I ask.
“You don’t even realize how much like Dad you are, is all,” she says.
“What are you talking about?’
“He preferred hard copy to a data stick, too. Just like you,” she says. “It just struck me as funny that you are so like him that you don’t even realize it.”
“And you’re very like Mom in ways you don’t realize either.”
“I guess we both have pieces of them buried within us.”
I nod. “We do. And I like to think we got the best parts of them.”
“Well, we certainly got some of the quirkiest, that’s for sure.”
“Now that is the truth,” I admit with a chuckle.
Our laughter fades and we lapse into silence. Once again, my mind turns to work on the problem at hand and I realize we only really have one play here. And if Mangold doesn’t bite, I’m not sure what we’re going to do.
“Okay, the only thing we can do is try to make a deal with him,” I say. “I know he’s desperate to get his hands on the photos, so that’s going to be our biggest piece of leverage.”
“That makes sense,” Kit agrees. “Nothing else in that box will ruin him like those photos. Those could actually land him in jail.”
“Agreed.”
“What if he doesn’t go for it? What if he tells us to get lost?” she asks, echoing my earlier fears.
“I really don’t know what we’ll do if that happens,” I say. “I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that. I’m hoping he’ll be sufficiently freaked out that we’ll release the photos, he’ll come to the table and give us what we want.”
“If only the world were really that ideal.”
I laugh softly. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Fingers crossed,” I say. “Are you ready?”
She nods. I swallow hard and try to rein in my nervous energy. I know I’ve been putting this off as long as I have because I don’t see this really working. It’s a long shot. But hey, sometimes long shots pay off. It’s just that after that debacle at the storage facility, I have a feeling the reclusive and paranoid Willem Mangold might be gun shy about coming back to another meeting with us.
But if I’m in for a penny, I may as well be in for a pound. My hope is the fear of those pictures will be enough to get him to agree to a meet. I give myself a little shake. I can either sit here and worry about whether he’ll show up or not, or I can make the call and put the ball in motion. So, I snatch up my phone and punch in the number I have for him.
I hit the speakerphone button and set it down on the table as the call goes through and we hear the line ringing. Surprisingly, it’s picked up on the second ring.
“Agent Wilder, what a pleasant surprise,” he starts. “After our last little get-together, I didn’t imagine I would be hearing from you again. I’m pleased you called.”
“Well, after our last little get-together, I didn’t think you’d actually take my call. So, I too, am surprised,” I reply. “And I apologize about your men. Good help is so hard to find.”
“Yes, that was regrettable. But that is the price of doing business sometimes, unfortunately,” he says. “Worry not though, I have replacements already.”
“Oh well, I’m glad to hear that.”
“So, Agent Wilder, what is the nature of your call? Or were you just calling to extend your condolences to me?”
I lick my lips nervously and look up at Kit. Her lips are compressed into a tight line on her face, but she returns my look and gives me a nod, encouraging me to go on.
“I’m calling about business,�
� I tell him. “We never got to conclude ours the other night.”
“No, that is true as well. And since I haven’t seen those photos on any news source, I am assuming you are still in possession of them.”
“I am.”
“And can I further assume you aren’t going to just hand them over out of the goodness of your heart, even though you got what was promised to you when we made our original deal?” he asks. “After all, Agent Russo is alive, well, and in the company of a small coterie of US Marshals headed for who knows where.”
“Let’s not forget that at our last meeting, you did give your men an order to kill us,” I say. “So yes, if you want to prevent these photos from being published, there will now be an attempted murder fee tacked onto the price.”
Kit covers her mouth to keep herself from laughing out loud. She gives me a smile, her eyes sparkling with mischief. I give her a wink then turn back to the phone.
“And what is it you want, Agent Wilder?”
“Mr. Mangold, I’m tired of working. I’m tired of chasing guys like you around the country. And I’m especially tired of guys like your lapdog, Senator Graham, trying to make their bones on my back,” I say. “Graham wouldn’t know what it takes to be a cop or a Bureau agent because he doesn’t have a lick of courage in his entire body. And yet, he still feels comfortable sitting up there in his ivory tower passing judgment on those of us who actually do the work and put our lives on the line for the ungrateful people in this country. I’m tired, Mr. Mangold.”
“Well, that’s something I can certainly understand and relate to, Agent Wilder.”
“Good. Then you understand why my starting price will be two billion dollars,” I say. “And going forward, I want ten percent of your yearly earnings.”
“You have got to be out of your mind,” he says with a slight chuckle in his voice.
“Actually, I am quite sane, you’ll find. And if you look at the bigger picture, you’ll see that my asking price is quite reasonable,” I reply. “Wouldn’t you say that investing ten percent of your earnings is simply a prudent investment in the future maintenance of your fortune? Think about how much money you stand to lose if those pictures are published. Dare I say—everything?”
“This is outrageous. This is extortion,” he frowns, outrage coloring his voice.
“I like to think of it as an exchange of goods and services. Your net worth has nearly tripled in the last two years. Last year you pulled in twenty billion. And that was just last year alone,” I reply. “By comparison, two billion dollars is a drop in the bucket for you. Whereas for me, it will allow me to live out a life of pampered luxury on the Caribbean island of my choice.”
“You’re a federal officer, young lady—”
“And you had a hand in murdering three sitting Supreme Court Justices over the last few years, which helped pave the way for your windfall,” I cut him off. “So, what is your point? You aren’t really going to try to play the moral high ground game with me, are you?”
“My, my, you are just so cynical.”
“A lifetime of public service can do that to a person,” I say. “So, what is your decision, Mr. Mangold? Will you give me a small taste of what you made last year? Or are you willing to roll the dice that you can withstand the firestorm of the people seeing exactly how you built your campus down in Bocasilva?”
There’s a long pause on the line. I’m surprised that it’s taking this long for him to decide. It makes me think he’s actually considering giving me the money. Either that or he’s already trying to devise a plan to murder me in the most gruesome fashion possible. I’m just glad I’m not going to give him time to build a guillotine because I know he’d be putting that to use.
The longer he remains silent though, the more my level of fear ramps up. It makes me wonder what he’s thinking about. To help nudge his thinking in the right direction, rather than in whatever direction it’s running now, I decide to give him a little push.
“Tick-tock, Mr. Mangold,” I say. “What will it be? Give me a mere tenth of what you earned last year? Money you could find between the couch cushions? Or will you choose door number two and risk losing the other nine-tenths as you’re shipped off to prison for the rest of your life?”
“I expected better of you, Agent Wilder.”
“I don’t know why you would. Or did you think unabashed greed only applied to rich men like yourself?” I reply. “Oh, and just in case you’re thinking about another double-cross, my sister will be at an undisclosed location—one your men won’t be able to find her at—and unless I check in at our predetermined time, she will email copies of the photos to every newsroom in the country. Are we clear?”
“Where and when?” he asks, his tone bitter and angry.
“I’ll text you the information,” I say. “And I better not catch wind of any of your men lurking around. Especially your pet assassin, the Đavole,” I say. “Remember, I know how much you cherish the solitude and privacy in your hermitage, so you’d do well to keep in mind that if anything happens to me, we’ll make you the most famous man in America. You’ll be so famous, they’ll be driving tour buses past your house just to snap pictures of you.”
I disconnect the call and let out a long breath as Kit bursts into laughter.
“Oh my God, you were brilliant,” she says. “That was a terrific performance.”
“Think he bought it?”
“Absolutely. One hundred percent.”
“Think he’s going to try to kill me anyway?”
“Absolutely. One hundred percent,” Kit crows.
I laugh and shake my head. “Come on. Let’s get ready for showtime.”
My stomach churns as the fear washes through me. The stage is set, and all the players are taking their places. All I can do now is hope that when the curtain falls, that stage isn’t going to look like some Shakespearian tragedy.
Thirty
Nakamura Sculpture Garden; Capitol Hill District, Seattle, WA
The night is overcast again. The sky is an ugly shade of gray that looks more like smudged ash in the heavens than clouds. I walk through the doorway in the fence that surrounds the sculpture park. Set on an acre of land at the edge of the Capitol Hill District, the Nakamura Sculpture Garden houses more than sixty different sculptures of various mediums and inspirations.
I’d told Mangold to meet us in the section titled “Nightmares and Hellscapes,” just because I thought it was funny. As I wander along the path, taking in the visual representation of what’s in people’s minds, I find myself suddenly concerned about humanity as a whole. As I come around the corner of what looks like a giant head eating a smaller one, I spot Mangold sitting on a bench beneath a sculpture that represents the Devil—made out of beer cans. There’s something strangely poetic about that to me.
I walk over and sit on the bench on the other side of the narrow pathway that runs between them. I lean back and stare at him, then glance meaningfully at the large duffel bag sitting on the bench beside him.
“You know, you really should feel bad about what you’re doing here,” he comments. “This is a robbery?”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “Do you feel bad when you’re bilking people out of far more than what you’re giving me here today? I mean, seriously?
“That’s business. Deals are made and sometimes, people lose money on it,” he says. “That’s merely business.”
“And so is this,” I point out. “You are funding my retirement—early retirement, I should say.”
“And here I thought you were one of the good ones. One of the stand-up people inside the Bureau,” he says. “Color me surprised.”
I laugh softly. “Are you seriously trying to shame me? I don’t think you have any leg to stand on here. All I want is money. Among the various sundry crimes you’ve committed that I know about, you murdered eight hundred people. Are you seriously trying to compare the two things? Are you seriously trying to compare us?”
“A crime
is a crime.”
“That’s true,” I admit. “But even our justice system recognizes that some crimes are more heinous than others. That’s why if I were to be arrested for extortion, I wouldn’t do a fraction of the time you would do for mass murder, conspiracy, hiring a hitman… oh, and I’m sure if I dug around I’d probably find some money laundering, insider trading, racketeering... need I continue?”
He scoffs. “You speak as if you knew those people. As if you cared for them,” he spits, his voice tight with anger. “They were… dirt people. They lived in hovels. They didn’t matter. They were standing in the way of progress.”
“They had families, Mr. Mangold,” I say. “They mattered to somebody.”
“If that were true, and they truly mattered, then why was there no outrage about it when we put them in the ground?” he asks. “I’ll tell you why, Agent Wilder. Nobody cares about them. Nobody cared about it in the Philippines. Nobody cared when the Standard Fruit Company did it in Honduras. Nobody cared about it in Panama or all those massacres in the Dominican Republic. Nobody cared about it in Cambodia. Nobody cared when the Contras did it with some very patriotic backing. No raised red flags. No throngs of torches and pitchforks. Nobody but you has said boo about the people of Bocasilva, and they’ve been in the dirt for a good, long while now. The sad truth is, they didn’t matter. Everything I’ve done has just been one part of a long history of progress.”
His words hit me like a hammer blow. I want to vomit. It’s all I can do to keep the mask that I don’t care about these people. That I’m only in it for the money. But to tell the truth, even pretending that I don’t care makes me sick.
“You know what? You disgust me,” I say. “Let’s get this business done so I can get out of here and go take a hot bleach shower.”
“So dramatic,” he mutters. “Do you have what you promised?”
I hold up the keyring that contains the three drives. “Here are all of the drives. Two have all of the information I’ve collected about the Thirteen,” I tell him. “And the third has the photos of the mass grave you buried at your Paraguay campus. Your turn.”