by Elise Noble
“So we can trace the clients, but the FBI will be doing the same thing. And they already know who the clients at Radcliffe’s were because the fuckers were watching the place.”
“Yup. There has to be a link to The Banker somewhere.”
“On that memory stick.”
“What are the chances of recovering the data after it’s been through a colon?”
They hadn’t yet discussed who would do the physical processing, but Black was quite sure it wouldn’t be him. That job gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “getting your hands dirty.”
“It’s doubtful the memory stick itself will function, but we should be able to transfer the chip to a new shell. Agatha’s testing the process as we speak.”
Ah, Agatha. The new girl. Well, everybody had to start somewhere.
“That could take days,” Rafael said. “What if The Banker runs again?”
“At the moment, it’s unlikely he knows Arden stole the data. That gives us a day or two.”
“Couldn’t we give Arden laxatives? Get it out faster?”
“Do you want to explain to your sister why her boyfriend, who’s currently recovering from major surgery, is shitting his guts out on the toilet?”
“Boyfriend? Corazon’s judgement is impaired right now.”
“Because of her choice in men?”
“You don’t agree?”
No, Black didn’t. He’d been in the hospital when Arden woke up after surgery early this morning, and he’d seen the way the man looked at Corazon. And when Black asked why he’d swallowed the flash drive, Arden had struggled to drag his eyes away from her to answer.
“The data was almost copied when I heard movement outside,” he’d said. “I had the choice of finishing what I started or getting the hell out of there, but I realised if I left, Corazon might never find her friend. Since I’d given Cora a phone, I knew help was coming, and I figured someone would find the memory stick during my autopsy.”
Yeah, he’d basically sacrificed himself to save Isabella, so Black had to give the man kudos for that. And thanks to Alaric, Black understood what an utter asshole Merrick Childs was. No doubt he’d ordered Arden to stand by while the girls got abused, putting the man in an impossible position.
Rafael tended to judge people on instinct, but in Black’s view, those instincts still needed honing. His nephew was young and malleable. By his age, Black had already spent six years in the Navy and two with the CIA, which had done wonders for his evaluation skills. Rafael had been trained to shoot straight and dodge bullets, but finesse and social skills had passed him by.
Fia skipped in, still worryingly happy. Black wanted to suggest she start taking her meds again, but he also didn’t want to end up dead.
“Happy Christmas.”
She tossed him something small and black, and he caught it before realising it was a flash drive.
“Tell me this isn’t…”
“From Leander’s ass? No. It’s the photos from that party. My contact just delivered them.”
“The Banker?”
“Let’s take a look, shall we?”
Most of Fia’s pictures homed in on two men—her targets, but not Blackwood’s. But they did find a couple of photos of The Banker, and both were clearer than the FBI’s. Which put them one step ahead. Why did that matter so much? Because Black had plans for the man who’d put his niece through hell, and they didn’t involve arrest followed by a long, drawn-out trial.
Nate projected the pictures on the wall, twice life-size, and Black took a better look. The Banker was slim with fine features, almost dainty. Blue eyes. Nondescript. The kind of man you walked past in the street without a second glance. The only thing of note was the tattoo under his left pectoral—a mathematical formula. Black snapped a picture and sent it to Lara, the girlfriend of a colleague and a lady who knew far more about math than he ever would.
Black: Any idea what this means?
The answer came back seconds later.
Lara: It’s basic trigonometry, and it’s also a mathematical joke. tan c over sin c = sec c = sexy.
What kind of asshole had that tattooed on his chest?
Someone knocked softly on the door, and Black checked through the peephole. Mercy, carrying a tray of drinks from the coffee place next door. She’d offered to run errands, even though she was clearly nervous about leaving the hotel, so Black had sent her somewhere easy as a way of getting her to take that first step back into the world.
“Four black coffees. Rafael’s has sugar.”
The boy needed to ease up on the junk food if he wanted to go to the next level, although Emmy still snuck shit into her diet whenever possible.
“Thanks. You feeling okay?”
Mercy bobbed her head. “I thought going out would be worse than it was. Uh, why do you have a picture of Dirk on the screen?”
“You know him?”
“I don’t know him exactly, but he was one of Nevin’s clients.” She pointed at the tattoo. “But this must be an old picture because he had that removed a year ago. He said he got it for a bet when he was at college, but I never understood what it meant.”
Could this be the missing piece of the puzzle?
“You’re sure it’s the same man?”
“I think so. His chin’s different—he has a dimple now—and his nose is straighter, but apart from that, it’s Dirk. I’m sure he’s a cosmetic surgery addict. If you’re up close, you can see the scars behind his ears.”
“Nate, is there a Dirk in Nevin’s contacts?”
“Two seconds… Yes. There is.”
“Is the phone turned on?”
“It is at the moment. Located fifteen miles from here, a little way inland. Looks like a housing development. Do you think that’s him?”
“Only one way to find out, isn’t there?”
Records showed one occupant living at the spacious detached home near Wrightsville Beach, and that occupant was a woman named Dinah Weaver. She’d bought the place seven years ago, just before The Banker supposedly died in the fire. An exit strategy?
“Do you think she’s been hiding him all this time?” Rafael asked.
“Possibly,” Black said. “But who is she? A relative? A lover? Someone he’s paid a fuck-ton of money to? Nate, do we know how old she is?”
“Fifty-two, according to the DMV.”
Weaver’s driver’s licence appeared on the wall. She wore her light brown hair short with bangs falling over her forehead, and her glasses might have been fashionable in the nineties, but she’d only learned to drive eight years ago. Brown eyes. Straight nose. Cheeks that looked puffy like a hamster and out of proportion with the rest of her face, and a mole beside her nose. Plus a dimple in her chin.
Hmm…
Mack had back doors into the networks of more corporations than Black wanted to know about, and before long, they knew Dinah Weaver paid her utility bills on time, ordered sushi twice a week, enjoyed cable TV, and recently installed a new home gym. Oh, and she bought a lot of wigs.
“Can you put one of the pictures Sofia took of The Banker up next to the one of Weaver?”
Nate complied, and Black stared at the two. Weaver’s eyes were brown instead of blue, and she had fuller lips, but apart from the cheeks and the dimple, the underlying facial structure was the same. Strip away the hair and the glasses and the mole, and they already knew Dirk had changed his chin…
“It’s the same person.”
“You think? Her face is a different shape. Fatter.”
“All she’d have to do is stuff something into her mouth. Silicone pads, probably. Dermal filler for the lips. Coloured contacts. Look at the distance between the pupils, the proportions of the eyes to the nose to the mouth. Things it would be difficult for him to change.”
Mercy tentatively stepped forward. The girl was a contradiction—when she felt threatened, she put on a confident front, but that was all it was: a front. Underneath, she was as broken and vulnerable as
they came. Whatever happened after this, Black knew they wouldn’t simply be packing Mercy off back to Colombia. She needed support, and they’d give it to her.
“I also think it’s Dirk,” she said. “He had fatter lips when I first met him, like hers.”
No wonder the FBI hadn’t found The Banker. They’d been looking for a man with balls, not a coward who abused women as a hobby while living as one himself.
But Blackwood had found the fucker. Now they just needed to work out what to do with him.
With Rosie back to full working order after a hasty wing repair, Nate hunkered down in the back of the Porsche to take a look at Dinah Weaver’s house and its grounds while Sofia jogged around the neighbourhood with Emmy. Mercy had traded places with Black’s wife at the hospital so Cora wasn’t alone, and two men from Blackwood’s executive protection division had driven down from Raleigh to stand guard outside Leander’s room.
And when Rosie’s feed popped up on the monitor in the hotel room, it became immediately obvious they had a problem.
One, two, three suitcases stood in a row by the front door, and in an upstairs bedroom, The Banker paced while he spoke on the phone, wearing a knee-length floral shift dress and high-heeled pumps. He actually had quite a good figure, but he’d need to shave his stubble before he left the house.
“Mack, can you find out who he’s speaking to?”
“Give me two minutes…”
The asshole was getting ready to run, that much was clear. But where to? He finished his call, then opened a safe built into his bedroom wall. A thick white envelope, stacks of cash, a laptop—it all went into a briefcase. Nate flew Rosie around the rest of the windows, and the house wasn’t much of a home. If Black were a betting man, which let’s face it, he was, he’d put a thousand bucks on The Banker having another similar bolthole lined up after this one. Once he left, they might never find him.
“He called Prestige Limousines in Wilmington,” Mack said. “Call lasted six minutes and twelve seconds.”
If he wasn’t taking a car of his own, that suggested he was going to fly somewhere, but they had no idea what name he’d be using. Which meant the most efficient strategy would be to stop him from reaching the airport.
Black didn’t hesitate, just picked up his phone and dialled. “Ortiz, this is Charles Black. I need to speak to the smaller of the two women in Leander Arden’s room.”
The bodyguard from Raleigh put him through right away.
“Hola?”
“Mercy, we may have found our man, but I need to know how he spoke. Did Dirk have an accent?”
“Did you ever see the movie American Psycho?”
“He sounded like Patrick Bateman?”
“No, he behaved like Bateman, but he spoke more like Evelyn.”
“Bateman’s fiancée? He spoke like a woman?”
“Sí, his voice was sort of high pitched.”
Well, that certainly made things easier. Who should he use for the next part? Emmy was too British, Mack too southern, Ana too Russian, and Dan too New York. Black’s next call was to Sofia.
“Our target’s just called a limo company. I need you to find out where he’s going and when he’s leaving, and delay the car.”
“We’re going to intercept him?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Send me the number.”
“On its way. According to Mercy, he sounds like Evelyn in American Psycho.”
“He talks like a girl? I bet that didn’t cause him any issues growing up whatsoever.”
Weaver’s issues ran far deeper than a feminine voice. Black may have understood his career choice—understood it, but not condoned it—because greed clouded the judgement of many men. The Banker wouldn’t be the first to succumb to the lure of money. But the women? Weaver was sick to his rotten fucking core.
Why did he feel the need to lock them up like that? Like animals? Black didn’t know, but he’d take pleasure in asking that very question later.
But first, they had to catch the man, and they were so fucking close Black could taste his fetid blood. He paced the soulless hotel room in a manner reminiscent of The Banker himself, minus the pumps, of course, until Sofia called back five minutes later.
“The car was due to pick Dinah up at three thirty this afternoon. I’ve moved the booking to tomorrow, and now Dylan at the limo company thinks I’m an idiot who doesn’t know what day it is.”
“They’ll think you’re even more of an idiot tomorrow when their driver turns up and you’re not there.”
“Thanks. That makes me feel so much better.”
Two hours. They had two hours. Time to call Mr. Fix-it.
“Bradley, I don’t care what strings you have to pull, but I need a town car at the hotel within an hour. No driver, but I need a chauffeur’s hat.”
“Is this for some undercover thing?”
“Yes.”
“OMG! This is so exciting!”
“Just find me a car, Bradley.”
He did, because irritating though Bradley may sometimes be, he was also a genius when it came to organising the shit out of things. The Mercedes S-Class even had an entertainment system and a fully stocked minibar. Black tried the peaked cap on in front of the mirror and practised slouching just as Emmy and Sofia walked in.
“Hi, honey. We’re home.”
“Just in time. You both need to change into something that’ll hide your guns.”
Rafael watched silently from his spot beside the window. He’d wanted to be involved with the capture, but Black had vetoed that idea. Not only was Rafael operating in an unfamiliar country and wanted for murder, he was also angry, even more so now he’d found out what The Banker had done to his sister.
Black was angry too, but he’d long since learned how to lock the heat away and channel his emotions into cold fury. Rafael was still full of fire, and today, Black needed a cool head alongside him. Two, even—Emmy and Sofia.
Weaver barely gave him a second glance when he pulled up outside the soon-to-be-abandoned house and beeped the horn. The front door opened almost immediately and Dinah emerged, freshly shaved and wearing immaculate make-up.
“Let me take those bags, ma’am,” Black said.
“Thank you. I’ll keep the small one with me.”
Important, was it? They’d find out soon enough. Black squeezed the three cases into the trunk, slammed the lid, and took his place behind the wheel. In the back, Weaver sat stiffly, fiddling with his phone.
“There was a smash on Route 74 earlier, but it’s clear now. Don’t worry, I’ll get you to your destination in plenty of time. Are you flying for business or pleasure?”
“Business.”
“Must be nice to see the world. Going somewhere hot?”
“I’m paying you to drive, not have a conversation.”
That was okay. They could talk later. Black paused for the stop sign at the end of the road, and with impeccable timing, Emmy and Sofia materialised, one each side of the car, and slid into the back with Weaver.
The fucker hardly had time to breathe—let alone speak—before Sofia jabbed the needle into his neck, and Black allowed himself a rare smile as he set the satnav for Richmond. One more task checked off the list, and they’d make it home in time for dinner.
CHAPTER 44 - CORA
EMMY LEFT THE hospital in the morning, and Mercy came to keep me company while Lee slept. Slept and healed. His bruises were already starting to turn from angry red and purple to blackish brown, although they still looked just as painful.
That same pain was reflected in Mercy’s eyes.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” she whispered.
“It isn’t. Not until we find Izzy.”
“I’m so sorry. I meant—”
“It’s okay, I know what you meant.” I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. All the confidence Mercy first showed in the house had vanished, leaving behind a scared young woman. “And we’re close to the end. I’m sure we a
re. Have you…” I nearly asked whether she’d spoken to her family, but then I remembered she didn’t have any. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do now?”
“I don’t even know how I’ll get back to Colombia.”
“We’ll help. Me, my brother, Leander, all the other people involved in this. You’re not alone.”
Mercy’s eyes glistened with tears, and when she tried to blink them back, they cascaded down her cheeks.
“Hey, it’s okay. I mean it. We’re here for you.”
“I get that it sounds crazy, and I know Nevin was a freak, but being in that house was the first time I’d ever fitted in. I hated the men, but the girls… It was almost like having friends.”
“What about when you were growing up?”
Silence.
“Mercy? I won’t judge; I promise.”
How could I with my dysfunctional family?
“When I was six, my mama killed her boyfriend and went to prison. The other kids were horrible afterwards, especially when I ate to make myself feel better. Then in high school, the boys made jokes about me squashing them to death, so I just stopped going.”
“Who brought you up?”
“I lived in an orphanage in Bogotá. The people who ran it were nice, but so busy, and…” She gulped back more sobs. “I just wanted to be normal, you know?”
“But you changed. How did you get to Medellín?”
“Once I hit eighteen, I got emancipated from the welfare system, so I moved to Medellín for a fresh start. I lost weight quite quickly when I couldn’t afford food.”
Lee held out a hand as far as he could. “Hey, sweetheart, don’t cry. We’ll all do whatever it takes to get you back on your feet.”
“I don’t even know where to start. Since I wasn’t there to pay rent, the landlord will have emptied my apartment.”
“My family has an apartment in Medellín. It’s only small, but you can borrow the sofa until we work out a better solution.”
Or maybe she could take my bed, because my heart was begging to stay near Lee. He’d said he liked me, but how much? Enough that he’d want me to stick around in the United States for a while to see if we had a future together?