Keeping her head low, Cash sprinted from one car to the next, glancing up occasionally to make sure the kids had not changed course or stopped.
Finally, Cash arrived at a large white sedan. She peeked once again through the windows and realized she was almost parallel with the boy and the girl. They were less than fifty feet from the end of the block. She couldn’t allow them to reach the intersection. It was now or never.
Just a few feet ahead of the kids was the service entrance to the hotel—a dark recessed space adjacent to the sidewalk. It was the perfect place for an ambush. Cash gripped the pistol tightly with her finger on the trigger. She was a crack shot—she never missed. The boy didn’t stand a chance.
Cash stepped around the white sedan, leveled the pistol at the boy, and prepared to fire.
They were almost to the end of the block. Art glanced back over his shoulder. So far so good—no one seemed to be following them. Just a bit more, and they would reach the corner of E Street. From there, they could catch a cab and be far away from the hotel in a matter of minutes.
“You look cold,” said Camille.
“I’ll be okay,” Art assured her. “Besides, I think we’ve lost them.”
The words had barely left his mouth when he saw her—standing behind Camille, next to a large white car parked in the street. It was the woman in the brown jacket. She was pointing something at the boy—a gun of some sort.
Art had no time to react. There was a slight pop of air, and a small red dart implanted itself firmly in the thickly padded shoulder strap of his backpack. Art looked down—the dart had missed hitting his chest by less than an inch.
Startled by the small red dart that had suddenly appeared on the strap of Art’s backpack, Camille grabbed the dart and held it between her fingers. A tiny drop of milky liquid clung to the tip of the projectile.
Regina Cash stared in disbelief.
It had been a perfect shot, and yet—miraculously—the boy had been saved by the shoulder strap on his backpack.
The element of surprise was gone, and there was no time to load another tranquilizer dart. Cash would have to do this the hard way. She sprinted from the side of the car directly at the boy and the girl. Covering the distance in three quick strides, Cash pushed the kids toward the dark recess in the side of the hotel.
Chapter 30
Later, after waking up, Regina Cash would try to put the pieces together.
She remembered running across the sidewalk.
She remembered shoving the boy and the girl toward the service entrance of the hotel.
She remembered the shocked look on the boy’s face.
She remembered the girl yelling at her to stop.
She remembered thinking that Dorchek Palmer would be very pleased.
She remembered thinking that she was going to be very, very rich.
And she remembered a sudden, sharp pain in the side of her neck.
After that the memories ceased. There was only darkness.
She woke up an hour later, lying in the dark recesses of the service entrance at the Hotel Monaco with a small red dart in the side of her neck and a pounding headache.
7:16 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
Downtown streets, Washington, DC
“Camille?”
No answer.
“Camille?” Art asked again. The light from the sidewalk penetrated just a few feet into the recess in which he now stood. The lady in the brown jacket lay on the ground at his feet. He could see her chest rising and falling as she breathed—small frosty clouds drifting from her open mouth. But he didn’t see Camille.
“Camille?” he asked once more.
“Art?” Camille finally responded from the darkness. “What just happened?”
“I’m . . . not sure,” he replied. “We were walking down the sidewalk and then the woman in the brown jacket appeared. She had a gun and . . . well, then we’re here.”
“Where’s ‘here’?” asked Camille.
Art noticed a small sign on the wall. “Service entrance to the hotel,” he said.
Camille stepped out of the darkness and knelt by the woman lying on the ground. A red dart protruded from the side of her neck. In the woman’s hand was a small pistol.
“I wish my mom had let me have a phone,” said Camille.
Art strode over and put his hand on the girl’s shoulder. He knew this wasn’t easy on her.
“We’ll call her soon. I promise.”
“Call her?” said Camille. “Are you kidding? I want a picture of this! Nobody’s ever going to believe me. Do you know how exciting this is? I had that little dart in my hand—I had no idea what it was. I mean, I knew it was a dart. But what was it doing on your backpack, you know? So I was just looking at it when she shoved us. I didn’t even think—I just jabbed. Next thing I know, she’s on the ground. It’s like we’re secret agents or something.”
Art smiled. It was exciting—and ridiculous, and stupid, and incredibly dangerous. And they still had no idea why all these people were following them, or how many more might be out there.
“Let’s go,” Art said as he stepped around the woman. “I don’t want to be hanging around if more of these guys show up.”
Art peeked around the corner. The fire alarm had stopped, and he could see people filing back into the hotel at the far end of the block. “Coast is clear,” he said. “Follow me.”
Art and Camille stepped out of the service entrance, turned left, and continued quickly down the block until they reached E Street.
“There!” Camille said. She pointed at a taxi parked along the side of the street.
Art took one last glance back up the sidewalk and then followed Camille to the cab.
Nigel Stenhouse stood across the street from the Hotel Monaco’s emergency exit. The fire alarm had finally stopped blaring, and the crowd was beginning to funnel back into the hotel. He put his earpiece back into place.
“Regina? Eric?” he said. “Any sign of the kids?”
There was no answer—just static.
Stenhouse made his way across the street and stood next to the door leading back into the hotel. He kept a close eye on the rapidly thinning crowd, but there was no sign of the boy or the girl—or Eric McClain or Regina Cash.
It was as if they had all simply disappeared into thin air.
He tried contacting Regina Cash on her cell phone, but there was no response.
Stenhouse had no choice—he placed a call to Dorchek Palmer.
“Report,” Palmer said when he answered the phone.
Stenhouse grimaced. “No sign of the boy or girl,” he replied.
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Did you hear me?” Stenhouse asked.
“I heard you,” Palmer said calmly. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” replied Stenhouse. “And I can’t locate McClain or Cash, either.”
Silence again. Stenhouse suspected Palmer was trying to track down his teammates. Palmer had ways of doing things like that.
“I tracked Regina’s phone,” Palmer finally said. “She’s somewhere near the hotel just south of you.”
Stenhouse turned and started making his way down the street. “On my way,” he said.
After a hundred feet or so, Stenhouse could just make out a dark opening on the side of the hotel. It was a narrow space—carefully hidden in the wall of the massive stone building.
“I think I found a service entrance,” he said to Palmer, who did not respond.
Stenhouse quickened his pace. Moments later he turned the corner into the darkened passageway. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness.
“Well?” asked Dorchek Palmer.
“We have a problem,” replied Stenhouse. “I just sent you a picture.”
A moment later Palmer’s phone pinged. He opened the text message and looked at the photo that Stenhouse had sent.
&
nbsp; For the third time that day, Palmer was caught off-guard.
Stenhouse had sent him a photograph of Regina Cash, one of the most highly trained covert operatives in the world, lying unconscious on the ground.
“No sign of the kids,” said Stenhouse. “They’re still loose in the city.”
Camille opened the rear door of the taxi and climbed into the back seat. Her heart was beating a mile a minute. She glanced back to make sure no one was following them, but everything looked clear. Art followed her into the cab and pulled the door shut.
The taxi driver, a heavy middle-aged man who had not shaved for several days and smelled like stale coffee and corn flakes, turned and looked at them. “Little young to be catchin’ a taxi, aren’t ya?” he asked gruffly.
“Not that young,” snapped Camille. She was quickly running out of patience with adults.
“Taxis cost money,” replied the driver. “And I ain’t no babysitter. So get out and go call your parents to come get you.”
Art pulled three twenty-dollar bills out of his backpack and held them up. “Will this work?” he asked.
The driver contemplated the currency held between Art’s fingers.
“Don’t forget to tip,” the man said as he put the car into gear. “So where we headed?”
Art read the address from the coffeehouse receipt. The taxi pulled away from the curb and headed west along E Street.
Camille glanced out the rear window of the taxi. “Do you think there’s more of them?” she asked.
“I’d bet on it,” replied Art.
Camille sighed and settled back in her seat. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
Chapter 31
7:22 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
Downtown streets, Washington, DC
Detective Evans surveyed the chaos. Three police cars and a fire truck sat parked in the middle of Seventh Street, their flashing lights strobing the entire area. A wrecker was trying to maneuver into place as a crowd continued to mill around the accident. The SUV had yet to be moved, and its crumpled front end remained smashed against the side of the Hotel Monaco. The smell of burning oil hovered in the air. As if to make things worse, a fire alarm had gone off in the hotel, sending hundreds of people pouring into the street. The alarm had finally ended, but much of the crowd had yet to go away, many of them coming over to this side of the building to check out the accident. And to top things off, it was turning colder and the snow was picking up.
“Like I mentioned on the radio,” said Officer Jake Roberts, a twenty-something traffic cop with two years under his belt, “one witness swore that he saw two kids—one with bright red hair and a polka dot jacket—jump out of the car and take off down the sidewalk.” The officer gestured in the direction of F Street.
Detective Evans glanced toward the sidewalk. “Anyone else see them?” she asked.
“No, ma’am,” replied the officer. “But you know how it is with things like this—lots of smoke and confusion. No one’s really sure what they saw or what happened.”
The detective nodded. “Notify the other units to be on the alert for a girl with red hair wearing a red jacket with white polka dots. She’s probably with a blond boy in a blue jacket. If she’s trying to get home, she’ll head toward Dupont Circle.”
“Got it,” replied the officer.
Detective Evans walked back to the car where Mary Sullivan stood waiting.
“Well?” asked Mary.
“They were definitely here,” said the detective. “They were last seen heading north toward F Street.”
“What are we waiting for?” said Mary. “Let’s go after them.”
“You should really go home and wait there,” said the detective. “They might be heading in that direction.”
“My sister’s going to my house,” said Mary. “She’ll be there in case Camille shows up or calls.”
“Listen,” Detective Evans tried again, “I really think you should—”
Mary Sullivan cut off the detective before she could finish her sentence. “My daughter is somewhere in this city, and I will not go home until I find her. Understood?”
Detective Evans did understand. She would have done the same thing if it had been her child. “Understood,” she replied. “Let’s go find them.”
Detective Evans and Mary Sullivan were turning to get into the detective’s car when a short man dressed in a suit stepped in front of them. “Are you in charge?” he demanded in a high-pitched voice.
Evans pointed at a police officer assisting the tow-truck driver. “Actually,” she said, “the officer in charge of the accident scene is—”
“That police officer is just a kid!” screamed the man, whose face had turned a bright crimson. “He barely looks like he shaves. I demand to speak to someone in authority! I want someone who can make decisions! I WANT ANSWERS!”
The man looked as if the blood vessels in his temples were going to explode at any moment.
The detective sighed. “Okay,” she said, “you’re speaking to someone in authority, so calm down. I’m Detective Evans—what seems to be the problem?”
“Problem?” said the man as he waved his arms around wildly. “Are you blind? All of this is the problem. I’m James Appleton, manager of the Hotel Monaco, and this is completely, totally unacceptable. All of this noise and the lights—you’re absolutely ruining the night for my guests!”
“I can’t control where a wreck happens,” explained the detective. “As you can see, we’re trying to get it cleared as quickly as possible. And the fire alarm in your hotel wasn’t helping, you know.”
“It’s those two kids!” screamed Appleton hysterically. “I just know it. They probably had something to do with that wreck. They’ve already destroyed my lobby, and now they’ve—”
“Kids?” It was Mary Sullivan. She was standing next to the passenger-side door of the detective’s car. “Did you say ‘kids’?”
James Appleton pointed across the car at Mary. “I was not speaking to you,” he said.
Uh-oh, thought Detective Evans. Big mistake.
Mary marched around the car and seized Appleton by the collar of his jacket with both of her hands. “Did . . . you . . . say . . . ‘kids’?” she repeated slowly. Her voice was almost a growl.
Appleton cut his eyes toward the detective. “I suggest you answer her question,” Evans said.
“I . . . uh . . . two k-kids,” he stammered. “They came into my hotel, barred the door . . . and now the fire alarm. I just know it’s them.”
“Was there a girl?” Mary asked.
Appleton nodded. “Redhead.”
Mary pushed the small man away and pointed at the detective. “I’m heading to the hotel,” she said.
Chapter 32
7:43 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
G Street, Washington, DC
“We’re here,” the taxi driver announced as he brought the cab to a stop. Directly across the street was an old red-brick building that looked as if it had been squeezed into the narrow gap between the tall modern buildings on either side. The words STEAMING MONKEY COFFEE EMPORIUM were written in large white letters across the awning between the first and second floors. The tall windows on the front of the building glowed warmly. The snow seemed to be growing heavier by the minute.
Camille stepped out of the car.
“How much?” Art asked the driver.
“Twelve dollars,” he answered. “And don’t forget the tip.”
Art handed him two twenty-dollar bills. “Keep the change,” Art said. “And if anybody asks, you never saw us.”
“Not my first rodeo,” the driver said as he took the money. “Don’t know ya, ain’t seen ya.”
Art took his backpack and stepped out of the cab. He stood on the sidewalk next to Camille as the taxi pulled away.
“Anything?” she asked.
Art looked up and down the street for a trace of something familiar,
but there was nothing. “Not yet.”
They made their way across the street and up a narrow set of concrete stairs to the entrance to the coffee shop. They stood at the top of the steps as Art glanced around once again. The snow was making it difficult to see much more than fifty feet or so into the night—the boy felt as though he were in a snow globe. And nothing looked familiar. He closed his eyes. Art could hear music playing inside and the sounds of conversation. The air smelled thick of coffee. But the dam in his head remained firmly in place, the memories just out of reach.
“I’m cold,” said Camille as she nudged the boy from behind.
Art opened his eyes. The Yankees cap on top of Camille’s head was dusted with fresh snow. “Sorry,” he said.
He opened the door and they stepped inside.
The coffeehouse was long and narrow with high brick walls, a rusted tin ceiling, and wide oak flooring. Small wooden tables filled with twenty-somethings lined the left side of the room, and a long coffee bar with a massive chrome espresso machine occupied the right side. Large copper pendant lights hung from the ceiling and bathed the room in a golden glow. An eclectic collection of paintings and photographs adorned the walls. Jazz—maybe Miles Davis—played in the background.
“Anything?” asked Camille.
Art shook his head. “No. Not yet.”
Give it time, he told himself.
Camille prodded him. “Hungry?” she asked. She pointed to a glass cabinet filled with baked goods.
Art pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to Camille.
“Get us something to eat,” he said. “I’m going to the restroom.”
Camille watched as Art headed toward the rear of the coffee shop. She waited until he was out of sight and then rushed over to the counter. A short, thin girl with purple hair stood behind the register taking orders. She had a tattoo of Yoda on her left shoulder and a stud in her nose.
The Van Gogh Deception Page 13