A Harmless Little Plan (Harmless #3)

by Meli Raine

  Neither of us breathe. One, two, three, five seconds go by.

  Finally he shakes his head and slowly lets out his breath through his nose. “Then you have two choices. Let Lindsay die because you can’t figure out who to ask for help, or ask the wrong person and she dies, too.”

  “Those are terrible choices.”

  “Yeah. So pick the one that gives her a chance.”

  I hate being wrong.

  “We have to get her out of my apartment.”

  “You go anywhere near it, they’ll know. Whatever surveillance you’ve got going on, theirs is better.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know,” I reply, mocking his own words. As I speak, I crack open a cut on my lip, blood tainting my words.

  “The more time we waste talking the harder this mission becomes,” he points out.

  “Then shut up and move.”

  “Move where? How the hell can we get you within yards of your apartment? They’ll see us coming a mile away.”

  I spin through all the conceivable ways I can attack my own place. Beach? Bribe the security guard? Can’t do rooftop. Can’t dig a tunnel and get in.

  And then it hits me.

  I give Silas a hopeful look. “I have an idea.”

  “It better be good.”

  “It is. It involves gold bikinis and margaritas.”

  “Even better.”

  Chapter 5

  Lindsay

  They have to feed me.

  Right?

  Unless they plan to kill me in the next couple of hours.

  If they’re not feeding me, is that a sign? Or are they just assholes who don’t care about feeding me? My stomach gurgles. Then it makes an epic sound, like wet boulders being dragged through mud with air pockets.

  Muffled voices provide a strange background sound. None of their words is distinct, but the accumulation of them stacks up to create a ribbon of sound. Whatever they’re planning for me, they’re not tipping their hands.

  I’m left without a voice, without a way to get out, and without Drew.

  Time keeps changing. I’m on the bed again, but sitting up against the headboard, my hands in front of me in a zip tie. It’s better than having them behind me. Hurts less.

  That’s how I measure time now. Through pain. Less pain = easier to pass time.

  Time slows when the pain increases.

  I can’t think forward, either. If I anticipate time, think about the future, the pain increases, too.

  Mental pain.

  Mental pain that will soon convert to physical pain.

  What are they going to do to me?

  As I move, my hair tickles my neck. Because I’m living with my skin on fire, every nerve quick and ready to react, even a gentle touch like strands of hair against my skin feels horrible. My mind keeps playing through memories of the video I’ve seen of what they did to me.

  My gut tightens. I’m close to throwing up.

  If they’re going to torture me and kill me, I wish they’d just do it.

  But then again, if I draw this out long enough, Drew may have enough time to find me and save me.

  Which path do I choose? If I open my mouth and provoke them, I can get out of this no-man’s-land. I’m stuck waiting for them to act.

  I’m at their mercy on multiple levels.

  You get to a point after a while when any outcome is better than no outcome at all. Where any choice is better than not choosing.

  Where inaction turns you insane.

  And being stuck in your own head, a prisoner to your scrabbling mind, can be worse than death.

  There is a book on Drew’s nightstand, crooked and jutting out. It’s on top of a stack of books. I twist just enough, scooching over, moving slowly. I’m bored out of my mind and anything – anything – is better than staring at the ceiling and envisioning my own death.

  My fingers gain purchase on the book and it drops onto the bedspread.

  The title:

  Jane’s Military Aircraft Recognition Guide

  You have got to be kidding me.

  A laugh bubbles up, coming out like a snort, a choked gasp, the sound of disbelief and betrayal and the surreal in one bundle of air. I didn’t expect Eat Pray Love, but are you kidding me?

  My very last book I ever read will be this.

  I’m pretty damn sure my friend Jane isn’t the one who wrote it.

  Jane.

  Where’s Jane now?

  And then I wonder: seriously, Drew? This is your bedtime reading?

  I have so much to learn about him.

  A pang of sadness, of regret, powers through me at that thought.

  I’ll never get that chance. Ever. I’ll never learn about his domestic habits. Does he snore? What does he wear to bed at night? Does he like the room warm, or does he open the window? Is he a spooner? What’s his favorite breakfast?

  What’s it like to just spend time together living? Boring old daily life sounds like heaven – literally, heaven – to me right now.

  I glance at the damn book. There’s an airplane on the cover.

  If you told me I’d stay alive, I’d read that book cover to cover every day.

  My stomach growls again, the gurgle painful. I look at the bedside clock.

  Seven minutes have passed since I last looked.

  My eyes drift to a tiny, fuzzy gray thing behind the clock. It looks like a piece of velvet, stretched tight. It’s the color of my old cat, the color of ashes mixed well from a wood stove. The gray is buried in wires from the clock. Whatever it is, I can’t reach it.

  Someone in the other room shouts. All the blood drains out of my hands. My heart speeds up like a scared horse.

  They’re going to kill me with fear. Not their hands, or other body parts, or weapons.

  Good old-fashioned fear.

  What are they doing? How can I leave a clue for Drew? I start to move toward his nightstand. Hopefully he has a pen and something I can write on. My breath draws in and out, like the wind on dry corn husks. I curl the back of my tongue so it doesn’t sound so loud.

  As if on cue, Stellan walks in, that creepy half grin propping up one side of his face. He’s movie-star famous, but I can’t see it. When someone abuses you, all objective thought disappears. No matter how attractive he is, he’ll always trigger disgust in me.

  But I have to pretend.

  “Hey beautiful, look at you. Studying hard?” He looks at the book with genuine curiosity. Mocking laughter fills the room. “He reads this shit for fun? What a boring ass. All that work trying to outsmart us, and he thinks reading books like this will help?” He looks at me, his smile fading. “He won’t be reading anything for much longer. Just the walls of a prison cell after what we do to you.”

  “What?” I shouldn’t react. I can’t help it. What is he talking about? Why would Drew be in prison?

  “Don’t you get it, Lindsay? Why do you think we’re here? In Drew’s apartment?”

  “Drew would never join with you assholes. Never,” I counter. Some part of me just decided. Made a split-second decision.

  Apparently I have more fight left in me than I realized.

  “You think he’s part of us? No. Hell, no,” he says with a soft, creepy laugh. “He’s too soft. To easy.”

  Soft and easy are the last words I’d use to describe Drew. Ever.

  “We’re setting him up.”

  “For stalking?”

  “You really are stupid, aren’t you? No, not for stalking.”

  “Then for wh -- ”

  Oh.

  I get it.

  Oh, God.

  “For your murder, Lindsay. Poor paranoid stalker Drew went over the top and killed you.” He smirks. “At least, that’s what the headline will say tomorrow.”

  I let out a laugh, a sound like tinsel being dragged through teeth. “You’re planning to kill me and leave my body here, to make it look like Drew killed me in his apartment?” I go cold. So cold. My shoulders and gut
tighten and I start to shake involuntarily.

  But I laugh.

  “We fought about it,” Stellan says easily, like we’re talking about a policy debate, or which Georgetown Thai restaurant is best. “I thought we should set up a murder-suicide, but we have other reasons for keeping Drew alive.”

  Keeping Drew alive.

  “But not me?”

  He gives me a sad smile. “Sorry.”

  He’s not sorry.

  Not one bit.

  “Before you kill me, just tell me why.” Saying the words kill me makes me shake harder. I blink over and over, trying to let the truth of what’s happening sink in. I am alive now.

  I won’t be soon.

  My psyche isn’t equipped to think this way. Four years ago, I didn’t see it coming. They drugged me, slipping something in my drink. What happened in the past happened while I was unconscious.

  This? I know everything as it unfolds. This is so much worse. I didn’t know it could be worse.

  “Why? Because you deserve an answer?” he says in a mocking tone. “This isn’t a stupid police procedural show. We don’t owe you a monologue.”

  He’s using acting jargon. I flatter him.

  “You would know. You’ve been in enough thrillers. I heard about the one where you play the detective who solves everything.”

  “You’ve barely been home from your nuthouse. How would you know?”

  “My mom was bragging about what a good actor you are, and how you’ve risen so high,” I lie.

  “Your mom?”

  I nod and give a cynical grin, trying to match him. “Yeah.”

  John walks in and frowns at Stellan. “You’re not here to chit chat.”

  “Yes, I am,” Stellan argues. “Lindsay was just telling me how Monica loves my acting skills.”

  “High praise. She’s a fucking phony,” John says, as if they talk about my mom like this all the time.

  “She’s well preserved, though. Not MILF territory, but close.” Stellan gives me a look when he says MILF. It’s a look that makes the air freeze in my lungs.

  Buy time, I tell myself. Drew’s coming.

  “Any sign of him?” John asks.

  Stellan reaches in his back pocket for his phone, reads something on the screen, and says, “Jane says he’s out.”

  Jane?

  My friend Jane?

  I don’t say a word, but Stellan gives me a withering look. “Lindsay’s piecing it together. You can see the tiny little gears turning behind her dull eyes.” He reaches for me, one fingertip grazing my body from chin to the space between my breasts. My chest and throat heave.

  As his finger drops, he asks John, “He thinks it’s Paulson who got him released from detention?”

  “Yeah. We’re keeping Paulson busy in D.C. Broken planes and bureaucratic crap. By the time Drew realizes what’s happened, it’ll be too late all around.”

  Jane. Her name rings through my head like a gong. Jane found me four years ago, bleeding and beaten and --

  My friend Jane is part of this?

  She can’t be. She can’t.

  Because I’m pretty sure she was my darknet informant. Right before Drew showed up at her apartment, we had a conversation that seemed like she was so close to admitting it. So close, but she was edgy. Those strange looks she gave me when we met for coffee my first day home flip through my mind.

  “That’s right, Lindsay. Jane’s in on it. Everyone you know is. You really don’t understand how wide and how deep this goes.”

  Stellan gives John a wicked look, then they both turn to me.

  “Oh,” John says slowly, “you’re about to find out how deep.”

  The world goes dark as I faint.

  Drew

  Finding Tiffany’s phone number is easy when you have security clearance and every personal database at your disposal. Too bad my clearance has been canceled and I have to use Silas’ logins for everything.

  It’s even easier because when I type her name into Google, turns out she has a website. But that number requires a credit card and costs $4.99 per minute, so I call her private cell.

  And hope she doesn’t tip off the assholes in my apartment.

  “Hey,” says a soft, breathy feminine voice.

  “Tiffany?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Drew.”

  Silence.

  “Drew from next door. The personal trainer who lives next to you.”

  “Oh, sexy Drew!” Her voice drops to a purr. “Is that gorgeous friend of yours coming over again? Mark?”

  I have the phone on speaker. Silas gives me a raised-eyebrow look and mouths, Mark?

  I close my eyes and shake my head.

  He crosses his arms over his chest and stares intently at the phone.

  “No, Tiffany. I’m calling about something even better.”

  She lets out a low whistle of appreciation. “Better than a threesome with Mark? Do tell.”

  If Silas’s eyes get any wider they’ll be planets.

  “You do camera work, you said. Does that mean acting?”

  “Sure! Sure it can,” she says, a weird affect in her tone. I am pretty sure “camera work” means porn, but at this point, I don’t care. I just need to be able to manipulate her into helping me.

  “Interested in being part of a reality television show?”

  Silas gives me a skeptical look. I explained the plan to him earlier, but he’s not sold. He doesn’t think anyone is gullible enough to fall for this.

  “SQUEEEEE!” My eardrum shatters as Tiffany squeals. “Oh, my God, Drew! Yes!” She rushes through a series of pants and moans. “I have to call my agent! He’ll be thrilled. My big break! I knew this shit work I’ve been doing would come to an end soon. How much does it pay? When do we start?”

  “Can you start right now?”

  Silence.

  “Now?” Her voice is girly. “Right now?”

  “Right now. I can be there in five minutes.”

  “You want to start shooting now?”

  Yes. But not the way she thinks.

  “Sure. But Tiffany, this is a complicated show. I really need your help. Don’t say a word to anyone.”

  “Not even my agent?”

  “Not until tomorrow. No.”

  “Okay,” she says slowly. “What’s this reality show about, anyway?”

  “It’s about people who spy on their neighbors.”

  “Ooooo!”

  Silas rolls his eyes again.

  “So we’ll be filming constantly,” I explain, ignoring him. “Starting now. And you’ll help smuggle me into your apartment.”

  “Smuggle?”

  “Yeah, like someone who spies would do it.”

  “Oh, right. We need to make this look very professional.”

  “Exactly. I knew you were the perfect woman for this,” I answer, shining her on.

  She makes an airy sound of glee.

  “So what do I do?”

  “A guy in a repair van is going to drive down the road in a minute. As soon as you see the van, open your garage. He’ll drive in, and you’ll shut the garage.”

  She’s silent for a few beats. “That’s it?”

  “To start.”

  “I have dialogue, right? This isn’t some cheesy walk-on extra part.”

  “Oh, no,” I reply. “You’re the lead actress.”

  “The lead?” she gasps. “This is too good to be true!”

  “Tell me about it,” Silas mutters.

  “What do I do again?”

  “You open the garage door when you see the van. We pull in. Close the garage door.” I grit my teeth. Hopefully I haven’t overestimated her ability to retain basic instructions.

  “And cameras will be rolling?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “How much what?”

  “How much does this pay? Union scale?”

  “Sure. Yes. Right.”

  “Okay, Drew!” Her
voice is a little loud.

  “One more thing – my name is Pete.”

  “Pete?”

  “Yeah. For the show. You know. Acting.”

  Pete? Silas mouths.

  “Can I use my regular name? Like on other reality television shows? I need the recognition. Why don’t you use Drew?”

  “I’m incognito.”

  “I thought you said you were Pete?”

  I don’t even bother to look at Silas’ reaction.

  “Watch out the window for a van. And whatever you do, don’t say my real name.”

  “Okay.” She pauses. “So that means...”

  “Don’t call me Drew.”

  “Right. You’re Pete!”

  “Yes.” I feel like I should give her a trophy for remembering. Lindsay’s life rests in this woman’s hands?

  “And when you’re in my apartment, I should assume the cameras are on?”

  “Yes. See you shortly.” I hang up.

  “You’re crazy,” Silas says.

  “Heard from Mark?”

  “No.”

  “Then this is our best option.”

  “You’re relying on a porn star to help smuggle you into her apartment so you can covertly break into your own apartment and rescue Lindsay.”

  “You got a better plan?”

  He just inhales slowly.

  “I thought so. This is the best plan. Mark got me out. He did the important part. I wish I knew where he was and could talk to him. I can’t. So we proceed.”

  “Which means I need to get my hands on a surveillance van that looks like a handyman vehicle.”

  “Right.”

  “Be back in twenty.”

  “Make it fast.”

  He doesn’t even answer as he peels out, leaving me restless.

  But with a plan.

  Chapter 6

  Lindsay

  I hate fainting. Actually, the fainting part isn’t so bad. It’s the waking up that sucks. You never know exactly where you are or when it is. Your stomach goes sour and your skin shakes.

  Or maybe that’s just me having a terror response to waking up naked, on my back on Drew’s bed, my wrists cuffed in front of me.

  John and Stellan are at the foot of the bed. Electric terror pours through me at the sight.

  John’s on the phone. “She’s supposed to deliver the information. No line is secure, so we’re using mules.”