by Meg Gardiner
The stinging in my own eyes was full of shame, because my confidence arose from evidence rather than from trust in him. “I got the proof in London.”
“London?”
“Jax obtained NSA satellite imagery of the shooting.”
His eyes widened, but he slumped. “Didn’t know there was satellite imagery.”
“Your friend Colonel Chittiburong helped obtain it.”
“Niram? Lord alive.”
I glanced at the container, continuing to speak quietly, so that Rio wouldn’t hear. “Rio ordered the killing.”
His gaze lengthened. After a pensive moment he drank the rest of the water and ate the candy bar I handed him, and then another. He chewed with a pleasure that looked close to anguish.
Finally he wiped his mouth. “You know why Hank died?”
“I think so. Dad, listen. Jax left an insurance policy. It was a memo from the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, authorizing Riverbend.”
“My Lord. Then, doesn’t matter why Hank was killed. That memo’s what counts.”
“It was signed,” I said. “U.S. senators put their names on the document, authorizing everything.”
“Everybody blames the CIA and the president for this kind of operation, but those senators gave it the okay.” He shook his head. “The kill chain. That’s where it ended. That’s what Rio wants, those names.”
He finished the candy bar, and this time when I handed him the water bottle he was able to hold it himself. However, my own throat was dry. I knew that the Senate memo wasn’t what Rio wanted. Dad simply didn’t realize that yet.
A shadow swept over the ground as a stacking crane approached. Whirring and clattering, its cables extended and the latching gear neatly grabbed the container next to Rio’s, setting down on top of it like a lid. Its hooks slid home into the corner fittings, and with barely a groan it lifted the thing straight up and carried it away.
Dad watched. “If it comes for Rio, let it take her.”
I saw no trace of humor on his face. Though exhausted and weak, he nevertheless had his cavalry scout glare: Out there, it’s nothing but Apaches. Watch your back and strike first if you have to.
Was this what had connected him to Jax—this pitiless belief that justice called for an instant reckoning? Was this how Jax justified her actions—as a refiner’s fire, sword of death, all nuance ablated to tactics and craft, while her life became a knife?
Now buried deep into my own life. I stared at my father, but in my mind I saw Jax’s face in that final video footage from the London bank, her longing and remorse, knowing he was gone from her for good. I glanced away at the shining tarmac, not ready to bring up the subject. Let him get some more water, some more strength.
Footsteps clunked in the distance as somebody came thudding along the tops of the containers. Above us Drew Farelli appeared. He waved, clambered awkwardly down, and ran up looking windblown and shocked as hell.
“Mr. Delaney?” He shook Dad’s hand, his face fighting disbelief and horror. “Are you all right?”
Dad nodded.
“Where’s Lily?” I said.
“At her car, waiting for the port police. She told me how to find you.”
“Did she call the paramedics?”
He kept staring at Dad, his cheeks growing ever redder. “Don’t know; I didn’t stick around to hear the conversation.”
“Where’s Jesse?”
Dad put his hands on his knees. “My question exactly.”
“With Lily.” Drew looked puzzled, sensing an undertone of displeasure, and glanced around. “Rio Sanger?”
Dad and I pointed at the container.
Drew stared at it as though wanting to peer in but afraid that snakes would burst out if he touched the doors. I gave Dad another bottle of the rehydration mixture, anxious to get more H2O and electrolytes into his system. He took it but could still barely clench his hand around the bottle.
“Drew, give me your phone,” I said. “I want to double-check that they’re sending the paramedics.”
He hesitated a moment, still looking at the container doors, and handed it over. I dialed Lily’s phone. Busy.
Drew turned to Dad. “You were held prisoner in this container?”
Dad nodded and peered up at me. His expression was severe. “I told Jesse to keep you out of this.”
“And he’s ruthless at carrying out your wishes,” I said. “It’s just that I’m even more ruthless at evading them.”
I tried Lily again. Still busy. Dialed Jesse. Unavailable. I bet his phone was dead.
Drew’s face was crimson, as though comprehension had finally dawned. “What happened to you?”
Getting out a few words at a time, Dad told him the bare bones. Believe him, doofus, I wanted to say. Hear what he’s saying and pay attention. This man is not your enemy. Not a criminal. He’s a goddamned hero.
I felt tears coming on again. Fumbling with the phone through shimmering vision, I scrolled past Jesse’s number and hit the call button.
I heard it ring. Finally. I waited for Lily to pick up.
“What?”
I didn’t respond. It was a man’s voice.
“Who is this?” he said. “Farelli?”
My skin went cold. I checked the display: It was a Los Angeles number. I hadn’t called Lily or Jesse, but the last number Drew Farelli had dialed.
It was Christian Sanger.
35
I stood frozen. Sunlight glared from wet pavement. A gust of wind ruffled my hair.
“Farelli, what do you want?” Christian said.
I glanced more carefully at the number on the display. It was the same cell phone number Christian had written on his Aston Martin car-hire agreement. We were screwed.
Quietly I hung up and immediately dialed Lily again. It was still busy, or perhaps just out of order. Tried Jesse. Still no service.
Farelli continued talking to Dad, so concerned, so embarrassed and excited. Or maybe just jumpy.
Drew had not called the port police or LAPD SWAT. He had called Christian. We were in unbelievable trouble, but I couldn’t give the game away. Setting the phone to vibrate so Farelli wouldn’t hear it if Christian called back, I panned the scene for weapons. A stick, a bolt, a sharp object.
Dad was my best weapon.
Farelli stood with his arms crossed, feet wide, a courtroom stance, nodding pensively as Dad eked out a few simple words at a time. I tucked the phone in my pocket and crouched down at Dad’s side.
I handed him a candy bar. “We need that Kenpo thing again.”
He glanced at me.
“Think I could do it?” I said.
He locked eyes with me. He didn’t even look at Farelli, had stopped looking at him completely.
“The knee’s the worst thing,” he said. “Hit it sideways and bam, school’s out. Was a woman did it, too, smaller than you, Kit.” He nodded at the broom handle he was using as a cane. “If I hadn’t found that, I’d have been up the creek.”
“Really?”
“Clip him.”
Behind me Farelli said, “Evan, my phone?”
I saw his shadow and his figure distorted in the reflection from the puddles.
“Sure.”
I half stood, as though reaching into my pocket. I picked up the broom handle. It had some heft but not a huge amount. I told myself, Hard.
I spun, arm extended, and with everything I had I slammed the handle against the side of Farelli’s knee.
I heard a crack. Farelli shouted and dropped to the ground. He crumpled in a puddle and lay writhing and shrieking, grabbing his leg. I stared in surprise at how it had worked.
“Kit, again.”
Breaking out of the spell, I swung the handle and hammered his other knee. The blow rang up my arm. Farelli tried to ball up and couldn’t. I rammed the handle down on his kneecap like a pile driver. He screamed, arched his back, and gave me a crazed look.
“What the fuck was that for?”
Dad dived on him. He punched him in the head. He punched him in the jaw and in the mouth. Blood streamed from Farelli’s lips and nose. Dad lay on top of him and pressed his forearm across his windpipe.
“Don’t talk to my daughter that way.”
Drew clawed at Dad’s arm but made no headway. Weak though Dad was, all he had to do was continue leaning on Drew’s neck and the pressure would suffocate him.
I dropped down on all fours next to them like a wrestling referee and leaned close to Farelli’s ear.
“Where’s Christian?” I said.
Farelli dug his fingernails into Dad’s forearm like a rat clawing to escape a trap. His face was beet red, his eyes bloodshot and leaking tears.
“Where’s Christian? Tell me and I’ll get Dad to stop this.”
Farelli’s eyes jumped to me and he mouthed, Don’t know.
“Not good enough.” I nodded to Dad. “Finish him.”
They both looked at me. Farelli was hysterical, Dad alarmed.
Farelli choked, “I’ll find out.”
I watched him suffuse and his pain turn to terror, and in my head I counted to five. “Fine.”
Dad rolled off him. Farelli gasped for breath, palms going to his throat, tears rolling down his face.
I took off my belt. “Hands.”
He held them out. I bound him and frisked him, pulling pens from his pockets, running my hands down his legs, and forcing myself not to flinch as he barked like an injured dog when I touched his knees. Finding no weapons, I stood up and planted a foot on his stomach. His breathing turned to sobs. His legs were trembling in pain, one knee skewed at an odd angle. Dad sat up and stared at me, eyes remote.
“How did they get to you?” I said. “Money?”
“What?” His nose was running, bloody saliva slobbering from his lips.
“You called Christian Sanger. What did he bribe you with, sex? Girls? Boys?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You phoned Dad’s kidnappers. Why?” I straddled him and knelt down on his chest, pinning his arms to his sides. “Want me to scoot back two more feet and bounce on your knees?”
He shook his head. “Christian isn’t a kidnapper; he’s an informant in our investigation of your father.”
Incredulous couldn’t begin to cover my expression. Or Dad’s.
Farelli huffed, eyes bright, arrogance reasserting itself. “I’m not the bad guy here. You’re wanted for murder. Your father committed treason. Sanger and his mother have been helping us gather the evidence we need to indict.”
“Are you really that stupid?”
I stared at him, and a link snapped into place in my brain. Boyd Davies had received a call on Sunday morning from a pay phone in Santa Barbara.
I glanced at Dad. “Sunday you met with Lavonne and Jesse to go over strategy, and Nicholas Gray interrupted you. Where?”
“Restaurant at that conference center on Cabrillo. Wind-catchers.”
I grabbed Farelli’s shirt. “You called Boyd Davies from that restaurant.”
“I didn’t.”
Dad shook his head. “No. Gray was by himself.”
“Oh, hell.”
Nicholas Gray had been feeding the Sangers information about Dad. I felt everything crumbling.
“How does Gray know the Sangers?” I said.
Farelli hesitated. I twisted his shirt in my fists and scooted back an inch, as though preparing to stomp on his knees. His eyes bugged.
“Before he joined the U.S. Attorney’s office, he was counsel for a Senate subcommittee. That’s where he heard of Mrs. Sanger,” he said.
“Select Committee on Intelligence?”
He nodded.
Gray knew about Riverbend. Ambitious, Machiavellian, scalp-taking Nicholas Gray. I recalled Jesse asking why Rio seemed to operate with impunity—because she had contacts, and dirt on people in positions of power. Gray thought Rio had the dirt on Dad, proof of Dad’s misdeeds in covert ops.
“Gray contacted Rio, didn’t he?” I said. “He told her he needed her help. Which she provided, because she’s been getting government protection—what, immunity from prosecution because of the help she gave U.S. intelligence over the years?”
My nerves were ringing. “Gray hasn’t been able to make a legitimate case against Dad. He thought Rio could dig out some muck.”
I looked at Dad, distraught. Heat was climbing up my arms, spreading across my chest. “But Rio demanded a price for getting hold of the Riverbend file, and that was for Gray to set you up. I’d bet my life.” I had to breathe. “Gray called Boyd Davies and told him you were headed up the coast.”
I tightened my grip on Farelli’s shirt. “Where’s Lily?”
He went still, eyes pinging off to the right. All my doubts disappeared.
“Oh, you bastard. What did you do to her?”
He stared down the alley, at the container blocking the end. “She’s in this with you—don’t you think I know that? Don’t get huffy.”
“Did you hurt her?” I went hot all over. “Where’s Jesse?”
Dad grabbed Farelli’s ankle and pressed a foot against the outside of his knee. Drew keened, voice rising, and shouted, “I didn’t kill her, all right, stop it, stop, Jesus, that hurts!”
Dad kept up the pressure. “Jesse.”
“I sent him off to another part of the port—sweet Jesus, it hurts, it hurts.”
Rio. Oh, God, Rio had said it didn’t matter. We were going to let her go because she had what she wanted. Not the Riverbend file—that was a footnote to her plan. She didn’t care about it in the long run.
I shook Farelli. “Why did you call Christian earlier? Did you tell him Lily and I were here?”
“No. I just passed along some information.”
“Passed it along from where?”
“The FBI. But it was legit. It was on orders.”
“You mean from Nicholas Gray?”
“Yes.”
“What information?”
“A number, that’s all.” He blinked. “Just a number. Nine thirty-five.”
All the heat fled from my body. I held him, shirt in my fists, staring at his frightened, stupid eyes. From the inside of the container came a sound that made my skin slink. It was Rio, laughing.
Nine thirty-five was the final payoff for the information that Rio was going to give Gray. It was the number of our flight from London to Los Angeles.
“Kit?” Dad said.
I dropped Farelli. “He gave them Georgie.”
36
The water spraying him in the face was cold. Icy, and spewing hard. P.J. blinked and shut his eyes again, moaning. He put a hand to his head and it came away bloody.
“Fuck.” He glanced around as the room came into focus. Bright overhead lights, big mirrors, sinks, wet tile. He put out his hand to brace himself against something as he climbed to his feet. He found the toilet. He was on the floor in a public bathroom.
“Oh, my God.”
Somebody was pounding on the door outside. He pushed himself to his knees and tried to stand. He crashed face-first into the stall.
“Open up,” the somebody called.
P.J. felt a deep and fearful nausea. Georgie. He’d been having coffee with Georgie and came in here to use the head. He tried again to stand. Made it, staggered out of the stall, saw a sink broken and the faucet spewing water. The porcelain was bloody. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and had a bad feeling that his head was what had broken it. He staggered to the door, pulled, found it locked.
He pounded on it with the heel of his hand. “Get the key.”
Georgie. A black pain descended on him, pounding through his head. He was supposed to be watching out for her.
Keys rattled into the lock and the door swung open. He lurched out into the hallway past a startled waitress.
“Omigod,” she said.
Pressing his hands against the wall for balance, he swerved down the hall and out into the Star
bucks.
A sound, like getting hit in the gut, fell from his lips. Georgie was gone.
“Sir, are you all right?” the waitress said.
“The girl, where did she go?”
The waitress looked at the empty table. “With the police officer.”
“What?”
“A woman came in from the police department and said there was news about her mother. Little gal in uniform. The girl went out with her.” She pointed out the window. “I saw a police car and everything.”
Everybody was staring. His head was splitting. He was going to throw up in a minute.
“I need a phone,” he said.
Christian drove the Viper with one hand on the wheel, the SIG in his lap and his eyes on the prize. The girl was beautiful, smooth, dark-skinned and fresh. Her eyes were enormous and watchful. She was cringing away from him in the passenger seat. He reached out and stroked her cheek.
She jerked away from him so sharply that her head hit the window. He felt his stomach go hot. Resisting him—that would soon end. She was not going to reject him. He touched his palm to her cheek and ran his hand into her soft hair. She whimpered.
“Just relax,” he said. “I’m sorry about back at Starbucks. Tricking you wasn’t the nicest thing to do. But you don’t need to be so tense.”
“Let me out.”
Eden had played a policewoman very convincingly. What a wonderful little whore, in her surplus Culver City cop’s uniform. She got Georgia all the way out onto the sidewalk to talk to her mom on the police radio. He smiled. This was it. Victory.
His left thumb still looked wrong, swollen and blue, but with the meth, the Vicodin, and his joy, it felt fine. He pushed the pedal down, loving the power of the engine and the warm feel of the girl’s skin.
“This is the way it’s supposed to be. Those other people, they weren’t your family.”
“I want my mum.”
“Ssh.” He stroked his thumb over her ear, around the curve of her chin, across her throat. She sat bolt still, looking like she might retch or pee herself. He knew exactly how she felt.
“Everything’s fine, Georgia. You’re home.” His heart was racing. Her skin was soft, supple, healthy. He felt her pulse beating in her neck, good and strong. “In London I told you I was a lawyer because I didn’t want to shock you. But it’s okay; now I can tell you the truth. I’m your brother, Christian.”