As he talked, Keith pulled a knife from a strap around his ankle and held it in his hand. “We’re nearing the curve. The moment we’re out of sight, I’m coming for you. Remember, if I cut you, squeeze your wrist. I’ll take care of getting you out of here. You take care of your wrist. Got it?”
He shifted his left foot to the gas and twisted sideways. Accelerating before a curve was never a good idea—especially not in a top-heavy mini cargo van. Still, he needed every bit of leverage.
Tires squealed, and the left tires did rise off the ground. Keith kept it steady for a hundred feet and then leaped to the side door and threw it open. The van slowed as he dove for Langat and ripped the loop off the seat with one slice.
At the door, Keith threw the knife first and then tossed Langat after it. The man’s height and weight made it easier than he’d expected. He jerked a small loop over the top of the door as he jumped and rolled down the embankment.
Langat tried to rise. “Get down!”
Keith army crawled toward the man, but only made it three feet or so before the van exploded. It worked. Cool. Mark’ll be glad to know. With that, he dashed for Langat and shoved the man down.
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
His knife was a hundred feet away. Throw farther next time. Then again, Langat could have landed on it.
The SUV would be there—faster now. He had to move. Keith bolted back to Langat, cut the foot and hand restraints, and pushed the man across the highway and toward a boggy creek. “Walk in the middle. Don’t make any more noise than you have to, but go fast. When I make a bird call, stop and drop to the bank. Got it?”
Only a nod followed.
The squealing of tires announced the SUV’s arrival. Keith made a tremolo and Langat turned, eyes wide. He pointed to a large growth of wild elderberry and they scrambled up to it. “Get as under it as you can and don’t move.”
The wait began.
The door flung open just as an alert hit his computer. “Mark! Did you see?” Tyler’s expression flickered between abject panic and delight. “It worked!”
“Do we have eyes on Keith?”
Without a word, the kid fled out the door.
He’d kill me if he knew I just called him a kid. And I’m going to have to trust him. Too much happening right now. Wish I could confirm the God thing.
A ping on his messenger told him to check the satellite monitors. Though grainier than usual, there was no mistaking the burning van and five men half-surrounding the inferno. Adding those channels of pellet fuel and the cannisters of alcohol was brilliant. I wasn’t so sure, but…
The question rang out from the other room. “Did you get it?”
Feeling much too much like a benevolent and bemused father, Mark smiled to himself. “Got it.”
It was probably futile, but seeing that the men began fanning out to check the surrounding area, Mark zipped a message to Keith’s phone. One heading toward the creek. Cursory glances.
Wait became an unsavory four-letter word as Mark watched for the standard response. Had Keith already disposed of the phone? Left it in the van? It was just the kind of thing he’d do, but…
Another call came through. “Help.”
He’d recognize the soft accent of Otto Schmatloch anywhere.
“Agents on the way, Mr. Schmatloch. Do you remember what to do?”
“Ja, I—”
“Don’t tell me. Leave everything and do it. Now.”
Once the call disconnected, he pinged Tyler. Mobilize Doyle and Sam.
A moment later, Tyler’s, Right-o, followed.
Oh, brother.
The fear in Otto’s voice still lingered in Mark’s ear. An eighty-year-old man shouldn’t have to fear for his life for something his father did when he was a tiny boy. Hatred’s appetite for new victims cannot be satisfied.
The Langat team’s cell went to voicemail. A huffed sigh did nothing to resettle Mark’s rumpled nerves. “Probably tied up. They’re not going to like admitting that.”
He punched a number and waited for Karen to answer. “Raina and Sol need extraction. Looks like Langat’s people got one up on them.”
“They’re not…?”
Some questions one didn’t ask in their line of work. Ball players have lucky socks, the theater folks always say, “The Scottish play” for MacBeth, and agents never say dead.
Mark hit the rewind on the satellite recording and watched as the Kenyan guard drew close to where he assumed Keith and Langat hid. The man stood at the bank, it seemed. Mark imagined him on tiptoe, peering over at the thicket and… beyond? A moment later, he turned and walked back.
And I don’t even know that it is a man. I just assume.
Though he could watch the footage all day, Mark had things to do that didn’t include obsessive scrolling. But will Keith come back now that he’s had a taste of it again? One last look at the screen showed another car approaching. Guns disappeared. All would be well.
He disconnected the feed and turned to the next pressing issue. A swivel brought him facing the credenza behind his desk. The WPA-styled painting of Rockland’s skyline hovered over it. It had been a joke—the gift of that painting. Rickwood, of the West Coast Agency, had sent it with a teasing note about Mark being the “Batman” of Rockland.
Those words rankled at the memory of Mr. Schmatloch in Chicago waiting for agents to rescue him from a hidden room in his basement. The irony there… the tragic irony…
The third drawer from the left boasted half a dozen cellphones with labels to remind him of each. One jumped out at him. Don French—Rockland Chronicle.
He first asked Tyler to adjust the newspaper’s website to include him, and then he sent a text to his contact at the Chronicle. Activated.
Time to call Olivienne Todd.
The voice—he’d never forget Lucy’s voice, and her sister’s couldn’t have been more “Lucy” if she’d made a deliberate effort to imitate—ripped at his heart. We failed Lucy Todd.
“My name is Don French, from the Rockland Chronicle. Detective Fahrina gave me your name—said you have a story.”
“Who?”
“Don French—reporter at the Rockland Chronicle? I was following up on your claim of foul play with your sister? Something about a cover up?”
He could hear it—keys on a keyboard tapping out what would be the URL and then his name in the search bar. “Don French?”
A sick feeling came over him. If Flynne didn’t get the new pictures updated… He tapped out his own query and waited for the page to load, as he said, “That’s me.” Beads of perspiration formed above the now-silver eyebrows. Would they match the man on screen or…?
It appeared. If she hadn’t just gone “hashtag-rogue” on me, I’d be surfing the Burberry website tonight. That girl does love her overpriced British accessories.
“Oookay. So, what do you want from me?”
“I just wondered if I could get some information. I thought I’d look into it—see if there’s a story there. I’ve got contacts and might be able to come up with some information.” He waited for excitement to kick in before he added, “It might turn out to be nothing. I don’t know. But if you’re willing to meet somewhere, I’d like to try.”
Her voice changed to the same suspicious tones Lucy had used when he’d entered that room just a year or so ago. “Yeah. That’s not going to happen. I’m not stupid.”
“Public place, Olivienne—”
“Liv.”
Mark grinned to himself. Gotcha. “Okay, Liv. I need the public place, too. Gotta protect myself. Fiddleleaf? Four o’clock?”
“I don’t get off until five-thirty.”
Even better. Mark played it down. “Not sure if I can get there before seven, then. I have a meeting at five.”
“Seven o’clock then. Fiddleleaf. I’ve been craving their Turkish wrap, anyway.”
He couldn’t help himself. “Liv, if you like their Turkish, you need to go to Bodrum on Winchester. Amazing.” It had
a fifty-fifty chance of relaxing her. Mark held his breath and waited.
“Cool. Thanks.”
It’s as good as handled.
Tyler appeared with a printed code. “This just arrived from Keith—by text. I hate Morse code by text.”
The modified “binary” Morse just looked like gibberish computer code—ones and zeroes. Mark’s Morse—not so good. But Tyler had probably used a translator, so it should be accurate. He read each word, gut churning, and leaned back in his chair. “Are you sure?”
The kid’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah.”
Mark read it once more. Tracker tooth in Ziplock under rock 1/4 mile from helo. Langat kept a phone. How they found us. Shots fired at Raina and Sol. Go with medics. Out.
“Send Karen and Brian—now!”
Despite the midday sun outside, darkness shrouded the room. A lone desk-lamp bulb illuminated a fuzzy-edged circle in the middle—a spotlight on the center stage of unfolding plans.
Click—click. The pen served as a diversion more than a writing instrument. Click—click.
Sticky notes covered the surface of the desk. Pink, blue, yellow, green, orange. Check boxes with names beside them had been created on the yellow one in the center and read, Langat. Schmatloch. Todd.
Click.
A slash formed through the box beside Langat. A moment later, another one appeared in the one beside Schmatloch. The pen touched paper at the top left of the box next to Schmatloch. Hesitation. This time, it moved down to Todd and began creating slow, lazy ellipticals around it.
Plans took time. Haste only meant mistakes—and warnings. Warnings would never do. Click—click.
Or would they…?
Index finger and thumb stroked each side of the blue note. It lifted and affixed below the yellow. On it the one name. Polowski. The pen scrawled another name below that. St. Louis. One more.
Knupp.
The hand grasped the pink paper and set it just below the blue. One finger swiped across the top, affixing it securely. Block letters. Underlined. Auger?
Once more the pen created lazy circles around the name. A finger flipped the blue note. Back to the pink. Click—click.
Lifted. Studied. After an exasperated huff, the paper crumpled into a ball and landed at one end of the desk. Out of the spotlight. A moment later, an index finger flicked it and it landed in the bin. Just as he had after they’d shot him. In the paper graveyard. All dead and gone.
The green note was set aside. Click—click.
That left only orange. Paris and Henry. Those two worked together too much. It would be tough to lose them, but maybe worth it…
Click—click.
Twelve
Coherent solitude—the first time in what… two? Three days?
Erika counted. “Four days,” she whispered. “Feels like a lifetime.”
The little bungalow had no phone, and Flynne had taken hers with her. The duffel with the tranq guns was locked in Flynne’s room, and so far Erika hadn’t found anything to pick that lock with. Blinds instead of drapes, plastic hangers instead of wire—“Mommie dearest” would approve, anyway—and forks so tough she couldn’t bend a tine to save her life.
That was one advantage to “kidnapped-for-her-own-good” round two—or was it three? Anyway, multiple rounds of involuntary extractions had their perks. She knew she wouldn’t die—not if Flynne could help it. The problem was whether Flynne could help it. I know more of what she should be doing than she does.
Considering Flynne now floated in the pool on a lounger that Morgan pushed around like the obedient little lap dog that he was, it was safe to say that this statement was not an exaggeration. Twice, Morgan would have kissed her hooky-playing protector, but Flynne had the coy thing down pat. Who knew?
Splashes commenced. Flynne tumbled into the water and what had begun as a game became all-out war. And Flynne will win.
Erika might have been correct but for one thing. I underestimated the power of a cute guy with abs. He’s no Keith, but for a gamer…
At that moment, Flynne tried to up-end Morgan. It failed. He caught her around the waist and pulled her close enough to kiss. All Flynne had to do was give him half a reason to do it, but would she?
Conscience said it was none of her business. Morbid fascination, combined with utter boredom and more than a little irritation, kept Erika glued to the side of the window where she could see all and Morgan nothing. Their gazes locked—or so it seemed from her position thirty-feet away.
Morgan pushed the curls that Erika hadn’t known Flynne had from the girl’s eyes and cupped her cheek. “Oh, yeah. A whole lotta kissin’ about to be goin’ on.”
But she was wrong. Flynne leaned her cheek into his hand for exactly three seconds. Erika counted for reasons she couldn’t hope to understand, and it was exactly three seconds. Then, as if spurred by some instinct that popular girls at school had always possessed and Erika never had, Flynne pushed him away, swam to the side of the pool and wriggled—seriously, she wriggled—her way up and over the side.
You’ve got ovaries of steel, girl!
He chased her halfway to the bungalow before Erika forced herself to retreat to the bedroom. I should munch on chips in here. Would serve her right.
It could also get them killed if, by some bizarre chance, Morgan was the enemy. If Keith had taught her anything, it was that you couldn’t trust anyone. Probably not even Flynne.
Giggles reached her as the front door opened and the flirty couple entered. What Morgan said, she couldn’t hear, but Flynne’s, “Oh, you are just too supes adorbalicious!” prompted daydreams of waltzing out of the room and introducing herself as Flynne’s “ghost of employment past.”
Adorbalicious? Erika couldn’t help herself. Gag me with a puffy spoon.
What happened after that, she could only imagine. Morgan’s next words rumbled through the bungalow and barely made it past the door to Erika’s room, but she heard it all the same. “I could stay… tonight.”
You just made the torment worth it. This I gotta hear. And now I’ve got leverage. If Tyler knew…
Something deep within her suggested that she probably shouldn’t be as delighted by that leverage, but Erika pushed aside the guilt and waited for Flynne’s response.
“You could…”
Erika’s throat went dry.
“But you won’t. I don’t work that way.”
Well, good for you.
“Then let me take you out for that awesome shawarma we had last time you came.” His voice drew nearer, and Erika backed away from the door. The closer he came, the faster her heart raced. “I’ll—”
“What’re you doing? I said no!”
“Just getting you a towel. You’re shivering!” A few choice words followed, and Flynne threw a few more after it. He backed down. “Right… boyfriend. I forgot. Look, I’m just getting you a towel, okay? I’d never—”
“Get out, Morgan. Okay? I need you to go.”
A cabinet banged shut. Seconds later, a low murmur followed, and just before the front door shut with somewhat excess force, Flynne called out, “Sorry. Can we talk later?”
It opened again. Erika didn’t hear it, but she knew when Morgan’s voice started up again. Indistinct words prompted Erika to crack open the bedroom door and listen. “—get it. Just come get me when you’re hungry, okay?”
“Yeah…”
If her ears didn’t deceive her, that agreement was followed by a kiss—one he wouldn’t complain about. “You really are totes adorbified…”
“Glad you think so. See you later.”
Erika stood there, arms folded over her chest, waiting for Flynne to come check on her. It took less than seven seconds. The door pushed open and banged into Erika’s folded arms. “Wha—? Were you just standing there doing the evesies on us?”
“I don’t even have words for that,” Erika retorted. “But what I’d like to know is what Tyler will think of you and Morgan.”
“He won’t k
now, so who cares?”
“For a girl with decent morals on not jumping into any old bed, you’re cavalier about your dating practices.” Flynne shot a glare at her, but Erika wasn’t finished. “Do you really think it’s no big deal to be flirting with one guy while another guy has a reasonable expectation of loyalty?” Hands on hips and an unreadable smile on lips, Flynne confronted Erika with what seemed to be her best attempt at bravado—the adorable little thing.
“Look, Erika. I’m gonna do whatevs it takes to keep you safe, and if that means I have to, like, totes flirt with a cute guy, then I’m doing it.” She blinked at Erika and shook her head like a confused puppy. “Wow. That didn’t sound nearly as self-sacrificing as I meant it to…”
“Poor Tyler…”
To Flynne’s credit, she blushed. A curl also flopped down over her forehead and plastered itself there. The effect looked like a misplaced flapper curl and was, Erika had to admit, “Totes adorbs” on her. Again, gag me.
Though Erika may not have appreciated Flynne’s self-sacrifice, and Flynne knew it wasn’t much of one, going out to dinner with Morgan left her gut swirling with indecision from the moment she met him out front, through a date that superseded any she’d ever had, and only increased as Morgan led her back along the path to where Erika waited. I sure hope it was the right thing to do. He’d be suspish if I didn’t…
The dark bungalow looked so innocuous, but the signal was there—no porch light. Considering Morgan’s continued determination to cement some sort of relationship, it was probably best. All the grandiose ideas of keeping things slow, casual, and maybe just a little fake on her side weren’t going to happen. Not without help. Enter unwanted responsibility: Erika.
As they neared the door, Morgan slid an arm around her waist and murmured something about wanting to come in and kick her bum at Dragon’s Circle. She didn’t buy it. “You just think I’ll let you stay if I, like, say yes.”
The way he shrank back hinted that she’d wounded him. “I’m not just looking for a hook-up, Flynne.” He stepped back, fists jammed in his jeans’ pockets. “I just like being with you.” He eyed her before turning and muttering, “Usually.”
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