by Unknown
Ian could see and feel the anticipation, not just from Deb, Yashi, and Aaron, who were in the van, but from Francine, and everyone in Martell’s car, too.
They expected him to give the order—to stop Vanderzee from entering the consulate by any means necessary. Ram his car, shoot the motherfucker, do whatever it took to stop him.
But Ian suddenly realized that, if trapped, the Dutchman would kill Phoebe on the spot.
If Berto’s men or the FBI or anyone else tried to stop him, she was dead.
“Let’s let him get inside,” Ian said, as a plan appeared, fully formed in his head—as all of his best plans did. “Let him go. But let’s make sure he doesn’t leave.”
He could see Deb and Aaron’s confusion. Yashi was too zen to react in any obvious way, but he was clearly curious, too.
Deb said what they all were thinking. “Once the Dutchman goes inside the consulate, we can’t go in after him. Even going into the parking lot next to the building is too much.”
“You can’t go inside,” Ian pointed out. “But I can. And you can go in, to assist, if the consulate comes under attack. Francine!”
“I’m here.”
“If you get there before me—”
“I’m pretty sure we will.”
“—cowboy up and wait in the lobby. Shel!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Use whatever equipment you’ve got to scan the building. Let’s try to figure out exactly where Phoebe’s being held. Once we’re inside, we’ll need to get to her, fast.” Ian then turned to Deb. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do.…”
Phoebe woke up alone in a darkened room, with a pounding headache that made her want to throw up.
She was on the floor, in a very uncomfortable position, and it didn’t make sense—God, she felt awful, did she have the flu?—until she remembered.
Insisting that she go with the Dutchman in his car. Ian, upset with her, but finally realizing that it wasn’t his choice. I love you. The car on the highway, sliding across all those lanes of oncoming traffic. Vanderzee holding his gun. Despite the crash of pain, her relief that he’d hit her instead of firing a bullet into her head.
She would not have woken up from that.
Phoebe shifted, trying to move her aching head into a position that was more comfortable, and she realized that her hands were tied behind her back—but the restraint around her wrists was just loose enough so that she could imagine getting free. Her feet were tied at the ankles, but if she could get her hands free, she could probably get her feet free, too.
Assuming the urge to vomit again went away and the room stopped spinning long enough for her to see her feet.
She’d lost her glasses when they’d moved her from the car to wherever she now was—that was why the world was extra blurry.
At that same moment, Phoebe realized that she was gagged. She was gagged, and her stomach was churning from the blow to her head, and God, if she threw up, she’d choke to death.
The realization made her even more nauseous, and as she pulled at the rope restraining her wrists, it felt tighter not looser.
Panicking wouldn’t help, she knew that, so she closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing through her nose, shallowly and slowly. Air in. Air out.
Ian was coming for her. She knew he was coming.
Unless he was already dead, and okay, thinking that was as bad as thinking about throwing up. Neither negative thought would help her. She would not throw up, and Ian was not dead.
Which meant he was coming for her. But first he had to find her.
Phoebe pictured the surveillance van, and the equipment inside that Ian and his teammates would use to help them search for her.
And while she had no idea where she was, maybe Ian did.
And if he was out there, somewhere, she was going to help him.
So Phoebe started to hum. With the gag in her mouth, she could only make a relatively soft sound in the back of her throat, but as she gained confidence in the fact that doing this wasn’t going to make her throw up, she pushed it louder.
Row, row, row your boat …
She closed her eyes and tried to make her hands as narrow as possible, so she could slip free.
* * *
The van was still about ten minutes from the consulate when Ian’s phone rang.
After the truck had gone up in a blaze of flames and smoke, he’d called Vanderzee’s cell phone, repeatedly. He’d even left messages, but only now did the Dutchman call him back.
Ian answered it by playing heavy defense, on the off chance that Vanderzee would buy it. “What the fuck, Georg? I was descended upon by black helicopters—there was nothing I could do to stop them—I barely made it out alive. Your cargo was completely blown to hell—”
“You can stop with the act,” the Dutchman said. “I already know, through my sources, that my cargo was returned to their mother. And since you’re not in custody, you’ve obviously been working with the authorities—don’t deny it.”
There were times when denial could work. This was not one of them, so Ian tried pathos with complaint, if only to keep this conversation going. “I didn’t have a choice. They had me by the balls—”
Vanderzee cut him off, “I suspect that I have something you want, and I thought, at first, that we might be able to strike a bargain—”
“We absolutely can,” Ian said.
“No,” the other man said, “we can’t. The children and their mother are being spirited away as we speak into your government’s witness protection program. Not even someone like you will be able to find them, so my hopes—that you might locate them, and kill them for me—are dashed. Although, even if you’d been able to oblige, you still would’ve owed me. Their father was willing to pay only three million for them, dead. Ten for them brought home alive.”
And there it was. Far more realistic numbers, compared to that one million extra that the Dutchman had previously told him he’d get if he delivered the kids alive.
“If it’s money that you want,” Ian started.
Vanderzee cut him off. “The money’s only part of it. I’ll be badly disappointing a longtime friend.”
“You don’t have to disappoint him,” Ian said, talking fast. “I can help you convince him that the children were killed in that blast. The group that attacked my truck didn’t particularly care if they lived or died—just as long as Dr. Vaszko was kept from returning to Kazbekistan. It’s a miracle they survived, and we can certainly spin it that they didn’t. I can get you indisputable proof of their death, and reimburse you for the difference in payment—”
“Well, she does mean a lot to you, doesn’t she?” the Dutchman said, and Ian realized he was doing this wrong.
He made himself laugh. “You’re kidding right? Phoebe—if that’s even her real name—works for the government. She was holding my leash and driving me fucking crazy, the whole goddamn time. I was conning her, too. You know, I tapped that, and believe me, it’s not worth your effort. But hey, do whatever you gotta do. Beat the shit out of her, whatever. Just don’t kill her without knowing, clearly, what our government does to people who kill fed agents. You’ll be hunted, by drones, to the ends of the earth. You’ll live in a fucking cave in northern K-stan until you kill yourself to escape the boredom.” He made himself laugh as if he thought he was the funniest man alive. “You want to get away with killing her? Take her back to your country and marry her first. Although good luck with that. She’s a bitch and a half. But she’s worth something to my bosses, so if you change your mind and you want to trade her for those death certificates so your longtime friend can find closure and you can recoup at least some of your losses? Let me know. You’ve got thirty minutes to call me back before this deal’s off the table.”
With a click, Ian cut the connection.
Jesus, he was dripping with sweat. “Drive faster,” he ordered Deb.
* * *
Ian was alive!
Phoebe looked up at
Georg Vanderzee, who was standing just inside the locked door.
He’d come into the room while on the phone with Ian.
He’d had the call on speaker, so that she’d heard it all.
I was conning her, too.… Bitch and a half.… Not worth your effort.
Okay, so that was uncomfortable to hear, but what else was Ian going to say? He was clearly trying to convince the Dutchman that he had absolutely no emotional connection to Phoebe. Vanderzee’s killing or hurting her would not influence him in any way.
Do whatever you gotta do. Beat the shit out of her, whatever.
Was it possible that Ian knew she might be listening? Was he trying to remind her of the story he’d told, about how he believed that if he hadn’t stopped the Dutchman from beating his teenaged wife, the man might’ve let her live?
Just before Vanderzee had come into the room, Phoebe’d managed to work her hands free. She’d pushed herself up so that she was sitting in a chair—the better to work on the rope that bound her ankles. It was much tighter than the rope around her wrists had been, and she hadn’t gotten it off. She had removed the gag, though, but she’d put it loosely back into her mouth when she’d heard him at the door.
She’d also quickly tucked her hands back behind her, rubbing them together, trying to create friction, so that she would stand out from all of the other blobs of human body heat in this building.
Phoebe knew if she moved, she’d give away the fact that her hands were no longer tied, but in reality, it was likely that he already knew, since he’d left her in a pile on the floor.
Unless Hitler Junior had brought her inside, and Vanderzee thought he’d set her there …?
She wavered at that thought, her uncertainty flip-flopping with the pounding in her head. Move, stay still, move, stay still …
Through it all, as she rubbed her hands to make heat, she kept the song going, tapping her foot on the floor: Gently down the stream … hoping that someone was out there, listening.
* * *
When Francine pulled up to the consulate, the van carrying Ian was still at least several minutes away.
Sheldon was out of the car before she’d even parked, running across the street toward a pizza van that had to be an FBI surveillance vehicle. She could hear him over her headset, rattling off the plate number to Deb, who gave the order to let him in.
Sure enough, the back door of the Pizza Express opened, and Shel was quickly pulled inside.
His job right now was to provide Ian with as much information as possible, which meant he needed access to equipment that he didn’t have with him in the car.
Francie’s job, however …
Martell turned off his headset microphone. “I want to go in with you,” he said.
“You can’t,” she said as she looked at the consulate, even as she checked her gun. She was locked and loaded. “You have to wait for Deb.”
The consulate was even less assuming than it had been in the photos she’d seen—a typical Floridian post-WWII era building—a sprawling single-story structure made of concrete block, with a white cast-iron fence enclosing the yard, and a matching white tin roof. It had once been a residence, but it had been renovated and added onto significantly in the back. The former yard had been transformed into a graveled parking area, complete with a covered carport at the edge of the large lot.
It had only cursory protection in place—no giant concrete blocks to prevent car bombs, because really, it existed almost solely to provide the ambassador with the perks of a Miami vacation.
Francine guessed that security at the front door would be fairly limited, too. But there were surely guards, and they were definitely armed. And she knew both Vanderzee and his man Hitler Junior were armed and inside, too.
“If the Dutchman sees you, he’ll recognize you.” Martell reached out and grabbed her arm, his deep concern for her shining from his pretty brown eyes.
“Found her!” Shel’s voice came through Francie’s headset, even as she jumped because—holy Christ—Berto knocked on the outside of the car window. He was standing on the sidewalk, looking in at them. “Back wing, room at the very end. She’s humming the song Ian uses for microphone tests.”
“She’s alive,” Francine said it with a rush of relief at the same time that Ian did, but she punctuated her statement by leaning forward and kissing Martell—and not just because she wanted to piss off Berto.
“Wait for Deb,” she told him again. “I’m going in with Berto.”
* * *
Move, or stay still, or move, or stay still …
Vanderzee was frowning angrily down at his phone, maybe checking his email, maybe waiting for a message from Hitler Junior, or maybe actually considering taking Ian’s crazy deal.
Row, row, row, your boat …
It really wasn’t that crazy—she’d suggested it herself, days ago. Make the children’s psycho father believe that they were dead, or else he’d come after them again and again and again. End this, once and for all.
Move, or stay still …
While witness protection would be a good way to protect the children and their mother, it might be a challenge to hide a nuclear physicist who wanted to put her hard-earned degree to good use.…
Gently down the stream …
When Vanderzee finally turned, putting his phone back into his pocket, Phoebe saw a flash of the gun he was wearing holstered under his arm, and she knew with certainty that he was so angry that the very next thing he was going to do was draw that weapon and kill her.
So she took her chances and picked move, hoping for the beating over the bullet in the head. She launched herself up and at him, attacking him by hopping toward him even though her feet were still bound, roaring as loudly as she could beneath her gag.
She hit him with her shoulder, aiming low for his center of gravity and he went down—to both of their surprise.
He scrambled back away from her, as his anger bloomed into something awful—something that was mixed with delight—on his almost-handsome face.
And here it came. The beating she’d requested.
Phoebe braced herself for it, even as she continued to hum Ian’s tune.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily …
He hit her, hard, and she landed on the floor, also hard. He was on top of her, then, punching and pummeling, his body pinning her down as he unleashed a flurry of punishing blows.
But it wasn’t until his hands went up, around her throat, that Phoebe stopped singing.
* * *
“Jesus, Eee, I think he’s killing her!” Shel’s voice came through Ian’s headset as Deb hit the brakes hard, skidding to a stop just down the street from the consulate.
“Get out of the van,” Ian shouted, brandishing his handgun so that Deb and Yashi could say that he had.
“Shirt off,” Deb shouted as she scrambled to vacate the driver’s seat. “I should’ve thought of that before!”
Ian knew why she was telling him that, and he yanked his T-shirt over his head even as he slid behind the wheel.
When attacking a foreign consulate, it was best to be absolutely clear about the fact that one wasn’t wearing a suicide bomber vest. Going in shirtless would help.
Also, the surgeons wouldn’t have to pick pieces of fabric from his bullet wounds.
Should he survive.
“Ready or not,” Ian said to whichever of his team members were still able to hear him. “Here I come.”
* * *
Ian Dunn was freaking crazy.
Martell saw the van—formerly white, now a battered blue—rocketing toward the consulate, picking up speed. He saw Ian behind the wheel, looking like he was posing for a picture that would appear in the dictionary, next to determination.
Or maybe the phrase he best represented was true love.
Dude looked relatively and remarkably serene, considering he was probably going to die violently in a matter of seconds.
But his plan was now clear to
Martell.
Once Ian committed the crime of punching a van-sized hole through the consulate wall, the FBI could rush inside to arrest his ass—and to otherwise assist in evacuating the building.
All of the rooms would have to be searched and cleared, including those holding kidnapping victims.
As Martell watched, the van bounced up as it hit the curb, and was more of a missile than a torpedo as it hit the front left window of the building with a crash and a smash.
Deb went running past him, with Yashi and Aaron on her heels, and Martell followed, praying that they weren’t too late.
* * *
Francine stood in the lobby of the consulate with Berto. She knew what was coming. She thought she was ready.
But as Ian drove the van through the window, she realized that it wasn’t possible to be completely ready for an event of that magnitude.
Glass exploded—it was like a bomb went off. Dust and debris—shards of concrete blocks—went in all directions. A curtain rod narrowly missed her head, and the rings that had held the curtains in place bounced and rolled across the now-cracked tile floor.
The guards—two, in matching uniforms with Makarov sidearms—scrambled out of the way, diving for cover behind the podium of a security checkpoint.
Berto grabbed Francie’s arm, trying to pull her out of the way of a still-bouncing shard of metal—part of the van’s grill? But she jerked herself free because what she had to do here was get in the way.
“Help my husband, help my husband,” she screamed as she put herself and Berto, both, between the guards with the weapons and the smoking wreckage of the van.
Berto shot her a weary look that said Really? But then sank to the floor, nearly on top of the guards, covering his face and screaming, “My eyes, my eyes!”
It was then that Deb burst through the door—“FBI! On the ground!”—as Ian crawled out of the passenger side of the van. Shirtless and bloody—cut by the broken windshield—he kept his hands high in the air, even as he sank to his knees on the debris-covered floor.
Yashi, Aaron, and Martell were right behind Deb.
“I think there was someone else in the van,” Francine shouted. “He went that way.” She pointed to the hall that led to the back wing.