Bianca’s eyes widened. Her gaze dropped to discover that the cold, hard thing was one bracelet of a set of handcuffs. The other bracelet was fastened to the rail.
The SOB had just handcuffed her to the rail!
Like romance, fury wasn’t something she did. But she was doing it now. She could feel it shooting like fast-moving lava all the way from her toes to her brain.
“Sorry, kumquat, but I need you safely out of the way while I go search the premises for your boss.” He chucked her under her chin.
Fury didn’t even begin to cover it.
“You bastard.” Her right hand was her preferred chopping hand. He’d chained it to the rail. So she didn’t chop.
Instead she stomped her spike heel into his instep—he yelped and jumped like she’d fired a bullet into his foot—elbowed him under the chin as he hopped in pain, snatched his name tag from his pocket, then executed a spinning back-kick that sent him over the rail with a cry.
Bianca still had fire in her eyes as she watched the splashdown. A small geyser went up as he disappeared beneath the shiny dark water.
“Man overboard,” she said with savage satisfaction even though there was no one to hear. Glancing down at the name tag in her hand, she saw his face and the name Zane Williams and practically snarled. A present for Doc, she thought and stuffed it into her purse.
Recollecting where she was, she cast a quick look around. She was out there all alone and it was dark. There were no cries echoing her “Man overboard” from anywhere on the boat. No untoward commotion of any sort to indicate that anyone had seen anything. The darkness, the sounds of the party and the sea, their isolation on this little-used walkway, had kept anybody from noticing anything. The music and laughter and voices continued unabated. The Conquistador continued to plow through the bay.
No one had seen Lover Boy fall.
A bright spot in what, so far, had been a really sucky day.
Looking out toward where he’d gone in, Bianca saw his dark head bobbing in a patch of moonlight. From what she could tell, he was treading water. She didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry that apparently he could swim. Then the pale oval that was his face turned her way, and she realized that he was looking after the boat, which was leaving him behind at a pretty good clip.
There was a life preserver hanging from a hook not far from where he’d had her pressed up against the wall.
Retrieving her lock pick from her garter belt, she freed herself from the handcuffs in just a few seconds.
Snagging the life preserver, she held it up and waved it so presumably he could see it. Then she threw it in his direction. It didn’t land anywhere near him, but—how to put this?—too damn bad.
Casting one last baleful glance toward where he was presumably swimming toward either the nearest island or the life preserver, she pulled her phone out of her purse, hit the locator app and went back inside.
Time to find the briefcase and get the hell on with her life.
* * *
Unfortunately, her no good, very bad day just kept on keeping on. Following the locator beacon to amidships on the lowest deck, Bianca got there just in time to watch a tender pull away from the yacht.
According to the beacon, the briefcase was on board.
Along with Sturgeon. Clapping her binoculars to her eyes as she hung over the nearest rail, she was just able to make out what she was almost positive was his stocky form behind the wheel of the small open boat.
Thrusting the binoculars back into her purse, she stared after the retreating vessel and tried to keep her cool. She needed her thinking to be clear and collected. No telling what Sturgeon had in mind for the prototype. For all she knew, it would be whisked far away within hours. Likewise, there was no telling when Lover Boy, for want of a more accurate name, would be fished from the bay. Would he tell his rescuers all about her? Who knew?
Meanwhile, here she was, stuck on the damned boat.
She could almost hear her father recommending a calming spot of mindful meditation before she did anything else.
This was how people developed high blood pressure.
Okay, one thing at a time: come up with a plan C.
Anytime now.
* * *
She stole a Jet Ski. Right out of the Conquistador’s toy garage, pressing the button to lower the thing into the water and then steering it quietly away from the boat before juicing the throttle and heading out in hot pursuit of the tender.
She might have caught it, too, or, more feasibly, reached the place where Sturgeon was docking in time to snatch the briefcase away before he could do whatever he meant to do with it, except for one thing.
The Jet Ski died. Just sputtered and quit. While she was still a good distance from shore.
After trying everything in her considerable arsenal of tricks to get it going again, she was happy to accept the offer of a tow from a passing fishing boat.
By the time she clambered up on dry land, Sturgeon and the briefcase were long gone. She checked the locator beacon—it was still tracking. At that point the briefcase was maybe fifty miles away, heading south.
Plan C had just officially crapped out.
At least she would be able to find the thing again. If she wanted to. Knowing for sure that the briefcase was being watched and was the bait in a trap for her father put a whole new spin on the situation. While the threat posed by the video was real, the threat posed by Lover Boy and whoever he was associated with was more immediate.
She’d feared that the video might lead investigators to her, to Doc, to Savannah and Guardian Consulting and everything that constituted her ordinary life.
If she was caught here as she attempted to steal the briefcase, they wouldn’t need the video to lead them to her. They would have her.
She faced the fact that it was time to call it a day—and might be time to call it an operation.
It was after 4:00 a.m. She was exhausted and absolutely not thinking clearly enough to make a final decision.
Better to get some sleep, think the situation through in the morning and then decide.
Two of the very nice fishermen gave her a ride to her hotel in their pickup truck.
Getting a key from the front desk, she went upstairs, showered and fell into bed.
And refused to even allow herself to wonder whether that jackass was still out there swimming around in the bay.
CHAPTER 19
Bianca sank down in the black vinyl booth across from Doc. It was 9:00 a.m. and they were meeting for breakfast in the hotel café as arranged. The small restaurant was crowded and noisy and smelled of bacon and syrup.
“We’re going home,” she said. “We’re leaving right after we eat.”
He’d been looking at his phone. At her words he glanced up, blinking at her as if he was only at that moment becoming aware that she’d joined him. His Brillo-pad hair hung loose in a kind of modified pyramid shape that almost reached his shoulders; he needed a shave, and his eyes were puffy. He looked like he’d been up most of the night, which should make him feel right at home in her company. His T-shirt was a bright orange abomination that read Fat Guys Try Harder.
Next time she’d know better than to tell him to try to look like a tourist.
He said, “Uh—what?”
“Would you get off the internet for a minute and pay attention?” She gave him an impatient look. “We’re going to drive to Vegas and take a plane from there. I want to make it as difficult as possible for anyone to track us.”
Doc’s face brightened. He sat up straighter in the booth. “You got it? You got it! Way to go, boss!”
He was referring to the prototype, she knew. Bianca hated to admit the truth. Failing was hard for her. Quitting was even harder.
“I didn’t get it.
I failed to get it.” That last carefully enunciated clarification was just to rub her own nose in it, she supposed. “It was there, but…I ran into a problem. A cop—at least I think he’s a cop—was on the boat. I’ve run into him before—” she hadn’t told Doc or anyone about that episode in the restroom in Bahrain, and she wasn’t about to start now “—and he recognized me. Oh, not as me—Bianca—but as—” casting a quick glance around, she lowered her voice “—a thief. I managed to get away, but now he knows we’re here. Going after that prototype is just asking to get caught. I’m making the call—it’s not worth the risk. After we eat, I’m going to have you send an email to the client telling them the job’s off.”
“Coffee?” A waitress appeared beside them, a steaming pot of coffee in her hand. At Bianca’s nod and Doc’s “Yeah, thanks,” she turned over the two cups that were already waiting upside down on saucers in front of them, poured and at the same time asked, “You know what you want?”
Bianca ordered a fruit plate. Doc looked conflicted but hurriedly ordered eggs, bacon and pancakes. The waitress went away.
The instant she was gone, Doc said, “Oh, jeez. This is bad. Like, way bad.”
Bianca frowned at him. “What’s bad?”
“You didn’t get the briefcase. Somehow they must know you tried and something went wrong. They upped the ante. I don’t think we can go home.”
He sounded agitated. He looked agitated.
“What are you talking about?”
“This.” He thrust his phone at her. “It came early this morning. I didn’t see it until I sat down here to wait for you and started checking email.”
Taking his phone, Bianca glanced down and then nearly went into shock at the face that stared up at her from the paused video on the small screen.
It was Marin.
Numbly Bianca hit the play button.
“Daddy, please do what they want.” Tears welled in the little girl’s wide blue eyes. Her face was pale. Her mouth shook. Her long brown hair was loose, and from what Bianca could see of her, she appeared to be wearing a pink flannel pajama top or nightgown with a ruffle around the neck and bunnies on it. It was a head-and-shoulders shot, dimly lit, with her up against an unpainted, poured concrete wall. Looking at her, listening, Bianca felt the blood slowly freeze in her veins. “I don’t like it here. I’m scared. Hurry.”
Marin disappeared, to be replaced by another image: Margery. Head and shoulders, up against the same background. She wasn’t crying, but it was obvious that she was afraid. The look in her eyes—they were blue, like Marin’s, Bianca noticed for the first time—was stark; she bit her lower lip as her face came on the screen, and her hands were steepled in front of her chin as if in supplication. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup. Her coffee-brown hair was pulled back from her face. She appeared to be dressed, although haphazardly, as if she’d gotten ready in a hurry, grabbing the first clothes that came to hand.
“Edward.” Margery’s voice cracked as she stared into the lens. “They say your name isn’t even Edward. I don’t know. I don’t care. These people—they have Marin and me. Please, do whatever they say.”
The video shut off abruptly.
“There’s a message with it. Hit the arrow to go back,” Doc said.
Bianca did. An email took the place of the video.
Your wife and child are being held as collateral. If you want to see them alive again, you will satisfy the terms of our agreement. Contact us when you have the object and we will provide instructions for its delivery. The original timetable still stands.
Reading it, Bianca’s heart started to slam in her chest. Her stomach knotted.
The scared little girl in the pink bunny nightdress was her sister. Bianca didn’t know her at all, had never had the chance to develop the smallest relationship with her. She’d even occasionally felt jealous—God, that was hard to admit!—of the child’s seemingly warm and affectionate relationship with their father.
But now she felt outrage, anger—and stark, cold fear. The outcome she’d most dreaded had happened: whoever this was, whoever was hunting Richard, had found a trail that led them to his family.
Doc was right: going home was no longer an option.
Think the problem through before you make a move: it was another one of the rules. Bianca had always considered it Richard’s version of the builders’ mantra of Measure twice, cut once.
It was possible that there were two different entities at work here: the client who wanted his prototype back, and the law enforcement contingent who were using this as a trap for, as they thought, her father.
She didn’t think any kind of legitimate law enforcement agency would kidnap a woman and child, but that left all kinds of illegitimate ones. Richard had many powerful enemies.
A terrible possibility struck her: Was Mickey/Lover Boy/whoever part of the group that had taken Marin and Margery? If so, what kind of man condoned the kidnapping of a little girl?
Bottom line, though, at the moment it didn’t matter who had done this. What mattered was that it was done.
The question now was, what to do about it?
Contact the police, the FBI, Scotland Yard, Interpol, whoever, for help?
If she did, she would ruin her life, go to jail, the whole nine yards. Ruin Doc. Bring exposure to the whole criminal web in which Richard had operated. Make many, many more dangerous enemies than even Richard had. Enemies with long arms and longer memories.
None of that mattered when weighed against Marin’s and Margery’s lives.
But going to law enforcement would eat up time. It would be cumbersome. Whatever agency she went to would have logistical issues, because she was American, Marin and Margery were British citizens, and while she had no idea where the kidnappers actually were or where Marin and Margery were being held, she doubted that it was the United States. Jurisdiction would have to be established. Multiple investigations would be launched. And all the while the authorities would be agog over who she was, what she had done and her father.
While all this was happening, she would be in custody and helpless. And every contact she had inherited from her father who might be able to help would be running for the hills.
On the other hand, if she went through with the job, if she delivered the prototype as agreed, the kidnappers might actually let Marin and Margery go.
But whether they did or not, she would be able to track them down. She could follow the briefcase wherever it went. Hopefully that would be directly to where Marin and Margery were being held. If not, at least she would find out who was behind this.
That would be the time to call in the favors her father was owed by some very bad characters. Which would give her plenty of backup if needed when she went in to get her little sister and her sister’s mother out.
Richard was gone. They were her responsibility.
I’m coming for you, she promised Marin and Margery silently.
“Here you go.” It was the waitress, setting the fruit plate in front of Bianca with a clatter. Then, to Doc as she put his food down in front of him, “Hon, you want to be careful—these plates are hot.”
* * *
By 4:00 p.m., the plan was almost at the execution stage, awaiting the completion of a few minor details. Bianca sat in the passenger’s seat of a white panel van with Doc behind the wheel in a parking garage in beautiful downtown San Jose, carefully surveying the top (sixteenth) story of the building across the street through her binoculars. The adhesive-backed listening device she’d planted on the reinforced concrete “skin” of the building via a crossbow shot from the roof of the parking garage seemed to be holding well. From the walkie-talkie-size receiver she’d placed in between the seats, she and Doc had already been treated to a conversation of the “How about them Raiders?” variety. For the listening device itself she’d h
ad to improvise, but the solution—a modified baby monitor the size of a pack of cards—seemed to be working beautifully.
“You think one of those guys in there is Williams?” Doc asked. He was looking down at the thermal imaging camera app on his phone, which was linked to the thermal imaging camera that was among the supplies that Bianca had purchased earlier in the day. A quick trip to a Walmart, another to a medical supply store, a third to a uniform shop and a fourth to a controlled demolition company (that last was more in the nature of a burglary than a shopping trip) and she had everything she expected to need.
Right now, Doc was watching the movements of a pair of what Bianca thought must be security guards patrolling the sixteenth floor.
Hacking the security cameras would have been easier than resorting to the far-less-clear images provided by thermal technology, but although the rest of the building had video coverage, there were no security cameras on the Allied Industries floors.
The only reason for that would be that Sturgeon didn’t want any record of who, or what, went in and out of there.
Which worked for her. As far as she was concerned, the fewer cameras she had to fool, the better.
Doc’s question was pertinent because Williams was the only one who might recognize her despite her disguise.
“His name isn’t Williams,” Bianca said. Neither of the voices coming over the transmitter sounded like his, but given the distorting effect of the device, it was impossible to be sure. Her earlier anger and fear had hardened into cold resolve: she was prepared to do what she needed to do to rescue Marin and Margery. She’d given Doc a highly edited version of last night’s encounter with “the cop” and had passed the badge she’d taken off him to Doc as well so that Doc could check out his identity in hopes that it might lead to some scrap of information that could help her figure out who was behind this. What Doc’s internet search had come up with was a complete backstory for Zane Williams. Bianca had barely begun to glance through it before she recognized it as a total fabrication. She’d used enough legends herself that she knew them when she saw them, and this one in particular had Zane Williams working personal protection in New York when she had firsthand knowledge that he’d been in Bahrain. The information Doc had uncovered was the false flag that had allowed Zane Williams to infiltrate the ranks of Sturgeon’s security, and that was it. It told her nothing about who not-Williams really was.
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