Four men in two cars were waiting for them when they arrived. The cars were parked on the street in front of the house, and the men got out and headed toward the Acura as it pulled up the driveway.
It said a lot about the current state of her life that as soon as she spotted the waiting cars Riley’s heart leaped into her throat.
“Finn.” There was warning in her tone. Alarmed, she sat straight up in her seat.
“It’s all right. They’re backup,” he said.
The thought that she now needed all these armed guards was terrifying. But given what had happened on the expressway, she was prepared to accept his judgment that she did.
The men followed them into the house. They were introduced to Riley as Agents Foster, Hagan, Waters, and Silverman. She didn’t inquire what agency they were from, and they were pretty much interchangeable in their dark suits and white shirts and ties.
In fact, Finn fit right in with them.
Inside, the house was ordinary looking, too: living room, dining room, family room, kitchen, and half bath on the first floor, three bedrooms and two baths above. The new recruits deployed themselves around the first floor. Riley, Finn, and Bax hit the kitchen, which as it turned out was fully stocked. Tired and shaken as she was, Riley was hungry. It was almost 4 p.m., and she hadn’t eaten anything except a nibble of toast at breakfast with Finn. She made herself a bologna sandwich, ate quickly, then headed upstairs, leaving Finn and Bax still at the table. Finn had carried her suitcase into the master bedroom when they had arrived, and that was where she went.
Hungry as she had been, the food felt like a cannonball in her stomach, and that would be, Riley thought as she headed into the en suite bathroom to freshen up, because she was sick with fear. For Emma: the kidnappers still had not called. For herself: she had nearly died this afternoon for the second time in little more than a week, and she was confident that there were lots of people still out there who were prepared to make her dead.
Having washed her face and hands, brushed her teeth, and applied fresh makeup, Riley was brushing her hair as she walked back into the bedroom, and immediately lost her train of thought as she saw Finn stretched out on the bed, his head propped up by pillows as he clearly waited for her.
He wasn’t wearing his jacket or tie, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and had the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His shoulder holster was off: she spotted it on the bedside table. Other than that, he was fully dressed down to his shoes, which rested on the cheerful blue floral bedspread.
Just looking at him made her feel warm all over, which she knew was idiotic. She was willing to bet the rent money that he wasn’t there for sexy times.
“Hi,” she said, and waited.
“We need to talk.” Sitting up, he swung his legs off the bed and got to his feet.
Riley put the brush down on the low oak dresser that was right beside her, crossed her arms over her chest, and met his gaze as he stopped in front of her.
She didn’t have her shoes on, and he loomed large. Good thing she no longer found him the least bit intimidating.
“So talk,” she said.
His eyes slid over her face. His expression was grim.
“As you may have noticed, we have a situation here. We’re squirreled away in a safe house because everybody and his uncle wants to get their hands on you and make you tell them where the money is. My boss wants that money, too, and my whole organization, including those guys downstairs and a bunch of others who are a hell of a lot deadlier, will turn on us in a heartbeat if he decides the best way to get it is to torture information out of you. We don’t have a lot of time before this turns nasty. I’m on your side, and they’ll get to you over my dead body, but that could happen. I need you to stop lying to me, and tell me the whole damned truth.” He reached out to grasp her arms. His hands felt warm, and strong, and familiar now. It was the familiar part that got to her. “I know you know where the money is. Tell me.”
Right. It was all about the money. For a moment there, she’d almost forgotten that.
“If we’re going to talk about truth, why don’t you go first?” She smiled at him. Because she really, really liked him, and because suspecting his motives and not being able to trust him felt like it was turning her heart inside out, it wasn’t a nice smile. “Mr. CIA Agent John F. Bradley.”
The skin around his eyes tightened, his mouth thinned, and the grip on her arms hardened.
“I saw your ID number on a text when you snuck out of bed in the middle of the night and the phone rattled the drawer beside the bed,” she said. “And I checked it out.”
He grimaced. Message: busted. Then his grip eased and his eyes and mouth returned to normal. “John Finnegan Bradley, CIA’s National Clandestine Service, Special Operations Group. The Agency doesn’t want its interest in the missing money known, so we’re conducting a joint operation with the FBI. Bax is FBI, by the way. For real.”
“You lied to me.”
“In the interests of national security.”
She huffed out a laugh. “Does that line actually work on people?”
He pulled her toward him. “Pretty much, yeah. Riley—”
“Oh, no.” She put her hands on his chest, freed herself from his grip, walked over to the room’s one chair, a denim blue recliner, and threw herself down in it. He followed, and she looked up at him with a frown.
“Your picture was on Jeff’s cell phone.” Her tone was abrupt. It was a measure of her growing trust in him that she told him at all. As she’d decided before, if his picture was on that phone for the wrong reasons, telling him she’d seen it could go very wrong. “He snapped it the night he died.”
His face was impossible to read as he looked down at her. “You’ve been wondering if I killed him.”
She’d never really thought that. “More like, I’ve been wondering if you’re one of the bad guys.”
He snorted. “Angel, if I’m a bad guy, I’m the one keeping all the other bad guys from your door.”
“I know. Don’t think I don’t appreciate that.”
The look he gave her was long, level, and impossible to interpret. “In the interests of clarity, I did not kill Jeff. I was looking for him that night, though. He must have seen me, taken a picture without me seeing him, and then run for it. He knew me, knew what I was there for.”
Riley’s hands tightened on the arms of the chair. “You knew Jeff?”
He sighed, and crouched down in front of her. “This is full disclosure, right? I tell you mine, you tell me yours?”
“Maybe.” Riley drew the word out cautiously, and he narrowed his eyes at her. But he continued anyway.
“After 9/11, the CIA had a few of us tracking down some insider trades that happened in the markets prior to the attacks. We developed information that enabled us to use the financial markets to predict impending terrorist attacks. Cowan Investments had a large number of investments from suspect sources, and I was sent down here to check them out. Jeff was a teenager at the time, working in his daddy’s office. He didn’t appreciate my presence. George didn’t, either, but he was old enough and smart enough to cooperate. The fact that I was already familiar with the Cowans and their operation was one of the factors in sending me here to search for the money.”
Even though she hadn’t really suspected him of harming Jeff, Riley felt as if a small weight had been lifted from her chest.
“Is that everything?” she asked cautiously.
“That I can think of for the moment. And it’s all top secret, by the way.” He stood up, and before she guessed what he meant to do, he scooped her up and sat back down with her in his lap.
“Hey,” she protested.
“It’s the only chair, I’m tired, and squatting down in front of you is making my legs hurt,” he said, but she was already settling in, relaxing into his encircling arms, draping her legs sideways across his, sliding an arm around his neck. She had never been a lap-sitting kind of woman but—this
was Finn’s lap.
Their eyes met. Something—hot, but deeper and more profound than that, too—passed between them.
He smoothed her hair back from her face, dropped a quick, hard kiss on her lips.
Her heart shivered.
He said, “Whatever you’ve done, I’ll get you out of it. If you stole the damned money, I’ll get you out of it. Whatever secret you’re keeping, whatever you’ve been lying about this whole time, I’ll help you fix it. But you need to tell me.”
She met his eyes, felt the steady strength of that calm blue-gray gaze, and told him. Everything.
* * *
HAVING ABANDONED the Acura, which he judged to be too well known now, Finn was behind the wheel of a black Lexus commandeered from Agents Waters and Silverman. The four agents were in an identical black Lexus behind them (nobody ever said the Agency was creative). Riley was beside him, and Bax, because Bax had earned his trust, was the backup of choice in the backseat.
They were on their way to Houston, to Margaret’s house. Still not sure whether he was more stunned by, appalled at, or proud of Riley’s chutzpah in siphoning off money from the stolen billions that she’d found when the whole world and its mother had failed to do so, he wanted to get his hands on those papers she’d hidden in the dog’s ashes before he told anybody anything. If the information was in his hands, he became the target, not her.
Just thinking about the amount of danger she’d been in ever since she’d found that money put him in a cold sweat.
He was wary of sending a message, of transmitting by even the most secure means, that he had ascertained that Riley really did have knowledge of the whereabouts of hidden bank accounts, or that papers actually detailing those accounts existed, and where. No means of communication was totally secure, and if the word got out there’d be the equivalent of an operative feeding frenzy with Riley, and the papers, both serving as chum.
She was with him, because he didn’t dare let her out of his sight. Until the money was officially found, she wouldn’t be safe.
“Don’t forget that Emma’s the number one priority,” Riley reminded him as she had at least half a dozen times since she’d told him the whole story. He got the feeling she still wasn’t completely convinced she’d done the right thing, and Emma was at the heart of that. Riley was afraid that once the key to the money was in his hands, it would be out of his hands, so to speak, that the Agency would take it and whisk it away rather than use it to ransom Emma.
What he said to her was, “Emma will be saved.” His internal answer was more complex: Emma would be saved if it was humanly possible to save her. He was still working on ways to get it done.
“I know,” he answered, and smiled at her, because she was beautiful, and amazing, and she’d trusted him, and—
Get your mind on your business. This is not the time for that.
Bax said, “Hey, I just got a text. Ed Harper—you know, the guy who sent those emails to Jeff—is claiming George bribed him to send them. He said he was visiting his cousin at the prison like he does every week and George promised to give him insider investing tips if he did that for him. We’ve got an agent on the way to talk to George about it now.”
“Good luck with that,” Finn said, while Riley frowned and said with obvious disappointment, “So those emails probably didn’t come from Emma’s kidnappers.”
“It’s not sounding like it,” Bax said. “I—”
He broke off as Finn’s cell phone rang. It was positioned on the console between the seats, because Riley wanted it where she could keep an eye on it. He reached for it, looked at the number, and felt his heart rate and pulse start to slow down.
“This may be them,” he said to Riley, who was looking at his phone with a combination of horror and hope. She sucked in air audibly. Her hand shook as she reached for the phone. The call was being monitored and recorded remotely. If this was the kidnappers, top operatives would be listening in, analyzing, and trying to trace the call as she spoke.
Riley took the phone, wet her lips, punched the button, and said into the phone, “This is Riley.”
Finn couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation, but from the way the color faded from her cheeks he knew who it was even before she mouthed at him, “It’s them.”
— CHAPTER —
THIRTY-TWO
“You called the FBI.” The voice on the other end of the phone was ugly with accusation. It was a man’s voice, not foreign. No particular accent that she could discern. She didn’t recognize it.
Riley felt panic squeeze her chest. “I know where the money is,” she said, without confirming or denying his accusation. “I can give you bank names, account numbers.”
“Text them to this number. We’ll let her go.”
Having pulled over to the side of the road, Finn was on his alternate phone, listening to one of the agents who was monitoring the phone call, while Bax was leaning forward into the space between the front seats, agog with interest. Finn shook his head at Riley, who knew the answer to that without him having to tell her. She’d been coached on what to say when the kidnappers called by, she presumed, the same expert hostage negotiator who was listening in, in a phone call before leaving the safe house. Finn made a winding motion with his hand, which she interpreted as “keep the kidnapper talking.” If she could keep him on the line long enough, they might be able to trace the call.
“Texts, emails, they’re not secure. You know that. I want to make sure you get what you want, so Emma can come home.” She’d been told to try to set up a face-to-face exchange. “We need to meet. I’ll give you the list of accounts, and you give me Emma. How about—” She was about to suggest, as she’d been instructed, in front of the zoo.
“We’ll call you later tonight with a place.”
She sensed he was about to hang up. “Wait.”
Finn was mouthing something at her: “Proof of life.”
Right. She remembered what she’d been told to do.
“I need to make sure she’s alive. I want to talk to her. I—”
“Riley.” It was Emma.
“Em! Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m so scared. I miss Rogers so much. And Kenny—”
Emma made a sound, and Riley heard some kind of commotion, as if she was being dragged away from the phone.
“Em!” Riley cried, her stomach dropping clear to her toes.
“Be ready.” It was the kidnapper, back on the phone. Then he hung up.
The sound of dead air was the most terrifying sound of all, Riley discovered. Her eyes locked with Finn’s. Her chest was so tight she could hardly breathe. She felt dizzy, sick.
“Em,” she said. It was almost a whimper.
“You heard her, she’s all right. They’re going to call back. They want the money.” Finn took the phone from her grasp, then pushed her head down so that her head was resting on her knees. Riley didn’t resist. She was too weak. Her head spun.
“Breathe,” Finn ordered, and she did, in and out, while he spoke to the hostage negotiator.
In a few minutes, when her head had cleared sufficiently, Riley sat up.
“Better?” Finn asked. His face was tight with concern.
Riley nodded. “She was trying to send a message,” she said. “There is no Rogers in her life. There is no Kenny.”
“Are you sure?” Finn frowned at her.
“Kenny Rogers,” Bax exclaimed excitedly, while Finn repeated what she’d said to the hostage negotiator. Then Bax frowned. “But what does it mean?”
That was the terrible thing. Riley didn’t have a clue. None of them did.
* * *
BY THE TIME Riley walked into Margaret’s house, it was dark outside. Since talking to Emma, she’d had time to regain her composure. The last thing she wanted to do was upset Margaret more, or infect her with her own terrible fear. When, five minutes out because Finn wouldn’t let her do it any sooner for fear of a security breach, she’d called to let M
argaret know she was coming, Margaret’s voice had broken her heart. It was thin, and quavering, and sounded like it belonged to someone who was very, very old.
“Riley!” Margaret came up off the couch to envelop her in a hug. Her normally fastidious ex-mother-in-law was more disheveled than Riley had ever seen her. Margaret’s hair looked like it hadn’t been combed since Riley had left, she was wearing what Riley thought were the same clothes except for, and this was despite the baking heat, the addition of a cardigan sweater, and there wasn’t a speck of makeup on her face. “I’m so glad to see you.”
Riley hugged her back. Margaret felt like skin and bones in her arms. The TV was on, and so were the lamps. They didn’t help. The atmosphere in the house felt heavy, depressing.
Like somebody has died.
“I talked to Emma,” Riley said first thing. She hadn’t been able to tell Margaret that over the phone, again because of security concerns. “She’s all right.”
“You actually spoke to her?” Still clinging to Riley’s hands, Margaret sat down abruptly on the couch. “Oh, my God. Thank God.”
Then her eyes went past Riley to Finn, who had come in behind her and was standing discreetly back, in front of the closed door.
“This is Finn,” Riley introduced him. He was once again wearing his suit jacket, but he’d left his tie off and his shirt was open at the neck. He looked very big in the modestly sized room, and so toughly handsome that Riley was conscious of feeling a little glimmer of pride in him. She was dying to really introduce him to Margaret, in a way that let Margaret know that he was important to her, but these were not the circumstances. “Agent Bradley.”
“Mrs. Cowan.” Finn took the hand Margaret extended to him as she murmured the appropriate greeting.
“Won’t you sit down?” Margaret, with her always impeccable manners, indicated the chair beside the couch.
“Thank you, but we’ll only be here a moment.” Finn gave Riley a meaningful look. He’d already impressed on her how vulnerable she was in this house, which was a place where she was known to spend a considerable amount of time and might well be under surveillance.
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