The Billionaire's Redemption (The Billionaire's Kiss, Book Five): (A Billionaire Alpha Romance)

by Olivia Thorne

  “I don’t want to look bad?! YOU’RE the internationally wanted criminals!”

  I remember something Grant said almost a week before, and quote him almost verbatim. “No I’m not. I’ve never been convicted of a crime. Therefore I’m not a criminal.”

  Grant looks at me and grins, then turns back to Duplass. “Me neither.”

  Duplass splutters for a second. It’s hard to protest an argument that’s 100% accurate, yet absolutely ridiculous on its face. “You – that’s – you have both engaged in activities that are against the law!”

  “Because a murderous asshole was trying to kill us,” I point out.

  “You ran from authorities in the United States and abroad!”

  “Because a murderous asshole was trying to kill us.”

  “You instructed that – that woman to assault me!” Duplass yells.

  “Because you were standing by while a murderous asshole was trying to kill Grant.”

  “You trespassed on, and then broke into, a private estate – ”

  “Of a murderous asshole – ”

  “ – and then you engineered the death of the owner!”

  “ – who was trying to kill Grant.”

  If it’s a good excuse the first time, I figure it’s a good excuse the 37th time, too.

  Duplass is turning red, he’s so angry – but he sees this line of argument is getting him nowhere, so he changes tack and goes after Grant. “And YOU, sir, are a thief!”

  Grant doesn’t even bat an eye. “No I’m not.”

  “Yes you are! You even admitted it in Paris!”

  “No I didn’t. I said I broke and entered. I never said I stole anything.”

  “The NYPD found ten stolen paintings in your Manhattan residence!”

  “Like I said before, those were planted.”

  “THEY WERE NOT PLANTED!” Duplass roars.

  “Did you happen to take an inventory of the artwork inside Dieter Lassenbach’s library?” Grant asks.

  “What?”

  “His library,” Grant says, and adds a dollop of sarcasm: “You know, that room outside the one where he was going to cut me into little pieces?”

  “Why would we do that?” Duplass snarls.

  “Because he has two of the world’s most famous stolen paintings in that room. ‘The Concert’ by Vermeer, and ‘View of the Sea at Scheveningen’ by Vincent Van Gogh.”

  Duplass narrows his eyes. “How would you know those two paintings were stolen?”

  Uh oh.

  Grant probably should have let the FBI figure out about the paintings on their own. Now it just looks like he was overeager to point out a fact he probably shouldn’t have known in the first place.

  But if Grant is worried, he doesn’t show it. “Those are two of the most famous stolen paintings in history.”

  “Yes, but how would you know that?” Duplass prods gleefully.

  “I’m an architect. Art is a related field.” He shrugs. “I know a few things.”

  “You ‘know a few things.’” Duplass chuckles grimly. “Well, I know a few things, too. You broke into that Bel Air house you designed and saved those two women – or maybe you stole something from this ‘Epicurus’ character. Either way, you made him very angry. He decided to get revenge, so he sent a hit squad after you in New York, but failed to capture you. However, his men found a collection of stolen paintings. Epicurus decided to take two as a trophy, and left the rest in order to expose you to the world as a criminal.”

  Shit.

  Duplass is using my own conspiracy theory against me. He took the 5% lunacy out of my explanation and replaced it with the truth.

  There’s nothing left to do now but obfuscate and sow confusion.

  “Let’s stay away from your ‘theories’ for a minute,” I say, “and look at the facts.”

  “It’s not a theory!” Duplass snaps. “We have proof!”

  “Your agents killed Dieter Lassenbach – ”

  “Because of you!” Duplass yells.

  “ – who was a serial killer – ”

  Duplass is turning red again. “There’s no proof of that!”

  I do a double take on that one. “Wait – what?!”

  “Did you not see the room I was in?” Grant asks angrily.

  Duplass shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Obviously it was some sort of… torture chamber. But there is absolutely no proof that Mr. Lassenbach killed anyone else.”

  “The bodies in the Bel Air house!” I yell at him. “That’s your proof!”

  “The house burned down,” Duplass says. “There was no recoverable DNA evidence placing Lassenbach at the scene, and we were never able to establish who rented the house in the first place.”

  “Talk to the two women I saved!” Grant snaps.

  “I’ve read their depositions. The assailant in the Bel Air case always wore a mask, so the women couldn’t possibly make an identification.” Duplass shakes his head. “There is no proof that Dieter Lassenbach and Epicurus were one and the same person.”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Grant snarls.

  Grant may be incredulous, but Duplass’s bullshit makes complete sense. Or at least his motives do. If it gets out that the NSA allowed a serial killer to use their network, however unintentionally – much less paid him millions of dollars in the process – it’s going to be a national scandal, and not one that goes away in a couple of days. No, it’ll be the kind of shitshow that gets remembered years later, and might just sway the next presidential election. Duplass, being the good little bureaucrat that he is, has every reason not to air the government’s dirty laundry. He knows how toxic it will be to everyone’s careers if this gets out.

  Of course, the threat of ‘this getting out’ is the only thing that’s standing between me, Grant, and life in prison.

  I could show them the videos I pulled off Epicurus’s servers. But if I do that, then they can track them back to where I stashed them and delete everything. And something tells me I might need a bargaining chip before this is all over.

  So instead I turn to Mailin and ask, “Did your guys get into Epicurus’s computer systems?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have online access?”

  Mailin starts typing on the laptop sitting next to Duplass. “Uh, yes, we do.”

  “NO,” Duplass snaps. “That’s evidence from the crime scene. We’re not showing that to you.”

  “I’ve already seen it.”

  That little piece of information floors him. “But – that was – ”

  “And it’s already part of the crime scene, so you don’t need a warrant,” I say tartly. I turn back to Mailin. “Do a search for any video files over 20 gigs.”

  “Okay.” After about five seconds go by, he exclaims, “Whoa – there’s, like, a hundred of them.”

  “Play one.”

  “Stop!” Duplass orders.

  Mailin’s fingers freeze on the keyboard.

  Duplass scowls at me. “You don’t get to twist evidence you illegally obtained to exonerate yourself!”

  “I’m not twisting anything. It’s proof he’s a serial killer.”

  “With all your other lies, why should I believe you?”

  “Because you can see it with your own eyes.” Asshole. “Either he’s a serial killer and everything we’ve been saying is true, or he’s not and we deserve to go to prison.”

  Duplass looks hesitant.

  “What are you afraid of? The truth?” I ask. “Just play it.”

  He finally relents and signals with his hand.

  Mailin starts the video.

  At first there’s no audio, or at least none I can hear.

  Duplass scrunches up his face in exasperation. “It’s the same room we saw at the house, just empty.”

  Behind the bluster, I can sense a truckload of relief. Relief that he doesn’t have to be the one to break the news that government contractor Dieter Lassenbach was using NSA resources to tr
ack and kill people.

  “Fast forward it,” I suggest. “Go to somewhere around the middle of the video.”

  Mailin does so.

  Immediately the room is filled with screams and Epicurus’s obscene laughter.

  Mailin puts his hand to his mouth.

  Grant winces at the hellish sound coming out of the computer.

  Duplass turns ghostly white. “STOP IT!”

  Mailin does so, and the room is plunged back into blessed silence.

  “Believe me now?” I ask.

  Mailin turns away and looks like he’s going to vomit. Duplass just seems stunned.

  “Like Mailin said, there are a hundred other videos,” I say. “I’m betting they’re all like that one. You might want to get your men on that right away – I’m sure they’ll want to ID the victims.”

  Duplass stares off into the distance.

  I give him a little time to respond. He’s in shock, as any normal human being would be.

  Despite having to play such an awful, grisly trump card, I’m feeling somewhat better about Grant’s and my chances. What are our petty crimes compared to this monster’s? I only hacked the NSA to save Grant, and Grant saved the lives of two women from a serial killer. Surely any reasonable person would –

  “No,” Duplass says quietly.

  I frown.

  What?

  Grant leans forward. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

  “I know what you’re trying to do. This… ‘Epicurus’… is so far beyond the pale, that you think being compared with him will excuse what you did. But it doesn’t. You stole those paintings – ”

  Here Duplass looks and points at me.

  “ – and you hacked the NSA. And I’m going to see both of you crucified for it.”

  99

  I sit there in shock. All I can think of is, Did he just SAY that?

  “‘Crucified’ is hardly the way an objective investigator would talk, Agent Duplass,” Grant says. Somehow he still manages to sound calm and composed.

  “Objectivity went out the window when I lost my two agents in Paris – in part because of your illegal activities, I might add.”

  “Epicurus had them killed!” I cry out.

  “I have no proof of that,” Duplass says coldly.

  “Then who the hell do you think killed them?!”

  “The same gunmen who abducted Mr. Carlson in Paris.”

  “Who were PAID by Epicurus!”

  “I have no proof of that.”

  “Jesus, are you trying to be obtuse?” I ask angrily. “Why the hell do you think they brought Grant to San Francisco in the first place?”

  “All I know is that my agents were killed by a group of unidentified gunmen. Until we find out more, I’m not going to speculate.”

  “You’re not going to speculate,” I repeat, half-mocking, half disbelieving.

  “No. I only care about the truth,” Duplass says in that self-righteous tone of voice used by every politician, ever.

  I want to nail him so bad with that statement, because it’s obvious he doesn’t ‘only’ care about the truth. But when you’ve been lying all day about not stealing long-lost works of art, it’s hard to call somebody else on their bullshit.

  Mailin tries to do it for me, in a more diplomatic sort of way. “Agent Duplass, given the fact that we lost Martinez and Thompson, I think we should let a more objective party take a look at – ”

  “Shut the hell up, Walker,” Duplass sneers. “‘Objective’? You’ve been in this bitch’s back pocket since the beginning. You’re like a goddamn puppy dog.”

  WHAT?!

  I’m about to speak, and Grant is about to leap out of his chair and strangle the guy, when Mailin beats us to the punch.

  “Fuck you, Duplass – you don’t give a damn about the truth,” Mailin says angrily. “You want to be Bureau Director someday, maybe even run for Congress – but you know that’s impossible if you don’t bury this, because the stink of it is going to follow you for the rest of your career. You couldn’t catch Grant in Paris, and then two agents died on your watch – ”

  Duplass stands up, he’s so angry. “YOU SHUT YOUR GODDAMN MOUTH!”

  “And then you took a chance and transported everybody to the U.S. against regulations. You thought you could clean up your mess by catching the guy responsible. Only problem was, the guy responsible was a billionaire and politically connected. You knew it could end your career when everything came to light, so you fucking stalled – ”

  “Give me your badge RIGHT NOW, Agent Walker!” Duplass shouts. “You are relieved of duty for insubordination!”

  I’m not really listening anymore.

  Something Mailin mentioned stuck in my head.

  Congress.

  Politically connected.

  Oh yeah.

  I forgot my real trump card.

  The political contributions list.

  100

  “Agent Duplass,” I say.

  He turns around and jabs his finger at me. “YOU be QUIET!”

  “If you really do care about Epicurus being politically connected, I think you’re going to want to hear this.”

  “Agent Walker’s talking about the NSA, idiot,” Duplass snaps.

  “Well, I’m talking about the United States Congress, idiot.”

  That shuts him up, and fast.

  “When I was hacking into Epicurus’s system – to save Grant,” I emphasize, “I found some documents detailing his political donations.”

  Duplass remains quiet.

  “He gave millions to a couple dozen different Senators and House Representatives. He also donated over $10 million to one particular presidential candidate’s Political Action Committee in the last election. I’m not saying that the candidate knew about it… and I’m not saying that anybody close to the candidate knew about it… but on the other hand, I’ve only looked at maybe a tenth of all those documents. Who knows what else I’ll find in there?”

  Duplass gives me a reptilian smile. “Well, since you don’t have access to those files anymore – ”

  “Oh, but I do. I copied them to a server, along with all those videos Epicurus made. And only I know where they are.”

  Duplass isn’t smiling anymore. “That’s treason.”

  “No it’s not.”

  “It’s a violation of the Espionage Act – ”

  “They were the files of a private individual, not a government agency.”

  “You hacked the NSA to get ahold of them!”

  “But I didn’t spy on the NSA. Only on Epicurus.”

  “Fine,” Duplass seethes. “Then we’ll charge you under the Criminal Fraud and Abuse Act. You’re still going to prison for the rest of your life.”

  It’s so obvious this guy wants to destroy me and Grant for no other reason than to cover his own ass, that I don’t feel bad at all about my next move.

  “Well, it will be interesting to see what happens when those documents dump in about three hours.”

  Duplass looks confused. “…what?”

  “I copied all those videos and contribution lists to a server, then rigged a document dump to go off in twelve hours – unless I type in a 34-character password to stop it. If I don’t type in that password, the documents get sent in their entirety to Wikileaks, the New York Times, the Washington Post – oh, and the Justice Department, too.”

  There’s a deathly silence in the room.

  That is, until Grant lets out a very Keanu Reeves-like “Whoa.”

  Duplass looks like he wants to shoot me. “You planned this.”

  “Well, of course – but I planned it so that in case we all died, the world would still know what a monster Dieter Lassenbach was. It just kind of worked out for this situation, too.”

  “This is blackmail.”

  “Yeah… I gotta admit, I can’t really argue my way out of that one. But since you want to ‘crucify’ me for trying to save Grant from a serial killer, and crucify Grant for be
ing framed by the same guy – ”

  “Cut the crap,” Duplass sneers. “We both know that bullshit about the paintings being planted is a lie. Any judge and jury will see right through it.”

  I grit my teeth. “You’re trying to destroy Grant over a victimless crime.”

  “Victimless?!” Duplass laughs. “Those paintings are worth hundreds of millions!”

  “No one lost any money because of his actions.”

  “Of course they did! The insurance companies who reimbursed the museums – ”

  “He didn’t steal anything from museums, so the insurance companies’ losses aren’t on him.”

  Duplass stabs his finger in the air towards Grant. “He STOLE those paintings.”

  “Which you’ve got back in your possession, along with a serial killer who’s responsible for the deaths of dozens and dozens of women.” I raise an eyebrow. “And who would make an excellent scapegoat in the press.”

  Duplass laughs. “You are digging your grave deeper and deeper by the second, missy.”

  I cross my arms. “Okay, then. If my grave’s already dug, I want to see what happens when the Times runs the headline, ‘NSA Serial Killer Murders Dozens of Women Under FBI’s Nose.’ Maybe you want to call your superiors first? Kick it upstairs and ask if the White House wants me to go ahead with the document dump. You know… let the chips fall where they may.”

  Duplass is shaking, he’s so angry. But he’s paralyzed, unsure of what to do.

  “Stop,” Grant says. “I’ll make a full confession.”

  101

  I look at Grant in shock. “What?!”

  He ignores me and focuses on Duplass. “Full confession – on two conditions.”

  “What?” the FBI agent asks. I can see the greed in his eyes. He’s practically licking his lips.

  “One, you let Eve and my friends walk. No charges, no nothing. That’s non-negotiable.”

  “Impossible.”

  Grant leans back in his chair. “Okay. Never mind.”

  Duplass squints. “Say that I can get them off the hook. What’s the second condition?”

  “I’m going to give you a list of everybody I stole those paintings from. At least one of the people on the list has to admit that something was stolen, or I walk free. After all, if nothing went missing, then I didn’t commit any crimes.”