by Lisa Gardner
I check the gun long enough to flip the safety off. I’m no good with firearms. Guns are loud and violent. They take me back to places I don’t want to go and memories I don’t want to experience. However, this is no time to be squeamish.
Next, I check the radio. I turn the volume down, then flick it on. As I slowly turn it up, I hear a voice. Frédéric’s.
“Dutch, do you copy? Over.”
I think about it for a second, then start clicking. SOS. Over and over again. Let’s see what Frédéric does with that. I drag Dutch’s incredibly heavy body over to an open classroom, leaving just his feet visible.
Then I find the darkened doorway directly across from it and melt into the shadows.
A full minute passes. I know because I count off the seconds, trying to steady my breathing.
A figure appears. From this distance, I can’t be sure who. But as it draws closer, I can tell it’s not tall enough to be Frédéric. Henchman number two, I decide. I don’t recognize the approximate size and shape as someone I’ve met before, but it hardly matters.
Have baseball bat, will travel.
“Dutch?” the voice whispers. I resume my mental counting. Not yet, not yet . . .
“Dutch! What the hell?”
Feet spotted. Henchman number two racing toward his fallen comrade.
Not yet . . .
Now. I spring out the instant the man passes my doorway. A low swing of the bat, directly at the back of the knees and henchman number two is down.
He rolls over surprisingly quick. I have an image of a gun lifting. Hear the crack of it firing. Singe of heat, stinging pain. I swing the bat again and the gun goes flying. I smack the man over and over. Targeting arms, shoulders, chest. I’m breathing hard, a blur of fear and rage.
At the last moment, I halt myself, registering that the evil henchman is no longer moving but groaning low and bubbly. I’ve broken his ribs, I’m sure of it. I have an instant of guilt. Then I remember Livia’s dumped body, Deke’s dying form, and I’m over it.
I search around in the dark again. Find the fallen gun and toss it across the hall into the second classroom. Another radio is clipped around the man’s waist. I take it out. Then, I am once more on the hunt.
* * *
—
The dark hallway is quiet as I creep down it. I’m shaking head to toe. More bad guys? Dozens of them? I have no way of knowing. I’m trying to think of what I learned from Deke. A counterfeiting operation for student visas. Requiring one mastermind, followed by enough men to kidnap two teenage girls and force them into servitude. That shouldn’t require too many bodies. I think. I hope.
All criminal enterprises have the incentive to run lean. Fewer people for splitting the profits. Again, I think. I hope.
Assuming Deke was one of the minions, plus Dutch, and broken ribs guy, the operation is now down three. Can’t be that many more to go.
I think. I hope.
Up ahead. I see a light. I hear a voice. It’s not a man’s voice, though, but a girl’s.
“Quick,” she says urgently. “Wake up. Please, Emmanuel. Please!”
And just like that, I’m staring at Angelique Badeau inside a lit room. Her hair is pulled back tight—the image from her Tamara Levesque license. She wears jeans and sweatshirt, but she is covered in smears of red. Blood. From the van, I think. From the kidnapping of her brother.
Which brings me to Emmanuel, whose bound form lies prostrate on the ground. He doesn’t seem to be moving.
I’m too late.
“Please,” Angelique hisses again. She kneels at her brother’s side, shaking him hard. She is trembling, gaze darting around the classroom. I note several computers and what appears to be a pretty impressive printer. The heart of the operations, I think. But I don’t have to time to consider the matter.
Angelique is clearly on high alert. Because of the commotion I’ve made, or because she knows she and her brother still aren’t safe?
I want to say her name. I want to march in the room and declare, “My name is Frankie Elkin and I hereby rescue you.”
Except I’m terribly aware that a key individual is missing. Frédéric Lagudu, the center’s executive director and the voice I heard on the radio. So where the hell is he?
Angelique darts behind her brother, plucking at the knots on his wrists. And several things happen at once.
She looks up, spots me.
I hold a finger to my lips, gesturing for her to be silent as I heft up my bat.
She shakes her head frantically.
And I’m tackled from behind, the baseball bat flying from my grasp.
“You stupid bitch!”
I barely get my arms out in time to break my fall, then Frédéric is upon me, pressing down against my back, pinning me into place. His hand tangles into my hair, jerking my head back.
I buck helplessly, but I can’t get him off. He’s too heavy, and with my arms trapped beneath me, I can’t reach the gun at my waist, nor the bat rolling across the floor. He slams my face against the floor.
I hear a crack, my nose bursting into a bloody mess, my forehead ringing in stunning pain. Then he yanks up my head again, preparing for the second blow as my eyes water and my mouth fills with blood. He’s going to kill me. I am dying.
Not a bullet after all. How interesting.
“No, no, no!”
I hear Angelique’s voice. Then sense her running approach. Save yourself, I want to yell at her, but I can’t manage the words.
She barrels into my attacker, the weight lifting from my back as Frédéric topples to the side.
I roll away, staggering to my feet, trying desperately to get my bearings. The bat—where is it? Or the gun? It must’ve fallen from my waist because now I can’t find it.
“I hate you!” Angelique is scrabbling with Frédéric. He’s bigger, stronger. But she’s incensed, smacking at his head and face. An older sister, desperate to save her brother. A girlfriend, mourning her partner’s murder.
It’s not enough. With a twist of his arm, Frédéric throws her off.
“Goddammit.”
“Angelique!” I cry.
She barely gets her hands up before Frédéric socks her in the face, followed by a quick jab to her kidneys. She doubles over in pain, while I continue frantically searching the floor. Bat. Gun. Bat. Gun. My head is ringing, my vision blurred.
A fresh sound. Emmanuel, now awake. Emmanuel, still bound hand and foot, desperately trying to inchworm his way to his sister’s side.
“Angelique!” he screams.
Frédéric wallops her again and again.
“No,” I say helplessly, still staggering about.
Frédéric materializes before me. And now he’s the one with the gun. Sighting me, then Angelique’s weeping form, then Emmanuel’s bound figure.
It’s over. I can see it on his face. Simply a matter of whom to shoot first.
“Me,” I hear myself say. “Shoot me. The kids are no threat to you.”
“You bitch. You shouldn’t have come back here.”
“The police are on their way. Run now, while you have the chance. I’ll lie. Leave Angelique and Emmanuel alone, and I’ll send the police in the opposite direction. I promise.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. Deke told us everything, about the website, the fake student visas, Livia’s murder. It’s over now. Take your profits and get out.”
“I still have my prize.” Frédéric grabs Angelique by the arm, forcing her to stand. She gasps in pain. Her face is bloody, but in her eyes I see a fierce light of determination, or maybe it’s simply hatred for this man. It doesn’t matter, I’ll take either, as I finally spy the bat. Two feet behind her to the left. Too far for me to reach, but maybe not for her. If I can just distract Frédéric, buy Angelique a mom
ent of time.
My gaze, darting to the bat, back to her, the bat. Her eyes widen slightly. I think she understands. I remember what Emmanuel said: His sister doesn’t dream, she plans. And I think that I’m very sorry I’ll never get to meet this amazing young woman, because there’s only one way I can think to grab Frédéric’s attention, and it doesn’t end so well for me.
Emmanuel, whimpering from the floor. Angelique, tensing in anticipation.
Frédéric, raising his gun.
And me . . .
I’m back in a liquor store, ten years ago. A young kid, sweating in desperation and shaking with withdrawal, waving a pistol all about. “Give me your money! All of it, now!”
Except I don’t have any money. I just spent the last of it on a bottle of vodka, right before I broke and called Paul and begged him, all these months later, to come save me from myself. Now the store clerk is wide-eyed and anxious.
Only Paul is calm, as he steps forward, raises his arms in a placating motion. “Easy now. No need for anyone to get hurt.”
Did the kid mean to pull the trigger? Or did it just happen? All these years later, I still don’t know. I just remember the sound of the gunshot. The look of horror on the kid’s face. And the look of surprise on Paul’s as he sank down, down, down.
The kid fled out the door.
And Paul . . .
Paul.
Now, I keep my eyes open. I want to see it coming. I want to watch death finally find me.
As I look Frédéric right in the eye, and charge forward. A split second where I register the shock in his face. He isn’t expecting it. He jerks the trigger wildly, releasing Angelique as he braces for contact.
She rolls to the side. Please grab the bat, I think—as I register pain, so much fucking pain. I drop, rolling across the floor, keep rolling.
Bang, bang, bang.
Screaming. Angelique’s, my own, Emmanuel’s.
Followed by a new booming voice. “Stop! Police! Lower your weapon!”
Lotham explodes into the classroom, leading with his pistol.
Frédéric pivots wildly, caught off guard by this fresh threat. Angelique appears behind him, bat raised high.
“LiLi,” Emmanuel cries.
“Police!” Lotham shouts again.
Paul is down. Paul is bleeding.
No, it’s me now. I am down, I am bleeding.
Angelique swings the bat. She connects with the side of his head, but not quite hard enough. Frédéric turns, gun still in hand . . .
And Lotham takes him out. Bang, bang, bang.
Angelique drops the bat. “Emmanuel! Please help my brother.”
“LiLi! Are you okay? LiLi!”
More pounding footsteps. Cops pouring into the room, flooding down the hall. I should say something, I should move. But I can’t seem to get to my feet. I can’t seem to find my voice. An unbelievable pressure is building in my chest.
Then Lotham is kneeling over me.
“Hold on there, Frankie. Just hold on. I got you.”
“Angelique,” I whisper. “Emmanuel.”
“You did it, Frankie. You found her. You rescued both of them. They’re safe.”
“Paul,” I say.
“He’d be very proud of you.”
I start to cry then. Blood and tears. Past and present. Old wounds and fresh scars.
“I got you, Frankie. I got you,” Lotham reassures me.
And I believe him.
CHAPTER 37
I’m in the hospital for a matter of days. I don’t remember much. A blur of pain as I fight the doctor’s orders for morphine, screaming that I’m an addict. Lotham might be there. Or maybe it’s Charlie, Viv, Stoney. At one point, I’m convinced even Piper has paid a visit.
I don’t have insurance, which means once the bullet is removed from my left shoulder and the wound patched on my right arm, I’m back out the door. This time it’s Lotham who definitely does the honors of picking me up, driving me back to Stoney’s and leading me upstairs.
I sleep. I dream. Of Paul, of Angelique. Of Deke dying in my arms. Of Livia chasing me through a park: What about me, what about me?
When I wake up, I don’t have an answer, so I sleep again.
In one of my more lucid moments, I learn that Frédéric, Dutch, and some guy named Holden have all been arrested. Dutch survived my encounter with him. Holden is still in the hospital, recovering from broken ribs, a broken jaw, and a ruptured spleen. I’m told he’ll live. I think I’m grateful, but I can’t be sure.
Apparently, Frédéric had gotten into the drug business nearly twenty years ago. He’d used his position at the rec center to meet and recruit other lower-level dealers, before going upmarket with the purchase of hundreds of thousands of dollars in counterfeit currency.
He’d initially been amused by Deke’s idea to enter the fake license market. But once he’d realized Livia’s and Angelique’s full potential, he’d quickly gotten on board. Then Angelique’s fateful idea to set up a sham college for issuing real student visas . . . As I’d suspected, the revenue potential was too good to pass up. If he had to kidnap two girls, so be it.
He’d stashed the girls at an abandoned town house just around the corner from the rec center, with Deke, Holden, and Dutch serving as rotating guards. Livia and Angelique would work at night, and sleep during the day, lowering their profile.
Most of the time, the girls were confined to the town house, utilizing a couple of computers Frédéric had brought over for them. But every so often, they’d journey to the rec center after dark to print out new and improved versions of the driver’s licenses. Deke assisted with local sales, while Dutch handled online marketing. The license business hadn’t been bad but, given the not-quite-Grade-A quality of the forgeries, still limited. Merely a convenient cash flow vehicle while the girls worked toward the larger goal of perfecting a sham college.
Unfortunately, Livia had slowly but surely deteriorated under the constant pressure. Angelique’s initial kidnapping had stressed her out. By the time Deke grabbed her as well, under Frédéric’s orders but also because Deke genuinely thought he could control the situation better if he had the girls together, Livia was a constant bundle of nerves. Angelique had done her best to run interference and buy them time. Especially once she’d realized Deke had a soft spot for his sister.
Unfortunately, Frédéric wasn’t the sentimental type. Once Gleeson C was perfected and the first round of student visa paperwork issued, he considered the girl to be little more than a liability. He took care of Livia first. But as Angelique and Deke quickly realized, she wouldn’t be the last. Frédéric, ordering Holden to shoot J.J., kidnap Emmanuel, then kill Deke when he tried to intervene . . .
On and on until there was no one left.
Sixth day, or maybe seventh, I manage to get out of bed long enough to shower, force down some soup. Afterward I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My drawn face, my heavily bandaged shoulder. I look like shit. And I feel like . . . ?
I can’t decide. I found Angelique Badeau. I brought home a missing girl. It’s not that I expected to feel like a superhero, but I did hope to maybe feel like a better person.
Mostly, I feel the same I always did.
I go back to bed. When I wake up again, Stoney is standing in my apartment.
“You really are a lousy employee.”
“Yep.”
Piper appears from beneath the bed, winds around Stoney’s ankles. Purrs. Traitorous bitch.
“But you’re not bad at the missing persons thing,” Stoney says.
I give him a weak thumbs-up.
“You got visitors.”
Then he’s gone, and Guerline is standing in my kitchen, Angelique to one side, Emmanuel to the other. My breath hitches. I feel a stab of pain in my shoulder, as I drag myself up to sitting
, but I don’t wince. I don’t want to scare them away.
Emmanuel has dark bruises fading on the right side of his face, remnants of his kidnapping. He also has purple smudges beneath his dark eyes, remnants of recent nightmares. In comparison, Angelique appears relatively unscathed, just some scabbing along one cheek. She stands very still, however. A traumatized girl holding on tight. A survivor, alone in a crowded room.
I wonder which is worse for her, the painful memories or the unrelenting guilt? I want to tell her I know exactly how she feels, but I doubt she would believe me. She’s not there yet in her own healing. She’s merely the teenager who went missing, and I’m merely the woman who finally found her.
I have no idea how our relationship develops from here. It’s never come up before.
I offer a tentative smile.
“Thank you,” Guerline says.
“Emmanuel and Angelique deserve the credit. Without Angelique’s messages and Emmanuel’s determination, we wouldn’t be here.”
“I’m sorry you got shot,” Angelique states.
“Totally worth it.”
“Do you . . . Can I . . .” Angelique begins. She doesn’t seem to know quite what to say, but I think I understand.
“Can we have a moment?” I ask Guerline and Emmanuel.
Both hesitate. Having gotten Angelique back, they clearly don’t want her out of their sight. But after another second, Guerline concedes with a nod. Emmanuel follows her out.
Alone, Angelique appears even more uncomfortable. I finally pat the side of the bed. “Sit. It’s okay.”
She complies, but again, holds herself rigid.
“It will get better,” I tell her. “Not today, not tomorrow, but eventually.”
“It’s all my fault.”
“No, it isn’t. But I understand it feels that way. I lost someone I love. It’s been ten years. I still blame myself.”
She regards me solemnly. “I loved Livia. When she first came to me about the fake IDs, I told her it was too risky. But she wanted to make me happy. And she’d started meeting her older brother. Deke. I didn’t think he was good for her. But he was her brother, and family is family.” Angelique shrugs.