He drew his knife, and she froze, worried that he’d seen right through her fake fall against him. But then he used the knife to simply cut a length of tape from the roll, to bind her hands once more. He walked toward her, carrying the tape, and she held up both her hands in front of her. He wasn’t going for it, instead pulling her hands behind her back, taping them there.
And then he returned to his chair in the other room to watch his TV, leaving the door partially open. Not what she was hoping for.
She shifted on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling, her hands at her back making it difficult to get comfortable. Instead, she concentrated on the pain in her knees. But she was used to pain, she’d been hit before, and so she thought of her friend, Bo.
It wasn’t just that he’d been shot, but that he’d given her up, told them where to find her.
That was enough to send her over, and she allowed the tears to come, sobbing loudly.
“Silenzio!”
“It hurts! My knee! I think it’s broken!”
“It’s a good thing you won’t be walking. No?” And then he got up and slammed the door closed.
She sat there in the dark for several seconds, stunned at how easily the tears had worked.
Smiling, she hiked up the back of her skirt, pulled the small bottles out, opened the first, and did her best to direct the contents onto her wrists. If she could work it into the tape, she might be able to slip her wrists out.
It took longer to loosen her bonds than she’d anticipated, and when she finally was able to free herself, she worried that it might be too late. She listened at the door, heard the TV droning in the background, as well as some soft snoring. At least something was going her way.
She ripped the sheets from the bed, moved to the window, unlatched and opened it, then opened the wood shutters to a blast of cold air. But when she looked down, her heart sank. No paving stones below, or even a narrow walkway. Just the black water swishing against the building’s base. A rio, the sisters had called it. Not that the name mattered.
She couldn’t swim.
Somehow she’d overlooked that small detail. She’d become used to the sound of the water, had stopped hearing it—or maybe she was too intent on listening to the man in the other room. Either way she was screwed, and she dropped the sheets right there, since they’d do her little good. She turned back, looking around for something she might use for a weapon. A twin bed against the wall, a wardrobe by the door . . . Maybe something in there. She moved softly, opened the door, felt around. Clothes hanging within. Nothing else.
A muffled knock sent her pulse racing. She froze. It sounded again, and she realized it must be coming from the front door of the house. The snoring stopped, and she heard some mumbling, followed by the sound of someone shuffling across the tiled floor, then down the stairs.
What she wouldn’t give right now to be able to swim.
She looked around, wishing for rafters as in Bo’s kitchen. Wishing for the man who had helped her escape. Zachary Griffin.
Right now all she had was the narrow bed, which they’d be able to see under the moment they walked into the room.
The wardrobe, on the other hand, was right next to the door. They were bound to be looking at the bed first thing . . .
She scrambled toward the window, grabbed the sheets, knotted them together. Then, tying one end to the iron balustrade at the base of the window, she threw the length over the side.
Please let this work, she thought, then opened the wardrobe, climbed inside, hid behind the clothes.
She heard talking from the other room. Italian first, then English. “The girl?”
“In there.”
“You did not talk to her?”
“About what?”
The sound of footsteps, then the door opening.
Piper’s heart pounded hard and fast.
“Where is she?”
“Tied up. On the bed.”
“You see anything on that bed?”
Silence, then, “The window!”
“Vittorio, you idiot! She went out the window!”
“She was tied up. I swear.”
“Yeah? How long ago?”
“All night. I was right outside the door the whole time.”
“Gianni, go out and look around.”
“I don’t even know what she looks like.”
“I’m guessing she looks like a wet nun, you idiot. Go!”
Footsteps leaving, then the sound of the front door slamming closed, Gianni apparently not happy he had to go search.
“What should I do, Paolo?” Vittorio asked.
“Nothing. We’re done with you.”
“Paolo. No—” A gasping noise followed by the sound of something soft but heavy hitting the floor.
Piper held her breath, praying they’d leave. When she heard footsteps retreating, fading, she peered out between the clothes to see Vittorio’s body on the floor, and a growing puddle of blood beneath him.
Piper eyed the open window. So close . . .
And then she looked back at the man on the floor, Vittorio. His face pointed in her direction, his jaw slack, his gaze unseeing . . .
His phone . . . Still on his belt.
What to do?
Closing her eyes, she listened to the sounds. The TV playing in the background. The icy air making her shiver. Worried that her chattering teeth would give her away, she tried to pull the clothes around her, like a makeshift blanket. Several minutes went by, the room growing colder. She tried not to think about that. Instead, she needed the courage to slip out and get that phone. If she skirted the room by the window, she could maybe avoid being seen from the doorway. And he wouldn’t necessarily be watching in here, since he thought she was gone. And Vittorio was dead. She hoped.
Now or never. She parted the clothes, was just slipping her foot out, when she heard the creak of springs from the chair in the front room. She pulled her foot in, stilled, unable to move the clothes closer together, and watched in horror as Paolo reentered the room, standing there as he looked around, like he was thinking.
About her.
Please don’t let him turn around.
He didn’t. He walked over to the window, and was just about to reach out, close it, but stopped to pull up the sheets hanging over the side. He tried to untie the length from the balustrade, but couldn’t get the knot loose, so he simply dropped the tangle of sheets outside in a pile, then pulled the window shut. When he turned to leave, she relaxed slightly, figuring that he was probably just cold.
But then Paolo stopped next to the body. Nudged it with his foot, bent down, and panic gripped her as he reached for Vittorio’s belt. But he didn’t grab the phone. Instead, he used the belt to turn the body to its stomach so he could slip the wallet out of the back pocket.
Paolo opened it, pulled out some money, tossed the wallet onto the floor, took one last look around the room, his eye catching on the open wardrobe.
He walked toward it. Terror coursed through her veins. He reached for the wardrobe door, pulled it all the way open.
And somehow over the pounding of her heart, she heard the low vibration of his cell phone. He stopped, pulled it from his pocket, answered it. “You find her . . . ?” he said, then eyed the wardrobe’s interior. He reached inside, grabbed a coat, and thankfully turned as he pulled it from the hanger. “Where the hell’s Pietro? He was supposed to be watching this place until we got here. Get ahold of him and get back to me. We’re not leaving until she’s found. And hurry the hell up,” he added, as he walked out. “It’s like a goddamned refrigerator in here.”
He walked out of the bedroom and slammed the door closed. And still she didn’t move. Fear paralyzed her, and it seemed forever before she could even think, much less force her body into action.
She needed to do somet
hing. They were coming back.
The phone was her only option. She slipped out of the wardrobe, tiptoed toward the body, careful not to step in the puddle of blood growing beneath it. And just as this Paolo did, she tugged at the belt, having to reach beneath his waist as she blindly felt for the phone. She found it, then retreated back to the wardrobe. Before she climbed in, she took a folded sweater from the shelf at the top and slipped it on, hoping that would keep her teeth from chattering. She scooted all the way into the corner, pulled the door closest to her slightly shut, hoping no one would notice it wasn’t exactly the same should they reenter the bedroom.
The first thing she did was set the phone to silent. Then she thought about texting Lisette’s number, but had no idea if she was even in Venice yet. The carabinieri officer, Giustino, would probably be the better option. Closer. He’d given her his business card. She closed her eyes, pictured the card, saw the number in her mind, and sent him a text: “Don’t know where I am. They killed the man who took me. I’m hiding in the wardrobe upstairs.”
33
Washington, D.C.
Sydney woke up in an empty bed, her head aching, probably from the late night brandy and not enough rest, and was trying to justify how it was she’d let herself sleep with Griffin. She told herself it was to eradicate him from her system, and that the only reason she wanted him to begin with was that he was the forbidden fruit. But the vivid memory of their lovemaking was potent, the craving for more far too strong. Had he walked in at that moment, she would have dragged him back to bed.
That was something she couldn’t do. They had issues. Big issues.
She needed a clear head, definitely a cold shower, and she forced herself to get up, then walked into the bathroom and saw the steam on the mirror. Apparently he’d already showered before he’d left, whether to avoid seeing her or to give her a few minutes to herself, she wasn’t sure. By the time she got out, he was back, holding two steaming mugs of coffee.
There was an awkward moment of silence as she stood in the bathroom doorway, neither of them knowing quite what to say. “Coffee,” was what came out of her mouth, while her brain was thinking something completely different, and entirely sexual.
He set her mug on the dresser. “I’d have brought you something to eat, but I wasn’t sure what you’d want. There’s food in the sitting room.”
“My head is pounding.”
“The coffee should help. I can check downstairs for aspirin.”
“I have some.”
He nodded, his gaze flicking to the bed, then back to her. And as if he sensed her discomfort, he moved to the door. “I should go. They’re waiting for us in the sitting room.”
“How’s Donovan?” she asked.
“Bruised, but he’ll survive. Bring your coffee, we have some planning to do before we leave this morning.”
She grabbed the yellow pad she’d brought from home, along with the coffee mug, then followed Griffin into the sitting room where Donovan and Izzy were waiting. There was a basket of cranberry orange muffins on the table, and she took one, pleased to discover they were still warm, the tops delicately crisp with a crust of sugar, and the inside moist and fragrant with orange zest.
“They’re great,” Izzy said, opening his laptop and setting it on the table. “The couch was even pretty comfortable. Slept like a baby. How about you?”
Sydney, her mouth full of muffin, looked up, realized he was talking to her, and the only thing she could think of was sex. With Griffin. The temperature of the room seemed to rise several degrees and she was certain her cheeks had turned a deep red.
“Fine,” she said, the word coming out more like a croak as the muffin seized in her throat. She grabbed her coffee, took a sip, trying not to notice Donovan’s amused gaze bouncing from her to Griffin, who seemed fascinated with the wood grain on the tabletop. Izzy, at least, appeared clueless, his attention now on his computer. “The bed was fine,” she added, once she could speak again.
“Let’s get started,” Griffin said, drawing everyone’s attention to more important matters.
Donovan gave a slight cough. “Good idea. Since we no longer have the file, we’re going to have to start from scratch with what we do know.”
Izzy turned the laptop around so they could see the headlines on the Web site. “Looks like someone broke into the Washington Recorder last night and murdered two guards.”
Sydney read the article, her stomach knotting with each word, expecting to see her name as well as Griffin’s and Donovan’s. But none of them was mentioned. “They used your gun,” she said to Griffin. “I thought for sure they’d list you as a suspect—”
“They can’t come out and say it was us without saying what they were doing there. The ballistics will come back to my weapon soon enough, which I’m sure is what they’re counting on.”
Izzy’s foot started tapping. “Maybe we were a little too thorough in eliminating that video surveillance.”
“Can’t be helped,” Griffin said. “Our best bet is exposing Parker Kane before that happens. And anyone else he’s working with.”
“Which would be who?” Donovan asked. “Every time we eliminate one of these guys, there’s another one taking his place. It wasn’t quite the job security I was thinking of when I signed up.”
Sydney brushed the crumbs from the table in front of her to clear the spot for her pad of paper. “We need to be logical about this. What we know—at least what I know is that this all started when Orozco and my father stole this list, code, whatever it is, presumably from Wingman and Wingman.”
And she wrote: “#1. Theft. W2.”
Then, poising her pen over the paper, said, “Anyone else?”
“The Devil’s Key,” Donovan said.
“The what?”
“That,” Griffin said, “is the name of the code your father and Orozco stole. What Orozco gave to you when you found him in Mexico.”
“Oh.” She looked down at the paper, thinking the name rather apropos, considering. “And what does it do?”
Griffin looked at Donovan, but neither man said anything.
“For God’s sake,” she said. “They’re already trying to kill us over the thing. I think the rules go out the window at this point, don’t you?”
“Izzy’s here.”
Izzy looked up from his computer screen. “Huh? Are you serious? Who doesn’t know what it does. One of the greatest conspiracy theories of . . . I don’t know. The last couple decades, I guess. It’s a case management software called SINS commissioned by the government, stolen, actually, because they never paid the developers. Only it was enhanced with a back door so that anyone running it can be spied on.”
“That’s it?”
“Isn’t that enough?” Griffin asked her.
“No. Even I’ve heard of that. Wasn’t Canada involved? The whole thing blew up when they started investigating that they were being spied on. It just sort of died, didn’t it?”
“It died because the government did everything in its power to make sure it was relegated to conspiracy theory. They sent out a security patch to close the back door to any countries using the software, and made sure that any remaining keys were destroyed.”
The thought that her father had been involved in the theft of this Devil’s Key sickened her. And though she wanted to believe that maybe he and Orozco had stolen it to keep it safe, protect the government, she knew it wasn’t true. Orozco had told her otherwise, and everything she’d learned about her father since had confirmed it.
She leaned back in her chair, trying to remember all that Orozco had talked about when she’d found him in Ensenada, because there was still some element about this she felt she was missing. “Orozco told me the government was trying to whitewash it. But there has to be something more to this.”
“What more do you want?” Griffin replied. “Ene
my countries learning that the U.S. sold them software so they could be spied on? Seems pretty cut and dried to me.”
“Why not just have them remove the program? That’s what I would do. Why run around and kill a bunch of people? We’re missing something. I know it.”
“What else did Orozco tell you?” Griffin asked.
“Mostly he thought it was related to the BICTT banking scandal, and BICTT’s Black Network having ties to the government . . . And the information from those numbers would literally cripple corporate America and end treaties with a number of countries.”
“Which fits with what we know about it. No one likes spies in their midst.”
“He also said it was the tip of the iceberg. That about covers it.”
“So write down BICTT, the Network, and corporate America.”
“Which tells us the Network and W2 have to be related.” She added Orozco’s information to the list.
“Except,” Donovan said, “BICTT was closed down.”
“The investors’ money,” Sydney replied, “was never recovered. Millions upon millions of dollars still out there.”
Griffin eyed the list Sydney was making. “The BICTT money is finite. Hard to believe it didn’t end up in the Network’s coffers anyway.”
“Again my point in why are they so hot to get this thing?”
She stared at the pad, trying to think what she was missing, what he wasn’t telling her about the program, when her gaze caught on the torn edge at the top. That was the page of notes she’d ripped off the day her apartment was searched.
They hadn’t taken the pad during the search—the pad she’d just written all over.
Twice after she’d completed a sketch for Griffin, he’d confiscated her entire sketchbook, on the off chance someone could re-create the sketch by using the sheet below . . .
How had she not remembered that?
Because she wasn’t thinking of sketches.
“I need a pencil.”
Izzy tossed her his, and she held it so the lead was flat against the paper, lightly rubbing it across the surface.
“What . . .” Griffin leaned forward to see what she was doing.
The Kill Order Page 20