He glazed over, but his breathing started to become more rapid. His face slowly reddened.
Her words were having an effect. “Michael never hurt you, Tim. He never lied to you. He put you in a position of trust to watch over me. Nan wants to destroy that trust. You’re nothing to her. Michael kept you away from me because of what Nan told you to do. He’s your friend, Tim. Don’t do this to your friend.”
Tim’s face turned a deep scarlet. She doubted he could hear anything more she said.
In one motion she threw herself against the door, hitting her elbow against the latch and missing the padlock completely. She fell through, tumbling off the wooden stairs in a greater drop than she expected. The miscalculation cost her a precious second. Only Tim’s surprise and lack of a plan kept her from being grabbed. She scrambled back up, shoved her shoulder against the door, and slapped the metal hasp over the narrow metal loop. Her hands shook as she snapped the pen in half and pushed both halves through where the lock would hang. It took her barely seconds to secure it, but it had to be enough to hold—at least until she could get a head start.
A bellow joined a high-pitched bark. Something huge crashed inside. The trailer shuddered. She ran through the dark maze.
The first aisle she chose ended suddenly. Crates and boxes haphazardly piled on top of one another without regard to balance and stacks of sheet metal leaned at precarious angles. If she stayed on the ground, the dogs would easily follow her scent. She looked up at the ceiling, studying the pitch of the roof and trying to figure out which way to run. Some aisles were broad enough for a forklift to maneuver easily. Others only narrow enough for a body to squeeze through sideways. She pushed the crates and they swayed with the pressure. She decided she had to risk it.
Bracing one foot on each side, she inched her way up. Once on top, she paused long enough to hear the continued bellows and jumped over as many aisles as she could, always working toward what she thought was the door and putting as much distance as she could between herself and the trailer.
The size of the building was disorienting. Its layout confusing. She cautiously worked her way along. Either the building didn’t have any windows or it was pitch dark outside. Only weak halos of yellow light dotted the walls. She examined the rafters and thought about walking along them, but the only way up was to scramble up the wall. As she hopped from stack to stack, she listened for the panting dogs or jingling of their collars. Only a few minutes passed before it became dead silent. Tim and the dogs were out. Lack of any sound meant they were hunting her.
The stack closest to the wall swayed dangerously from side to side when she landed on it. She flattened her body along the top, hoping it would regain its balance. Something had shifted underneath. The core of the stack had moved beyond its center point, and she became its ballast. If approached from the ground, the aisle appeared to turn but was a dead end. She heard the faint sound of the dog’s collars. Tim and the dogs were coming.
As easily as she could, she half crawled, half jumped to the next stack, taking care to brace one foot against the one she abandoned. Soft panting sounds grew louder. She knew they were only a few feet away. She shimmied herself less than half way down the stack, keeping her back against the sturdy wall of crates, and her feet against the wobbly spine of the other row. She reached into her pocket, grabbed the paperclips, and threw them up and over. She heard dogs’ feet hurrying to investigate the sudden noise. Next, soft thuds of large human feet cautiously followed behind. When the sounds were too close to bear, she pushed the stack of mismatched crates and boxes beyond their balance. Tim’s startled yell was cut short as the crates toppled. The dogs yelped with surprise.
She scrambled back to the top and carefully identified each sound. A confused high-pitched whimpering lingered but no sound of large feet met her ears. The dogs stayed near the toppled crates, loyal to the owner who could not move.
She stood upright and noticed an aura of light slightly brighter than the others at the center of the long wall. She scrambled over to it and jumped down. The semi-circle of light was enough to see a row of sickly green lockers, dented from years of abuse. Assorted tools lay the floor, but she found no door, no way out. Another dead end.
If she were only exhausted, she may have been able to push through. Doubt washed over her, and sucked her will away with its undertow. Her head became too heavy to hold up, her body too weary. Gravity and resignation forced her to her knees.
She heard Tim groan in pain and grunt with effort and feared what he would do when he found her. For the first time crying out for her mother had Bridget’s face and not Margaret’s attached to her plea. She offered a silent apology for not knowing, not understanding, and begged her mother’s forgiveness as she gave her own. She asked for help.
The lockers stood shoved into this distant corner and forgotten. Misshapen doors hung askew on a single hinge or gripped shut on a tortured latch. Some had initials scratched into their surface and others a simple “Fuck you.” One had the same symbol she had seen at the cottage—an open-ended square with a circle inside of it, a crude cross etched on top. The meaning was lost to her.
She reached out. The lockers swayed, easily put off balance. She grabbed the first tool she touched—a flat piece of metal about a foot long with a light curve at the end—and crawled on her hands and knees to inspect the back. Shadows hid a narrow space. Feeling around, a flat cold metal surface rose up to a horizontal bar. A door.
She didn’t hesitate to press her body into the tight opening. With just enough room to raise her arms to push against the long bar, she opened the door far enough to trigger the click of an alarm. Age and neglect kept it from wailing, making a pitiful mewling sound instead. She paused only long enough to listen for footsteps outside. Hearing nothing, she squeezed her shoulders through. Once outside, she wedged the door shut and ran.
She zigged and zagged her way through the buildings, diving behind—and sometimes in—barrels and trash bins to keep from being seen, always expecting a small army to respond to the triggered alarm. Every detail of her environment was important, and she was disoriented when she emerged in the middle of a major transportation hub. Huge diesel rigs sat in long rows, running lights on and engines idling, their drivers either asleep or stretching their legs waiting for the next load. Forklifts scooted back and forth.
Away from the busiest section sat huge horse Pullmans—the kind of tractor-trailer rigs that could hold up to a dozen horses and gear—their sides gleaming in the dim light. Three sat cold and silent around makeshift turnout areas used to give the animals a place to walk and have a break from whatever travels they were on. No raised voices could be heard. No calls or shouts of alarm. She continued moving, crouched and low. Each shadow, nook, and bin was used to her full advantage to stay hidden.
What she thought was a wide road was actually a runway, as long as the one Michael’s jet used. Prop-engine planes sat tethered near a long building, wheels chocked, and canopy and prop-blades covered. A tattered orange windsock creaked as it swiveled on a pole in the light breeze. The oversized warehouse was an airplane hangar, and the vibrations were planes landing and taking off. As she made her way through the complex, the sounds of a highway grew louder. Chain-link fences surrounded the entire area. Rigs entered through a guarded gate. She crawled around the perimeter until she found a turned-up corner of mesh. She used her hands to dig away the dirt and weeds to make the chute big enough to shimmy through.
She ran inside the shadow of the highway until she came to an off-ramp and used it to navigate onto a side street. She paused only long enough to catch her breath know she had to keep moving. No longer under the effects of the tranquilizer, and her head cleared with a shot of adrenalin, she began to walk briskly along the streets. Several hours and many detours later, she finally became bold enough to try hitchhiking despite the broad daylight. She thumbed a while before a white van, with a bright orange lightning bolt streaking across its sides, stopped.
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nbsp; The driver pushed open the passenger side door. She grabbed it and hesitated.
How many times had she paused, door propped open, and looked at a car’s driver or truck’s interior and weighed the risks of closing herself behind that door? Another gamble. Another calculated risk. Safety was only remotely hers when she made her own choices and determined her own direction. She had kept herself safe for years until Michael entered her life. For a few brief and perfect moments, she had trusted him and allowed herself to be wrapped in his cocoon.
She would never make that mistake again.
ANTRIM, NORTHERN IRELAND
MICHAEL STOOD AT the end of the long conference table and looked at the faces of the men seated there. He had used the flight back from Geneva to cull the corporation documents for names and radioed ahead to ensure their presence. He summoned the full strength of his father’s army to meet. They looked at one another with knowing and surprise. The cherubic faces of the corporate officers of MMC stared at the angular and lean faces of 2100. This marked the first time they had ever met as a group. Identities suspected were confirmed. The two worlds of the Charity looked across the table at one another in mute checkmate.
These men were his father’s inner circle. They were the men who held each piece of the Charity in their heads and protected the knowledge with their lives. A few were fresh-faced, barely out of their twenties and did not attempt to curb the look of ambition from their eyes. They were matched in number by the more grizzled, who possessed a sharpness to their expressions that spoke of knowing hard truths.
The energy surrounding Michael channeled that of a young Magnus in those heady early days. Michael knew the fathers of some, the mothers of others. The individuals his father manipulated like pawns, moving them about at will keeping the next sequence of moves a chess master’s secret.
What he did not grasp was who had the capacity to betray him because not even blood ties would guarantee their troth. He had no time to orchestrate a Machiavellian coup, locking the men into action with a potent concoction of fear and greed. He could only use the fact that the men did not know what he was capable of. He could cut their incomes or their throats. He trusted they liked their lives and would continue being discrete. From that moment on, no one person could make a move without jeopardizing the other’s existence. They would enforce one another.
Michael accepted condolences on his father’s death offered with a gentle pat and an assessing look. They were wary and confused, waiting the past few months for him to lead. He knew gathering them on such short notice was a bold move—one many had wanted but none had ever thought they would see.
His first priority was to collect all the information they had on Jessica’s disappearance. He suspected one well-trained assailant. Entry onto the grounds happened hours prior. The person killed two guards and scattered papers and documents from his office in the kitchen area. Some were missing. Their disappearance—along with some of Bridget’s journals—was more a feeble attempt to make it look like a burglary than a kidnapping. Murray had surprised the intruder and paid for his stealth by being bludgeoned. Jessica interrupted the attack and fled through the solarium. After that, Michael’s men found no trace of her. Whoever he was, he knew his way around the inside of the house and grounds.
He considered what her disappearance meant. She would have been killed on the spot if her death provided an advantage. If Jessica was to be used as a bargaining chip, twenty-four hours had already passed to present the terms of ransom. If his punishment for loving the wrong woman was the goal, evidence of her torture would have been clear. It didn’t take a lot to figure out that someone wanted something of Michael’s to call his own.
Tim.
The thought that Tim had her now, knowing what he had tried to do to her, knowing what he was capable of, pushed him to the limit of control. His hands pressed down on the table. Blue veins roped to his fingers. If ever he wanted the adrenaline-fueled power that came with the fury of unleashed anger, it was now.
He would not be intimidated into inaction by the flat stares of headmasters past lining the walls. He would not let the blazing eyes of his father weaken him from the shadows. No longer would he allow the myth and the truth of his father to cower him. Magnus’ legacy, and all of the fear and the love that came with it, would be his strongest tool. He no longer suppressed the hatred, tamping it down to a manageable size. He refused to obey a rational voice. He had no choice but to assume the full mantel of his father’s power in order to find her.
Of all the accoutrements of power at his disposal, two were his most valuable: money and knowledge. Money built strength. Knowledge exposed weakness. He would spare nothing to find her.
Another trap of his father’s had snapped shut around him, and once again, Jessica was a pawn.
He tugged on his starched white cuffs. The motion exposed the favored gold monogrammed cufflinks of his father. A flicker of recognition rippled through the men. He steadied himself with a breath. “It’s clear that the Charity was behind the Arndale bombings. Both the money and the men were sourced through our channels. Each of you knows your part in the plan. None of you knows the whole. If one part is leaked, the dam will burst for all of us. To remain protected, we have to watch out for one other. This is a critical time for us to be unified. The only person here who can decide who is expendable and who is not is me. Anyone who thinks differently puts us all in jeopardy. A betrayal is not to one person but to all of us. Deception will not stand.”
He held up a printout with a heading showing Connaught and Wyeth Connected to Arndale Bombing. “Our source inside the paper says the alleged connections are circumstantial at best and sensationalized lies at worst. If the editors felt they had a real story here, this would have been today’s front-page news, and reporters and investigators would surround us. As it is, this is an advance of what coming in tomorrow’s paper. It’s not going to make the front page and most likely won’t get any higher than page four.
“The reporter made a Hail Mary pass on this story to save her career. Her facts may all be unsubstantiated, but her conclusion was right. We must discredit her and stop the story. Even this low level of exposure is enough to make people curious and begin to ask questions. This morning, I was told that Deputy First Minister Reginald Bragdon called to discuss rebuilding the peace line destroyed in the riots.”
He nodded to a sinewy man with a tanned face and crisply tailored suit. “You already owe a debt of gratitude to the General Manager of 2100 for knowing the difference between on-the-books business and off-the-record fishing. Minister Bragdon’s activities and curiosities will come under closer scrutiny until we can be assured that no official or unofficial investigation gets underway. You each need to be diligent in managing your affairs to make sure any avenue opened by this article flows to a dead end. My father taught you well. Do it.”
Next he threw pictures of Tim and Paddy on the table. “These are the two men who many of you applauded for following orders and executing a difficult task. Whether or not the Charity takes a similar action in the future is my decision and my decision only.” He looked each man in the eye, leaving no doubt he would deal with them personally if they doubted him. “But, these men have broken ranks and deserted us. Do what you have to do to stop them and to find Jessica. Let me make this very clear—she is as much a part of the Charity as you are.” His voice threatened to thicken as he spoke. He willed it steady as he said, “Find her. Then I will personally deal with these men.”
The relief around the table was palpable. They had been waiting for this moment when Magnus’ son would not shrink from his father’s shadow. He tried to read the looks exchanged around the table. If any gave a clue to a weakness or a conspiracy, he did not see it. This marked a new way of operating for them, and he wished he had the time to plan his next moves in detail. He only had his gut for guidance and hoped his bold steps would be enough to erase his indecisiveness of the past months. Too much was at stake.
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bsp; The men broke off into groups, greeting each other as old friends, sharing information and making plans. After an hour, the conference room emptied, leaving Michael as the lone figure at the huge table. He knew the mechanisms of a search well. What he heard today impressed him and knew his men would use their best efforts to find her. He had to sit tight until he received word. But sitting still was impossible while his blood coursed with a desire for vengeance.
Walking down the empty hallways did nothing to calm him. The Arndale bombing exemplified the best of the Charity’s covert operations. Magnus had laid the plans well before his death. Independent and autonomous actions were triggered—not by a personal communication, which could lead back to a person or business—but by a specific event. If the event happened, then each cell performed a specific action. No one action was criminal or suspect in and of itself, but the totality of the actions were deadly. Acquisition of a small amount of explosives quickly became enough to annihilate a city block when sourced through multiple channels. Purchase of a car or a rental of a flat was lost in hundreds of similar actions when made weeks or months before. Two soldiers arrive at a pre-established time and place, strangers to one another but each with a specific role.
Planning for each step occurred well in advance and in perfect detail. Creation of the cohesive operation included provisions for information dissemination and countermeasures. Then, with eyes watching current events and common news outlets, a pre-established signal would transpire. Maybe a law would pass or an official elected. The catalyst might even be a clergyman, preaching a sermon from the pulpit. The politicians had no idea that their words or actions were the triggers for the very events they loathed. The priests sometimes did. In the case of the Arndale bombing, the flashpoint was the death of Magnus himself.
The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2) Page 42
