Power Play

by Joseph Finder

"Jake!" he said. "You-were you able to get word out?"

  I came closer to the desk. Saw a list of numbers printed on a sheet of paper next to the keyboard: Hammond's bank accounts. "Couldn't get the Internet to work," I said. "You having any luck?"

  He shook his head, eyes guarded.

  "It must have been awkward for you," I said quietly, "when Cheryl asked you to run the internal investigation."

  "Awkward?" He looked even paler than usual.

  "'Who will guard the guards?,' right?"

  "I don't understand."

  "Stand up, Geoff," I said.

  "You shouldn't be here. Russell told me to do the funds transfer, and he's going to be back-"

  "Where do you inject yourself?"

  "Where do I what?"

  "The insulin. For your diabetes. Where do you inject it?"

  "Jake, you're not making sense."

  "Only three places a diabetic normally injects insulin," I said. "What's your place?"

  "My-my stomach-but we don't have time for this, Jake."

  I grabbed his shirt, yanked out the tails.

  His smooth, pale belly. Not a mark.

  His eyes were keen.

  I dropped the shirt. "You told Russell to kill Danziger, didn't you?"

  He swallowed. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "John knew. He'd figured out you contacted Russell through some old buddy of yours who ran a security firm Russell used to work for. So Danziger had to die, isn't that right, you son of a bitch? Grogan, too."

  He glanced at the door. Maybe he was expecting Russell or Russell's brother to save him. Turning back, he said, "Jake, this is insane. I'm trying to help us. You're wasting time we don't have."

  "That's true," I said, and I took out the revolver and placed it against his forehead.

  "Jesus!" he gasped. "What the hell is this? Put that thing down now!"

  "All to get rich, huh?"

  "Jake, where'd you get that gun? Get that damned thing off of me!"

  I pressed the end of the gun barrel harder into the pasty skin of his forehead. I could see the red mark it left. His eyes welled with tears.

  "But I'm thinking it was more complicated than that. You stole money from the company, put it in some 'special purpose entity' offshore. But then the investment tanked, right? And you had to cover the loss, fast. Something like that?"

  "Will you please put that gun down?" he whispered. "That thing could go off if you're not careful! Are you crazy? I'm trying to get us help, Jake."

  "You needed to come up with a hundred million dollars somewhere. You were desperate."

  "Who is putting these insane ideas in your head? Is it Bodine? Slattery?"

  "I don't think you meant for things to happen the way they did today," I said. "You didn't hire Russell to hold the company up for half a billion dollars, did you? That was his idea. You were totally clear in your instructions, I'm sure. A hundred million, right? You told him to make sure it looked like he and his guys were just some backwoods hunters who got the bright idea to take a bunch of businessmen hostage, hold them up for ransom."

  He stared at me, frantic. His eyes were brown, trusting: child's eyes.

  I jammed the end of the barrel harder against his temple, and he gasped. "You knew Russell had a lot of experience in situations like this, but you didn't do your due diligence, did you?" Then, even more softly: "You didn't want people to die, did you, Geoff? Tell me that wasn't part of the plan."

  Tears spilled down his scrubbed red cheeks.

  "No," he whispered. His face seemed to crumple. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this."

  "How was it supposed to happen?"

  But Latimer didn't answer. He closed his eyes. His lower lip trembled.

  "What's that you like to say-pigs get slaughtered?"

  "No!" he cried. "It wasn't for me! I never made a dime!"

  "So how was it supposed to happen?" I whispered. "Russell's guys would hold the company up for a hundred million dollars, then let us all go free? They'd get their cut, and you'd cover your loss? And no one would find out about the money you embezzled from Hammond? Was that how it was supposed to go down?" I grabbed his bony shoulder, shoved him toward the door.

  "Please, Jake, do you think I had any idea what was going to happen?"

  "Thing is, Geoff, you still don't," I said as I pushed him down the hall.

  I shoved Latimer into the great room, the revolver at his back.

  Russell stood behind Ali, an arm around her neck, his Glock to her temple. He didn't need to say anything: He had a gun to Ali's head and wouldn't hesitate to kill her if it suited his purposes.

  I had Latimer, the man who'd hired Russell, but he was only useful if Russell still needed him at this point. And that I didn't know.

  I noticed Travis standing about ten feet to the side of his brother, his gun aimed directly at me. The room blazed with light, every lamp switched on. I wished I'd taken the time to shut off the generator, as I'd planned to before Russell had seized Ali. The cover of darkness could have been useful just then.

  I tried to calculate the geometry of the situation, but there were too many unknowns. This much I knew for sure: It was two of them against me, and the only thing between Ali and her death was the twitch of a trigger finger.

  Something struck my lower back, a supernova of pain exploding and radiating and doubling me over. I sprawled to the floor. For a moment, everything went white. I gasped, rolled over on to my side, saw who had kicked me from behind.

  That jet-black hair and goatee, that towering physique, the pinkish face abraded and badly bruised. But otherwise the man wasn't much worse for wear.

  "Well, what do you know," Buck said. "I had a feeling I'd be seeing you again."

  74

  Let her go, Russell," I said as I struggled to my feet, still clutching the Ruger.

  "That your big idea, swapping Latimer for your girlfriend?" Russell said contemptuously. "Come on, buddy. I really don't care what happens to him at this point."

  But Latimer had broken free anyway. He now stood between Travis and Buck, his bodyguards. His face was flushed, his eyes furious.

  "You know, I really should have killed you first," Russell continued.

  "That's all right," Buck said. "I'll do it for you. Happy to oblige."

  Ali was staring at me. She seemed to be communicating silently; but what, if anything, was she trying to say? I saw the fierce resolve in her eyes: Maybe she was simply telling me not to worry about her, that she was fine, she was strong. But I already knew that.

  Or maybe she was waiting for me to give her a signal, to tell her what to do.

  I didn't know what to do.

  I raised the pistol, moving it from man to man to man, aiming at each, one at a time. But Russell knew I'd never risk a shot at him. Not while he had his gun on Ali: his human shield. Even if my aim were perfect, it would take no more than a jerk of his finger on the trigger at the instant of his death, and she'd die, too.

  "You have to take him out," Latimer said, his voice echoing. "He's the only one who knows anything now."

  "I don't work for you anymore, Geoff," Russell said.

  Both his brother and Buck had guns pointed at me. I wondered whether Travis would actually pull the trigger if Russell ordered him to. I had no doubt that Buck would.

  "Actually, Russell, I don't think Geoff's really thought this through," I said. "See, you need me alive."

  "Do I?" Russell sounded almost curious.

  "If you want the Internet connection to work, anyway," I said. "You do want your money, don't you?"

  "Ah." Russell nodded. "I see. Well, it's all hooked up now."

  "No, Russell, it's not. One of your guys must have screwed up-cut the line."

  Russell smiled.

  Buck said, "Guy's bluffing, Russell."

  "Don't take my word for it," I said. "Ask Geoffrey."

  "How's the satellite working, Geoff?" said Russell.

  Latimer hesitat
ed a few seconds. "Something's wrong with it. I couldn't get connected. He must have done something."

  "Should have brought your A team on this job," I said. "Sloppy. You see, Russell, I worked as a cable installer once for a couple of months. Not one of my favorite jobs, but I guess you never know when a skill might come in handy."

  I waited a beat, but Russell didn't reply. "Call me crazy, but I've got a feeling you're not really an expert in splicing RG-6 coaxial cable."

  Silence.

  "How about you, Buck?" I said. "Or you, Travis?"

  Silence.

  "Didn't think so. The handyman sure isn't. Ask him. Guy can probably do anything with a boat or a generator or a busted dishwasher, but when the satellite goes down, I'll bet you the manager gets on the sat phone and calls the satellite company. You planning on calling the cable company, Russell? Ask for a service call, maybe? Wait a couple days for them to get all the way out here?"

  "We don't need him for that, Russell," Latimer said. "Even if he's telling the truth, we don't need him to fix the line. I'm sure the handyman can figure it out. The main thing is, there's only one person who knows about all this. You have to take him out right now."

  Russell glanced at Latimer. Smiled again. "You know, Geoff," he said, "I think you're right." In one swift, smooth movement, he removed the Glock from Ali's head. I swung the Ruger around to aim at the center of his chest, gripping it with both hands, and in the instant before I could pull the trigger to take him down, an explosion rang in my ears.

  Latimer slumped to the floor. Ali screamed, jumped, but Russell's arm held her tight against his body.

  I stared, at once relieved and horrified.

  "Now, Jake," Russell said calmly as he replaced the gun against Ali's temple, "my brother's going to escort you outside and watch while you repair the line. I know you care whether your girlfriend lives or dies, so I'm sure you won't try anything stupid."

  "I'll take him outside," Buck said.

  "Thank you, Buck," Russell said, "but I don't think that'll be necessary. Jake's going to return your gun to you. He'll be unarmed. Jake, place the Ruger on the floor. Slowly."

  I paused. Breathed out slowly.

  Russell jammed the Glock into Ali's temple, and she gave a cry.

  "All right," I said. "But here's the deal: As soon as I fix the cable, you let her go. I'll signal you when I'm finished, and you can check. Confirm the Internet connection's working. If I keep my end of the bargain, you keep your end. Okay?"

  Russell nodded, smiled. "You don't give up, do you?"

  "Never," I said.

  75

  Travis kept his distance, his weapon trained on me.

  I knelt at the side of the shed where I'd cut the cable, and held up one end for him to see. A glint of copper in the moonlight.

  "Can I have a little light here?" I said.

  With his left hand, he took out his flashlight and switched it on, blinding me.

  "Out of my eyes, please."

  He shifted the beam toward the ground, shined it on the loops of cable coming out of the earth against the shed's concrete foundation, then at the severed ends.

  I said, "You do this, Travis?"

  "What?"

  "One of you guys must have cut this."

  Travis sounded surprised to be asked, even irate. "No."

  "I'm going to need some stuff. A crimping tool, a couple of F-type male connectors, and an F-81 connector. And a cable cutter and a pair of pliers. A toggle strip tool, if they have one."

  Travis shuffled a foot on the gravelly sand. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

  "If they have it, it's going to be in the toolshed. If they don't, I'm going to have to wing it. We need to find out, fast."

  "How the hell do I know what they have?"

  "You don't. I'll have to look."

  He shined the flashlight into my eyes again. I shielded my eyes with a hand.

  "I'm going to have to ask Russell."

  "You check with your brother every time you wipe your ass? If they have anything, it'll be right here, in the shed." I touched the shingled wall. "Let's take a look. You guys don't have time to screw around."

  He hesitated. "All right."

  The diesel engine inside was chugging away. Didn't he wonder why the tool shed had a generator inside? But he didn't seem to know one outbuilding from another, and he probably wasn't thinking too clearly. He was intent only on keeping me from going anywhere or doing anything.

  Instead of coming around to the front to the shed door, I rounded toward the back.

  "Hey! Door's over here."

  "Yeah, and the key's hanging on a hook back here," I said, and kept going. I muttered, "Or do you want to call for Big Brother and ask him for permission to get it?"

  He followed, still trying to keep a distance, his gun on me, the beam in my eyes.

  "Will you point that flashlight over here, please?" I said, not indicating anything. "And not at my eyes?"

  "Where?"

  "Shit," I said, stopping by a gnarled old pine whose branches raked the shed's low roof. "It's not here. You see it anywhere?"

  The cone of light swept up and down the shingles: quick, jerky movements, impatient.

  "Shit," I said. "We're going to have to get the handyman out here to open up the shed."

  He moved the flashlight beam from the ground up to the shed's low roof, then down again. I could see him hesitate, trying to figure out how to get out his two-way while keeping the gun on me and putting the flashlight away. As he did so, I stepped closer to him, pretending to search for the missing key. He clicked off the flashlight, jammed it in a vest pocket, and felt for his HT.

  "Wait," I said. "I think I found it. Sorry about that."

  Wayne's SIG-Sauer, nestled in a crook of the old pine's tree trunk. I grabbed it, swung it around, and put it against his ear.

  "One word," I said, "and I'll blow your brains out."

  He hesitated just long enough for me to grab his gun hand at the wrist and twist it, hard. He was amazingly strong: all that prison muscle. But finally I was able to wrench it out of his hand.

  His left fist crashed into my cheek. He didn't have room to maneuver, to aim his punch or get a decent arc, but still the blow was incredibly powerful. A jagged lightning bolt of pain exploded in my eyes, my brain. I tasted blood.

  But that didn't stop me from thrusting my knee into his groin. He expelled a lungful of air through my fingers. The whites of his eyes flickered briefly, and he grunted, looked sick.

  I shoved the gun into his ear, but before I could say anything, his fist smashed into my temple, so hard that pinpoints of light danced before my eyes.

  Don't give in to it.

  I kneed his groin again, slammed his head into the tree trunk, then swung the pistol against the side of his head with all of my strength.

  He went right down.

  Slumped against the tree and slid to the ground. His eyes were open just enough to see the whites.

  But he was out.

  76

  I tied him up with some of the rope I'd cut off Ali, then popped out the magazine of his Colt Defender, checked to make sure it was loaded. It was. The SIG was down at least three shots, so I jammed it into my back pocket as a backup. Then I headed to the other shed.

  My father had what he called a "toy box" of war trophies and deactivated training grenades he'd brought home from Vietnam. When I was maybe six he explained to me what an incendiary grenade was. A little later that afternoon, as I ran circles around him trying to get him to play hide-and-seek, he hurled one at me.

  To teach me a lesson.

  Only after I stopped crying did he explain, with a hearty guffaw, that you had to pull the pin first or it wouldn't detonate. I'd always assumed it was a dummy grenade, but with my father you never knew.

  The stash of weapons and supplies was still in the shed.

  There were four thermite grenades, but I only needed one.

  Five min
utes later, when I'd finished my prep work, I returned to the lodge.

  77

  Russell's eyes narrowed. He knew something wasn't right. He didn't even have a chance to ask where his brother was.

  "We got a problem," I said.

  "What problem?"

  "You," I said, and I held up the grenade for a second, just long enough for it to register.

  I grasped the pull ring, tugged it out, and then I hurled it at him.

  "You crazy son of a bitch!" he screamed, diving out of the way.

  Ali shrieked and jumped free, and Buck leaped away, too.

  The confusion gave me enough time to pull the Colt Defender out of the waistband of my pants and squeeze off two shots. Russell was a blur. When the bullet struck his shoulder, he roared, then crashed into the overstuffed sofa, his gun dropping from his hand, sliding a good ten feet or more.

  Buck canted to one side. A crimson starburst appeared on his shirt just above his vest.

  Muffled screams from somewhere close by: the game room?

  Russell, back on his feet, hesitated for an instant, as if deciding whether to reach for his gun.

  The fury in his face told me he now understood that I'd removed the primer from the grenade; he was not a man who enjoyed being duped.

  I aimed the pistol and fired another round, but then something moved in my peripheral vision.

  Buck, summoning a final burst of malevolent strength, had somehow managed to raise his gun. He fired. I glimpsed the tongue of flame at the end of the muzzle, felt a fireball of pain explode inside my right thigh.

  The floor came up to hit me in the face.

  My forehead and cheekbone felt broken, the pain ungodly. Everything was spinning. I struggled to get upright, finally managed to stagger to my feet, then Russell swooped at me, kneeing my solar plexus.

  I sagged, fell backwards, retching, the gun dropping to the floor. I couldn't catch my breath. He grabbed my hair, jerked my head upward, slammed it back down against the floor.

  Blindly, I swung at what I thought was his face but connected with something softer: muscle.

  I tried to lift my torso at the same moment that he jammed his knee into my wounded thigh, and everything went white and sparkly.