Blue Eyes was on the other side of the stall.
Not exactly the help she was hoping for.
His hands gripped the bottom of the door, his head appeared, he pulled himself in, no doubt determined to finish the job Marissa was too lame to do right.
“You’re too late,” she rasped, then the set went black.
CHAPTER 21
Vivi cruised the street, negotiating a two-foot strip of concrete that ran alongside the cobblestones. The freedom from that ridiculous hair was so delicious she almost laughed, but the chilly sea air on her skin and the importance of her mission wiped away any humor.
She balanced and weaved with skill and ease, as at home on a skateboard as she once had been holding a ballet barre. For her, this was just a different kind of dancing.
She spotted Emmanuel and decided to go for the ultimate test. She’d cruise right by, slowly enough that he’d at least have to glance at her. He’d notice her crazy hair, maybe the nose piercing if he looked closely, and, based on the looks she was getting from most of the men she passed, he’d check out the miniskirt. But if there was so much as a spark of recognition or even surprise, she’d take off and come up with another plan.
She gave the Plan B board a rueful glance and kicked harder.
When she was about twenty feet from the sidewalk table where Emmanuel sat sipping coffee, a stocky black man approached his table and sat down. Instantly, they were deep in conversation.
Pakpao’s replacement. She had to get something incriminating.
She got a little closer, hoping he wouldn’t even notice her if he was talking. She tapped her foot on the ground, slowing the board as Emmanuel placed the file folder from the bank on the table. A handoff? Then what should she do? Follow the new guy or the target? In her hand, her cell vibrated just as she reached the tables.
Emmanuel didn’t even notice her; his attention was riveted on the other man. She paused two tables away from them and read her text.
How close can you get? Listen and record conv.
She smiled and thumbed back. Illegal wiretapping. I like it.
The table next to them needed to be bussed, but another was empty and not so far away that she couldn’t inch to the right and hear them. She slipped into the seat, her back to Emmanuel, the other man to her left, the dirty table between them.
She was close enough to pick up snippets when no cars were driving by. She cocked her head to the side and pretended to dial her phone, but hit the voice-memo-recording feature instead.
And then had a brilliant idea. She pretended to talk on the phone in rusty but still passable Italian.
“Pronto! Che bello sentirti! Come va?” If, by any chance, either one spoke Italian, all she’d said was hello and how are you.
At the foreign words, both men casually glanced over, but she looked straight ahead and smiled, pretending to be a tourist on the phone. Her Italian was pretty limited and she could dig for better conversation ideas, but she didn’t want to think.
She wanted to hear. And record. And have them think the only person who could hear them didn’t speak English. Staying quiet, as though she were entranced in her own conversation, she repositioned herself, ostensibly to get the board out of the open, but really just getting closer, the wind cooperating by sending words her way.
“I can do it,” the man said. “But it’s a risk.”
“Life’s a risk, Mr. Sutton,” Emmanuel shot back. “The payout is better that way.”
The payout for what?
But the second ferry whistle blew, just loud enough to obliterate the next exchange.
Casually, she crossed her legs, resting her bare foot on the Alien Workshop sticker on the top of the board. Mr. Sutton threw a funny glance at her bare foot, then inched closer to Emmanuel and lowered his voice, denying her the chance to pick up a word. She used the excuse to say a few words in Italian then listen for Emmanuel’s answer.
“Can I get you something?”
The appearance of a waitress startled Vivi and she almost answered in English. Just as the first word started to tumble out, she shook her head and gave the blank stare of a foreigner. “Espresso?” she asked, hoping the crossover word would be all she needed.
“One shot or two?”
She lifted a shoulder, offered a smile. “Niente inglese.” No English. “Solo un espresso.”
The waitress nodded. “I’ll get you a single, then.”
Vivi smiled just as Emmanuel opened the file, the very same one she’d been taking pictures of in the bank. What was in there but legal deeds?
“Scusami,” she apologized into the phone, then plucked the Italian for “What were you saying” out of a long-dormant memory bank. “Cosa stavi dicendo?”
From deep inside the file he brought out a folded piece of paper. One she hadn’t seen and hadn’t photographed. He opened it, and she stole a glance.
A blueprint, much smaller than the one she’d been looking at that morning. Maybe a reduced copy.
“Here’s where you drop them off, and here’s where they get picked up.”
“Underground?” The other man asked, making Emmanuel motion for him to lower his voice.
What was underground? The sex-slave transfer station?
She switched the phone to her other ear and did a half turn so she could see Emmanuel out of the corner of her eye.
God, she had to get a picture of this. Of both of them. She rubbed her thumb along the inside of her BlackBerry, imagining the keyboard. There was no way to find the camera icon without looking at it.
No, she’d just continue to record and go for the money quotes.
“The next shipment will be here in less than an hour,” Emmanuel said.
“From Laos?”
Emmanuel nodded. “Almost all girls, I’m afraid.”
Her stomach roiled. That was the money quote, sickening as it was.
“Boys are worth more,” Sutton commiserated, and Vivi just closed her eyes and counted. She would get this bastard. She would do whatever it took and she would kill herself trying, but if she saved one little girl or one little boy from—
“I want forty percent,” Sutton said.
Her phone vibrated again and she could almost feel Lang’s frustration with each unanswered text, but she couldn’t stop the taping to respond.
“Fuck off,” Emmanuel said. “This is my business. You’re the—”
The waitress brought espresso. “Grazie.” She sipped some and repositioned again, even closer still.
“You don’t have a lot of options around here,” Sutton said. “And now I know where you’re doing business, bro.”
Vivi leaned one inch closer, but stopped when some sixth sense told her Emmanuel was aware of her move. She quickly laughed and asked nobody to come to dinner. Then listened while she sipped espresso and ignored Lang’s relentless vibrations.
“Can you get them out of here tonight? Delivered to Boston, then trucked down to New York? I got two boys, two men who’re strong, and a dozen girls, but one of them’s got a broken leg.”
“Then you got eleven, because a gimp doesn’t make any money.”
Vivi bit her lip to keep from jumping out of her seat.
The ferry horn belched out another long howl, blocking out Emmanuel’s answer, except that he ended it with “… ’cause I gotta go now.”
To meet Joellen on the ferry that was rounding the lighthouse? Meet her at the lighthouse?
“Okay,” Sutton said. “Thirty-five percent. Give me that map.” He pushed out of his seat.
“Do it. Meet me at”—the howl of the next ferry horn cut off his words, three long honks that wrecked the other guy’s response, too. Damn it.
With a heartfelt arrivederci, she shifted her phone below the table and texted Lang.
They’re parting. RE going to ferry, I think. Mr. Sutton is going to meet next shipment!! Who should I follow?
Her gut said she should stay with Emmanuel, who didn’t recognize her. Lan
g would get backup and follow the other guy. Unless he went all rule-book on her and said Get back to the car.
His answer came in seconds. Follow Emmanuel. I’ll get backup and go after Sutton and the shipment.
Perfect. Okay, she texted back, the sound of her keypad drowned by the ferry horn again, well past the lighthouse and nearing the huge Broad Street dock. She glanced over her shoulder to see Emmanuel take out his cell to answer a call.
“What?” he asked curtly, rising and throwing some cash on the table. Now this would get tricky. She couldn’t look like she was following, but she had to.
Just as he passed her, he said, “You’re breaking up, Marissa. What did you say?”
Marissa? Marissa Hunter, Cara’s assistant?
She must have reacted, damn it, because he shot her a look. It might have only been a second or two, but time dragged like she was under the spotlight for ten endless minutes. Attempting cool, she returned his look, defiant and disinterested, then picked up her espresso cup and sipped, scrolling through her phone messages like she was totally used to strangers staring at her crazy hair and nose diamond. She was.
Lang’s text flashed. Don’t lose him, but don’t get too close. Can’t back you up!
Damn straight she wouldn’t lose him.
Emmanuel switched the phone to his other ear. “She’s dead?”
A siren scream broke through the city, followed instantly by another, cutting out most other sounds and pulling his attention completely away from Vivi.
Did he say she’s dead?
He started down Broad Street toward the dock, and Vivi reached for her handbag, which was—in the SUV. Shit! She had no money. Not a dime. And her target was now ten feet away.
And three ambulances wailed to get through the traffic on Broad, heading straight for the dock.
She’s dead.
Cara? Vivi had to know. And she either had to stiff the waitress or steal Emmanuel’s cash. The last thing she wanted was his attention.
She lost five seconds and fifteen more feet making the decision. Emmanuel started to cross the street, to the heavier crowds just as the ferry whistle sounded four short horns, announcing arrival. As one of the ambulances neared the dock, the crowd parted like a curtain opening, everyone gawking and many following.
She jumped up, snagged the board, and headed off, already across the street when the waitress screamed, “Hey! Lady! We don’t steal coffee in this country!”
A few people looked, including Emmanuel, but Vivi worked not to meet his gaze. His attention on the phone, he continued to walk, passing the Steamship Authority building at the entrance of the dock, just as a second ambulance powered through to the vast cement landing area.
He paused long enough for Vivi to catch up with him, three feet behind him, stopping as he did. In the chaos of ambulances and sirens, she had to get much closer to hear him.
Don’t lose him, but don’t get too close.
Sorry, Lang. She got less than a foot behind him.
“How do you know that, Marissa?” He could turn at any minute. Any second. One semirevolution to his right or left and she’d be busted. But right now he was being recorded.
Just one more sentence. One more, and she’d back off. He took a step farther. She did the same. He switched the phone to the other ear. She lifted hers closer, recording.
“Well, the ambulances give me the impression she might still be alive.”
Instinct made her suck in a breath through her nose just as he spun around and nailed her. Wordlessly, he flipped off his phone and narrowed his eyes at her. “Give it to me.”
She took a step back.
“Give me your phone or you’re dead.”
Another step. Just as he charged, she threw down her board and his foot landed on it, throwing him off balance. She turned and ran, getting about twenty feet before coming face to face with her waitress waving a bill.
“Pay me, you little bitch. Can you understand that much English?”
“Please,” Vivi begged. “This is a federal case.”
“Damn right it is. Give me my fucking money!”
Two hands landed on her shoulders. “She’s with me,” Emmanuel said. “I left enough to cover her coffee, miss. Thank you, and I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
The waitress sniffed, inching away, looking at both of them. “Fine.”
The pressure on her shoulders increased. She tried to wrench out of his touch, but he was too strong.
“Cara Ferrari’s been shot!” someone screamed.
“They’re bringing her off on a stretcher!”
A hum and buzz and a few shouts went through the crowd as it teemed forward like a mob. Vivi stumbled with Emmanuel clutching her with one hand, a gun slammed into her back.
“I don’t know who the hell you are, lady, but you’re coming with me.”
The rough cement scraped her bare feet as he pushed her forward, surging with the crowd. Police vehicles followed the ambulances in, sirens blaring, lights flashing, officers unaware that someone right in that crowd was being held hostage.
“To the boats,” he ground out in her ear.
The ferry finally docked at the end of the fifty-foot-wide platform, which was lined with smaller pleasure craft tied up along one side. He pushed her forward, to the outside edge of a crowd that was being corralled by cops already practicing crowd control.
“There she is!”
Several men ran to drop down a wide metal disembarkment ramp, locking it into place. Dozens of cell phones were hoisted overhead, pictures snapping like an orchestra of shutters. A woman screamed “Cara!” as paramedics appeared at the top of the ramp flanking a stretcher.
Vivi strained to see the stretcher, shoved deeper into the crowd by the man behind her. She scanned for an escape, but she couldn’t risk it. He somehow managed to push her toward the front, where two EMTs on either side rolled the stretcher and a third followed with an IV on wheels. Uniformed cops surrounded them.
Two other men approached, flashing badges, talking to the uniformed cops that held back the crowd.
Emmanuel pushed closer, so determined that for a minute Vivi thought he might claim to know the victim.
“Her injuries are superficial, not fatal,” one of the paramedics said to the plainclothes detectives. “But it’s still a double gunshot trauma. Make it fast.”
“Not fatal?” Emmanuel said behind her, obviously not happy with that news. He lurched Vivi forward and she tried to catch the eye of a cop, but no doubt she just looked like another frantic person in the crowd.
A fan, not the head of Cara Ferrari’s current security detail.
They were close enough to see Cara’s face as the stretcher rolled by, her eyes fluttering when one of the EMTs took her oxygen mask off and the detective leaned over her.
“He… saved… me,” Cara said.
“Do you know who shot you?” the detective asked.
“The… angel… blue eyes… saved… me.”
“An angel saved her!” The words rose up from at least ten people who were also within hearing distance, causing enough of an uproar that Vivi couldn’t possibly hear what else Cara said. “A blue-eyed angel!”
“Move it!” Emmanuel shoved Vivi to the right as the crowd surged in the opposite direction, moving toward the ambulances.
He urged her forward, the gun poking her ribs through the thin cotton top as she stumbled with him, against the crowd, her feet stepped on ten times as they threaded a pack of crazed onlookers who all wanted to go with Cara, not toward the water.
He thrust her toward the boats, to a sizable motor cruiser docked about ten feet away.
“Get in,” he ordered, staying so close to her he could keep the gun hidden between them. On an ordinary day he’d never get away with this. But in this crowd, with all eyes on the movie star—not her decoy—he easily forced Vivi to do what he wanted.
She stepped off the dock onto the deck, the tight skirt restricting her movement as
she scanned the crowds on the docks, considering one good, long scream before they took off. He shoved her toward the door leading to the cabin and she stumbled forward.
“Open it!” he demanded.
If she went down there, she was stuck. She scanned the crowds waiting to get off the ferry boat, but everyone was being held back by the cops.
“They’re going to catch her,” she said, trying to buy time. “No one can get off that boat without being interrogated.”
“They’re looking for some blue-eyed angel who saved her.” He sounded disgusted and jabbed her with the gun. “Give me your phone. Now.”
She handed it to him and he flipped it into the water. Idiot. If he’d read the messages, he’d know the FBI was following his man Sutton.
Just that thought gave Vivi a boost. Maybe Emmanuel was taking her to the same place. Or maybe she was going where the phone just went.
“Open the latch,” he ordered.
She took one more look up at the ferry, to the two decks lined with passengers cramming to witness the scene on the docks. Her gaze moved to where one man stood away from the crowd. Even this far away, she could see the shadows of his face, his build, but not his deep blue eyes.
Oh, not an angel. An Angelino.
Gabe. He had followed Cara, and saved her life. But did he know who shot her?
And, more importantly, did he know that Vivi was being kidnapped right under his nose?
But his gaze was directed to the dock, not the man getting on his boat with a woman.
With shaky fingers, she slid the bolt and opened the hatch to a small cabin below. Emmanuel gave her a push and right before she went down, she looked up at the ferry again.
But Gabe was gone.
And Lang was chasing down the next shipment of slaves.
And Vivi? God only knew where she was headed. Possibly the bottom of Nantucket Sound.
CHAPTER 22
Colt had Special Agent Iverson on the phone and organizing an extraction team by the time his target got into a blue compact and started the engine. Colt waited at a stop-light and gave Sutton a friendly signal to pull out in front of him, making following him a breeze.
Face of Danger Page 26
