Terminate

by Natasha Deen

  “Hold on.” I adjusted the focus of the binoculars, then handed them to her. “Far right condo. That’s him.”

  She took a look. “Nice body. Too bad he’s a skeez and definitely too bad he likes rubbing himself down with baby oil.”

  “Gimme.”

  “Hold on. I’m scouting...He’s got a balcony.” She handed the binoculars back to me.

  “Get Bentley on the phone,” I said.

  She did and handed me the cell.

  “Can you pull up the floor plans of the Strathford building? The guy’s on the top floor and facing west, in the far-right loft. See if you can cross-reference the address to get his name and maybe a bit more background.” I shut the cell off after he agreed. “That’s the best we can do for now. Let’s head back.”

  ***

  The next day I swung by the kitchen, begged Clem for help and got another no. On the bright side, Bentley had come through with some results. But it was a good news, bad news type of situation.

  The apartment was leased by a shell company, which was owned by another shell company. The shell game twisted into a confusing maze of companies, false names and nonexistent CEOS. It was still going to take him days to find out who really owned the apartment and what this guy’s name was. Bentley figured the man must have a criminal record and offered to hack the police systems to expedite the process. I knew he could do it. But I didn’t like the idea of our using their databases. If they tracked us, it would be over. Permanently.

  While Bentley did his part, I did mine. It was easy enough to do some old-school detective work. Late in the day, when the pavement would be full of people heading home, I took a jog past the building. Made sure I wore my blue sweatshirt, hood pulled over my head, dark yoga pants, forgettable shoes—it was all about blending in and being invisible.

  I stopped to take my heart rate near the door so I could eavesdrop on people entering and exiting the building. That got me some names, thanks to the helpful doorman, who greeted the building residents as he opened the door and made sure to chat them up. Doyle, Murphy, Rossi. The list went on, but all I needed was one.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Jansen,” said the doorman as he opened the door of a cab and an old lady emerged. Tall, with coffee-colored skin and a mass of short snow-white hair. “How is your knee?”

  “Terrible,” she replied. “Good thing I’ll be getting it fixed. Don’t think I can stand the pain much longer. I’ll need a car for tomorrow morning.”

  “What time?” asked the doorman.

  “Around ten. I have another doctor’s appointment.”

  I jogged around the corner, then headed to Vincent’s place.

  “You,” he said when he opened the door, “have perfect timing. I just made some—”

  “Cookies. Chocolate chip by the smell of it.”

  “Ayup,” he said. “But only good girls who paint get any.”

  “Aw, c’mon.” I doffed the hoodie and tossed it on the kitchen table. It was the only place that wasn’t cluttered with Vincent’s knickknacks. “I came here to do my own work. I need a canvas and paint.”

  His silver eyebrows rose in his lined face. “You got a commission?”

  “Sort of. I also need the equipment for IDS.”

  He sighed. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

  “The best kind,” I said. “I promise. Nothing low or cheap for me. I have self-esteem, y’know.”

  “My stuff first. Then yours.”

  “Fine.” I scowled. “How long will it take?”

  “As long as it takes. Plus cookies.”

  I pulled a paint smock from his closet. “Who am I impersonating today?”

  “Gilbert Stuart,” he said.

  “The guy whose piece sold for almost eight million at that British auction house?”

  “The same.” Vincent left me alone to prep the canvas and mix the paints. When he returned, he had a glass of milk, oven-warm cookies and a gummi multivitamin.

  “You know I’m not four, right?” I said, popping the gummi in my mouth.

  “I go by your emotional age, not your chronological one,” he said. “Paint.”

  I did. And finished off two batches of cookies.

  Once the canvas was drying, Vincent sat down to chat. “Tell me about your commission. Who are you forging?”

  “Edward Mitchell Bannister.”

  He gave a low whistle. “I love his stuff.”

  “Me too.” And I hoped Mrs. Jansen would as well. I painted into the night, then slept on Vincent’s couch. The next morning, after a quick shower and a raid of the closet Vincent kept for me for suitable business attire, I was ready. Ready, that is, after Vincent had stuffed me full of a hot breakfast and a couple more multivitamins. I promised to check in with him, then headed back out with the canvas tucked under my arm.

  When the building was in my sights, I tapped the Bluetooth hooked on my ear. “Bentley, you there?”

  “I’m everywhere,” answered Bentley. There was a clicking of keys, then, “Ready?”

  “I’m waiting for the perfect moment.”

  “Try to distract the security guard for at least five minutes. I need him concentrating on something other than his console.”

  At precisely 9:50 I approached the building entrance. “Got a package for Mrs. Jansen,” I told the doorman and held up the wrapped canvas.

  He nodded and let me in.

  I headed to the security guard and repeated my mission, hoping I sounded confident and cocky.

  “Sure,” he grunted. “Leave it here.”

  “No, sir, not that kind of package. This one I’m to deliver to her personally.”

  “I don’t have anything here about a personal delivery,” he said.

  I pulled out the ID card I’d made the night before. “Bridget Hannigan, Vancouver Art Gallery,” I said. “I’m supposed to deliver this painting by Edward Mitchell Bannister to Mrs. Jansen.”

  The security guard folded his arms. “You leave it here.”

  This was the tricky part. I had to play it with just the right amount of snark to put him in his place, but not so much that he would kick me out. The gamble started with a patronizing smile. “You’re not an art lover, are you, sir? Edward Mitchell Bannister’s works hang in the Smithsonian. You don’t just leave his art in a cubbyhole.”

  “Young lady, I don’t care if this painting was by Rapunzel—”

  “You mean Raphael.”

  He glowered. “Whatever. I have my orders.”

  “Just a couple more seconds,” said Bentley in my ear.

  I shrugged. “No problem. I’ll go back to the gallery and tell them you refused to let me in. And then my boss will call your boss and explain how Mrs. Jansen missed receiving the work of one of the premier artists of the nineteenth century. One whose works were largely ignored in his day because of his ethnicity.” I gave him a minute to connect the artist’s background with Mrs. Jansen’s, then went in for the kill. “Isn’t Mrs. Jansen due for knee surgery this week? Think she’ll appreciate having to hobble to the door when I have to come back? And how will your boss feel about you inconveniencing an old lady?”

  I saw the flicker of indecision in his eyes.

  “It’s done,” said Bentley. “I have control of the building, including the elevators, cameras and the telephone lines. You can move to phase two.”

  “I understand your dilemma,” I said to the security guard, reducing the snark level just a bit. “You have a job to do. But so do I. Perhaps you could call Mrs. Jansen?”

  The security guard picked up the phone and dialed. “She’s not answering.”

  “She’s in the elevator,” said Bentley. “Get ready.”

  “Let me try one more time,” said the guard.

  The elevator doors chimed, and Mrs. Jansen appeared.

  “Oh, there she is,” I told him. “I’ll just give it to her now.” Before he could stop me, I ran over to the woman. “Mrs. Jansen?”

  She nodded and smiled
.

  “My name is Bridget,” I said, making sure the guard couldn’t overhear. I pulled out the ID. “I work for the Vancouver Art Gallery, and I have a gift for you from an anonymous admirer.”

  “Me? An admirer—at my age?” She laughed. “Sweetheart, you must have the wrong Mary Jansen.”

  “It’s by Edward Mitchell Bannister—”

  She gasped. “Oh! I love his work.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I unwrapped the piece carefully and showed it to her.

  “His landscapes were breathtaking.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I see that you’re on your way out. But perhaps we can make a quick trip back upstairs? I’d feel better knowing it was safe in your apartment.”

  “Oh yes. Of course. We can’t have it sitting in the lobby.”

  Adults are amazing. If I had told her what was really going on—that I needed to access the condo of a guy forcing kids to kill each other for his amusement, she would’ve freaked out. Had me kicked out. Probably arrested too. But when I tell her an unknown person has given her a priceless art piece, suddenly we are besties. No wonder email scams work so well—nothing like getting something for nothing to make people drop their guard.

  “Oh dear,” said Mrs. Jansen. “I just remembered. I have a cab waiting.”

  “It won’t take long, I promise.” I hit the button and guided her back into the elevator.

  “You’re right,” she laughed. “The world can wait for Edward Mitchell Bannister.”

  We rode up together, and I walked her to her door.

  “Have a good day, ma’am,” I said, handing her the painting. “I hope you enjoy it. If you don’t need me for anything, I’m going to take the stairs. I smiled at her and planted my alibi. “I need the exercise.”

  “Thank you so much, young lady. I do wonder who my secret admirer is.” She giggled like a schoolgirl as she closed the door.

  I connected with Bentley. “Keep an eye on the elevator. I figure I bought myself a few minutes, but that cab won’t wait long.”

  “I heard every word,” he said. “You have to move fast. I can delay the elevator, but I don’t want to stop it for long with an old lady inside.”

  I took the stairs three at a time to get to the jerk’s floor. In front of his door, I pulled out a bunch of the gear Bentley had given me and used it to check for surveillance. Then I picked the lock.

  “Faster, Jo.”

  “I’m going as fast as I can. Maybe you should upgrade your tech.”

  “Don’t talk bad about my tech,” said Bentley. “If you don’t want the security guard wondering why Mrs. Jansen’s in the lobby and you’re not…”

  “Yeah yeah.” I pulled out a bunch of pinhole cameras from my bag, stashing them in various parts of the apartment. Then I dealt with the jerk’s laptop. With Bentley’s help, I ran a backup of his computer drive.

  “Everything downloading okay?” I asked Bentley.

  “All good,” he confirmed. “I stalled the elevator as long as I could. Now get out!”

  I raced out the door and ran down the stairs. With all this gear in place, I hoped to get the full scope of this guy’s operation. And maybe discover whether he occasionally brought Amanda into town. If he did, maybe I could figure out a rescue plan.

  I exited the stairwell just as the elevator pinged. A quick nod to the security guard, and I was racing back to Bentley’s. Within a couple of hours, thanks to the information downloaded from the jerk’s computer, we had his name: Jimmy Dushku, a top player in the Vëllazëri gang.

  The gang and I had a history. They’d worked with Meena—correction. Meena had worked for them. The gang was behind my family’s destruction. No surprise they’d be behind Amanda’s disappearance and Ian’s death too. They had to be taken down, and I was just the girl to do it.

  Bentley worked his usual magic and we got the background we needed: multiple charges for assault, human trafficking, drugs, links to terrorist organizations. Now came the “fun” part. Monitoring him. We split into six-hour shifts.

  By the time Raven took over from my first shift, I was ready for a shower and a combination ear-eye disinfection. “Brace yourself,” I told her. “The man kisses his biceps more often than a mother kisses her newborn.”

  Day two, I arrived to find Jace staring at the screen. “Did you know he likes to do a before-bedtime workout? In a Speedo?” He grimaced. “Hashtag: Things I’ll Never Unsee.”

  A few days later the mind-numbing surveillance paid off. Bentley and I were sitting around eating popcorn and eavesdropping on Jimmy’s life. And I heard what I needed: the location of the next fight.

  “I’m outta here.” I tossed the bowl of popcorn on the table, stood and reached for my jacket.

  “Wait! We should let Jace and Raven know,” said Bentley.

  “We should also floss twice a day and avoid sugar,” I replied with a meaningful nod at the bowl of Skittles and M&M’s. “How you doing on that one, Bentley-Bird?”

  “They should know,” he said and gave me a dad glare. “And don’t ever call me that again.”

  “I’m not stopping you from telling them. But I’m not waiting for Raven to disengage herself from Emmett or for Jace to find a shirt that brings out the bronze flecks in his eyes.”

  “You know he has bronze flecks?” Bentley grinned. “I bet his doctor doesn’t even know that.”

  I ignored him, grabbed his cell and tossed it at him. “Better yet, call 9-1-1. Let the cops know what’s going on.”

  He grasped my hand. “Where are you going?”

  “To watch the takedown. Amanda will be there, and I can get her some help.” I gave him a hard hug, then sprinted out to the car. After I plugged the address into the GPS, I took off. One way or another, I was bringing Amanda home and finding justice for the fallen.

  ELEVEN

  It took longer than I thought it would to get out of Vancouver. As soon as I got onto the highway, I hit the gas. The fight was off Highway 91, in the Delta Nature Reserve. I approached the coordinates. There were no tents, no lights, no people. In the split second it took for me to realize that the location was a fake and I’d been set up, my rearview mirror caught the high beams of a truck. Before I could do anything, I heard the sound of metal scraping against metal, felt the harsh whack of the vehicle smashing into mine. Then my car was rocketing off the road and barreling into the ditch.

  ***

  The airbag cushioned the impact. Sort of. It wasn’t so much a soft pillow as a hard slap of air. Dazed and nursing what was probably a broken nose, I fought with my seat belt. But my brain and my fingers were fuzzy, and it took longer than I wanted. Especially given the bruisers heading my way. Two guys, each with a neck the size of my thigh. There was only time to do one thing. I opened my phone and deleted the apps Bentley had created.

  One guy tried the door. And when he realized I’d been smart enough to lock it, he yelled something at the second guy. What he yelled became apparent when the second guy pulled a police baton out from behind his back.

  I got myself out of the restraint just as he took the baton to the window. Glass broke into pebble-sized pieces and rained on the seat. I stumbled over the console, unlocked the front passenger door and took off running.

  I didn’t like the idea of going into the forest, but meeting up with a bear would be better than anything these guys had in store for me. The adrenaline racing through my system made me forget my injuries from the crash. I figured they’d have guns and decided to run in a zigzag pattern. Make it harder for them to hit me. Of course, running in the dark with all the grace of an unhinged buffalo while hopped up on fear and hormones was great. But it was nothing compared to the V-8 Hemi storming my way. Headlights lit the ground ahead of me, not that it mattered. With a rev of his engine, the driver used the front bumper to clip me. The last thing I remember was going down hard and my head bouncing on the ground.

  TWELVE

  I awoke with a colossal headache, in the kind of wired ke
nnel used for large dogs. It had a blanket and a pillow. And a bucket. The kennel stood in a line with dozens of other cages. Across from me, more wire prisons. The tops of all of them were covered with tarp. We could see each other, but we couldn’t see up. The lighting was crap, but I recognized the shape of the person in the container next to me. “Amanda?”

  “Josie?”

  I tried to reach my hand through the bars, but the slats were too close together. All I could manage was a couple of fingers. “Yeah, honey. I’m here.”

  “Oh my god—Jo.” She grabbed and held my fingers, then started to cry.

  “What happened?”

  “Only me being stupid, as usual. I should’ve listened to you. Should’ve known it was all too good.” She gave a watery sniff. “You’d think with all my experiences with guys like Larry—”

  That had been her last pimp. A caveman of a guy who’d still have her if he hadn’t OD’d a few months back.

  “—I’d have better radar.”

  “Shh, honey, no point crying.”

  “But I thought I could trust him. Jimmy seemed so nice and…good. He seemed like such a great guy, but—” Her voice dropped so low I could barely hear her. “He’s crazy. Like, insane.”

  “Forget him. We’re going to get out of here—I just need you to stay calm, okay?” I paused a moment and then asked, “How are you?” I held my breath and waited to hear about beatings…or worse.

  She went very quiet.

  “Amanda?”

  “Terrified,” she said. “We all are.”

  Me too. We needed to get a plan together. “Talk to me. Where are we?”

  She gave a dark laugh. “Hell.”

  “Amanda, focus. I was knocked out. I couldn’t track our movements in the car. Unless you give me more to go on, I can’t get us out of here.” I waited. Waited some more. “Amanda?”

  Finally, she answered. “He moves the fight location every time.”

  “What about this place? Is it new? How long have you been here?”

  “This was the first place they took me,” she said. “The fight locations move, but our prison doesn’t.”