by Tara Wylde
I walk quickly to my little cubby hole of an office. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the sound of a janitor’s vacuum cleaner. The whining sound grows and fades, grows and fades.
I brush my entrance badge against the reader, and the green light flashes twice on the black plastic box to the left of the door handle.
“What in the world?” I mutter. The words come out in the barest of whispers. What I’m seeing doesn’t make any sense.
I take my handbag off my shoulder and hold it like a weapon as I step into the office. I feel like a character from a horror movie. Any moment now I expect a monster or a killer to come speeding out of the darkness.
Okay, do what they never do in the films.
I gulp, swallowing a rising tide of fear. “Lights, Kim,” I mutter. “Rule number one, always turn on the lights.”
My fingers brush against the switch, and suddenly the room’s basked with light. After the eerie glow of the rest of the floor, it’s a whole heap more comforting.
The office is a mess. There is paper scattered everywhere, as if someone flung a sheaf as hard as they could, then didn’t bother to pick it up. The filing cabinet in the corner is wide open, and looks like it’s been stripped of files.
I set my handbag down on my desk, and reach for my cell phone. I briefly register that my computer is turned on. I’m sure that wasn’t the case when I left.
“A robbery, maybe?” I wonder out loud. That doesn’t make sense, either. What kind of thief breaks into one of Europe’s most exclusive investment banks, and then goes for files. A pretty dumb one… Besides, it doesn’t make any sense. Why would they have gone to the fourth floor? Wait: how could they have gotten past the guard?
It’s not possible. Something’s going on here. I’m beginning to feel that my concern is more than justified.
I shake the mouse attached to my work computer. The screen slowly warms up and flickers to life. When it does, I feel like someone has hit me in the gut. The wind is knocked completely out of me, and my legs turn to jelly.
I double over, resting my arms against the corners of my desk. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“No, no,” I say in a voice that’s barely louder than a moan, “it’s not possible.”
My breath is ragged in my chest. I feel like any second now I’m going to hyperventilate. I sit down in front of my computer. I don’t recognize any of these screens – but I know they spell disaster for me.
On the left-hand side of the screen, there’s a list of numbered client accounts. I don’t recognize any of them. I scroll down, but they just keep going. There must be millions of dollars’ worth of accounts here, maybe tens of millions. At least, there used to be.
Because on the right-hand side, every single one is listed as empty – and dated today. I page downwards frantically, but it doesn’t help.
“Okay, think,” I order myself, in an attempt to stem the rising tide of panic growing inside me. “Think, Kim, think. What in the entire universe is going on? Why is this here?”
But I know why.
I’m just trying to avoid coming to terms with it. It all adds up: the eighty thousand dollar deposit into my bank account; Boris’s empty desk; the man in the tan overcoat. Plus whatever program Boris got me to run for him.
The realization hits me like a slap in the face. I’ve been set up.
If it wasn’t for the chair underneath me, I think I’d fall to the floor. It’s hard to breathe. I feel like there’s a thousand pound weight on my chest.
I rest my head in my left hand. The numbers start to blur. The page just keeps scrolling down. Ten thousand dollars here, twenty thousand dollars there… It just keeps going …
… all the way to the bottom.
The cursor blinks.
“No,” I moan. I don’t want to let myself believe it. I don’t have a choice.
The last entry is listed with today’s date, like all the rest. Except this time, I recognize the account number the money was transferred to, and the amount.
It’s my bank account. It’s for eighty thousand dollars.
Part of me knew this was coming all along. It’s the reason I started saving the logs from Boris’s half-cooked trading program: the logs he didn’t want anyone else to see. It doesn’t matter though; seeing the results of his scheming on the screen makes it hit home doubly hard. I don’t know how my life has come to this.
A month ago, I was poor and unhappy.
A week ago, I had a good job, and a man who looked at me like I’d always dreamed of being admired. But now it’s all slipping through my fingers. There’s only one outcome to this situation. I feel so freaking stupid for letting it happen. I should have told Nate the second Boris started acting suspiciously.
But I didn’t, and it’s too late.
“I’m going to jail,” I sob. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, but there aren’t any tears. I’m dry. There’s nothing left to give.
Nate.
His cocky, boyish face pops into my mind. For a second, I imagine what life will be like in six months’ time. Will he visit in jail?
I choke out a laugh. My stomach protests, but it feels good. I just can’t imagine speaking to Nate through a telephone while wearing an orange jumpsuit and pressing my palm up against his through a glass partition.
My mind prods more insistently. Nate.
Then I understand what it’s trying to tell me. Maybe Nate can help. Perhaps I need to trust him. After all, when I was texting him sexy messages in that lecture theater, he was asking people to come forward with the truth. If I throw myself down to my knees, there’s a chance he’ll understand. Maybe he can help.
It feels like a light opening up at the end of a tunnel. It’s a small hope, I know it is, but it’s something.
I know what I need to do now. I need to speak to Nate. But – first things first, I need the proof of what Boris has done. Then I need to get the heck out of here. Running seems like a smart idea anyway. After all, if the police catch me red-handed at the scene of a crime I didn’t commit…
It won’t be good for me.
I block out the world around me. For a second, I feel like I’m back at college – hard coding a computer program with two hours left before a deadline. Heck, who am I kidding? I never let myself dance with missing a deadline…
But Frankie did.
Be Frankie.
I open a window on my terminal, and start hacking together a computer program. Not just a program – salvation. I feel like I’m lost in a nightmare, stitching my parachute while the plane’s engines flame out on either wing. The code I’m writing won’t win any awards – but it will work.
I link it to my phone – a dead man’s switch, I think the movies call it. If I don’t check in every hour, or my phone dies, then the program will get to work. I gulp. I don’t want to think about the things that could stop me checking in.
I download the logs from the server where I stashed the evidence, build a wall around them, and upload them to the Internet. Then I pause – fingers hovering over the keyboard.
I feel like I’m writing a letter, the kind that gets opened in the event of my untimely death. I hope it doesn’t come anywhere close to that, but right now I’m not so sure. It feels like the floor is falling out from underneath me. I close my eyes and think. Who am I going to send this to? Frankie?
No – this isn’t her fight. The answer comes to me. Nate.
I need to hurry. I enter Nate’s Landwolfe email address, and I type in a password. The corners of my lips kick up in a fatalistic smile as I do. I hope he guesses it right; because if not, then I might be done for. I hit the return key.
It’s time to go.
I run to the elevator, and smash the bottom button with the base of my palm. It doesn’t close the doors any faster, but it makes me feel better.
The sound of my deep, frantic breaths seems completely at odds with the jaunty elevator music. I barely hear it; I just keep staring at my phone. My thumb is hoverin
g over the little icon of Nate’s face, desperate to tap it.
“Come on, come on,” I mutter, echoing myself from the journey up. This time, I’m in much more of a rush. This time, it’s personal.
We pass the second floor, still nothing. There’s a brief flicker of signal bars as the elevator slows to a halt, but they disappear.
It’s not until I’m out in the lobby that I finally get enough to make a call. The screen fills with half a dozen text messages – all from Nate. I don’t check them. I don’t have time. Nate’s face disappears under my thumb, and …
“Nate –.”
“Kim,” Nate says, cutting across me, “I was so worried. You read my texts?”
Nate doesn’t give me a chance to answer. The security guard glances at me curiously, and I quicken my pace. I know there’s no way he can know what happened upstairs, but I’m not taking any chances. I need to get out of this building.
I push through the heavy glass doors, and the cold Fall air bites at my face.
“It’s true, all of it. I lied to you. You were a mark, a mission. Believe me Kim –.”
“Nate,” I stammer. I keep walking forward, but I feel like I left my brain a dozen paces back. I need to get away from the light. It doesn’t feel right. I can’t believe what he’s saying. It doesn’t make any sense. I trusted him. I thought he was the one.
I feel so stupid.
I feel betrayed.
“Kim,” Nate says, his voice coming back with redoubled force. “Listen to me. I can live with you never forgiving me. I find a way to live without you, I don’t know how, but I will. But you need to get to safety, now. I’ve put you in terrible danger. Please, just get somewhere safe. Tell me where you are –”
My footsteps ring out in the empty street. They echo; one, two, three.
Then they stop.
“Who,” I say, my voice quavering. “Who are you?”
“De cell phone, Kimberly,” a man says in an evil, commanding voice. His accent is thick. I’ve heard it before. He’s wearing the same damn coat.
I swallow back my fear. I haven’t got time for it. I need to run.
I shake my head. I take a pace backwards, and then turn to run –.
– And I collide with a man twice my size. His chest feels like a brick wall. He grabs me so hard I feel like my ribs will crack and turn to dust.
“Tank you, Carlos,” Tan overcoat says, snatching the cell phone from my fingers.
He puts it against his ear. There’s a wicked, violent fire burning in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Kimberly is busy right now. I afraid is gonna be a long time before she ready to talk.”
Tan overcoat drops my phone. It clatters against the sidewalk, and then he crushes it underneath his boot. He strokes my chin. His touch feels like a snake slithering around my body. I feel waves of bile rising in my throat. I know where this leads.
“Nice to meet jou,” he smiles. I can’t take my eyes off his chipped teeth. It’s like someone filed them into points. “I tink we gonna become very good friends, you and I.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Nate
How the hell did everything go to shit so quickly?
I’m trembling. Mostly with rage, but also a little bit of fear. Not for myself. It’s Kim that I’m worried about.
My black leather boots are still dripping. I can’t tell whether it’s river water, or just runoff from the deluge of raindrops pounding down on my shoulders. They’re huge, fat, pregnant droplets. Each one feels like a punch when it lands against my body. Each one is a reminder that I’m out here, seething mad but utterly impotent, while Kim?
Kim’s in her own special corner of hell.
The worst of it is, the truth: I don’t know how I’m going to get her out. I don’t know where she is, or where they might be taking her. I’m flying blind.
A huge, cold droplet of water runs down the back of my neck. It might as well be a horrified shiver. For all I know, Kim is already dead. I didn’t hear the crack of a weapon firing, but that means nothing. The Muerta Brigade isn’t known for their willingness to turn the other cheek. Nor are their bosses back home in Mexico.
No, there’s one thing that will always make the cartel take a stand. It’s not respect, or pride, or any of that crap the TV tries to tell you. It’s theft. The Templars like to make an example out of people who try to steal from them. If they think that Kim’s the thief – and they clearly do – then it’s only a matter of time.
Also, the Muerta Brigade killers are sick. Even their name means death, but they don’t just kill. They put on a show. Kim will die slowly, and when her broken body can’t take it anymore, her killers will look to make a statement.
I look down the river. I run my hand through my soaking hair, and I can’t tell whether my eyes are blinded by the rain forced out of it, or tears. I can see Waterloo Bridge in the distance. I don’t just see the bridge. I see a ghost: an apparition; Kim’s body, dangling from a rope.
“I won’t let that happen,” I
I growl. It’s a promise to no one, and no one can hear. The sound of the rain beating down like the booming of the drum wipes out the rest of the world. But I mean it.
Wherever Kim is, and to whoever’s holding her, I make a vow to her.
“I’m going to find you, Kim,” I whisper. I don’t know why I’m speaking; perhaps it feels more real said out loud. “I’m going to find you if I have to die trying.”
If, for some reason, you’re already dead, then I won’t rest until I’ve avenged you. I keep that thought in the quiet of my own head. I’m not a superstitious man. But with Kim’s life on the line, I’m not risking anything.
My phone chirps.
I pull it out of a pocket attached with velcro to the front of my black combat vest. My fingers are numb with cold from the rain, but that’s not why I fumble turning the screen on. I know that there’s no way Kim’s on the other end…
But I can’t help hoping.
The second I wipe the water from my eyes, my heart stops beating in my chest.
It’s a message from a ghost.
A notification blinks on the home screen. One new email, it reads, from Kimberly Sawyers. I don’t hesitate before tapping it. I know that it’s probably nothing – just a calendar reminder, or something equally useless.
I know that I’m just building myself up for a fall. I shouldn’t cling on to hope. It’ll only make it harder when I’m dashed against the rocks.
The screen freezes, and no matter how hard I try to shield it from the rain, water droplets splash onto the glass surface.
“What the hell?”
It doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. The message is completely empty – except for one thing.
A website address.
Really, it’s just a meaningless string of letters and numbers. If I had received it at any other time on any other day, I’d have deleted it without a second thought. But it’s not any other time, and it’s not any other day. Kim’s in the hands of killers from the cartel, and this might be my only lead.
I need a computer. All of a sudden, nothing’s changed – but everything has.
I have a goal, something to work towards. I’m not just casting around in the darkness anymore, even if no one turned on a light. All I know is that standing in the rain and moping won’t save Kim’s life. Action might.
My feet start moving on their own accord. It’s like they’ve got a mind of their own. Within thirty seconds, I’m on the Strand. One of the busiest streets in all of London, it’s an explosion of noise, light and color compared with the dark wetness of the river.
Businessmen and women swarm all around me, trudging through the rain, huddled underneath umbrellas. I guess they’re too tired, it’s too wet, or it’s simply too dark to notice that I’m wearing all-black combat fatigues. Maybe I look like a policeman, I can’t tell.
I pick up my pace. My eyes scan right and left, looking for an entrance
. I head deeper into the city and away from the river, moving towards offices and apartments, and away from the shops, life and bustle all around me.
I take a left onto Henrietta Street. It’s perfect, almost empty, with rows of old Georgian houses converted into offices.
“Come on…” I whisper. I’m barely moving now. My eyes dance from side to side, looking for a way in to one – just one.
I see a chink of light. I hear a rustle of conversation. The door to number seven opens, just a fraction, and I head towards it. My boots splash in the rain and in the puddles.
