by W. L. Dyson
“You don't like your brother's friend, do you?” Annie asked as she smeared dirt on her clothes.
“I can't imagine where you got that idea.” Marti almost flinched but tried to stay neutral, so she gave Annie a little smile.
“It's cool if you don't want to talk about it.”
Marti started smearing dirt in Annie's hair. “Smart woman.” She stepped back and gave Annie a once-over. “Good enough. Maybe we need to cut those jeans a little. Make them look older.”
Annie grabbed Marti's arm. “Tell me the truth. Do you really think Nick can get us all out alive?”
Marti saw the fear in Annie's eyes and knew that platitudes weren't going to work. As much as she wanted to wipe the fear away for this innocent young woman, she knew that sometimes life was hard and dangerous and there were no guarantees. You had to take every day for what it was worth. Good or bad.
“Annie, I can't promise you anything. But let me say this. I know my brother. He's always been something of a cowboy. But he's very smart, and what has always made him good at what he does, whether it was back when he was a cop or now as a bounty hunter, is that he can think fast on his feet and he's fearless. He has a strong sense of right and wrong, and that is unshakable in him. If anyone can get you and Krys-tal out alive, it's my brother. Is that good enough?”
Annie snorted out something like a weak laugh. “I'd have preferred hearing he's done this exact thing a hundred times before and never failed.”
“If you don't want to do this, don't. No one is going to blame you.”
Annie shook her head. “I need to do this. I can't let your niece die because I'm afraid.”
“And because you need to face death on your terms, not a doctor's… Nick told me about your disease.”
Annie slowly dropped her head. “Maybe that too, yeah.”
“I understand. Maybe better than you realize. But that doesn't mean you're going to die tonight. You have a great chance of walking out of this alive. And you have a great chance that someone will pop up on the donor list and you could walk out of that to live a long, happy life.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe,” Marti agreed with a little squeeze to Annie's hand. “I gave up on God a long time ago, but there have been so many times in my life when I should have ended up dead, and I'm still here. And every single time I walked away from a situation, I had this nagging little feeling that God was keeping me alive for some reason. As if he were just blocking death until I came to my senses and came home to him.”
“And you haven't?”
Marti shook her head. “No. I can't. There's no point in asking God to forgive me if I can't forgive myself.”
“But—”
“Stop. Let's get down to business, okay? Now remember, to Jon, you are a broken-down drug addict, a prostitute. All you're interested in is your next fix. Nothing else matters. You can't show concern for Nick or Krystal. You can't show any interest in what's happening.”
Annie wrapped her arms around herself and nodded. “Sounds like you understand an addict's life.”
“You could say that.” Marti unlocked the door. “Oh, and don't make eye contact. Keep your head down. Try to look distracted.”
“Okay. Hey, Marti.”
Marti turned. “Yes?”
“Just in case something happens to me, I want you to promise me something.”
“Okay…I'm not sure—”
“Just promise me.”
“I promise.”
“If I don't come back, I want you to tell my sister that I love her. That I've always loved her. Tell her to live long and be happy.” Annie reached out and clasped Marti's hand. “You'll tell her that for me, won't you?”
“I promise.”
Saturday, 1:05 p.m.
Prodigal offices, Baltimore
Nick glanced at his watch and then looked over at Conner and Rafe. “Time to rock and roll, gang.”
Squaring his shoulders, Nick walked out into the lobby. Both agents were sitting in visitors’ chairs near the front door. Harrows had his head tilted back, eyes closed, and the other was reading a magazine. “Any chance we can get one of you guys to run out for some lunch?”
The one agent lowered his magazine as Harrows opened his eyes.
“We're hungry, and we need some food.”
Harrows shrugged. “Call for delivery.”
“You guys are just two of the most cooperative fellows I've ever known. It wouldn't hurt you to remember that we're on the same team.”
“At the moment, my team is making sure your team doesn't step on my team's plans. I don't think that puts us on the same team.”
Nick threw his hands up. “Fine. But when you get hungry, you can order your own.”
He walked back into his office and slammed the door closed. “Twenty minutes and counting?”
“We're ready,” Conner told him.
Marti spoke up. “Give me a key to the equipment room.”
“Why?” Nick asked as he pulled his keys out of his pocket, found the key she wanted, and handed it to her.
“Because I need a gun, a badge, and a vest.”
“You aren't going, Marti.” He tried to pull the key back, but she pulled it out of his hand.
“Yes. I am. I'm going to bring up the rear and handle the GPS logistics. That way Rafe and Conner are free to do what they do best.”
“Then I want you to stay way back out of the line of fire.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She headed out of the office.
He shook his head and then glanced down at his watch. “Fifteen minutes and counting.”
Everyone in the room stared at their watches. When the time finally passed, Nick stood up and walked out into the lobby.
“Now what do you want?” Harrows asked.
“Food should be here anytime now.”
He grunted and went back to reading. Nick leaned against Jenna's desk, folding his arms across his chest, looking as bored as those two agents probably felt.
Good news—they will never see it coming. Bad news—I'll probably go to jail.
“Just for the record, guys. No hard feelings.”
Harrows grunted and turned the page.
The front door opened, and both agents glanced up at the man with all the bags and Styrofoam cartons and went back to their reading. The man walked over to Harrows and set everything down in his lap.
“Hey!” Harrows started to object.
In one swift move, the man clipped Harrows under the chin and then caught him as he started to slide out of the chair. The other agent was reaching for his gun when Nick grabbed his wrist, twisted him back, and then held him while the other man hit two pressure points on the agent's throat, and it was lights out.
“You're good,” Nick said as the agent sagged to the floor.
“This is why I kept telling you to perfect these techniques,” Luke stated soberly.
“I know them just fine, but it's hard to take care of two of them by myself.”
“True. The other would have shot you.”
Conner stuck his head out the door. “We good?”
“We're good. Cuff and lock them in the equipment room.”
While Rafe and Conner locked up the agents, Nick, Steve, and Marti loaded gear bags and stashed them in the vehicles. Nick saw Luke sit next to Jessica. He hoped Luke's presence would comfort her.
When everything was ready, Nick reached for his Kevlar vest and slid a knife in the sheath inside. Both would more than likely be confiscated by Carver's men, but he was hoping to hold on to them as long as possible. He zipped his jacket over the Kevlar and pulled out his keys and then looked back over at Marti. “Look, if something happens—”
“It won't.”
“But if it does, I need you to look after Steven.”
She all but rolled her eyes. “When are you going to take those blinders off and realize that Steven is a mature, capable, intelligent man? He's not a kid anymore, Nick. He doesn't need anyone to look ou
t for him.”
“Well, be that as it may, I'm just asking you—”
“Yeah, yeah. This is one of those if I should die speeches you don't need to give. Now let's go get your daughter and bring her home.”
Marti walked out of the office, and Nick turned toward Annie, who was standing near Jenna's desk. Sure enough, she was trembling like an aspen on a windy day. Jessica stood up and walked over in front of him. They locked eyes, and he knew there was only one thing he could say. “I'll be back soon. Why don't you wait at home? I'll bring her straight to you.”
“I'll wait here. Don't take too long. She's probably hungry, and you know how snippy she can get when she's hungry.” She wiped at the tears that were spilling over.
He pulled her into a quick hug and then nodded at Annie. “Let's go get this done.”
As he pulled onto the highway, Nick called Michael. “I need you to do me a favor.”
“Name it.”
“I'm going in after Krystal in a couple of hours. But if I don't come back, take care of Jessica. Okay?”
“Nick. Don't do it.”
“Just promise me, Michael. I need to know that I can count on you.”
There was a pause and then a heavy sigh. “You can count on me.”
Sometime Saturday
A warehouse building near the water
The walls were metal, the floor was concrete, the door was one of those roll-up things that looked like it belonged on a garage, and there were stacks of wooden boxes lined along one wall. It didn't tell Krystal anything except that she was alone with two men and she was more afraid than she'd ever been in her life. She thought she heard the blast of a ship's horn, so she was pretty sure she was near the harbor. Her dad had brought her here once to see some famous ship from, like, the Civil War or something, and she remembered those big freighters blowing their horns as they went past.
Whatever drug that man Richie had given her had worn off, but she still felt spacey. Krystal looked at the white-haired man who had been staring at her. His ice-cold eyes gave her the creeps, but she tried not to let him know how scared she was. Sitting on the concrete floor with her hands tied, she felt the cold spreading through her clothes and settling into her bones. He must have noticed, because he finally spoke.
“You cold?”
She wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of an answer, so she gave him a look as belligerent as anything she'd ever thrown at her mom or dad. His mouth just quirked up in a smile as cold as his eyes and just as emotionless. “That might work on your friends, but I've seen worse, so it doesn't intimidate me at all.”
Lifting her chin, she fought with everything she could not to curl into a ball, wail and cry and beg him not to kill her. But she was a Shepherd. Shepherds were tough. They were strong. They didn't give up. Her dad would find her. He would. Uncle Steven always said that her dad was the most relentless man he'd ever known. Dad would come for her. And then this man would find out he'd made the mistake of his life. He'd messed with the wrong girl.
“Stubborn, aren't you?”
Slowly, he rose to his feet, and tucking his gun into his jacket, he walked over to the regular door next to the big roll-up door.
“Where you going?” the other man asked.
The white-haired man just cut him with a look sharp enough to draw blood. “If I wanted you to know, I'd give you a map.” The man left and then returned a few minutes later carrying a wool blanket. He spread the blanket on the floor and picked Krystal up. He set her down on the blanket. Krystal could feel herself shivering despite herself.
“What you worried about her for?” The other man asked. “Not like she's going to live long enough to get pneumonia.”
The white-haired man just glared at him. “You want to live long enough to see your boss again?”
“You think jus’ 'cause you did Richie a favor that makes you somethin’ important?”
The white-haired man stood up tall, and the other man backed up. “It doesn't matter what I think. I'll kill you either way.” He paused a moment, then said, “I'm going to grab some lunch. You think you can keep one little girl from running away until I get back?”
“Look, Cutter, I was working for Jon long before you. If he trusts anyone, it's me.”
“I won't be long.”
Saturday, 2:00 p.m.
Orleans Street, Baltimore
Nick slowed down as approached the front of the office building, looking for a parking place. “Okay, Conner. I'm coming up on Benedict's building. Everyone's at the Camden Yards?”
“Affirmative.”
“I'll call you when I'm out.”
“I'll be waiting.”
Nick hung up and stuck his phone down in his shirt pocket.
He saw a black Town Car pull away from the curb right in front, so he quickly pulled in. He saw Benedict's two goons standing at the curb waving him in.
One of the men opened the door for Nick. “Follow me, Mr. Shepherd.”
The building was a bit of a surprise. Where Jon liked to exploit his wealth, Benedict's building declared him to be far more moderate. The white walls were mostly bare, with basic prints scattered here and there, an industrial-strength blue carpet, and recessed lighting. There was a reception desk, which was hosted by a man. A receptionist? More likely a security guard covering the reception desk.
They took the elevator to the tenth floor and stepped off into an area just barely more showy than the lobby. His guide never said a word as he led Nick down one long hallway and then down another until they reached—surprise—a corner office. The man tapped twice on the door and then opened it for Nick to pass through.
The office wasn't nearly as big as he thought it was going to be. The office featured a simple oak desk, a conference table, and some visitor chairs. And behind the desk was Benedict.
Nick hadn't been sure how to picture Benedict, but this wasn't it. He was much older than Nick had assumed, his hair entirely white, and when he stood, he leaned heavily on a cane. But the eyes told the rest of the story. Benedict's gaze portrayed intelligence, power, and control. When he reached out his hand, Nick shook it and found his grip firm.
“Please, have a seat, Nick. May I call you Nick?” Benedict eased back down in his chair, leaning his cane against the desk.
“Be my guest.”
Just then the door opened, and another man joined them. Nick expected it to be another bodyguard, but he was no such thing. He stood maybe five-seven. He was rail thin, with dreadlocks down to the middle of his back, diamond studs in both ears. He was wearing ripped jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt that said Every Woman's Dream, Every Mother's Nightmare.
“Ju called, sir?”
Latin. Cuban, maybe. Nick watched the man walk lightly across the room, as if balanced on the balls of his feet.
“Yes, Ramon.”
The man stopped near Nick and held out his hands. “Ju have deh laptop?”
Benedict nodded, and Nick reached down and pulled it out of the backpack. He handed it over and Ramon smiled widely. “Dis won't take me lung.”
He sat down at the conference table and opened the laptop. “The files are encrypted,” Nick offered.
The man merely nodded. “I set thees up for Jon Carver. Designed the seestem myself.”
Benedict folded his hands across his stomach and leaned back in his chair. “Ramon used to work for Carver. And then after he set up all Carver's offshore accounts and software and encrypted his files, Jon tried to kill him. He came to me, and I have kept him safe from Jon Carver ever since.”
“Handy.”
Benedict smiled with the ease of a man well used to soothing over troubled waters. “Jon doesn't have a very good memory. And he's too paranoid to write anything down, so he wanted a computer that he could put everything in—his properties, his clubs, the names of those who run drugs or girls for him, shipments in, shipments out, names, addresses, phone numbers, and of course, bank accounts, passwords, and financial statements.”
“So you're going to just move all his money and destroy him.”
Benedict merely shrugged. “I can't say what I'm going to do precisely, but I do abhor violence. I prefer to act without bloodshed whenever possible.”
Nick found himself liking Benedict in spite of himself. He had all the charm of a friendly old grandpa but the sharp edge of a keen intelligence. When Nick had planned on setting Benedict up, it seemed easy in his mind. Lay out a few clues, manipulate the conversation, give the man enough rope to hang himself. But something was telling him that if anyone was controlling the situation, it was Benedict.
Nick looked over at the conference table where Ramon was grinning as he plugged in an external data drive and began to transfer the contents of the laptop. He started to feel a little more comfortable that Benedict was going to keep his word and give the laptop back to him. Why keep it if you have all its contents?
“It will only be a few more minutes, Nick. Can we offer you something to drink while we wait?”
Nick shook his head. “I'm fine, thanks.”
“I truly am sorry about your daughter. To be in the hands of men like the Carvers — a terrifying experience, to say the least.” Benedict raised a hand at the man who had brought Nick up to the office. “Have Mona bring me tea, please.”
The man slipped out of the room, and the only sound was of keyboard keys tapping away.
“I sincerely hope you get your daughter out alive.”
“I will.” Nick crossed one leg over his knee and rested his hands over his ankle. “As soon as you tell me where the Carvers are holding her, I'm going in.”
“Alone?”
“Alone,” Nick replied casually. He hated lying, but this wasn't the time or place for worrying about such niceties. “I'm not going to risk my team on a personal vendetta.”
“Very noble of you, but unwise. You'll need backup. Perhaps I might offer a couple of my men.”
Nick shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but I'll be fine.”
