by Julie Kenner
Chapter
69
T homas Reardon wasn’t hard to locate. As it turned out, the man was a semi-celebrity, what with being Archibald Grimaldi’s attorney and all. His office was on 42nd Street in a high-rise that faced the public library. Stryker snagged an illegal parking place, and we made our way inside, then found his name on the building directory. The fortieth floor. I followed Stryker to the elevator in silence. It was almost over. This was the end of the road, I was certain of it.
I just wasn’t sure what waited for us in Thomas Reardon’s office.
The reception area was as bright and cheerful as the receptionist herself, and despite being after five, the place was bustling with activity. “May I help you?”
“We’d like to see Thomas Reardon,” I said.
“I’m sorry. Mr. Reardon is in a meeting. Could someone else help you?”
I looked at Stryker, who took a step forward. “Tell him it’s Melanie Prescott.”
“I really shouldn’t—”
“Trust me,” Stryker said. “He’ll want to see her.”
She made the call, her expression never shifting. “I’m sorry, he repeated that this simply isn’t a good time.”
“It’s urgent,” I said. “Tell him…tell him Peter Trent sent us.”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but—”
“Please,” I said. “If he won’t see us, we’ll make an appointment. I promise. But, please.”
She pursed perfectly glossed lips, then finally nodded. I held my breath. This time, the expression on the girl’s face shifted from mild irritation to deferential respect. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
She stood up. “If you’ll follow me.”
She led us down a rather spartan hall lined on one side with cubicles and filing cabinets and on the other side with offices, most occupied by harried-looking attorney types. We rounded one corner, kept going, then stopped at the next corner.
The office we entered was huge. No bare white walls here. Everything was warm wood and soft lighting. There was a wet bar, as well as a sitting area complete with magazines and a couch. A full-size map of the world completely covered one wall, which was otherwise bare and not blocked by even a single piece of furniture. A huge desk rested in front of the window, a collection of framed photographs littering the desktop, along with piles of papers.
The office gave the impression of money and power, and I’ll admit I felt a little awed.
“Can I get you anything while you wait?” the girl asked. “Mr. Reardon will be in as soon as he can break free.”
“We’re fine,” I said.
As soon as she left, I moved to the window and peered down at the people below. Stryker moved beside me and held my hand. We stood silently. We were still there when Reardon walked in ten minutes later. Short and just a little pudgy, Thomas Reardon was gray around the temples and bald everywhere else. His suit was Armani, though, and what he lacked in looks, he made up for in bearing and an aura of controlled sophistication.
“Miss Prescott, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”
I turned to face him. “Were you expecting me?”
“Not exactly,” he said. He looked at Stryker. “And you are—”
“Don’t bullshit me, Reardon,” Stryker said. “You know exactly who I am.”
Reardon took a step backwards, apparently not expecting aggression in his own office. “I’m sorry, sir, I assure you that I don’t.”
I laid a hand on Stryker’s wrist, a silent command to wait. We’d figure it all out in due course. “This is Matthew Stryker,” I said. “What did you mean by ‘Not exactly’?”
He gestured to his couch. “Would you like to sit?”
“I’d rather stand.”
“All right.” He took a seat behind his desk. “This is a bit unusual, but I perform many services for my clients, including the retention of private information.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Vaults,” he said. “I have some clients who would prefer not to utilize safe-deposit boxes.”
“And Grimaldi was one of those?” I asked, entirely baffled as to what that had to do with me.
“Yes. The vaults are on my property, but accessible only by the clients.”
“And…” Stryker looked less than patient.
“And when Archie died, he left several vaults still with contents.”
“What?”
“I have no idea.” He nodded at me. “That’s where you come in.”
“Me?”
“Archie arranged for the vaults to be claimed by the individuals designated by him, who would identify themselves in various ways.”
“And one way was by saying that Peter Trent sent them.”
“That’s right.”
“And that’s all you know,” Stryker said.
Reardon cocked his head and studied Stryker. “What else should I know?”
“The assassin, the target. The game.”
Reardon leaned back in his chair. “PSW? I’m quite familiar with PSW. How does it—?”
“Goddamn it! We’ve been playing the fucking game across the streets of Manhattan. There’s a killer out there stalking her. Our lives have been completely turned upside down, and you’re telling me you have no idea what we’re talking about?”
Reardon looked from me to Stryker and back to me again. I nodded. “I…I’m astounded. You’re saying that you’ve been playing PSW? The game? In the real world? That makes no sense. It must be a hoax. A copycat. Someone playing off Archie’s good name.”
Stryker bent low and looked him straight in the eye. “If it’s a copycat, then how did they know that everything ends with you?”
“I…” A look of complete befuddlement washed over Reardon’s face. “I don’t know.”
Stryker studied him, then took a step back, nodding slowly. “All right,” he said. “Let’s just see the vault.”
Reardon looked dubious for a moment, then he stood and moved toward the map. He laid his hand on Texas. A moment later, we heard a metal grinding noise, and the wall started to scroll upwards, like an old-fashioned home movie screen, revealing a bank of miniature vaults, each with an electronic panel displaying a row of zeroes.
“Holy shit,” I whispered.
Stryker squeezed my hand, and I was certain his thoughts mimicked mine: Reardon had said he’d been given a list of “various” entry codes, “Peter Trent” being one. There were at least fifty vaults there. How many were Grimaldi’s? And how many were prizes for the“various” players in the game?
“Here you go,” Reardon said. “Miss Prescott’s box is 8A.”
“Open it,” Stryker said.
“Oh, no,” Reardon said. He looked right at me. “I understood that you would have the code.”
Chapter
70
“O h,” I said. “Right. The code.”
I moved forward tentatively, as if the wall might close behind me, locking me forever in a small room with a wall full of vaults. I brushed my hand over the front of vault 8A, my fingertips dancing over the line of sixteen zeroes. I didn’t enter any numbers.
“You do have the code, don’t you?” Behind me, Reardon looked concerned, as if he wasn’t prepared for this turn of events.
“Fuck the code,” Stryker said. “Just open the thing, Reardon.”
“I can’t,” the lawyer said. “I’m afraid I’m not privy to the entry codes.”
“No, no, no,” Stryker said. “That’s bullshit. No way I’m going to believe that you—”
“It’s okay,” I said, interrupting. “We don’t need Reardon. All we need is your phone.”
That surprised him. “My phone?”
I held out my hand. “Give it here.”
He handed it over without question, and I started pushing buttons until I found the stored pictures. I pulled up the picture of Peter Trent’s grave. Tiny. I poked around some more, feeling slightly ill until I finally managed to locate the zoom feature. T
here. I could just make it out….
I moved back to the vault and entered the sixteen digits. The door swung open, revealing a single manila envelope.
I took it, feeling salvation under my fingers.
“How?” Stryker asked.
“Peter Trent,” I said. “He holds the key. 081919220-1111980. August 19, 1922. January 11, 1980. Good thing you took a picture.”
“Good thing,” he said.
We opened the envelope, and when we saw what was there, Stryker went immediately to Thomas Reardon’s coffee table and fired up the laptop.
The envelope held two things: an access code to an offshore account and instructions for ending the game.
We took care of the game first, logging on, navigating to the Special Instructions page, and typing 817PQWXT8 in the appropriate box. The computer flashed and beeped and generally went through such machinations that I was certain we’d completely screwed up and fed the thing a virus.
When the pyrotechnics were over, the screen held one message:
CONGRATULATIONS, MELANIE PRESCOTT
YOU ARE NO LONGER A TARGET
PRESS “SEND” TO NOTIFY ALL PLAYERS OF THE GAME’S CONCLUSION
Under the circumstances, the message seemed a bit dry, but I wasn’t inclined to complain. I pressed Send, and the message dissolved, re-forming into a new one:
MESSAGE SENT
GAME OVER
HAVE A NICE DAY
Chapter
71
L ynx pulled the taxi up near Peter Trent’s grave, slammed the car into park and got out. He still couldn’t believe the asshole cabdriver had let them get away. A Buick that couldn’t catch a Ford Aspire? What a load of crap.
He fingered his gun and aimed a wry look at the trunk. Well, that was one mistake that driver wouldn’t make again. He just hoped the mistake hadn’t been too costly. He could have had her. She’d been right there, so close—and so had his money.
But she’d slipped through his fingers, and now here he was, resorting to tracking her down. The woman at the main office had been quite agreeable, pointing out which grave Mel and Stryker had visited, and circling the spot on the map. Now Lynx was here. Figuring out another goddamn clue so he could find his quarry before she solved the next one.
He shivered slightly, unable to shake the feeling that time was running out.
He pushed the feeling aside. He wasn’t inclined to morbidity, and he certainly wasn’t inclined to self-doubt. He’d win. Of course he would. He always won. Always had, always would. There simply was no question. It was only a matter of how and when.
The when, he hoped, would be soon.
He walked around the grave, careful not to mar the footprints already on the soft ground. The tombstone was loose, and he said a silent curse. If there’d been something hidden under there…
No. The clue was still here. It had to be. Anything else was unacceptable.
But where?
He fingered the lighter in his pocket, turning its smooth casing over in his hand before pulling it out and lighting a cigarette. He took a step back and examined the ground. His grandfather had taught him about the hunt, and what Pa hadn’t taught, Lynx had picked up on his own. Tracking was a skill he’d honed, and he put it to good use now, finding and following their footsteps. Across the path and to the grave immediately opposite.
Thomas Reardon.
The name meant nothing to Lynx, but he noted that they’d spent some time there, moving about but not leaving. When they had left, they’d gotten back in their car.
Thomas Reardon.
Somehow that name was important. The next clue? Someone to see? To meet?
He pulled out his PDA and logged onto the Internet, going immediately to a search engine. The browser closed, however, leaving a flashing email indicator.
Lynx frowned. He’d very specifically input the settings on his Internet options. When he was in another program, the only email that should take precedence was an email from the target in an active PSW game.
And the only currently active game was…
He opened the email. And read the message that wasn’t from Melanie Prescott but was instead generated by the game itself. It was a message he hadn’t expected to see.
Game Over.
The Target Has Survived.
Assassin Status: Revoked
No.
No. He shook his head.
No. It couldn’t be.
NO. He hauled back and almost let his PDA go flying, but he caught himself just in time.
This was wrong. Wrong. He always won.
And this game really was no different at all.
Chapter
72
H ad I not actually experienced it, I don’t think that I’d believe that it is really possible to spend three entire days in bed doing absolutely nothing but having sex and eating.
I can honestly report, however, that it is. Completely possible and totally yummy. And let me just add that if you’re going to survive a wild chase with a crazed assassin on your tail, celebrating victory afterwards with a totally hot Marine really is the only way to go.
Really.
At least until the buzz wears off and you start to fall into that girly-girl state: How do you tell if he’s really into you? Is it just sex? Does he really care? Or is this all just a by-product of adrenaline and the ultraclose quarters you’d spent time in over the course of the aforementioned wild chase?
And that pretty much sums up my mental state when Stryker got out of bed and started pulling on a pair of sweatpants we’d bought in the little gift shop located in the Plaza’s lower level.
“So, um, you’re really heading out?” He’d told me he’d need to leave soon to check on his house, find his way back into his life. The whole postadventure routine, I guessed.
He moved back to the bed and planted a bone-melting kiss on me. “You okay with that?”
“Sure.” I waved the question away even as I pulled the sheet up higher around my chest. “Of course I am. I mean, you have a life, right?”
He gave me that typically male look, like he really didn’t know what to say to me. Like I’d turned into a She-Beast and he had to handle me with care.
I sighed. I was being a She-Beast. We’d had a lovely time, but it wasn’t like we had any sort of commitment.
Talk about a bummer.
His eyes narrowed. “I can stay. Or you can come with me. Or I can drop you at your apartment. You probably have things to take care of, too.”
“No, no. I’m fine. Really.”
“You’re sure?”
“Oh, please…” I worked hard to keep my tone light and perky. “I’m alive. I’m sexually sated and physically rested. I’m at the Plaza. And I’m about to head out on the shopping excursion to end all shopping excursions.”
He laughed. “I’m flattered you haven’t gone shopping already.”
I felt my cheeks warm. “What can I say? You hold more appeal.”
“I’m not sure I believe that, but I’m flattered.”
I grinned. “Really, Stryker. Life is good.”
“But you’re not going home?”
“Why should I? No one’s home.” I’d called Jenn to hear her voice and check on the baby. She’d sounded so happy that I hadn’t had the heart to dump all over her. After she got back, we’d have drinks and I’d tell her one hell of a story.
“Besides,” I continued, “it’s not like I can’t afford to stay here for a week or two. In case you forgot, I’m rich now.” Twenty million rich, less the million I’d transferred to Stryker’s account. Can you believe he only got an extra hundred grand for protecting me? A measly hundred! I was willing to split the twenty with him down the middle, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
He took my hand. “If you get nervous—”
“I’m fine. Nothing’s happened in days. The game’s over. Lynx has probably skipped the country. Or else he’s moved on to some other target.” The idea made me queasy. I want
ed to use my winnings to find and help other girls like me, but so far I hadn’t figured out how. I was certain that other girls—possibly guys, too—were being forced to play this game, though. Somehow, I was going to figure out a way to find them and help them.
“The cops will find him,” Stryker said. “And they’ll nail Reardon, too.”
I made a face, not nearly as certain. Neither of us had believed Reardon, but Stryker hadn’t called him on it in the office because he figured it made more sense to lay low. We’d talked to a friend of his right after we’d left Reardon’s office, stopping at the local FBI field office on our way to check me in to the Plaza. Stryker’s theory was that somehow Archibald Grimaldi had set the whole thing up with Reardon. No one had expected he’d die, and now Reardon was running the PSW end with who knows how much help from the inside. It was a theory that made sense, especially since Jamie Tate had been sucked into the game well before Grimaldi had died.
The agent, Devlin Brady, had promised to investigate and keep the matter quiet. He and Stryker had talked about using the cyber unit and putting some surveillance on Reardon. Surprising to me, the FBI hadn’t tried to seize the money. The way Devlin had explained it, there wasn’t enough evidence to tie a bad guy to the transfer of funds. Reardon wasn’t under arrest, Grimaldi was dead, and the money hadn’t come from Lynx. Plus, he’d added confidentially, since the money was in an offshore account, it would be near impossible for the government to get it from me.
Fine with me. I figured I earned it.
Stryker planted a warm kiss on my lips. “If you need anything, you have my number. I’ll call you later and see how you’re doing.”
“You don’t have to,” I said. “Really.” It’s not like we’d made any promises, and it was time to get back to our lives. I was feeling very mature. We’d had a lovely time. I’d wanted him, he’d wanted me, and we’d gotten our fill. And, yes, I still wanted him. But only if I was sure it was more than just a post-trauma relationship. I didn’t want to be like Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves in Speed. They seemed so great together, and then it turned out to be just sex. I mean, look who she ended up with in Speed2….
