She stopped struggling for a moment. “Wait a minute,” she said. “You guys aren’t with Mario?”
“Lady,” Japeth said, “I got no idea who this Mario guy is. All we want’s the bra.”
“The…” She looked down at the shining garment. “The jewels.”
“Yeah,” Japeth said. “Couple of million worth, right?”
She shook her head in disbelief. “You’re just common thieves.”
“Hey,” Japeth said, “I don’t talk shit about your career choices.”
“Just let him get that off you,” Bran pleaded. “We’ll let you go. Someplace safe.”
“I hope it is,” she said, “considering I’ll be mostly naked.”
“Don’t worry,” Bran said. “We brought you something to wear.” He looked at Japeth, who was pulling and twisting at the bra, trying to tear the elastic straps away from the padlock. “You did bring something for her to wear, right?”
Japeth hesitated. “Um,” he said. “Yeah. Well.”
Bran took a deep breath. “You’re kidding, right?”
“We had a lot on our minds,” Japeth said.
“So you’re going to turn me loose, God knows where, with no clothes on,” Clarissa said, “because you master criminals forgot to bring me something to wear.”
“Damn it,” Branson said. He started to unbutton his shirt.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“I’m getting you something to wear,” he said.
“Wait,” she said. “You’re part of the gang that’s robbing me, but you’re about to literally give me the shirt off your back?”
He took the shirt off. “I admit, it’s turning into kind of a weird day.”
She shook her head. “I can’t figure you out, Branson,” she said.
Japeth reached into his jacket and came out with a wicked little butterfly knife. He flicked it open with a quick, deft motion. The blade gleamed silver in the dimness of the back of the truck. “Hold up,” he said, “she knows your name?”
NEXT TIME, Zoe Piper thought groggily, I’m carrying a gun. The right side of her face was on fire and she was pretty sure the big bruiser’s backhand swipe had broken her cheekbone. She staggered to her feet, cursing inwardly at the shakiness in her legs. They felt like undercooked noodles. Shaking her head to clear it turned out to be a mistake. The pain blew up into a firestorm of agony that made her grit her teeth, which only made it hurt worse. She knew there was something wrong with her vision when what looked to her like two broad-shouldered, square-headed blond goons with identical short haircuts and flashy suits slammed the kitchen doors open and advanced on her. I’m seeing double, she realized, before the two images resolved into one big guy who grabbed her by the shoulder.
“Where’s Clarissa?” he yelled at her. Through her haze, the name came to her. “Cantone,” she said in a voice that sounded like it was coming from someone else.
He looked startled. “How’d you…” He shook his head. “Never mind. Where’s Clarissa? Which way did she go?”
All she could do was raise an arm that felt as al dente as her legs and point with a shaky finger to the outer door. “Truck,” was all she could get out at first.
He looked baffled. “Truck? What truck?”
“Took her,” Zoe said. “In truck.”
Cantone let go of her. She almost fell again. He ran to the door, yanked it open, and was gone.
MOOSE CAME out into the dimness of an alley that ran between the first and second towers of the hotel. Fifty or so feet away, traffic hummed by on the street. He sprinted down to the sidewalk and looked around. A big truck was making a left turn on a cross street. Took her, the redhead had whispered to him. In truck.
Without thinking, Moose stepped into traffic. Horns blared, and a silver Lexus coupe screeched to a stop, the bumper mere inches from his knees. A man with gray hair slicked back stuck his head out the driver’s side window. “Hey!” he yelled. “What the…” By the time he’d gotten that much out, Moose was at the door, yanking it open. The man screamed, a high-pitched, womanish sound, as Moose grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked. The seat belt stopped him, and the man squealed again.
“Out,” Moose said in a low, threatening growl. The man’s hands scrabbled frantically at the belt. When it came free, Moose yanked again and spilled the man out onto the pavement.
“My car!” the man hollered.
Moose slid in and slammed the driver’s side door. There was a woman in the passenger seat that he hadn’t noticed at first. Like the man, she appeared to be her mid-fifties. It was hard to tell what looked more expensive, her dress or her hairstyle. She wasn’t looking at Moose. All her attention was fixed on the gray-haired man getting up from the pavement. “My CAR?” she yelled in an outraged voice to the man Moose had just ejected.
“Out,” Moose told her.
“Oh, I’ll get out,” she said. She snatched up a handbag. “‘My CAR!?’” she yelled at the man outside as she shoved the passenger door open and stepped out. “THAT’s what you worry about!?”
Moose stomped the accelerator as soon as she was clear, so hard that the momentum slammed the passenger door shut. He looked back for a second in the rearview mirror to see the gray-haired man turning to flee as the woman advanced on him, shouting. He had to turn his attention back to the road to avoid a minivan slowing in front of him. He whipped the car around the minivan, took the left turn he’d seen the truck taking, and found himself on a four-lane main thoroughfare. Moose accelerated again, weaving through the traffic, until he saw the truck far ahead. He followed.
CLARISSA WENT completely still when she saw the knife. Japeth saw her look. “Calm down, lady,” he said. “I told you I wasn’t going to hurt you, and I’m not. Just turn around so I can get this thing off you.”
She clearly didn’t believe it. Bran saw her lower lip start to tremble. It was the first sign of fear he’d seen. “It’ll be okay,” he said. “I’ll give you the shirt right away.”
“I got a better idea,” Japeth said. He went to one of the racks along the side of the truck and pulled a white tablecloth off of it. With a few deft strokes of the knife, he cut a hole in the center. “Now,” he said, “we just put this over your head, like this.” She flinched away as he approached, but when she realized what he was doing, she let him drape the tablecloth over her and pull it down so her head poked through the hole. “Voy-la,” Japeth said. “Instant poncho.”
“I hope you don’t expect me to be all thankful,” Clarissa said.
“Nope,” Japeth said, “but I do expect you to turn around so I can cut that bra off you.”
She did as he asked, her expression stoic. Japeth reached his hands, one holding the knife, up under the tablecloth poncho. Bran saw him make a motion underneath the cloth, then he gave a grunt of satisfaction. He pulled the bra out from under the cloth and held it up. The jewels glittered and twinkled in the unsteady light, making tiny white and colored sprites dance on the walls. “Daaaaamn,” he said.
Clarissa turned back around. Her eyes glistened with tears. “So. Great. You got what you want,” she said. “What now?”
Bran could feel the truck slowing, then coming to a stop. After a moment, it started moving again, but slower.
“Now,” Japeth said, “it’s time to say goodbye.”
THE GUY in the ski mask led the way as they climbed down out of the truck. Clarissa followed, trying to clutch the improvised poncho around her. Branson brought up the rear.
Clarissa saw two more men waiting for them, one tall and skinny, one short and plump. Both of them wore ski masks as well. They were leaning against a white van, holding pistols down by their sides. The only illumination was provided by a pair of work lights on stands. Clarissa couldn’t see the room beyond the pools of harsh illumination thrown by the lights, but she got the feeling of a large space. She drew up short and Branson bumped into the back of her. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
The man who’d taken the bra o
ff her walked over to the tall man and handed it to him. The tall man took it, held it up to the light. He whistled as the gems caught the light again.
“Evenin’, ma’am,” the shorter of the two men said through the mask. “I hope you haven’t been too inconvenienced by our little escapade.”
“Is this the part where you shoot me?” Clarissa said, raising her chin defiantly. She was ice-cold despite the heat and still air of the warehouse, but she wasn’t going to let these bastards see her afraid if she could help it. She only hoped she could keep helping it.
“Shoot you?” the short man said. “Heaven forbid! What on earth would lead you to believe a thing like that?”
The masked man pointed at Bran. “She knows his name.”
“She’s a witness,” a voice spoke up. She turned. Another masked man was standing at the edge of the light.
“Well,” the short man said, “if knowing this young fella’s name was a shooting offense, then we’d have to go back and kill half the hotel, wouldn’t we? And him, of course.”
“Wait, what?” Branson said.
“Don’t worry, kid,” the taller masked man said. “We ain’t gonna shoot you. You done good. But you are gonna have to disappear for a while.”
“Disappear?” Bran’s voice broke. “Why? How?”
The tall man laughed. “What, you figured you were just gonna go back to work on Monday? Act like nothin’ happened? They’re gonna figger out pretty quick who the inside guy is, kid.”
As frightened as she was, Clarissa couldn’t help but feel a stab of pity at the look of dismay on the young man’s face. Then she remembered that he was the one who’d guided her into the clutches of these men and she quashed the feeling. “So what happens now?” she asked.
“What happens now,” the short man said, “is that we drive out of here, and out of your life. You go back to being rich and famous and adored. Sound like a plan?”
“Wait a minute,” she said. “You’re just going to leave me here? Dressed like this?”
“I have no doubt you can make your way to a nearby pay phone and call someone to come get you,” the short man said.
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You moron,” she said. Her fear was giving way to anger now. “When was the last time you saw a pay phone? And do I look like I have any place to carry a goddamn change purse?”
Branson spoke up. “She’s right, unc…I mean she’s right. Everyone’s got cell phones now.”
Clarissa turned to him. “Have you got yours?”
“Umm…yeah.”
She held out a hand. “Give it to me. Then go.”
He looked uncertain. “Come on, Branson,” she said. “If you’re going to disappear, like these guys say”—she gestured at the two men by the van—“you’re going to have to ditch the cell phone anyway. The cops can trace them.”
The short man spoke up. “I see you are not entirely unacquainted with certain aspects of our profession.”
“I know some people,” she said, “and you better hope to hell they never find out that you laid a hand on me.”
“What’s that supposed to…” the tall man began, but Clarissa cut him off. “Never mind.” She held out her hand. “The phone.”
“Lady,” the tall man said, “I’ll give you this. You got balls.”
The short man jerked his head at the other two masked men. “I thought we agreed to avoid that subject.”.
“What?” the tall man said.
“Hurry,” Clarissa said. “These jobs run on a tight schedule, right?”
“Yeah,” the tall man said. “Give the lady the phone, Branson.”
Reluctantly, Branson fished his phone out of his back pocket and handed it over.
“Not to worry,” the short man said to Branson. “Once we unload the object and get our payday, we’ll get you another one. Maybe one of them phones that can do everything but tie your shoes for you.” He turned to Clarissa and gave her an ironic half-bow. “But for the moment, fair lady, we will bid you good night and good luck.” The four of them clambered into the van. Suddenly the big room was plunged into darkness as the work lights were switched off.
“Hey,” Clarissa yelled. The lights of the truck came on and provided some illumination. She saw that they were in what looked like a large warehouse. The van tires kicked up dirt and debris as the truck pulled away. She could see the door in the far wall that appeared to be their destination. She followed it at a fast walk, hoping to get outside where at least there might be some more light.
The light of a few faint stars struggled through the city glow as she stepped out into the deserted parking lot. The warehouse loomed behind her, blacker than the night around it. Dark cubes and pyramids of unidentified building materials were scattered across the huge lot. In the dim illumination, she could vaguely make out the outlines of a pair of semi-trailers parked at the edge, near the gate. She stood and watched the lights of the van as it went past them and out of the fence surrounding the complex. She strained her eyes, trying to pick out a license plate number, but either the light was too dim or they’d covered it.
She looked down at the phone and began picking out the numbers 9-1-1. There was a sudden glare of headlights and she jerked her head up like a startled deer, a quick stab of panic piercing her as it occurred to her that the masked men may have changed their minds and come back to eliminate her after all. But this was a car, a Lexus coupe, not a van. The harsh blue-white of the headlights picked her out as she stood near the fence and the car accelerated. Her apprehension that had turned to relief turned back to apprehension as the car entered the fence and pulled up next to her. The passenger side window rolled down. Her heart pounding, she looked inside.
“Hey,” Moose Cantone said. She saw he was holding a gun. “Get in.”
CHUNK AND the rest of the team from Paragon Security were crammed into their former headquarters in the half-ballroom, where they’d been herded by the Atlanta PD. Some of them slumped in folding chairs, some stood in small knots, talking in low voices. Some just milled around. You should say something, Chunk thought. Rally the troops. Be a leader. But there was nothing to rally them for. They’d come to do one thing, and had failed utterly at it. No, they hadn’t failed. He’d failed. He knew he was out of a job. There was no way Paragon would let him stay on after a disaster this public.
Zoe Piper sat opposite him, holding an ice-bag on her cheek. The paramedics had wanted to take her to the ER for X-rays and a CAT scan, but she’d refused.
“Cheer up, boss,” she said. “Worse things happen at sea, you know?”
He stared at her. “What?”
She shrugged. “Just something my dad used to say.”
“Was he a sailor?”
“Nope. He was a drunk. But it was his way of saying ‘cheer up, it could be worse.’”
Chunk looked over to the entrance, where a uniformed officer—a rookie, from the youthful look of him—had been politely but firmly keeping them inside. A pair of plainclothes officers were showing their badges.
“It just got worse,” he said. The officer was pointing Chunk’s way. There were two detectives, one a round, rumpled-looking older cop with bloodhound eyes and jowls to match, the other one younger, square-jawed, his hair in an almost military cut. Chunk got up to greet them as they walked over.
The older one stuck out a hand. “I’m Detective Wilmore,” he said in an accent that was pure Georgia sorghum and molasses. “This here’s Detective Stewart.”
Chunk took the hand for a quick, firm shake. He nodded to Stewart, who nodded back, curt and unsmiling. “Charles McNeill,” he said. He nodded toward Piper. “My assistant, Zoe Piper.” She didn’t get up, but fluttered her fingers in greeting. “Charmed, ah’m sure,” she drawled. Chunk saw Stewart’s jaw tighten in disapproval.
Wilmore lowered himself into a chair with a sigh of relief. He looked at Chunk, his eyes narrowed slightly. “Chunk McNeill,” he said. “You used to play middle linebacker
for FSU, right?”
Chunk nodded. Wilmore smiled at the memory. “Man,” he said, “you could hit.”
“Thanks,” Chunk said. It was a transparent technique to set him at ease, but he didn’t care. There was nothing he had to hide. He ventured a question. “What happened to Cartwright?”
Stewart started to say something, but Wilmore silenced him with a raised hand. “Clarissa Cartwright? The model?”
“Yeah. The one who was wearing the bra. In the show. Is she okay?”
“Why wouldn’t she have been?” Wilmore said.
Answering a question with a question, Chunk thought. No matter where you go, it’s the same playbook. “Cartwright had been romantically involved with a guy named Mario Allegretti,” he said. “Mobster out of Jersey. One of his people showed up here, too. Guy named Aldo Cantone. Goes by Moose.”
Stewart spoke up for the first time. “You don’t think she and these mob guys were in on this, do you?”
“No,” Chunk said. He looked at Zoe. “Not anymore.”
Zoe spoke up. “After the guys in the masks, and the waiter, dragged Cartwright out and into what looked like a delivery truck of some kind…”
“Waiter?” Stewart said.
Zoe nodded. “Kid named Branson something. Pretty clearly the inside guy. He’s the one that guided her into the kitchen. Another guy grabs her. A third guy’s holding everyone in the kitchen at gunpoint. Cartwright starts screaming blue murder, they all drag her into the truck and drive off.”
“Was this Cantone guy one of the group that grabbed her?”
“No,” Zoe said. “He came running in afterwards. All pissed off. Wanted to know where Cartwright had gone. I pointed the way, he took off.”
“He must have been the one who carjacked the couple out on the street,” Stewart said.
Wilmore nodded. “You get any ID on the other guys?”
“No,” Zoe said, “but I think I can tell you one thing about the one who hit me. He didn’t have any balls.”
“Well,” Stewart said, “hitting a woman like that is pretty…”
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