Undetectable (Great Minds Thriller)

by M. C. Soutter

  Anselm nodded. He agreed with his teacher’s assessment.

  The van swerved suddenly to the right, throwing the two of them off balance. Then they felt themselves heading steeply downhill, and the sounds of city traffic disappeared into the distance. Now there was only the sound of the left front tire’s metal rim biting into the road.

  Finally the van leveled out, made one more turn, and then came to a stop. The engine died.

  “Here we go,” Kevin whispered.

  In The Garage

  Kevin turned on his cell phone and pulled up a stopwatch application. He could hear sounds of people moving outside the van, getting in position. There was also the intermittent ticking of the van’s engine as it cooled, and beneath that the low-frequency rumble of what sounded like air-exchangers. They were likely in an underground garage. He wasn’t too worried about time stopping, but he didn’t want to lose track; Central had told him they could meet his seven-minute deadline for securing Mrs. Billaud, and at the moment that deadline was his biggest concern. He pressed the start button on the stopwatch program and began watching the seconds tick by.

  Go. Move. Faster.

  After a minute forty-five, the sounds from outside the van stopped. They were set up, ready to proceed. Guns loaded.

  “We can see everything you do in there,” said a voice outside the doors. The voice sounded not too close. Which made sense. Giving him space. Cautious. “We know you have a gun.”

  Kevin pulled Danny’s gun out of his back belt loop and held it up for inspection, turning it so that the cameras could see every angle. “Nice, right? A friend gave it to me.”

  “We shot him.”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  “You won’t be. You’ve got three guns pointed right at you.”

  “Go for it,” Kevin said. “Van’s armored. What, you’re not part of the planning committee?”

  The voice outside the van changed tacks at once, not slowing down. “We’re going to gas you.”

  “You won’t hurt the boy.”

  “Not if we don’t have to. Gas you as in put you to sleep. Then take you both out of there, then shoot you in the head – just you – and then continue on our way with the boy. Maybe they can get a kidney from you. Give it to your friend.”

  Three-fifteen down. Pretty good. Keep going.

  “Sounds fine,” Kevin said. “Except you’ll want to talk to me.”

  “Incorrect.”

  “You can’t effectively negotiate a ransom without someone on this side to confirm the boy’s safety.”

  “We don’t want a ransom. We’re going to trade for the father.”

  “Pascal? He’s dead.”

  This time the voice outside hesitated, and Kevin was pleased. All he needed was the slightest bit of uncertainty, and now he had it.

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not.”

  It was a ridiculous claim, equal parts unlikely and unverifiable. Kevin knew it, and the people outside the van did, too. But now they would have to find out one way or the other. They would have to make sure. Because their negotiating stance would be thrown into disarray by such a claim, even if it were false. The ability even to pretend that Pascal Billaud was dead would unbalance the equation.

  They’ll open the van.

  They would have to interrogate Kevin. Which meant they would probably shoot him first. Once in the leg, to soften him up. Then the questions, while he was lying there bleeding.

  Still silence outside.

  They made him wait.

  There was a full minute of whispering – 75 seconds, by Kevin’s stopwatch application – and then the van doors opened slowly. Kevin put his cellphone away.

  Almost five minutes down. That’ll have to do. Come on, guys. Move. Get her back.

  There were four men there, waiting in the blocked-off section of the garage where the van was parked. In the middle were two men who looked vaguely similar to one another; one of these was obese and sitting on a little blue electric scooter, while the other was fit, standing, and carrying a gun that was aimed at Kevin. Flanking them were two heavily-armed men, both of them wearing black army fatigues and holding machine guns.

  Not M4’s, Kevin thought. Those look like modified G36’s. Very high power, but not the easiest things in the world to aim.

  One of the Guns glanced across to his partner. “I’ve seen this one,” he said.

  The other Gun nodded. “At the school, right?”

  Kevin kept silent. He didn’t know what language they were speaking – something Slavic, maybe Czech – but this didn’t stop him from understanding what they were saying. And they obviously assumed he didn’t speak a word of it.

  “What does he have?”

  “He used a .45 to shoot the driver. We haven’t seen anything else.”

  “Think he’ll give it a try?”

  Gun One shrugged as if he had been asked to predict the winner of next year’s World Series. “Probably.”

  Jacob Savian gave them a look, and they stopped talking. “This was not the plan,” he said to Kevin, shifting his bulk uncomfortably in the scooter. He used the thing only when he had to leave the apartment. “This is unnecessary. Unpleasant.”

  “Oh?” Kevin said. He moved to the side, so that the four men could get a look at Anselm. From a few feet away, the bruises there looked as if they might have been sustained during the kidnapping itself. Or maybe these men had been monitoring the entire operation, maybe they knew better. It didn’t matter. “You’re kidnapping a kid,” Kevin said. “A fifth grade kid, and you’re talking about unpleasant? What was the plan? Bringing him to a toy store?”

  Kevin saw the big, fit man standing in the middle glance sideways, waiting for a response from the guy sitting on the scooter.

  Okay, good. This one’s not on board. He didn’t sign up for fifth graders.

  “You are the problem,” Jacob replied. “The child isn’t supposed to be here at all. He should be taking part in an exchange right now.”

  Kevin scoffed. “An exchange? With a man who’s working somewhere in a bunker in Nevada? Are you insane?”

  “Ah. Mr. Billaud is suddenly alive, I see.”

  Kevin ignored him. “They won’t negotiate. They don’t care if his kid – ”

  “He will care,” Jacob interrupted. “He will negotiate. This is his son, and he will certainly want – ”

  “They won’t tell him. He won’t get to make the decision.”

  “They’ll have to. Because before long he’ll start to wonder why his wife hasn’t called. And when he finds out what we’ve done to her, he’ll do anything we ask. We’ve got her, don’t you see?”

  Anselm let out a small, involuntary cry at this, and at the same moment George Savian turned to face his brother. “I’m sorry, what? You never said anything – ”

  “Shut up, George.”

  Kevin stood there silently. Waiting. Hoping against hope. This was the moment. This was the chance. The man in the scooter was only seconds from giving the order to have him shot – Kevin could feel it – and if that happened this situation would turn south in a hurry. On the other hand, if he could use this moment...

  Christ. Please.

  His timing hadn’t been quite right. It was so close, but there were too many variables. The problem was that the obese man was essentially correct: the wife did give them the upper hand. In everything. And she was still not safe. So maybe there had been a standoff of some kind at her location. Maybe there was a pursuit underway, or maybe they were trying to get a better angle for the snipers. Maybe –

  Kevin’s cell phone rang in his pocket. Loudly.

  “She’s out,” he said, and rolled quickly to his left.

  “Kill him!” Jacob shouted, and both flanking men fired their machine guns at once. One of them hit Kevin immediately in the hip; the pain was unbelievable, unreasonable, and they were still firing at him. He came to a stop on the ground, reached out, and shot the guard on the left in t
he head.

  One down. But I’m already fucked.

  Time was not slowing down. If anything, it was moving faster than normal. The air around him was hot, bullets zipping past him like angry metal hornets, and bits of concrete were jumping up everywhere from the floor.

  Another round caught him, this time in the side. This pain was not as sharp, but it was more sickening somehow. It was a deeper pain.

  Remember before how I said I was fucked? That was crap. That was just a warm up. Now I’m serious.

  He swiveled his arm to the side, pointing the .45. Fresh pain came up through his hip, through his gut, through everywhere, and he thought he might be about to pass out. But it didn’t happen.

  Not sleeping pills, not booze, and not bullets. No sleep for this man.

  He could still move. He could still think. There were few parts of him that still seemed fully operational, but one of them was his right arm and hand. He aimed the gun, forcing himself to focus through the machine gun fire, feeling as though he were about to try squirting a water pistol into the oncoming spray of a hose.

  He squeezed the trigger, and the shooting stopped.

  The second man was down. Shot in the thigh. Not dead by any means, but not shooting anymore, either.

  Kevin let his arm fall to the pavement. He groaned in pain. He was vaguely aware that the big, fit man standing next to the scooter was pointing his gun at him, but Kevin found he no longer cared. The pain was engulfing him now, wrapping him in a hot, shuddering weakness that made him want to curl up and die. His hip was screaming at him, and he could feel blood pulsing from his side in great, nauseating surges. He saw the gun being aimed at him, but all he could do now was watch. And pray. And hope not to be shot again.

  George Savian did not seem interested in shooting Kevin. He twisted the gun to stare at it, as though not liking the look of it in his hand, and then he let his arm fall back down to his side. Jacob, meanwhile, was looking left and right in disgust. “What do I pay you people for?” he yelled. The man who had been wounded in the thigh whimpered. The dead man did not respond. Jacob looked up at his brother. “What are you waiting for?” He couldn’t understand why the man who had come out of the van – the man who had nearly ruined everything – was still breathing. “Will you shoot him please?”

  George turned to him. “And then what?”

  “And then we’ll use this kid to get his dad,” Jacob barked. “What are you talking about?”

  “That wasn’t the plan.”

  “The plan had to change. This motherfucker was scrubbed. We had no idea who he was, where he was. All we knew was that he was supposed to be injured. We had to go early.”

  George shook his head. His brother was sounding even less convincing than usual. “What if you can’t?”

  Jacob stared up at his younger brother in wordless surprise. George’s attitude was mystifying. “Can’t what? What do you mean?”

  George shrugged. “I mean, what if you can’t get to the dad through the kid? I mean that you’ve always been an asshole, but you’ve never hurt anyone who wasn’t an asshole, too. Like this prick right here.”

  George turned away, pointed, and shot the wounded Gun in the head. The whimpering stopped.

  “George!” Jacob exclaimed. “What’d you kill him for? He was on our side!”

  George sighed as if his brother were missing the point. “Usually you’re only messing with arms dealers, mercenaries, those kinds of people. Guy a few days ago was nothing but an assassin, so who cares? Same with the jackass I just shot. A lot of what you do is stupid, but I’ve always let it go because you seem to have good intentions most of the time.”

  Jacob’s eyes goggled. “You let it go?” he echoed, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “George, you just killed that guy. He would have been fine. What do you think I’m – ”

  “But that’s a kid,” George said, pointing toward the van. Anselm was still there. He was not paying attention to the conversation; despite all the shooting, and now all the shouting, he had more pressing concerns. His attention was on Mr. Brooks, who was lying motionless on the ground in a rapidly expanding pool of blood. Anselm seemed to be singing something. His voice was high and clear.

  “It’s a little kid who hasn’t done anything wrong,” George went on, “and we shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “George, listen,” Jacob said quickly. “His father – ”

  “His father is probably a lot like you,” George cut in, “except that he’s never killed anyone and he doesn’t kidnap children. You’re just jealous because he’s smarter.”

  “What? Of course he’s smarter, that’s not the problem at all. He’s going to take away our freedom to think, our freedom to create, our – ”

  “I can do those things on my own,” George said. “I’m not worried about what anyone else does. I’m not the best painter in the world, but I’m pretty good. And even if I weren’t, I could still do it. I could still enjoy it. I don’t know what the logical argument is, but I’m not messing with any fifth-grade kid. I wouldn’t mess with him even if his dad were a monster. Anyway, I bet he’s not.”

  And with that, George turned and simply walked away. He stepped over the concrete barricade he had moved there earlier this morning with a forklift, and then he began the long climb up the ramp leading to the garage exit.

  “Wait, George. George!”

  Jacob looked one last time toward Anselm. Jacob had no gun. He hadn’t expected to need one. Not that he could have taken control of this situation now even if he’d been armed to the teeth. He needed his brother. “George,” he called again, and he turned the scooter around as quickly as its little electric motor would allow. “George, I don’t know if this thing is strong enough to get up the hill! I’ll have to take the elevator. Wait! George!”

  Anselm jumped down from the van, and he ran to Kevin’s side. He paused in his singing. “Are you still alive?”

  “Keep singing.”

  Anselm did. His voice did not waver. It was “Mon Petit Oiseau,” a French children’s nursery rhyme. A lullaby. Kevin hadn’t heard it before, but he could understand it easily enough. Not surprisingly, Anselm’s accent was impeccable.

  “They’re coming,” Kevin whispered. “Don’t worry.”

  Anselm put a hand on his shoulder. He kept singing. A minute later they both heard another sound. It was the high, whining noise of a small electric motor being asked to do too much.

  Jacob Savian was coming back.

  He would never be able to catch up with his brother. George was moving too fast, and he was probably already back up at street level. So now Jacob was returning on his little blue scooter. Returning to the scene of his undoing. He was wearing a hangdog expression, like a child whose long-awaited birthday party has not gone as expected. “That was very disappointing,” he said, bringing his scooter to a stop just before he reached Kevin and Anselm.

  Anselm looked up, still singing, and he gave Jacob a curious stare. He seemed only now to be noticing how immensely fat this man was. The scooter Jacob was sitting on had an extra-broad wheelbase, a thick platform, and a wide seat to accommodate Jacob’s bulk; he was gripping the little handlebars as if he were wishing the scooter had come with rocket launchers. Or at least an auto-defibrillator attachment. Anselm turned away from him. He sang to Kevin with focus and care, giving his teacher his strength.

  “Very disappointing,” Jacob said again. He looked down at the man lying on the ground, at all the blood spreading out around him, and then he looked at the 10-year-old child who had become, in the last five minutes, the most – and only – available link to Pascal Billaud. The only link to a man he had spent the last year and a half planning to destroy.

  He couldn’t get to the father, but the boy was still here. Right here in front of him.

  With a quickness that even George would have found surprising, Jacob Savian heaved himself off the scooter and lunged for Anselm Billaud. The boy saw movement out of th
e corner of one eye, and he jumped out of the way. He was fast, but not fast enough; Jacob’s lunge was completely unexpected.

  Jacob had him.

  They were both on the ground now, and Jacob had the boy’s body pinned under one impossibly fleshy arm. With his other arm he reached for Anselm’s neck, reached for his face and for his head. Jacob’s eyes were blazing. It didn’t matter that this was only the son and not the father; they were connected somehow. They were the same. And maybe the death of the son would be enough, maybe the trauma to the father, the knowledge that his work had led a man to kill his only son, would be so devastating that he would simply give up his work, or else he would become so distracted, so wracked with guilt, that he would make a mistake, would mix up lines of code, something.