by Meg Gardiner
Calder didn’t want to play the role of Kanan’s wife. She wanted to take the place of his wife.
Jo looked at Shepard and spoke in a murmur. “This is bad. She’s obsessed. She told me, ‘All I want is Ian.’”
Shepard frowned.
“Think about the implications,” she said.
Vance turned again. “Shut it.”
Jo held Shepard’s gaze, hoping he saw it the way she did. Riva wanted Slick. Not as the starter dish for her own lab, and not so she could sell it to Chira-Sayf’s commercial rivals. Kidnapping and thuggery weren’t the way business was conducted in Silicon Valley.
No, Riva planned to sell Slick on the black market. Murdock, Vance, and the late Ken Meiring were probably her partners, waiting for the product to arrive. And they thought she’d had the delivery lined up. But now she was about to default on the contract. Her big score was turning to sand between her fingers, and Jo doubted these men were the type who would react by deleting her from their Christmas card list.
And Jo realized how the words Saturday they die had come to be written on Kanan’s arm. Calder had written them, while she was alone with him in the E.R.
That was the only possible reason Ian Kanan would have taken on this brutal hunt for his own brother. Shepard would never agree to turn Slick loose to the bad guys. He would have to be forced. And the only way they could force Kanan to attack his own brother was by threatening to kill his wife and son.
She swallowed to put some spit in her mouth, so she wouldn’t sound as impossibly frightened as she felt. She leaned toward Vance. “Did she tell Kanan the exchange is tonight? Slick for Seth and Misty?”
“None of your business.”
“She’d better do it. Breaking her word to Kanan will cause you major grief.”
He eyed her as if she were a sorceress for knowing Riva’s plans. “Sit back and keep your mouth shut.”
Jo leaned back. Worry hardened in her chest like a chunk of wood.
Did Riva have any intention of letting Misty Kanan return home to Ian? Would she let Seth go alive? Jo glanced at Shepard. His bearded face was pale and fraught. The look he gave her said Time’s running out.
Ahead, Riva and the kielbasa had receded to gray outlines in the fog. After twenty feet, the mist took everything.
Jo thought, If they can disappear into the fog, so can I.
In the front passenger seat, Vance wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Beside her, Shepard was breathing hard and shifting like a caged bull.
He held his left hand by his knees and signaled to her. Two fingers—him and her. One finger—the man in the seat in front of him. Two against one.
Could Shepard see that Vance had a pistol? The gun was two and a half feet from her right hand, resting on Vance’s knees. At such close quarters, that made it two against however many bullets were in the magazine.
“What you looking at?” Vance said.
She deliberately held his gaze for a moment. “Poor odds.”
The engine of the SUV guttered, rumbling awkwardly from being left in park. Vance glanced at the dashboard.
Shepard lunged at him.
He swept his arms around either side of the front seat, grabbed Vance’s sweatshirt, and hauled him back against the seat. Whipping his arm around Vance’s neck, he locked his hands together and pulled back with all the force behind his bulk, strangling Vance against the headrest.
Vance kicked and clawed at Shepard’s arm. Jo thought: Dynamic. She brought up her right knee and got the sole of her Doc Marten clear of the center console. The gun was bouncing on Vance’s lap.
She kicked him square in the side of the head.
He snapped sideways. Jo heard his teeth click. His hands flailed and grabbed and clawed at Shepard’s arm.
“Go,” Shepard shouted.
Go meant over the center console and past Vance. Her heart was thundering. She couldn’t stop now. Stop and he’d shoot her. This was as far from uncertainty as a situation could get. Fight or die.
Jo kicked furiously, hysterically—at his head, at his arm, at the pistol. Vance thrashed and made choking sounds.
And got hold of the gun. He brought it up and squeezed the trigger.
The magazine fell out.
For a bizarre second Vance froze, she froze, they stared, and the gun hung useless in midair.
Then Vance swung it, beating the barrel against Shepard’s hands. Jo scrambled over the center console into the driver’s seat.
She didn’t hear the driver’s door open. She felt a cold swish of air. Heavy hands grabbed her around the waist and hauled her backward out of the Tahoe. The kielbasa whipped her around and carried her away from the vehicle.
Calder stalked to the door. “Fuck you, Alec.”
Jo kicked and thrashed, but their chance was blown. Shepard continued fighting Vance. He had lost focus. He didn’t remember that Riva had a gun herself.
She raised it and aimed it into the Tahoe.
“Don’t!” Jo said.
Calder turned. “Why not?”
“Because I know how to get hold of Ian.”
It was the only thing she could think to say. Riva shook her head.
“Murdock,” she said, pointing at the kielbasa. “Hold the little bitch still.”
“So, the sales department plays hardball,” the kielbasa said.
He hugged Jo tight and put a hand beneath her head, holding her jaws closed.
Vance threw open his door and cringed from the passenger seat, hand to his neck. Blood was pouring from his nose.
Calder pointed the gun into the Tahoe at Shepard. “You’re going to get the last remaining samples of Slick and give them to me.”
“You’re out of luck,” Shepard said.
She jabbed the gun at him. “Out.”
Vance opened the back door and Shepard climbed from the SUV. Calder shoved him into the shadows.
“I’m the one who made the project possible. I made it happen,” she said.
“Riva, for God’s sake—”
“I got the funding. I did the deal to open the Jo’burg lab, so Chira-Sayf could manufacture Slick cheaply and without U.S. government oversight. Me.”
“Is that what this is about? Recognition?” Shepard said.
She slapped him. Hard and poorly aimed, like a furious child. “Recognition? You promised me money, you bastard, and instead you threw it all down the drain. You’re ruining the company and my career. Goddamned backstabber. Right-hand man, my ass. More like I’m shit on your shoe.” She raised the gun. “Where is it?”
“You’re out of luck.”
“No. You are.”
Jo’s stomach dropped. God, don’t shoot him—
Calder scythed the barrel of the gun down Shepard’s face. It connected with a dull crack. Shepard went down on the grass like a stunned ox.
Calder turned to Murdock and nodded at Jo. “Stow Lake’s across the road. It should be deep enough.”
She picked up the steam iron from the grass and handed it to him. “Tie it around her feet.”
Jo screamed, but Murdock’s huge hand was clamped to her throat, pressing her jaws shut.
Murdock muscled her toward the curb. Jo dug her feet into the grass. They were going to throw her in the lake. They were going to weight her down with the iron. But the iron weighed only two pounds—it couldn’t drag her to the bottom. Tying her feet would tire her, but she had good upper body strength. She could stay above the surface. She’d have to.
Calder walked to the Tahoe, clicked a remote, and popped the tailgate. “Tie the cord of the iron to this.”
She began working the spare tire out of the SUV.
29
Calder hoisted the spare tire from the back of the Tahoe. Weighted with a steel inner wheel rim, it bounced heavily when she dropped it. She rolled it toward Vance. Murdock kept his vise grip on Jo, one arm around her chest, the other clamping her neck, and dragged her past Shepard. He lay sprawled on his back, head cocked
to one side, moaning.
Jo felt herself unwind like a spring. She kicked, aiming for Murdock’s knees with her Doc Martens.
He shied. “Vance, get her legs.”
Vance grabbed Jo’s right leg and the men hauled her into the street, into the fog, with the spare tire rolling alongside them.
How deep was Stow Lake? Probably over her head. If not, the bottom was likely several feet deep with sediment that would suck her down until the water closed above her and the muck swirled around her.
She kicked at Vance with her free leg. She was breathing uncontrollably fast, drawing oxygen.
Vance bent to grab her left foot. She kneed him in the chin.
“Fuck her,” he said.
She bucked, unable to get hold of a single thought or a plan beyond fight. Through her teeth she said, “Stop. You need me. I can contact Ian.”
The men lugged her across the road and onto a sloping lawn, carrying her like a rolled-up rug. Murdock was breathing hard and starting to sweat. Vance kicked the spare tire along in front of them.
“I know where the sample of Slick is. It’s at San Francisco General Hospital. I can get it. I have access as a physician.”
“Shut up.”
Behind her she heard Calder say to Shepard, “Sit up. Sit up.”
The men tromped across the grass toward the lake. The mist was rising off the water. The tire rolled ahead of them, bouncing on the grass like a puppy ready to play fetch, and gained speed.
Murdock said, “Get it, Vance, before it goes in the—get it, it’s gonna roll in the water . . .”
Vance dropped Jo’s legs and pitched after the tire. She twisted in Murdock’s grasp. His palm was grimy. She was breathing like she’d run five miles. Vance slid across the lawn, splashed into the water, and grabbed the spare tire. He hauled it back to shore and turned, waiting for her.
She screamed again through clenched jaws. But in the fog, nobody could see her, much less get to her in time to stop the men.
Gabe knocked on Jo’s front door. The lights were on inside the house. Her truck was parked up the street, parking spot numero tres, she called it.
He rang the bell and knocked again. “Jo?”
Eight P.M.; he was positive he’d told her the right time. And positive she wouldn’t have forgotten.
Ninety-nine percent certain she wouldn’t have forgotten.
Consciously.
And damn it, he was starting to think like a shrink. He tried the knob. The door was locked.
“Quintana?”
At the bottom of the porch steps, Ferd Bismuth stepped into view. His eyes were on the large bunch of gold and white orchids in Gabe’s hand. His face was fretful.
Gabe’s internal sonar pinged. “Ferd. What’s up?”
“Something’s wrong. Jo’s sister Tina called me at work and said there was a problem at my house. When I got home, the garage door was up. The homeowners’ motorcycle was missing and upstairs, their collectibles are ruined.” He held up a turquoise belly-dancing scarf. “And I don’t even want to know what this was doing on the kitchen floor.”
Gabe banged on the door, hard this time. “Jo, are you in there?”
No answer. He pulled out his phone.
Officer Frank Liu walked along the sidewalk, one hand on his nightstick, the other loose near his holster. Traffic slurred past. Headlights were turning to fuzz in the fog. He strolled past the stolen red Navigator.
The street was mostly small businesses—an auto parts store, a locksmith, a pawnshop. Most were closed. He glanced across the street. The park was dark. He walked past a sporting goods store. The lights in the front of the store were off, but in the back, behind transom windows, fluorescents were buzzing. Shadows moved around. Somebody was there. Two doors farther down, the lights were also on in a hair salon. He walked to the corner and turned onto the cross street. Down the block, bright signs beckoned people to Burger King and Wendy’s.
The unmarked car eased to the curb next to him and the passenger’s window came down. “Officer Liu? Lieutenant Amy Tang.”
Liu got in and shut the door. “Navigator is parked around the corner and one block up. Street’s quiet—mostly small businesses. Everything’s shut for the night, but the lights are on in a hair salon and there’s activity in the back of a sporting goods store.”
The lieutenant peered out the windshield at traffic. “Kanan has a head injury that severely affects his memory. I don’t know what he can remember, but he’s ex-Special Forces. Presume he remembers how to kill people.”
“What do you want to do?” Liu said.
“Lights in the back of a couple businesses, you said?” She nodded up the street. “There’s an alley halfway up the block. It’ll run behind the store. Let’s take a stroll.”
Jo felt the mist sink through her clothes and skin as Murdock dragged her toward the lake. The gangsta-flavored licorice stick named Vance was at the shore, holding on to the spare tire.
Jo jammed the heels of her Doc Martens into the grass. “Kanan’s going to call me. I have to be home. He set his cell phone to dial me and if I don’t answer, he’ll never call back.”
Murdock put his lips against her ear and nuzzled her hair. “Shut up.”
The panic sank all the way through her. He was enjoying this.
He handed the iron to Vance, who began looping the electrical cord through the inner rim of the wheel.
“We couldn’t just take her to the house?” Vance said. “Do it in the bay when we get the others and—”
Murdock went rigid. “Shut up.”
“I just—”
“Close your stupid mouth.”
Vance rigged his deadweight. “All I meant was . . .” He stopped. “What’s that?”
Murdock looked at his shirt. A lively melody was pouring from his pocket. Coming out of my cage and . . .
It was the Killers. “Mr. Brightside.” A catchy pop song with mordant lyrics that Tina knew a psychiatrist would appreciate. And it’s all in my head but . . .
“It’s my phone,” Jo said.
Murdock stared at his pocket.
“You stole it off my kitchen table when you broke into my house, didn’t you?” she said.
Vance straightened up. “It might be the cops. Throw it in the lake.”
“It might be Kanan. Let me answer,” she said.
The cheery ringtone neared the end of the verse. If it went to voice mail, she was done. Her voice mail recording would be her valedictory speech, her farewell message.
Murdock took it from his pocket and checked the display. “‘Gabe.’”
Jo felt tears rush toward her eyes. “He’s Kanan’s army buddy. Served with him in Afghanistan. Kanan won’t call on his own phone—too easy to trace.”
Vance shook his head. “He’s her boyfriend or something. Dump it.”
“For Christ’s sake, you want to take the chance?” Jo said. “Lose your shot at the payoff?”
The ringtone hit the chorus. Murdock shoved the phone into Jo’s hands. Then he grabbed her hair, pulled her head back, and put his ear next to hers.
One shot, she thought, and answered. “Gabe.”
“I’m at your place. We still on for tonight?” he said.
She blinked back her emotions. “Absolutely. It’s now or never. Tell Kanan the exchange is on—the lab sample for his wife and son. These people just need the time and the location.”
Please, Quintana—play along, and get ready to redial the police and triangulate my location from the cell phone signal. The silence stretched.
Vance muttered, “It’s a trick. Throw the phone in the lake.”
Gabe spoke again, his voice measured. “And if both the sample and the Kanan family are delivered safely, everybody goes away happy.”
“Including me,” Jo said.
Murdock grabbed the phone. “I want to talk to Kanan. How do you put it on speaker?” He fumbled with the controls and hit the speaker button. “Put Kanan on.”
A thick silence filled the air. Jo willed Gabe to develop a new voice. She willed her legs to hold her up.
A new voice came on the line. “This is Kanan. What do you want?”
“For starters, prove it’s you,” Murdock said.
Jo’s legs weakened. It was Ferd. She felt as though she’d just opened the cockpit door and seen that a stewardess was flying the plane.
“Don’t play games with me,” Ferd said. “We don’t have time.”
Murdock snapped his fingers at Vance and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Get Riva and Shepard, quick. They can verify it’s him.”
Vance wiped his nose and ran off into the fog to find them.
Murdock said, “Give me proof, or you don’t get the family back. No tickee, no laundry.”
Ferd coughed, hesitating. Jo could barely see straight.
Ferd cleared his throat. “What kind of proof do you want? The security specs for the Johannesburg lab? Electron microscopy proving that Chira-Sayf accurately predicted the chirality of the carbon nanotubes? Or do you just want me to take the Damascus saber and shove it down your blowhole?”
Murdock breathed heavily.
“Well, jerkwad?” Ferd said.
Jo thought: Keep the Seven of Jo photo on your computer, Ferd. Make yourself a calendar. She leaned toward the phone. “Ian, put Gabe back on.”
Murdock said, “We don’t need to talk to his pal.”
She glanced at him. “Gabe has to arrange the rendezvous. Ian can’t hang on to new information—he has a brain injury. If you talk to him, he’ll just forget everything.”
“Yeah?” To the phone, loudly, Murdock said, “What happened to you, Kanan? And where?”
There was a heavy pause. “Southern Africa. Monkey virus.”
