Sammy's plan is well thought out—as far as it goes. He has vetted his general approach with Biggie. In fact, Biggie needs it to happen, though not in the way Sammy imagines it.
Sammy has Barry in his sights. The way to get to Barry is though Portia. It was not hard to figure out that Lenny is Barry's father and Portia is his girlfriend. A hostage. Far easier to abduct Portia from a parking lot than to take Barry or Lenny prisoner. With good reason, he imagines that the three of them are out to implicate him in the deaths of Edie and Leon. That would be a disaster for his country and for him personally. He's got another worry, a deeper fear. If Barry doesn't do him in, Biggie might.
He knows what Biggie wants from the operation. Him, what does he want from the kidnapping? It dawns on him that his problem is what to do with Portia, now that he has her. Killing her will accomplish nothing. Does he imagine he can trade her for Barry or Lenny? And then what would he do with them? Can he trade her for immunity? Yeah, right. Barry's word of honor that he will cease and desist. Really, that's it? Slowly it comes to him that by abducting Portia he has focused attention on himself. That's the last thing he needs. Unless he is extremely clever, the game is already over. For him, Portia is not only expendable, it is necessary to expend her. Maybe in Navasota. Suffocate her and feed her to the feral pigs. Fat chance of DNA evidence after they have their way with her.
He is not sure how this will play out, but, as agreed, he calls Biggie on his burner. "She is with me. I'll let you know when we leave."
18.
Lenny's not surprised when Portia is not home at seven. Usually she texts, but he knows she is distractible. Maybe the meeting has taken longer than expected, the traffic is heavy on the freeway, or Whole Foods at this hour is its usual pandemonium. He texts her. Nothing. He doesn't worry. He goes to work on a salad, one of the few kitchen chores Portia can safely assign him. Along with setting the table—tonight he lays out for four places. M2 is joining them for a planning session. Finally, he texts again to forget Whole Foods, they'll order in pizza. He gets no response. For good measure he calls. Her phone vibrates in her big, floppy bag in the trunk of the beige Taurus. It's not surprising that it goes unanswered.
Barry arrives and then M2. Neither is worried. They are used to working long hours—as Lenny did when he was running stocks. Whatever it takes.
Then out of the blue, Barry does an about face. "Give her another call. Find out what's keeping her. I'm starved." It's past eight.
Lenny gets no response. In desperation, he texts again. Zip.
M2 beats Barry to the punch. "I'll use her phone's GPS to see if she's close." In a few minutes she looks up, "Holy shit, trouble. I don't know where she is, but her phone's in Navasota."
"Can't be good." Barry speaks for all of them. They decide against calling the cops, reasoning, correctly or not, that a small town police force might be no match for Sammy and company. Besides, what are they going to tell them—that Lenny's girlfriend has been missing for two hours and her phone's in Navasota? That won't wash. "Even if they agreed to look for her and they found her, the cops could get her killed. We can't leave it to them."
"Well, it's pretty clear," Lenny says. "The one thing we have on our side is surprise. He doesn't know we know he has Portia and is in Navasota. I say we go, but I'm against trying anything in the dark—we don't know the lay of the land. We've got to be there at dawn ready to go. We go armed. We don't know what we'll find."
"I don't know about you guys, but my gun and brass knuckles skills are weak." M2 says.
"Don't worry, you'll be the backup and the second driver," Lenny says. "We'll fix you up with a point and shoot. It's easier than taking pics with your phone.
Barry looks at his father. "Since when did you become the expert?"
"I'm no expert. Maybe that's you. But I've learned a bit. All those Januaries I went to circus camp, they were more than clowning. And"—he exaggerates a little—"I've been shooting regularly at a gun club." The two look on as he explains that he's also pretty good with a whip. In fact, he has used it to put a cougar through its paces. "So, I've got a Glock 9mm and a little Ruger 38 five shot locked away in the safe. It will be perfect M2. Emma will be fine with it."
"I'll be damned, my father, the assassin. But you've got to understand that using a whip on some ailing cougar and firing a pistol at a target are a lot different than dealing with somebody like Sammy. He's a trained operative, probably trained to kill, and we don't know that he's alone."
Lenny knows Barry's right about the target practice. He's no commando. He's not ready for a raid on Entebbe or antiterrorism in Istanbul. The whip is another story. He's kept his skills up. He's retired and has the luxury of practicing in the park at odd hours when there are not many people around. Sometimes it's makeshift targets like a red parking cone he keeps in the trunk or the odd tree limb or branch. He also has a favorite out of the way statue, a memorial to a park benefactor. The guy's in bronze carrying a briefcase in one hand and the other's outstretched in a gesture of welcome. He has gotten good at striking the briefcase and dislodging Starbucks cups he's placed in the beckoning hand. His favorite is the patron's cheek. He can strike it like a dueling scar.
"You've been quiet about yourself," M2 says to Barry. "What's your deal? What have you learned at UVL?"
He takes a second to sift through how much he's willing to reveal. "Let's just say...that I have learned a few skills beyond negotiating deals and raising money." That doesn't seem to satisfy her. "I can handle myself.
"Okay, time out," Barry continues. "Let's keep in mind that the goal is to rescue Portia unharmed. To do this will require nerve and judgment…and courage. And maybe as a last resort…ah, shooting. Leave that to me." He looks at his father. "Dad, I mean it. All right, let's go to work."
They review the Google Earth and Zillow images. They now notice that there is small pond northwest of the house and some nearby detail that's not well resolved.
Barry looks at the Zillow picture and then zooms in on Google Earth. "I don't see any security cameras mounted on the house, but they could be small or hidden. The front door looks like wood, not metal, and it has a deadbolt, which should not surprise us. There is no satellite dish visible. It's a two-car garage. The door looks electric. And a gas meter out front, so they're on city gas. Telephone line comes straight in across the last loop in the driveway's switchback. It's interesting that the place is minimally landscaped. No shrubs or trees, just lawn. Maybe the idea is to remove any cover for incoming…insurgents. A best guess: the place is designed to stay below the radar, not to advertise itself as a fortress. But if this is the place Sammy is using, it likely there's more than meets the eye."
"Why not this," Lenny says. "Barry and I will head out in Snorri's old Corolla. It won't attract too much attention. We'll dress decently, shirts with a collar, slacks, light jackets to conceal our weapons. We'll go to the door on the pretext that we're real estate agents looking to acquire the place for whoever lives next door and we'd like to come in and talk. I'm not sure we will get that far, but even a look—we will either see Sammy or someone will answer and we can see inside. We'll improvise from there. M2 can drive her SUV. She can stay out of view at the bottom of the road with he cell on. And we'll go from there."
"I like it," Barry says. "So we have to arrive later than dawn. We can't show up at 6:30 in the morning to look at real estate. I'm going to swing by the office tonight to pick up a few things. Well, no sense being secretive. Like my dad, I'm a Glock man. I'll bring a pistol and a machine pistol. Three bulletproof vests." M2 looks alarmed. "Better safe than sorry. I'll also bring a plumber's kit: gloves, duct tape, cord, wire, handcuffs, crowbar, other stuff," by which he means tools he'd rather not discuss. "A first aid kit. A high-resolution camera. A clean laptop and some thumb drives."
"Is this your business?" M2 asks. "How do you find time to do the financial stuff? Are you a cat burglar in your spare time?"
"I'm trained, not experienced. We
're all going to have to keep our wits tomorrow. It's vital if we are going to rescue Portia."
"I should go home and get some sleep. I'll show up about 5:30 tomorrow. And don't tell me not to wear a skirt. Give me a little credit. Oh my, yes, and sensible shoes."
"And a loose fitting blouse. You're going to slip on a Kevlar vest before we leave. And bring a few tampons."
She shakes her head. Is this some kind of boys-will-be-boys joke?
19.
Sammy has backed the beige Taurus—registered to Stephen Alcott—into the garage of the ranch house owned by Sean Abernathy and lets down the door. He pops the trunk. He sees that the girl is still groggy. Let her sleep it off. He's careful with Portia. He may end up killing her, but if he needs her in a trade, she can't look beaten or abused in a video. He gently lifts the duct tape from her mouth. He'll hear her when she wakes. To be on the safe side, he handcuffs her and duct tapes her feet together. He leaves the trunk open, walks through the door between the garage and kitchen, and leaves it open as well.
He finds a Lean Cuisine in the freezer and a frozen loaf of French bread. He saves the bread and a second Lean Cuisine for her. He drinks a beer and scans the online news sites: nothing about Portia's disappearance, and the apartment fire is history. So far, so good.
Soon he's overtaken by impulse. He's off the reservation, improvising, instead of following Biggie's implied guidelines.
As he considers her usefulness, he realizes she's seen his face. Still, no sense letting her fix his looks more vividly in her mind. He goes out to the car. She is still groggy but on the verge of coming to. He blindfolds her and removes the ropes and handcuffs. He tells her she is safe, that he's going to help her to bed, and she will feel better in the morning. He handcuffs both her hands to the iron rungs of the headboard, and leaves her blindfolded to sleep it off.
Sammy figures he has time. No one knows that he has her or where they are. He's sure that Barry and Lenny will soon be onto him, but for now, he's okay. Then he decides he's not okay, that they might arrive alone or with the cops, he'll be surrounded, and it could end badly. He weighs his options. He decides he must be gone by morning—which, anyway, fits with the plan he and Biggie have agreed on. That means working through the night, preparing the house for the arrival of his guests. He has one major task, one that will—in his twisted logic—avenge his burned hands and face. He heads for the garage. Then he's outside with a hunting rifle down by the pond. A single report near the pond goes unnoticed into the night air. This is gun country. A little later he is in the kitchen arranging things.
When he comes back, Portia's awake—still handcuffed to the bed. "Where am I, you creep! Take off the blindfold. This won't go unanswered. The cops and my friends will be here in no time. Untie me and let me go. Then run. That's your only chance."
"Oh, I don't think so, little lady. First, we're going to have a little fun."
"Cut the crap. I don't scare easily. I demand that you let me go."
"Oh, so brave. Well, I'm going to give you a small taste of what's in store for you if you're trouble."
"Just try."
She feels him push up her skirt and instinctively closes her legs. Her thighs flexed and tensed, she holds her breath, and swallows. She's crying. "Please don't."
"Ready?"
She hears him strike a match and smells the phosphorous burning. Her legs come to life. She begins to thrash wildly. She catches him in the face with a foot.
"Son of a bitch. Now, you'll see." He's dropped the match. It extinguishes itself harmlessly on the blanket. She smells the dead smoke.
She feels a sharp, smarting pain on her face. It's worse than anything she's ever felt. Then the slap of his hand registers as sound. Her mouth bleeds. She runs her tongue around inside. She doesn't think he's broken any of her teeth.
"Hold still, bitch" and he pulls up her dress again. She starts to whimper.
She hears him strike another match. Her thighs are tight as David's slingshot, but this time David does not prevail against Goliath. He brings the burning match close to her face so she can feel the heat. "No, please, I beg you, don't." He holds the match to her cheek and uses his other hand to pry her legs apart. She's screaming incoherently. He pushes harder with his free hand. He will violate her with a burning match. As she imagines this terrifying act, he swings the lighted match away from her face and brings it to the tender underside of her forearm. He burns her skin and extinguishes it by rubbing it into the same spot.
In his warped mind, this act completes the cycle of the apartment fire. Now he has burned the women of both the son and the father.
"Holy God, you're a bastard. If there is no hell, God will invent one to burn you."
"I don't think so." Her eyes remain hooded, but her face is covered with tears and snot. Her hands are still handcuffed to both sides of the bed, keeping her from grasping her knees and pulling herself into a fetal position. "Now, I think we are ready for silent compliance."
He gets her up and walks her to the car. "Time to go sleepy," and he injects her again. She hardly resists as he eases her into the trunk, reties her, and, oh yes, reapplies the duct tape. It is only then that he sees her purse in the trunk. Shit, shit, shit. At once he opens it and there's her phone. He decides the phone's GPS is his friend. It will ensure their arrival. He is certain Barry is smart enough to track her phone. If they don't already know her phone's whereabouts, they will soon. He rifles her wallet. Two hundred dollars. He pockets the money and throws her phone and shoulder bag on the garage floor. He puts his laptop and jacket on the back seat and rearranges his wallet so that Stephen Alcott's license and credit cards are up front. He backs out and closes the garage door. He makes a quick call as the Taurus loops down the switchback driveway. "The two of us are leaving without her cell. It's 5:20 central time, be ready." When he reaches the road, he's still not sure of his destination. Decisions, decisions, to go here, to go there, to kill or not to kill. For the moment, he doesn't get it. He's not in this alone. The ultimate call is Biggie's. There's no decision to be made.
M2 arrives at Lenny's on time the next morning. The mood is businesslike—a little solemn. She and Lenny have never done anything remotely like this, and if Barry has, he isn't saying. Barry looks at her. Her normal can-do, leave-it-to-me attitude is in hiding. She is attentive, ready to take instruction. "Tell me," is all Barry says.
"I'm in. I'll do my best, but I'll need a little coaching, and if I were a drinking gal…. I've got what I need: my iPhone, a virgin laptop just in case, a coat and few blankets in case, well, Portia might be cold. Shit, I didn't mean it that way. She's going to be okay. It's just nerves. I've got the coat and the blankets, that's all."
"Portia will be all right," Lenny says. "Sammy doesn't get anything by harming her— except attention, and that's the last thing he needs right now. One thing before we leave. A few words about the gun, I don't think you'll need it. But just in case…" he takes out the little Ruger .38 revolver. "Here, hold it. It's not loaded."
She's surprised that it's not a big, heavy clunky thing. "The safety's here," and he shows her how to set it and release it. "Always, always leave it on until you're ready to go. There's a kick, so use both hands, and stay alert and focused." He takes the gun and stands with it in the firing position.
"You only have five shots, so keep count if we get into trouble. I doubt that we will, but just so you know." He thinks about teaching her to eject the casings and to reload, but decides against it. If it comes to a firefight, she'll have to keep her head down. A novice is only a liability. "Okay, let's practice." They work with the unloaded gun. Lenny gives her five minutes worth of what Paul has taught him. At the end M2, who is not used to being a step behind, looks a little tentative. "You'll be fine, don't worry. As I told you last night, it's just a point and shoot."
"Well, dad, I'm impressed. UVL may have a part time job for you when we get back. So, Emma, drop the Ruger in the bottom of that big clunky bag of yours an
d put the tampons—you've got them, right?—over it. If you get stopped for some unanticipated reason, the police may look in the trunk and glove compartment. If, by chance, they do look in your shoulder bag, the tampons will do the trick. They'll back off. If the cop's a woman, she'll be sympathetic. If it's a guy, he'll be a little embarrassed." Somehow, Barry's forward planning brightens her.
"Nice, is that what they teach you boys at UVL?" Her game is coming back.
"Wouldn't you like to know."
Lenny and Barry load their gear, including one of Lenny's bullwhips, into Snorri's old Corolla, and they're off, a caravan of two, headed for 290 West.
She's some ways back, calculating what will happen if…and she's not sure. But one new element she can plan for is firing the Ruger, and she does what she's been taught and has taught to others: visualize the experience over and over, and in the end you'll perform better. Her bag is on the floor on the passenger side. She reaches down, picks it up, and bounces it onto the floor, like a guy at the free throw line bouncing the ball before taking a shot of another kind. She's apprehensive, but confident she can step up if she has to.
At Hempstead where Route 6 veers north from 290, they stop for a pee and breakfast. It's a chilly January day and not many people are up this early and driving. They sit in a booth in the back, careful not to talk about their plans. Lenny is an expansive type. The other two have no gift for small talk. He entertains them by telling the two how he and his parents escaped from Slovenia.
The Nano-Thief: A Lenny D. Novel (Lenny. D. Novels Book 1) Page 10
