by Alison Kent
K.J. pushed away from his desk, swiveled his chair toward Tripp’s corner of the workstation, and frowned. “He went for lunch. Like thirty minutes ago.”
Typing his security code into the system, Julian snorted. “He go back to Philly for cheesesteaks, or what?”
This time it was Christian who pushed out of his chair. “He went to Brighton’s. Check the feed. See if he’s still over there messing with Glory. He did say something about taking his time.”
The three Smithson operatives gathered in front of Tripp’s desk, K.J. finally settling into the chair when it became clear that the camera broadcasting from Brighton’s was broadcasting nothing but snow.
Julian and Christian watched as Kelly John checked the input and output connections, finding nothing wrong with the equipment, and queued the last thirty minutes of recorded feed to play.
“Jesus H. Christ.” Christian picked up the phone on Tripp’s desk five minutes later. “Hank needs to see this.”
This being a blast of black spray paint out of nowhere followed by pulses of static that were an obvious SOS.
Christian dialed. Kelly John ground his jaw until it audibly popped. Julian switched to mentally cursing in Mandarin.
It was when the phone on the tracking computer buzzed across the room to signal a trace, that all three men turned.
And all three men started to sweat.
Hank Smithson stood in the wide triangle of space behind his desk and in front of his L-shaped credenza. His corner office on the twenty-third floor of the Manhattan high-rise offered a view to beat all views.
He just wasn’t in much of a mood to be viewing. Dad-blamed office work. He wanted to be back in Saratoga on the farm, watching MaddyB take a turn around the track, listening to the wind blowing down, and breathing in the smell of the Adirondacks.
Else he wanted to be upstairs, he mused wistfully, glancing toward the ceiling and wondering if he could get away with at least taking over a bit of the surveillance Tripp Shaughnessey was doing these days without his boys huffin’ and puffin’ about him needing to take it easy.
“Mr. Smithson?”
Easy was for wimps. Hank walked over to punch the intercom on his desk. “Yes, Emma?”
“I’m heading out for lunch. Can I bring you anything?”
Emma Webster. His secretary. Nope. Administrative assistant, she insisted on being called. A good woman. One of a very few he’d known in his life. “I’m fine. Ate too big of a breakfast this morning.”
“If you’re sure?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sure.” He pictured the twitch of her perky nose. She hated to be called ma’am. “But, Emma? When you get back, will you find Jackson Briggs for me?”
“I’m sorry. Did I forget an appointment?”
He heard the fluster in her voice as she tried to recall any previous request he’d made for his chopper pilot’s services. “Not at all. I was just thinking I might like to get back to the farm a couple days early is all.”
“Let me get him for you now.”
Hank shook his head, grinning to himself, thinking how much his Madelyn would’ve enjoyed Emma’s dedication, the way she thought of everyone around her before ever thinking of herself. “You go on to lunch. Briggs will be around when you get back.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”
And she would be, too. The girl was always true to her word. He and Madelyn had never been blessed with children, but he would’ve enjoyed having a daughter like Emma.
Much as he could’ve seen himself as father to the five boys who made up the core of his Smithson Group, spending their days going where law-abiding, rule-stickling, by-the-bookers wouldn’t and getting done what needed to get done.
Doing it all these days without him, of course, which grated on his nerves as much as the shrapnel he’d taken during Operation Just Cause in Panama continued to grate on his dad-blamed hip.
He needed to get out of here. He really did. He thought long and hard about ruining Emma’s afternoon and raising Briggs himself while standing there, fiddling in his desktop humidor for one of his favorite Montecristo Corona Grandes, needing something to do.
And if that wasn’t just the crux of it all, his needing something to do.
The thought was still on his mind, the wrapper still on his cigar, when the private line in the lower left desk drawer rang.
Tripp pocketed the cell phone that looked like a cheap burner without saying a word. He’d made a call but he hadn’t spoken beyond saying his name.
Glory wasn’t sure if she should start fuming now or wait for his lame excuses explaining away what looked like a lot of unlawful activity an engineering project consultant had no business engaging in.
Especially disconcerting was Tripp’s way too familiar familiarity with the handgun he’d taken off the other man.
She watched now as he removed what she thought was called a clip, checked it for bullets before putting it back together and tucking it into his waistband beneath the right side of his shirt.
“Why not in the small of your back?” She gestured uselessly toward him. Uselessly because he wasn’t even looking at her.
“Easier access on the side. Movies don’t always get it right, you know.”
No. She didn’t know. And how the hell did he? “Just who the hell are you, Tripp? Or should I say, what are you?”
He did glance up then. “That’s a conversation best had another time. Right now I need tape or twine or both. Whatever you’ve got back here to immobilize this one.”
She had tape and twine both, found a roll and a spool in the same cabinet as her security system and handed them off. Tripp bound the man’s hands and feet, pulled off his ski mask and taped his mouth.
“Anyone you know?” Tripp asked.
The young Asian didn’t stand out at all in her mind, and she shook her head. “Do you still want me to send the SOS?”
Tripp dragged the unconscious man to the center of the room. “No. If they were going to pick up the signal, they would’ve done so by now.”
“Who are they?”
“Friends of mine.” He returned to the door.
She glanced down at the other man, a kid, really, lying between them. “Don’t you want him out of the way?”
“I want him where he can’t kick over any of your shelves if he wakes up while I’m otherwise occupied.”
“Occupied doing what, exactly?” She hated feeling left out when she was up to her eyeballs involved. “It would be nice if you’d let me in on what’s going on here seeing as how this is my shop and all.”
“Glory, sweetheart. I swear I’ll tell you everything. Just not right now.”
“So, I stay put.” Ugh, but that grated. Not that she would have a clue how to get herself out if he wasn’t here.
“Staying put would be great, thanks.”
She felt useless, worthless, scared in so many ways she was numb with it. But she still had to fight the urge to stick out her tongue at his back. “Okay, but do you have a plan? What do I need to do while you’re doing whatever it is you’re doing?”
She heard Tripp sigh, but it wasn’t a sound of exasperation. More like a sound of patient resignation. He glanced at her, admiration warming his eyes. Seeming to register all of what she was feeling, he moved from the door to cup her face in his hands.
“I’m sorry. I wish like hell this wasn’t happening, that you weren’t having to go through this. I’m operating here on autopilot, and I’m not used to making explanations. I need you to trust me.”
Autopilot? Explanations? She focused on the one crazy truth that she knew. “I do trust you. What do you want me to do?”
“Oh, Glory.” He tickled her with a teasing laugh. “If you only knew.”
“Try me.”
His gaze heated possessively. “I intend to, in every way possible. As often as possible.” He let that sink in a simmering moment before adding, “After you’re safe.”
Too late, Gl
ory thought. I’m already a goner.
After a long moment, one tense with all the things unspoken between them, he lowered his hands and took a step back. “It’s not a big deal, really. Just my military training rearing its ugly head.”
“You were in the military? Before Smithson Engineering?” There were so many things about him she didn’t know, wanted to learn, wondered if she’d ever have the chance.
He nodded. “Same route a lot of guys take when they’re clueless as to their future.”
He said it blithely enough that she didn’t believe anything about Tripp Shaughnessey’s years in the military were the same ole, same ole at all. “You were Special Forces, right?”
He twisted his mouth, a cockeyed smile that answered her plain as day. “What makes you think that?”
It wasn’t about anything he’d done. Simply about who he was. “Because I can’t see you settling for less than being the center of attention.”
“Ah, but that’s the thing about Special Ops.” He leaned forward, kissed the tip of her nose. “We’re not supposed to draw any attention.”
“I knew it. I was right.”
He conceded nothing. Only cupped her cheek, rubbed a thumb along her cheekbone. “Does that mean you’re going to trust me now?”
“Stay put, you mean.”
“It’s nothing but semantics, sweetheart. Nothing but that.”
Danh paced the length of the service counter, staring at the meats, cheeses, sauces and vegetables though what he saw instead was the disappointment on Mr. Cam’s face.
This was a simple operation. He had prepared for all contingencies. Having an off-duty police officer in the shop at the time of his plan’s execution should have made no difference at all.
His men were highly trained. The fact that the two assigned to secure the customers hadn’t seen the call made to 9-1-1 troubled him. He had failed in their training, and now all six of them were in danger.
The sandwich shop’s telephone began ringing. The police making contact, determining his demands, seeing to the state of the hostages. Was anyone hurt? Would he release any women he held? Could they talk to one of the hostages?
Soon the proper authorities would be called and the necessary technical experts gathered to cut off the shop’s electricity. Whether this happened before or after negotiators were brought in would be based on Danh’s intent to cooperate.
Danh, of course, had no such intent at all.
He would not betray Mr. Cam. He and all his men knew that death was a possibility at any time. Today could as easily be the day as tomorrow.
The ringing of the phone finally ceased. The bullhorn started up again, as did sniffling from the two women customers who had been dining together. He needed the hostages out of the way and caught the gaze of one of his men while gesturing encompassingly. “Take the hostages into the back hallway.”
The sniffling increased and was accompanied by whimpers. Danh paid no attention until one of his men ran back into the shop and called, “Ban o dau? Quan?”
Danh’s head came up sharply, an animal sensing a predator. Quan had been posted as lookout. He would never have left his post willingly. Meaning...
Danh headed into the back hallway. He tried the alley door. It remained locked from the inside. Both restrooms remained empty. Leaving no other option but the storeroom locked from the inside.
He shook his head slowly, allowing peace to settle over him. And then he reached for his gun and fired.
“Fuckin’ shit on a stick.”
Tripp grabbed Glory by the shoulders, twirled her bodily across the room and into a tight corner where two of the shelving units met at a right angle.
“I know this part,” she whispered as he wedged her inside. “Stay put.”
He nodded, drew his gun, pressed his back to the wall at her side. The door slammed open, bounced off the cinder blocks behind. Tripp held the weapon raised, both hands at the ready, his heart doing a freight train thing in his chest.
Beside him, Glory barely breathed. The shelf of supplies to his right blocked his view of the door but didn’t keep his nostrils from flaring, his neck hairs from bristling, his adrenaline from pumping like gasoline.
He sensed their visitor long before the black-garbed man swung around and aimed his gun straight at Glory’s head. The intruder stepped over his own downed associate and held out a gloved hand.
“Give me the gun and she will not die.”
Tripp cursed violently under his breath, weighing his options on a different scale than he would’ve used in this situation had Glory not been involved.
If he’d had time to do more than react, time to think, plot and plan, he would’ve stashed the gun behind a can of olives and used the butt end to up his own prisoner count when the time was right.
Instead, he found himself surrendering the very piece that would’ve gone a long way to protecting Glory from this thug. Now he was stuck using nothing but the wits that never seemed to operate at full throttle unless he had a contingency plan.
Right now all he had was a gut full of bile. That and a big fat regret that he didn’t think better on his feet than he did.
Having passed off the gun, he raised both hands, palms out. “Let’s neither of us go off half-cocked here.”
The other man considered him for a long, strange moment, his black eyes broadcasting zero emotion while he stared for what seemed like forever before he tugged the ski mask from his head.
He was young. Tripp would’ve guessed twenty-three, twenty-four. Except when he looked at the kid’s eyes. His expression was so dark, so blank, so unfeeling it was like looking at a long-dead corpse.
Without moving his gaze from Tripp’s, the kid shouted sharp orders in Vietnamese. Two other similarly garbed goons entered the storeroom and dragged away the deadweight Tripp had left in the middle of the floor.
Once the cast of extras was gone, the lead player planted his feet and shifted his gaze between Tripp and Glory, both hands hanging at his sides, one worrying the ski mask into a black fabric ball, the other flexed and ready and holding the gun.
“An interesting situation we find ourselves in here, isn’t it?” he finally asked. “Miss Brighton, would you introduce me to your friend?”
“What do you want?” she asked before Tripp could stop her. “Tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you, and you can get out of my shop.”
His black hair fell over his brow. “If what I have come for was so easily obtained, then I would have it in my possession by now.”
He was after whatever the courier from the diamond exchange had delivered to the Spectra agent. Tripp was sure of it. Was sure as well the information would detail future packets removed from Sierra Leone.
The ski mask fell to the floor. “I’m waiting, Miss Brighton.”
“He’s a friend. A customer.” Her hands fluttered at her waist. “We’re just… good friends.”
“You allow all your customers to visit your storeroom?” His mouth twisted cruelly. “Or only the ones with whom you are intimate?”
Glory gasped. Tripp placed his arm in front of her, a protective barrier he knew did little good. “C’mon, man. There’s no need to go there.”
The Asian kid raised a brow. “Actually, I think there is. Getting what I want often requires me to explore a defense’s most vulnerable link. It is not always pleasant, but it can be quite effective.”
Tripp was pissed and rapidly getting more so. “Well, there are no links here to explore. So do as the lady suggested. Take what you’ve come for and let us all get back to our lives.”
“Were it only so simple,” he said as he gestured Glory forward. She forced her way past the barricade of Tripp’s arm. “But we seem to have hit what will no doubt be an endlessly long impasse thanks to one of Miss Brighton’s customers.”
Glory looked from the kid back to Tripp, her eyes asking questions to which he had zero answers. “I don’t understand.”
“You are very pre
dictable, Miss Brighton. As is your customer base. Same sandwiches. Same lunch hours. That made planning this job quite easy. I’m assuming the courier using your place of business for a drop point found your tight schedule advantageous, too.”
Tripp’s mind raced like the wind. The kid was talking way too much. His gang had blacked out the shop’s single security camera, had made entry without alerting anyone to their presence, had secured the scene and done it all while Tripp made love to Glory.
Fuckin’ shit on a stick barely covered it. He’d been monitoring the shop for weeks and he’d never noticed the place being scouted. He hadn’t been wise to the entire intrusion until the police bullhorn had sounded outside.
A guy who followed through on such flawless planning didn’t start yapping his flap unless he felt there would be no survivors but him. And Tripp had a feeling they were looking into the eyes of an animal who’d fight to the death before being taken alive.
“I’m sorry,” Glory was saying. Tripp heard the tears in her voice. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about or what you want.”
She stood in the center of the room where minutes before the downed man had lain. The kid walked in a circle around her, clearly agitated now. An agitation that had sweat gathering in Tripp’s armpits.
He didn’t like the look that had come into the other man’s eyes or the tic twitching in the vein at his temple. It was a look that shimmered with the need for revenge. An ugly need. An ugly revenge.
“Listen,” Tripp started, cut off by the kid’s sharply spoken, “Do not speak,” which was followed by instructions called through the door in his own language. Seconds later, another man appeared and, on orders, approached. “Turn around. Hands behind your back.”
Now Tripp was beyond being pissed off. Especially when, at his hesitation, the kid pressed the gun barrel to Glory’s head. His palms slick with sweat, Tripp turned and stared blindly at the storeroom’s cinder block wall. Blindly, because all he saw was Glory’s terrified expression.
That solid reality, her fear, was what he needed to keep forefront in his mind. This wasn’t a mission where he had others watching his back. This was a solo run. This was about her life. And he knew she had a lot better chance of coming out of this in one piece with him keeping his head.
