by Sara Rosett
She wormed her way around and pressed her face to the slice of light. Two forms, Jack and Stefano, writhed on the floor, locked together, each struggling to gain an advantage over the other. Francesca was pacing around the room, her head tipped over, her gaze raking the floor. She surged forward, dipped out of Zoe’s sight, and reemerged with the gun gripped in her hands. She spun toward the men and shouted in Italian.
Zoe’s heart seemed to stop, but the men remained locked together, ignoring Francesca’s shouts. She circled to the left, the gun trained on them, but they were a bundle of flailing, twisting arms and legs.
Zoe’s heart seemed to start beating again, this time double-time. Francesca didn’t have a clear shot at Jack. Zoe wasn’t sure if Jack was keeping himself glued to Stefano in self-preservation or if they were both so intent on their fight that they had blocked out Francesca’s voice. Zoe let out a shaky breath and wiggled her fingers into the sliver of light. She pulled with all her strength. The cardboard crunched down a bit, but no more than a quarter of an inch.
Until that moment, Zoe realized she hadn’t truly appreciated the strength of cardboard—or of tape, either, she thought as she tried to pry the flap away from the tape. Her nail broke, and she came away with a pitifully thin strip from the outer layer of cardboard. At this rate she’d work her way out of the box by next Christmas.
Francesca yelled commands. The men’s bodies shifted heavily over the floor.
Zoe scrabbled through the items at the base of the box—makeup, breath mints, tissue, billfold, and passports. Nothing useful. Not even a paperclip. The one she’d used to puncture a perforated line in the tape that bound her hands was somewhere on the floor. Pity Francesca hadn’t scooped it up and dropped it in the box. If she ever got out of this alive, Zoe vowed she would never go anywhere without a nail file, scissors, and pepper spray, at a minimum.
There was a burst of movement from the men. They tumbled across the floor and knocked into the box, sending it skidding across the floor. Zoe managed to contort herself around and put her eye to the small slit on the other side of the box. All she could see was the strip of water and the wall on the opposite side of the room. She edged as far as she could over to the other side of the box, the side that was farther away from the water.
Another few bumps like that would send her straight into the water, and she’d be trapped inside. How fast would the water break down the cardboard? How fast would the box sink? How fast would it fill with water? Would the water weaken the cardboard quickly enough for her to get out before the box sank too deep? She didn’t want to find out. She wanted out now.
She scrabbled at the tiny slit of the opening, pushing, pulling, and trying to work it away from the tape. She attacked the corner where the seam of the box had been glued together, but it was stuck fast. The background noise of Francesca’s screams and the mens’ struggle went on. They hit the box again as they flailed around. It shuttered as it scooted another inch toward the water.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
ZOE ran her hand over her face, which was now covered in sweat from the stuffy air in the box and her own panic. Don’t lose your head, she whispered to herself because she knew she was very near the point of doing just that. What else had Jack said? Use what you have. He’d slammed the potted plant down on Stefano, knocking him out. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a handy potted plant or box cutter secreted away. She had nothing. Sweat was literally dripping into her eyes. She ran her hand over her face again, then her neck. Her fingers grazed her necklace.
Her ring. Her diamond ring. She still had that.
She quickly lifted the chain off her neck, careful not to let it catch on the tender lump as she worked it over her head. She twisted the large square-cut diamond with its beautiful sharp edges over the knuckle of her first finger, then bent her finger down to hold it there. She ran the ring along the exposed underside of the tape where the box flaps met overhead. It dragged in a few places, but when her fingers traced the line, she felt little snagged bits of tape. It worked.
She hunkered down and went to work with her improvised box cutter, working through the thick layers of tape.
She’d almost broken through when the sound of the men fighting surged closer and banged into the box. The impact knocked Zoe backward toward the side by the water, then the box tipped and she flipped over like she was doing a backward roll as the box tumbled. The bits and pieces from her messenger bag kaleidoscoped around her, then settled on the bottom of the box.
She immediately felt the temperature difference as a coolness settled into the air around her. The tape she’d been hacking away at, which had been above her head, was now under her and despite the definite bobbing sensation she felt as the box floated on the surface of the water, she knew it wouldn’t be long before the cardboard soaked through and the box disintegrated. Water seeped between the gashes in the tape and bubbled up through the slivers where the flaps came together. Without really thinking about it, she braced her hands on the side of the box and kicked at the ragged tape seam.
Two kicks did it. The seam gave, water gushed in, and she sucked in a gulp of air as her weight pulled her into the frigid water. She kicked out, toward the light. She surfaced and saw the moss-covered steps. She tried not to think about the water and its curiously oily feel. Her fingers glided over the furry surface of the moss, then slipped away and she sunk lower.
Zoe kicked herself up and tried again, this time aiming for the top step, the one out of the water. She burst through the surface and blinked water away from her eyes, then froze, the water dancing around her shoulders.
Stefano had his good arm around Jack’s neck and was squeezing his throat in a chokehold. Francesca barked an Italian command that finally seemed to penetrate Stefano’s thoughts. He released Jack and Francesca stepped closer, the gun aimed at Jack’s head.
Francesca was going to do it. She was going to shoot him. She was past caring about the blood and any traces of their presence. Zoe tried to scream, but the sound came out as a rough cough instead.
Suddenly, Roy tilted up on one shoulder. Zoe caught a flash of his waxy-colored face, a grimace of pain twisting his mouth. His hand shot out, grabbed Francesca’s ankle, then he dropped back. As he fell back, he yanked her foot out from under her. She went down hard, her head slamming against the stone.
No one moved for a second; the only sound was Roy’s raspy breathing and the slap of water against the stone steps. Francesca’s face was turned toward Zoe, and she could see a thin trickle of blood emerge from Francesca’s lips.
Jack levered himself up, plucked the gun from her limp hand. Stefano spun and ran toward Zoe. She cringed back down into the awful water, but he sailed over her head, landing in the water with a splash that sprayed over Zoe and half the stone floor.
Zoe dragged herself up the steps and collapsed on the stone floor. Stefano’s noisy splashes sounded behind her as he swam clumsily toward the canal door with his one good arm. Zoe thought about standing up, but decided to stay put because her limbs suddenly felt useless and trembly.
Jack stood over Francesca for a moment, and then he leaned down and pressed his fingers on her neck. He straightened slowly as if every inch of movement hurt. He glanced at Roy, who hadn’t moved from where he’d dropped back to the floor. Jack shook his head once. Roy closed his eyes as if he already knew Francesca was gone.
Jack pulled his black sweater over his head maneuvering it around the gun with ease, switching it from hand to hand as he stripped the sweater off his arms. He wadded it up and moved to Roy where he squatted down, then pressed the sweater to the wound on Roy’s chest. Roy made a flicking motion with his fingers toward Zoe. Jack stood but didn’t move, his gaze still fixed on Roy.
Jack had on a gray T-shirt that he’d worn under the sweater and seemed to be considering taking it off, too, and adding it to the sweater, but Roy said, “Go on. I’m fine.” His voice was so faint that his words were a whisper that Zoe caught more by reading
his lips than by hearing him.
Jack crossed the room to her, the gun held loosely in one hand. He was scuffed with dirt and grit and blood. There were welts on his arms and across one cheek and a deep red color ringed his throat where Stefano had choked him. He had several gouges on his face and a deeper cut over his eyebrow. She saw all of that in a sort of hazy out-of-focus peripheral way because the only thing she was really focused on were his eyes. There was a fierce, determined glint in them, but there was something else that Zoe couldn’t identify as he locked his gaze on her. Zoe didn’t think she could have looked away if she wanted to.
But she didn’t want to look away.
He tucked the gun into the back of his waistband as he walked, then reached down and pulled her to her feet. He’s going to kiss me, she realized, and then his lips were on hers and she couldn’t form one coherent thought.
It was like the time when she was a kid and touched the exposed wires when her stepdad was remodeling. Except this wasn’t a little jolt of electricity. Something sparked when their lips touched and that energy fizzed through every inch of her, all the way down to her wobbly knees.
He lifted his head and Zoe blinked. There were other things going on...important things, she knew, but at the moment, she didn’t care about any of them. She didn’t remember wrapping her arms around him, but she was gripping his shoulders as tightly as she’d grabbed the stone step when she pulled herself out of the water, which was a good thing because if her legs had been shaky before, she probably needed a wheelchair after that kiss.
His face looked the same as always, tightly controlled, but there was something about his eyes, a softness, a tenderness that surprised her. “Roy called the police,” he said, his breath uneven and his words ragged.
“That’s all you have to say?” Zoe said, leaning back against his arms, against the solidness of his hands on her back and shoulders. “After a kiss like that?”
“A kiss should never require explanation,” he said, then his face turned serious. “I’m afraid to say anything else.”
That caught her off guard. Jack, afraid?
“I thought you were unconscious,” he said. “When that box went in the water...I thought...” he swallowed.
“But I wasn’t,” she said lightly, but decided she couldn’t let him get off too easily. “Serves you right. Now you know what it’s like—thinking someone is dead. Not so great, is it?”
“No, not good at all.” He pushed a strand of hair away from the corner of her eye. “They’ll be here any minute,” Jack said.
“Who?” Zoe asked. If she stretched up on her tiptoes she could kiss him. Despite her quivering legs, she thought she could do it. In fact, she absolutely had to.
“The police. Roy will interpret.” Jack closed the narrowing distance between their lips and kissed her hard. He pulled away with a muttered curse. “Here’s the gun.” He pressed it into her hand. “In case you need it. You shouldn’t. Safety is on.”
“Where are you going?” She asked, suddenly feeling cold and exposed. She was dripping wet, a fact that hadn’t registered at all, but now the air felt chilly. She began to shiver as her wet clothes pressed against her goosebumpy skin.
“To get Stefano,” Jack said as he worked one shoe off, then the other. “I’ll see you soon,” he said, then executed a perfect dive into the water. He surfaced and swam to the canal door, his arms cutting through the water in long, even strokes. He ducked under the door and disappeared with a flick of his foot that kicked up a few drops of water that landed at Zoe’s feet.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dallas
Tuesday, 4:45 p.m.
“AND that was the last time you saw Jack Andrews?” Sato pushed back from the table, arms crossed over his chest, a look of disbelief on his face.
“Yes.” Zoe leaned back against the uncomfortable plastic chair and mirrored Sato by crossing her arms. “No matter how many times you ask me these questions, my answers aren’t going to change.” She looked around the small room with its gray walls and bare office furnishings, marveling that she’d actually been glad when the Italian police had escorted her to the airport and told her she’d been booked on a flight back to the States. If she’d known Sato would meet her at the airport, she might not have been so relieved. That had been a week ago, and she’d been asked to “clarify” her statement several times.
‘I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. He went after Stefano and didn’t come back.”
Her throat prickled, and her vision blurred. She swallowed and blinked a few times. She didn’t want to lose control of herself, especially not in front of these two men. The older man was here, too, leaning against the wall on the other side of the room. “Has there been any word from the Italians? Any sign...” she asked.
Sato shook his head. “Nothing.”
She bit her lip. I’ll see you soon. Those had been his last words to her. Apparently, his last words ever. She’d been allowed to read the English translation of the Italian police report. Several witnesses had reported seeing two men in the canal—struggling as they surfaced. They plunged under the water, then reappeared and disappeared below the surface several times. The observers thought one man was trying to save the other, but that the second man had panicked and was fighting his rescuer. Witnesses reported the men went under for a final time for at least two minutes. One body, Stefano’s, surfaced. There was no trace of the other body.
She realized Sato was speaking and tried to concentrate on him, pulling her thoughts back from Venice. “You must realize, Ms. Hunter, that we find it an extremely odd circumstance that Mr. Andrews has disappeared in almost exactly the same way he attempted to fake his death after the murder of his business partner. A presumed drowning without a body is very convenient for him.”
“What are you saying? That you think he’s not dead?” Zoe said, aggressively. The same thought had crossed her mind. She’d thought about it several times, especially on that long flight back to the States, but each time she’d immediately pushed it away.
After Jack dove in the water in pursuit of Stefano, she hadn’t expected Jack to return to her side right away, and those first few hours had been a blur of rapid Italian, broken English, and Roy’s somewhat garbled translation and explanation. By the time Roy had been strapped to a gurney and transmitted (via ambulance boat) to the hospital, the authorities were looking at Zoe as more victim than villain. When the sun set and Jack hadn’t come loping into the roped off crime scene, Zoe felt the first pricks of unease.
He would come back, she told herself. He’d said he would. But after the flutter of activity around the removal of Stefano’s body from the canal died down, the Italian authorities became even more tight-lipped with her when she asked about Jack. By the next morning, she’d retreated into a protective shell, emotionally shutting down. If she didn’t think about it, she didn’t have to deal with it.
The investigator’s questions didn’t stop, but someone must have eventually come to the conclusion that she really had been accidentally caught up in the mess. After the Italians shipped her home, she had to go through the whole thing again with the American authorities, who consisted mostly of Sato and his older, quieter partner.
She’d existed in a numb state, keeping anything remotely emotional at a distance, but Sato’s prodding had cracked her façade. She was as surprised as Sato that it was anger that oozed out of her carefully constructed shell instead of grief. Sato didn’t respond to her anger. He lifted a shoulder. “You must admit it’s a possibility. That he has tried it again.”
“How could that even be a possibility? There were witnesses. It happened in a canal in Venice with people draped over the scenic arched bridges. How could he simply disappear?”
“Your husband was a highly trained operative.”
“Ex-husband,” Zoe said sharply. “And he wasn’t an agent anymore. He hadn’t done anything like that in years.” She sat up straighter in the chair. “This is the thi
rd time you’ve asked me to come down here in five days. Surely you’re not going to request I come down here every few days, are you?”
“Just clearing up a few details,” Sato said, his voice mild. “In fact,” he opened a file and placed a single sheet of paper in front of her. “We have a new development.”
Columns of numbers filled the printout, blurring together. “What is this?”
“GRS’s bank account. Note the last transaction in this column,” Sato said, pointing at the bottom of the page where the balance showed a long string of numbers.
Zoe frowned, picked up the paper, and scanned the entry. “That’s a deposit...and the date...twelve million dollars? Yesterday? It was deposited yesterday?” She wasn’t making any sense, but she couldn’t get the words to come out coherently. “How could that happen? Jack and Connor are both...gone. Where did it come from?”
Sato looked at her a long moment, then said, “Apparently it was a computer error.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“The bank has researched this account and discovered that twelve million dollars was transferred by mistake to Jack’s personal account. They have corrected the error and replaced the money.”
“But...you said that the money had disappeared from Jack’s account, too. Where was it transferred?”
Sato plucked the paper from her hand and shuffled it into the file, a trace of huffiness in his movements. “We are tracing it, but it is back now. Frozen,” he added in a stern voice that indicated he expected her to run down to her local bank branch and ask the teller for a withdrawal slip the moment she left, even though she didn’t have access to Jack’s business account. “Did you have any knowledge of this transfer, either the initial transfer from GRS’s account or the subsequent transfer out of Mr. Andrews’s account?”
“No,” Zoe said, drawing back from him, her forehead wrinkling as her eyebrows crunched together. “I don’t know anything about that.”
