by Leigh Tudor
“That’s about six miles from Wilder,” Alec offered.
“We need to reach the target before he does and to ensure we are in charge of manning the extraction. If he gets to her first and takes her in without us, we’ve basically failed your first mission with SCS. If we don’t get inside the research facility, we can’t surveil the premises.”
“So, how exactly will I assist?”
“You’re part of the extraction team.”
“I thought we were keeping the target in the dark in regard to my role.”
“Correct, she’s to think you are part of my team.”
“How exactly is that undercover profile going to keep me safe from her volatile nature?”
“It’s not,” he said, reaching into his pocket and popping what looked to be a breath mint in his mouth.
Alec leaned his head against the wall. “Could you just cut the fucking undercover-lingo-bullshit and spell it out for me?”
“As far as she will know, you work for me, a gun for hire who has been contracted by Bancroft. You have been keeping tabs on her to aid in her extraction from Wilder, to the research facility in Findling, Utah.”
“So, I’m selling her out. Where’s the rest of our team?”
“You’re looking at ’im.”
“Just the two of us?” Alec chuckled. Unless this guy had a titanium suit underneath that button-down, they were up shit’s creek. “If we’re going to beat Bancroft to Holict Airport we need to leave A-SAP.”
“Well, that’s the thing. We won’t make it in time if we go to Holict. You wouldn’t happen to know of a large field in Wilder where we could land a helicopter?”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“‘Obvious’ is the most dangerous word in mathematics.”
—Eric Temple Bell
Scottish-born mathematician, and science fiction writer
* * *
Mercy pulled into the driveway. She loved driving Vlad’s smokin’ new Land Rover. It still had that new car smell, and it was a far cry nicer than Madame’s Mini Cooper that she bought as a cash purchase from what she called “A rather questionable source that reeked of bangers and mash.”
Whatever the hell that was.
Madame’s phone rang. From what Mercy could tell from the conversation, Cara had forgotten that today was a half day at school.
Madame turned to Mercy with the burner phone at her ear. “Mercy, love, can we pick up Cara and Ally from the secondary school?”
“Are they out now?”
Madame asked Cara and confirmed they were indeed standing outside the school doors.
“Tell her that’s what school buses are for,” Mercy said.
Madame advised the bus as an obvious mode of transportation, and said back to Mercy, “She contends that riding the bus is totally lame and akin to social suicide amongst her peers.”
“Freakin’ little divas,” Mercy muttered. “Tell her to go park her royal backside with Loren at the hardware store, and I’ll pick them up after dropping off the groceries.”
Madame communicated the message, ended the call, pulling down the sun visor to touch up her lipstick.
“Why are you checking your lipstick? We’re home.”
She pursed her lips and patted her shiny gray hair. “Levi mentioned stopping by today.”
Mercy smiled as she stepped out of the SUV and opened the back passenger door to grab handfuls of grocery bags.
“So, you two are spending a lot of time together.”
“Hmm,” she answered with what might have been a small smile. Mercy couldn’t be sure, looking at her reflection in the visor’s mirror from the back seat.
Mercy said with her best British accent that sounded more cockney than the Queen’s English, “You seem a bit dodgy at the moment.”
Madame caught Mercy’s reflection. “I see you’ve made an unsuccessful attempt at improving your knowledge of British slang.”
Mercy emerged from the back, carrying about four plastic bags in each hand and managed to shut the door with her hip.
Madame made her way gracefully up the steps with just her purse.
“You go on,” Mercy said with one side of her lip upturned, “I’m sure you’re quite knackered after making that long sojourn to the grocer.”
Madame’s eyes looked up with an exaggerated sigh. “Only because I had to spend my time with a veritable knobhead.”
Mercy stopped midway up the steps. “Madame Garmond! Did you just call me a . . . a . . . dickhead?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. That would be crass,” she said, opening the door and waving Mercy in. “Please do hurry before you find yourself arse over tits.”
Mercy could barely contain the laughter. “What would your duke of a father say if he heard you right now?”
“Well, he’d probably say that the acorn didn’t fall far from the tree.”
Mercy hesitated, not expecting that.
Madame continued. “And he would only say so privately. Lord knows he would never sully his reputation by acknowledging my existence in public.”
Mercy’s head shook side-to-side as her eyes widened. “What?”
Madame heaved another sigh. “I was what is called a by-blow,” she said, folding her arms, still holding the door as Mercy stood there with her mouth open and her hands drooping with plastic bags. “A love child, or one of my all-time favorites from my father: a rather unfortunate outcome.”
“But I thought he insisted that you and your mother live with him in England rather than France?”
“Not together, but within a controllable distance. You see, he was never one to shirk his responsibilities, only to ignore them.”
“He and your mother never married?”
“Goodness, no. That would have been quite the scandal considering he was already married when I was conceived.”
Mercy scooched through the door sideways to make room for the bags while trying to make sense of this new information. “I hope you know my mind is totally blown right now.”
Madame followed her. “It’s not something one likes to talk about despite the begetting of illegitimate children amongst the peerage a rather common occurrence. Nevertheless, it was difficult to watch your father, who was no less than British royalty, raise his legitimate children in utter luxury while you were raised by a ruined single parent in a sublet, openly ridiculed and shunned by the neighbors and townsfolk.”
Mercy imagined the rigid woman as a small, vulnerable child being bullied by the other children of the local gentry, and it made her chest cave.
She finally made it to the kitchen where Vlad sat at the table and she plunked the bags down. “Oh no, I don’t need help,” she said, full of sarcasm. “I can totally wrestle twenty bags of groceries all by myself.”
And then she noticed the near-empty bottle of vodka, and the jelly jar he was tipping back and forth on the table.
“It’s kinda early to be sipping the sauce, isn’t it?”
He didn’t look up but moved his head slowly from side to side. “I have failed you, milaya.”
Madame entered the kitchen, placing her purse on the table. Mercy caught her attention as she looked just as confused. This wasn’t like Vlad. He certainly enjoyed his drink of choice but not before noon nor to such an extent.
“What? I’m good,” she said, slowly pulling a carton of milk out of a plastic bag. “No migraines for some time now.” But then again, she wasn’t painting. Trying to see if she could quit cold turkey so she wouldn’t have to be babysat for the rest of her life.
He continued to shake his head, and then Mercy noticed his shoulders shaking. As if he were sobbing. She instantly placed the milk on the table and crouched down to his side. “Vlad? What’s the matter?”
Bloodshot eyes and reeking of alcohol, he finally looked at her with tears running down his face. “They . . . they promise they take care of you.”
“Who?” she asked, shaking her head.
“They promise that I bring
you back, they do surgery, and . . . and make you well again.”
Fear sliced through Mercy’s body as she went to her knees and grabbed his arm. “What did you do, Vlad?”
“They said you have little time. That misplaced lesion only get worse and you lose sight and then die.” His face crumpled as his other hand moved from his lap, drunkenly slapping a pistol on the table. “They are coming.”
Mercy stared at the gun and then looked up at Madame, who was holding her hand to her mouth.
“Who is coming, Vlad?” But she already knew.
Dear God.
“They not come for you. They betray us.”
With a stronger voice, Mercy squeezed his arm. “When Vlad, when are they coming?”
And then a shot fired out of nowhere, shattering the window over the kitchen sink. She ducked her head as shards of glass continued to drop into the porcelain basin. She yanked on his arm to pull him to safety as Madame crouched by the table with her head between her hands.
But he was limp, and pinned in by the chair. And then she noticed the blood splattered across her chest, his upper body draped over the table.
“Mercy, get down!” Madame screamed.
She blinked and hunched down deeper, trying to gather herself.
She needed a gun.
Mercy reached up with one hand, scrambling for Vlad’s gun on the table. She felt the textured gunmetal handle, pulling it under the table and, checking that it was loaded, she unlatched the safety as she pointed it away and scooted beside a shaking Madame.
All they could hear was their heavy breathing as they waited. Mercy worked through the kill shot details, as she listened intently for any incriminating noise. The shot had to have been from high and from a distance, as it came through the window and hit him in the temple area in order for the blood to splatter onto her chest. She wiped the blood on her cheek, confirming the hypothesis.
Several painstaking minutes passed as she held her finger alongside the trigger, waiting for someone to burst through the kitchen door to their right or from the hall entrance to the left.
Nothing.
Madame gently pulled on Mercy’s arm. “What did he mean, they weren’t coming for you? Who are they coming for?”
Mercy ran through his last words, trying to make sense of them.
“Jasper must have found us. They convinced Vlad I was going to die if they didn’t operate, so he outed us.”
She also knew that Jasper despised Loren on an almost visceral level and implied a fucked-up affection for Cara.
“Let’s think this through,” Mercy said, leaning against the kitchen cabinet, her chest heaving while continuing to support her pistol stance with both hands. “They’ll assume Cara’s at school, and that Loren’s at the hardware store.”
Madame’s hand went to her throat. “But Cara and Ally are on their way to Loren. They’re all together.”
Mercy pulled her phone from her back pocket, calling her sister.
Loren didn’t pick up.
She then tried calling the store phone, but got an automated message.
“We’ve got to move fast if we’re going to get to them in time.”
If it wasn’t too late.
They moved from under the table, Mercy helping Madame to her knees and to standing. They inched their way to the front door just as they heard a vehicle pull into the driveway.
Mercy yanked Madame to the side wall beside the door, her own back flat against the wall. She squatted and then crab-walked to peer through the blinds at the window. It was a fire-red 1950s Ford F1 truck. “It’s Levi.” She heaved a sigh and then tensed as she realized he could be in the sniper’s crosshairs.
Mercy threw open the front door and jumped back to the side, yelling at Levi to stay down as he opened the truck door.
He ducked, having spotted Mercy holding a gun.
They waited again, but nothing.
She yelled out to Levi, “Vlad’s been shot. He’s . . . gone. I need you to take Madame while I get Loren and Cara at the hardware store. But let us come to you.”
“Hold up!” he yelled, moving inside the vintage truck and pulling something from behind the seat. He ducked behind the door again, holding up what looked to Mercy to be a .220 Swift rifle. Better for taking down varmints as opposed to a crack-shot sniper.
But it was better than nothing.
She crept out the door with Madame clenched to her side, her gun moving at no apparent target, as Levi did his best to cover her. When she reached him, his arms went around Madame protectively.
“Go on,” he said. “I’ll call the sheriff while you get Loren and Cara.”
He held Madame closely as he helped her inside the truck through the driver’s seat side.
“You can’t do that, Levi,” Mercy said, fear gripping her insides.
He turned to her with a confused scowl, his bushy eyebrows furrowed.
Mercy swallowed. “You have to trust me on this. Please, I’m begging you. Take her to your house and lock the doors . . . and stay clear of any windows.”
He nodded as if unsure.
“Promise me,” she said, “promise me you will not go to the police.”
He nodded more firmly. “Go on and get. I’ll take her to the house.” And finally, “I swear.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“I would not dare to say that there is a direct relation between mathematics and madness, but there is no doubt that great mathematicians suffer from maniacal characteristics, delirium, and symptoms of schizophrenia.”
—John Forbes Nash, Jr.
American mathematician
who made fundamental contributions to game theory,
differential geometry, and the study of differential equations
* * *
Alec turned just as the chopper rose vertically to a skid height of about three feet and then remained motionless, hovering, with a slight tilt to the left.
Forrest gave the sign for clearance, and the helicopter began its northeast ascent back to Greenville.
Gus waited by the designated roadside, leaning against Alec’s truck. Alec gave his friend a man hug, clapping him on the back.
“Thanks for doing this at the last minute.”
Gus dropped back with his hands in his pockets. “You would’ve done the same for me.”
“Look,” Alec said, “We’re in a hurry, and it’s important.”
Gus waved him off. “Go ahead and do your James Bond shit. I can walk home. Won’t be the first time.”
Alec clasped in on the shoulder. “Thanks, man.”
He jumped in the driver’s seat and fired up the engine as Forrest slammed the other door shut.
They made their way down the road, speeding past all the familiar road signs he’d seen for as long as he could remember. But today everything seemed foreign to him, surreal.
Thank God Ally was in school. He checked the time on his dashboard. She should be in World History. He needed to find a place for her to stay until he got past this fucked-up mess of a mission. She certainly couldn’t stay with the Ingalls.
He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them to take the next turn toward town.
Of course, that wasn’t their names. Cara, Loren, and Mercy Ingalls wasn’t some absurd accident. He had always known that, but chose to ignore it along with all of the red flags because of his attraction to one long-legged supposed head case.
But criminally insane?
He had made peace with the signs that Marisa wasn’t in her right mind. Erratic behavior consisting of zoned-out moments and then uncontrollable rage. But then she’d apologize, even said she was bi-polar and admitted to not taking her meds as she should. But her diagnosis was far more severe and her behavior more dangerous than anyone could’ve imagined.
During the chopper ride, Forrest gave Alec the background information gathered from his contact at the research center through the communication devices embedded in their flight gear.
Forrest
advised the girls, at a young age, were in a car accident that killed both parents. That Bancroft’s father, a Dr. Halstead, had adopted the three sisters after learning of Loren’s sporadic issues in the foster care system. Your typical pre-serial-killer behavior: obsessed with killing small animals and dissecting them and then later going after one of the foster parents with a kitchen knife.
Halstead’s reasoning for adopting the sisters sounded suspicious to Alec. Supposedly, in order to keep the three girls together and due to his profession, he felt he would be the perfect adopted parent.
But then Ava, now Loren, began to show signs of significant mathematical acumen. Testing confirmed she was nothing short of a mathematical prodigy. Additional testing proved she was also a borderline psychopath.
“So, you’re telling me that Halstead outsourced Loren as the brains behind a number of criminal activities?” Alec said through the microphone in his headgear over the roar of the rotors.
“Affirmative. She leveraged her genius to hone her hacking skills, estimated to be in the one percentile of the Black Hat community.”
Alec was now maneuvering the truck at breakneck speeds. “Talk to me about the sisters,” Alec asked, “Are they innocent in all this or complicit?”
“According to Bancroft, the younger sister, Charlotte who you know as Cara, has no idea of Ava’s criminal activities. And has been protected from details regarding her medical diagnosis. The girls were permitted to spend time together when Ava was medically subdued. Those times were rare, as Charlotte had been traveling the world performing concerts as a piano prodigy.”
“And Mercy?” Alec asked.
“Mara,” Forrest corrected. “Bancroft didn’t share much information regarding the middle sister. Apparently, she’s also considered behaviorally altered, but to what extent, we don’t know. Intel shows her complicit on a number of art heists where priceless originals were swapped for near to flawless dupes.”
“Why leave?” Alec asked, slowing down as he neared town and Wilder’s Hardware.
