by Andrea Kane
Something was happening. Something that involved her. Had a ransom arrangement been made with her father? Or had they reached an impasse and now planned to kill her?
Their voices had eventually quieted, and Lauren had choked down the rest of her food, escaping as quickly as she could to her bedroom. Bashkim didn’t say a word, just strode along beside her, waiting until she was inside before shutting the door and leaving her.
An eerie silence had ensued. No voices. No footsteps. Nothing.
Lauren’s fear had mounted steadily, until now, when she was strung so tight she was prepared to snap.
A firm knock sounded at the door—and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
Jolting upright, she gathered the blankets around her in some ridiculous show of self-protection. “Yes?” she managed. She sounded half-dead, even to her own ears.
“You’re awake?” Bashkim asked from the other side of the door. What he really wanted to know was if she was decent. Quite the paradox—a respectful killer.
“I’m fully dressed,” she replied. And about as far from sleep as one can get.
The door swung open. Bashkim entered, carrying a tray of food. “You didn’t come out for lunch. You must eat.”
Why? So I’ll be a plumper corpse?
“Thank you,” she said aloud. She slid farther up on the bed and accepted the tray of food. There was no point in antagonizing him. And maybe if she asked in a respectful but tearful way, he’d fill in a few blanks for her. Whether or not she wanted the answers she sought remained to be seen.
“Bread and soup,” Bashkim supplied, still wearing that sober expression. “And a plate of kulen. You seemed to like it yesterday.”
Yes, she had. The spicy slices of sausage were the first thing she’d eaten all week that wasn’t bland and that had a pleasant bite to it. It wasn’t a pepperoni pizza with her family, but it would suffice—normally. Not today. And not now. She didn’t want food. All she wanted was answers.
She opened her mouth to speak, and then, seeing the hard set of Bashkim’s jaw, changed her mind. Refusing to eat would only piss him off and she wanted him as amenable as possible when she questioned him.
She had a little bread and soup and then chewed and swallowed three slices of kulen. It was all she could hold down. And it seemed to be enough for Bashkim, because he nodded, although his posture remained rigid, his mouth set in a thin, tight line.
“Very good,” he said, his tone belying his praise. He remained at her bedside, clearing his throat before he next spoke. And suddenly Lauren realized she wasn’t going to have to ask anything. Bashkim was about to fill in the blanks on his own.
Her heart began hammering in her chest.
“I’m going to leave you now,” he said. “Take a shower. Get dressed. Be ready.”
“Ready?” Lauren croaked out the word. “I don’t understand.” “I’ll be back to get you in a half hour. You’ll come with me. And you’ll do as I say if you want to live.”
Lauren’s insides turned to ice. “Please, Bashkim, tell me what’s happening. Please.”
“You’re going to talk to your father. On the computer. You’ll see him. He’ll see you. For five minutes only.”
Lauren started, stunned by this development, which was the last thing she’d expected. A videoconference. Her father had somehow managed to arrange a videoconference with her. How, she had no idea. But the very thought of seeing his face and hearing his voice made tears well up in her eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Bashkim frowned. “Don’t thank me. This is not a reunion. It’s an arrangement we made—for our purposes. There are rules. You’ll follow them. I don’t want to kill you. But I will—right in front of your father’s eyes—if I have to.”
Lauren didn’t doubt his claim for a moment. “What are the rules?”
“I’ll tell you when it’s time. Your job is to convince your father that he should give us what we’re asking for.”
“I don’t know what you’re asking him for. So how can I…?” The question slipped out before Lauren could stop it—and, seeing the thunderclouds now gathering in Baskhim’s eyes, she wished to God that she had.
“You don’t need to know.” His tone was as ominous as his expression—a further reminder to Lauren of what he was capable of. “Your father knows. Don’t ask any questions—or I’ll slit your throat.”
Lauren squeezed her eyes shut at the horrifying image, tears seeping out from between her closed lids. “I’m so sorry. I won’t ask anything. I’ll do whatever you say. Please, Bashkim, you’ve been so kind to me. I wouldn’t have survived this long without your decency and compassion. Please don’t hurt me. I’ll follow your rules exactly. I promise.”
The thunderclouds abated. “Good.” Bashkim took her tray and turned toward the door. “Thirty minutes.”
Starbucks
Northstar Drive, Lake Tahoe
28 February
Wednesday, 6:33 a.m. local time
Vance arrived early in order to stake out the table at Starbucks with the best Wi-Fi connection. He was desperately trying to find a semblance of control over a situation where none existed. Control was what he did best. But this wasn’t a business transaction. Lauren’s life was in his hands. Against his nature, he had to rely on Aidan and his team to take the lead, and do exactly what he was told.
After careful inspection, he selected the table near the back room and closest to the Wi-Fi access point. The door was labeled: Employees Only. Which meant he’d have the fast Internet connection and the privacy he needed. During the morning rush, Starbucks would be all hands on deck. None of the employees would be going anywhere other than to their stations to meet the needs of their coffee-craving patrons.
Vance got himself settled, then took a deep breath and fired up the special laptop that Ryan had prepared for this situation. He didn’t know the technical details, other than the fact that it wasn’t the normal Windows machine it appeared to be. Something about special keylogging and screen capture software that would secretly stream all data that came across the laptop back to the server belonging to Aidan’s team so they could see and hear everything that was going on.
He plugged in his headphones and waited for 7:10 to arrive.
It seemed to take forever.
Farmhouse
Slavonia, Croatia
28 February
Wednesday, 4:05 p.m. local time
Lauren swallowed hard as she settled herself behind the simple wooden table that served as a desk.
She was in an empty bedroom that she’d never seen before. The entire room was bare—walls, floor, and ceiling. The only items present were the desk, a wooden chair for her to sit on, and a laptop computer.
Bashkim was standing just off to her left, positioned where he couldn’t be seen on camera but where he could reach her in two long strides. He gripped the handle of a frighteningly long knife—one that could slit her throat in a heartbeat, and the tightness of his grasp was a reminder that he would do just that if provoked.
Lauren had now been given the precise details of what she must say. She must assure her father that she was being well-cared for by informing him that she was provided with three meals a day, with her own bedroom, use of a bathroom, and with the freedom to move about as she pleased. Not a word about the dwelling she was in, how many people might be here, or what language they might be speaking. Just her care and comfort—and the most imperative part—a plea for her father to supply whatever he was being asked for. If he didn’t cooperate, she was to assure him that she’d be killed.
She interlaced her fingers tightly in front of her, chilled despite the royal blue turtleneck sweater she was wearing. She’d chosen it carefully, hoping she looked as much like her usual self as possible. Sweater and jeans, her customary winter attire.
But no sweater could alleviate this internal chill.
“Just a few more minutes,” Bashkim told her. “The computer is on. Now we wait.�
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Starbucks
Northstar Drive, Lake Tahoe
28 February
Wednesday, 7:10 a.m. local time
Vance connected to the videoconference using the link he’d been provided.
The next few seconds felt like an eternity.
Abruptly, he could see himself in the large window in the center of his screen. Thirty endless seconds later, another window appeared, replacing his larger image and reducing his to a smaller one in the lower right-hand corner. As the new center screen image took form, he could make out Lauren’s face and the bright blue sweater she was wearing. The vibrant color did nothing to ease his pain or his worry. Because what he saw wasn’t the exuberant, vivacious daughter he loved. It was a shell of her—a terrified young woman with an ashen, haunted look on her face and an equally determined attempt to conceal her fear.
Vance’s throat clogged up. But he knew better than to make reference to her deteriorated condition. “Hi, honey,” he began, fighting to keep his voice steady as he mentally counted down the few precious minutes he had.
“Daddy?” Lauren’s voice was high and thin. She hadn’t called him Daddy in years.
“Yes, Lauren, it’s me. We only have five minutes. So tell me how you are. I need to know. I’m sick with worry.”
“I’m okay.” The words were forced, and she tightened the grip of her interlaced fingers as if to anchor herself for the façade of a conversation they were about to have.
“They haven’t hurt you?”
She shook her head. “Not at all.” She sounded like a parrot, reciting a memorized speech. “They’ve been very respectful. I have my own room, I’m offered three meals a day, and I’m allowed to walk around”—a brief pause as she searched for the acceptable phrase—“inside the place where I’m being held.”
Fully aware of what Aidan wanted him to do, Vance jumped on his opportunity. “Offered three meals a day?” he reiterated. “Or eaten three meals a day?”
Lauren’s gaze darted quickly to her left. Vance didn’t have to guess why. One of the kidnappers, no doubt armed, was monitoring her every word and providing her with instructions on what she could and could not say.
Evidently, her eating habits was a safe topic, because Lauren replied, “I eat all my meals.”
Vance leaned forward, knowing that his daughter’s claim was pure bullshit. “You know how much I worry about your eating—specifically your non-eating when you’re under stress. I have to be sure you’re not starving yourself. So tell me what you mean by ‘all your meals.’ What have you eaten today?”
Lauren drew in a sharp breath and then continued with her recitation. “A hot roll and coffee for breakfast, and bread, soup, and kulen for lunch. It’s not dinnertime here yet, but last night I ate pasta and tomato sauce.”
Abruptly, her shoulders began shaking with sobs, as if the burden of all the pretense was too much for her. “They haven’t hurt me, Daddy,” she wept. “Not yet. But they will if you don’t cooperate. They said so. Whatever they want, please just give it to them. Please.”
She broke down completely, lowering her head and twisting a knife in Vance’s heart as he saw the streams of tears falling onto her clasped hands. “I want to come home. I don’t want to die. Please, please, make this nightmare end. Do what they ask. Give them anything. Bring me home.”
Vance’s soul was splintering into nothingness and he could barely breathe. “I will, baby,” he vowed hoarsely. “I’m giving them exactly what they want. You’ll be home with us soon. I promise. It’ll be okay.” His voice broke. “I love you, Lauren.”
“I love you, too,” she wept. “But I’m so afraid. Please, Daddy—”
The screen went dark.
16
Ritz-Carlton, Lake Tahoe
28 February
Wednesday, 7:17 a.m. local time
Aidan was hunched over his computer in the living room of the Penningtons’ suite, rapidly Googling for information on what he’d just heard, when Terri called.
“Kulen is a smoked sausage, spiced with paprika, and prepared primarily in the Slavonian region of Croatia,” she said, answering his unspoken question. “Slavonia is in the northeast corner of the country. Its size is four thousand eight hundred forty-eight square miles, and it’s approximately one hundred seventy-five miles east of Zagreb. Population-wise, it’s just over eight hundred thousand people. Osijek—which is its main city—is the fourth largest city in Croatia with an approximate population of one hundred and eight thousand. Having said that, Slavonia is predominantly agricultural, consisting of vast farmlands, which would lend themselves perfectly to holding a kidnapping victim. Those are the basic specs. Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll have a fully detailed dossier for the entire team.”
“I’ll give Philip and Marc a heads-up,” Aidan replied. “I’m calling them now and alerting them to the direction they’ll be taking.”
The Westin Zagreb
Zagreb, Croatia
28 February
Wednesday, 4:21 p.m. local time
Philip and Marc were seated around the coffee table in the living room of Philip’s suite, rereading and discussing the notes they’d compiled after the first two meetings with Danijel’s CIs. Marc had handled the first meeting, and Philip the second.
Danijel had provided them both with the names of the three Albanian organized crime groups who were still operational—to varying degrees—in Croatia. One group could be immediately eliminated, given that its leader was presently spending time in prison and his whole organization was in disarray. That left two plausible groups. Marc and Philip had used that knowledge as a foundation when they questioned the CIs and had managed to pick up a few enlightening details.
Now Marc spoke up first. “After what we’ve heard so far, my instincts tell me that the Sallaku OC family is the most likely to be involved in this. From what the CIs leaked, they have the greatest interest in increasing their criminal reach throughout Europe and perhaps even beyond. In addition to drug trafficking, human trafficking is high up on their list of specialties. And they’re smart, so it’s no surprise that they’ve been linked to other dealings with the Chinese.”
Philip’s brow was furrowed and he looked distinctly unhappy. “I agree with your assessment. And if that’s the group we’re looking at, there’s another ugly, unpleasant factor we need to address.”
“That they’re also the most violent of the three groups,” Marc supplied.
“Yes, with a total disregard for human life.”
“You don’t think the payment they’re receiving from the Chinese will be enough.”
“No, I don’t. Experience tells me that Albanian OC groups like this won’t be satisfied by just quietly collecting their money and handing over the victim. I’m willing to bet that the bloodshed has already begun. Their guy who hit on Lauren and was therefore a known commodity? I’m sure he was a cutout and is already dead. Anyone and everyone who’s a threat to them, they’ll slaughter.”
“Including Lauren,” Marc added, his expression grim. “Which blows Aidan’s theory to hell. He’s been focusing on the Chinese angle, knowing that it’s in their best interests to get Lauren home alive. But the Albanians are ruthless and don’t give a shit what the Chinese want. They’ll get their money and still slit Lauren’s throat, claiming she was trying to escape and they had no choice. The way they see it, the Chinese will have gotten what they wanted, which is all their next employer will focus on. Shit, Philip, we need to bring Aidan up to speed on this because this is going to clock him cold.”
Philip nodded. “We’ll call him in ten. First, let’s brainstorm tonight’s meeting, which you’ll be handling. That way we can give him a comprehensive overview.”
“Okay.” Marc agreed because the logic made sense. But he knew his brother—and his brother’s soft spot. A young woman—someone’s daughter. The very thought that Lauren could be collateral damage in all this rather than just a bargaining chip? This was going
to be a train wreck of a conversation.
Philip was already strategizing aloud. “Danijel says that the CI you’re meeting with tonight knows a hell of a lot and has the potential motive to share it. It’s up to you to convince him to do just that. To my way of thinking, we can’t keep soft-pedaling it the way Danijel wants, just handing over money and keeping it friendly. We’ve got to find a way to push this guy hard without shutting him down.”
“I totally agree.” A corner of Marc’s mouth lifted. “You know that big Rambo knife I have?”
“Actually, I was curious what that was for.”
“Just this type of situation. While Danijel is doing the questioning and translating, and before I pay the guy off, I’ll just stare him down, silently sharpening my blade with a stone. It never fails to loosen tongues. We already know this guy has info and motive, both of which might cause him to talk. I’ll help tilt the scales in our favor. Money is one incentive. Fear is another. Together, they’re lethal.”
Philip smiled. “So to hell with diplomacy alone. I agree. These informants are afraid to talk. They’ve got to be more afraid of us than they are of the people they know.”
At that moment, Philip’s secure cell phone rang. He scooped it up.
“Yes?”
“It’s me,” Aidan said.
Instantly, Philip set down the phone and pressed the speaker button. “Marc and I were on the verge of calling you. Do you have something for us?”
“Oh, yeah,” Aidan replied. “Terri’s about to send you a private chat message with a link to a mini-dossier detailing what I’m about to briefly relay.” Aidan proceeded to tell them what Vance’s conversation with Lauren had yielded.
