What he found, however, was another impromptu performance, this one involving a digital camera held by Echo and a copy of the day’s newspaper clutched by Lana. The flash went off a couple of times, as a stoic-faced Echo snapped Lana’s picture.
Deacon could imagine how the Kelley family would react when they received the photo. Lana’s beautiful face was as pale as the white wall behind her. Smudges of exhaustion marred her ashen face, and her lips were set in a tired line. As she’d promised him, she sat there obediently, not once acting on the flicker of anger he saw lurking in the shadows of her eyes.
He smothered a wild groan. Why was this still going on? The video, the pictures, the pointless phone calls—he got the feeling this was all being done for theatrics, and when Le Clair clapped his hands to signal the shoot was over and offered Lana a gracious smile, Deacon’s suspicions were only confirmed.
This was a game. A sick, twisted, waste-of-time game.
The boss spotted Deacon in the doorway and headed his way. They stepped out into the hall, followed by Echo, who was studying the photos he’d just captured. He handed the camera to Le Clair, who glanced at the pictures and nodded in approval.
“Good job,” Le Clair said. He closed the door to Lana’s room, then turned to face them. “I’m heading out. Man the fort while I’m gone.”
Deacon’s chest flooded with satisfaction. Yes. Finally.
“How long will you be gone?” he asked tentatively.
“A day. Two at the most. The exchange is being set up.”
Deacon’s satisfaction faded into concern. Crap. That didn’t sound good. Maybe the game was reaching its end point.
“Exchange?” he echoed.
Le Clair looked smug. “The good senator has agreed to sacrifice himself for his little girl.”
What the hell did that mean? Although Deacon had suspected it for a long time, it now became painfully obvious that money had never been a factor in this equation. Whatever Le Clair’s bosses wanted from Hank Kelley, it wasn’t his cash.
The fact that Le Clair spoke of an “exchange” did nothing to convince Deacon that the man planned on letting Lana go. He sensed this was one big trap, and that in the end, both father and daughter would wind up dead.
Good thing he was getting her out of here.
Tonight.
After Le Clair left, Deacon prepared lunch for Lana, then walked into the bedroom he’d been sharing with Echo and quietly got his gear together. He slid the packed duffel under the bed with the toe of his black boot, then spent the rest of the day out in the November cold, watching the apartment as ordered. By five-thirty, the sun dipped toward the horizon, darkening the sky to a burnt orange.
It was time.
He entered the building just as Echo and Tango exited to take over the perimeter. With Kilo up on the roof with his rifle, Deacon had only one fellow kidnapper to contend with: Oscar.
As they rode the elevator up to the third floor, Deacon fought a wave of unease. He would’ve preferred someone other than Oscar in the apartment. Out of all the men, Oscar was definitely the biggest wild card. Somber-faced, distant and disgustingly in awe of Le Clair. But the quick ease with which he responded to Le Clair’s commands could prove useful here.
“Crap, I forgot to grab a thermometer,” Deacon said as he and Oscar entered the living room.
Oscar glanced over blankly. “What?”
“Le Clair asked me to pick one up from the drugstore over on the next block.” Deacon made a big show of looking frazzled—running a hand through his hair, shifting impatiently. “The princess complained she’s coming down with the flu. He wants to make sure this isn’t a ploy on her part.” Now he looked at the watch strapped to his wrist, frowning. “Do you know how to cook?”
The vacant look only deepened. “Huh?”
Deacon had grown used to the monosyllabic grunts that seemed to be the whole of Oscar’s vocabulary, other than “yes, sir,” of course.
“We need to bring her dinner.” Deacon tilted his head. “I’m in charge of the cooking, but you’ll need to do it if I’m going to run to the drugstore.”
Oscar’s dark eyes flitted in the direction of the kitchen, and he noticeably cringed. Deacon hid a grin. He had been banking on the man’s lack of culinary prowess.
“Unless you’d rather do the drugstore run,” he offered graciously.
The other man brightened. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll d’that. Thermometer, y’said?”
That was another one of Oscar’s speech glitches, forming contractions of words that had no business being joined. Deacon resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead pasting on a grateful expression. “That would be great. And pick up some cold and flu medication, something over the counter, just in case the girl really is coming down with something.”
He got a grunt in response. Oscar was already heading to the door. “B’back soon.”
“Thanks, buddy,” Deacon called after Oscar’s retreating back.