“Are you telling me you killed one of your co-conspirators because he hit his daughter?”
“I killed him because he was becoming a liability,” Kostas replied, a hint of annoyance entering his voice. “I don’t feel bad about it because he hit his daughter. He’s a doctor who premeditatedly killed one of his patients. He was not an honorable man.”
And what do you call a Secret Service agent who murders three people to cover up the fact that he helped kill a Supreme Court justice?
“The doctor killed for money,” Kostas told me as the phone started ringing again. He picked the phone up and, with one sharp movement, snapped it between his hands.
Special Forces, I thought dully, wondering if he could snap my neck just as quickly. Just as easily.
“You didn’t kill for money.” I repeated back what he had—essentially—told me.
I was tied to this chair. There was no way out. The only advantage I had was that my captor did not seem to want to kill me. Understanding him and playing off that might be the difference between life and death.
“I get why you killed the doctor,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even and calm. “He was a liability. So was the reporter. But what about Judge Pierce?”
No reply.
“I guess Pierce wasn’t very honorable, either.” Still nothing, so I pressed on. “What about Justice Marquette? Wasn’t he an honorable man?” No response. “Why would you get into bed with Major Bharani and Judge Pierce? It wasn’t money.”
Kostas retrieved a new disposable cell, still in the package, from his bag. He ripped the package open and began dialing the phone.
“Why would you agree to poison a good man?” I let the question hang in the air.
Kostas looked up, his face terrifyingly neutral, like I wasn’t having this one-sided conversation tied to a chair, like he wasn’t mentally preparing himself to kill me if the need arose.
“My problem,” Kostas answered abruptly. “Pierce was made aware of my problem. He was in a position to fix it.”
There was a hint of emotion in his voice when he talked about his problem. It wasn’t a money problem. My gut told me it wasn’t about power, either. This was a man who was tasked with protecting the life of the president. It was his job to take a bullet for President Nolan, and looking at him now, I could almost believe that he would have done it.
What could Pierce possibly have offered this man—what problem could Kostas possibly have—that he was willing to throw his life away for? Willing to kill for?
“Pierce came to you,” I said. “He offered to solve your problem. He arranged this whole thing.”
Kostas stilled. An expression I couldn’t quite read flitted over his features. A moment later, it was gone. “You talk too much,” he said abruptly. Without warning, he crossed the room to stand in front of me, too close for comfort.
I clamped my mouth closed.
He finished dialing, then held the disposable phone up to my ear. “Talk to your sister.”
“Ivy?” My voice cracked halfway through her name.
“Tessie?” Ivy’s voice didn’t crack. It didn’t break. But somehow, that one word was enough to tell me she was already broken.
“He has me in a basement somewhere,” I said, rushing the words out. “A big building. There’s electrical wiring to one side—”
Kostas took the phone from my ear. “You asked for proof of life,” he said. “You have twelve hours to get me what I need.”
He hung up the phone—and didn’t say another word to me for eleven hours.
CHAPTER 57
I had one hour left to live. Ivy had one hour to give Kostas what he wanted—whatever that was.
I tried talking to him, even though my throat was like sandpaper, even though he’d stopped replying hours ago. If Kostas was going to kill me, he could do it while I was speaking to him. He could watch the life go out of my body and know that he had no honor.
I’d moved past the denial stage of things. Now I was pissed.
“It’s my life. I’m the one who’s going to die if Ivy doesn’t solve your problem. The least you can do is tell me what it is you need her to do.”
He didn’t say a word. It was like he didn’t even hear me. Like he was steeling himself, already, to do what needed to be done.
I don’t want to die. It was a stupid thought, a cliché one, thought by everyone who was about to die, ever.
“I don’t want to die.” I said it out loud. “I don’t want to—”
“I heard you.” Kostas broke his silence. “For what little it is worth, I don’t want for you to die, either.”
“But you will kill me.”
He didn’t reply. That silence was answer enough. He would kill me.
I’m no good to him dead. I clung to that thought. If he killed me, he lost his leverage.