“But she might know something about Bosworth we can feed to him.”
Him. Corning. Daddy’s rival for the presidency is behind this? I’ve met Nolan Corning a few times over the years, always at large public appearances for Congress. He’s a big man with a bald head and sharp predator’s eyes, jowls hanging and saggy skin making him look older than he is. Side by side, he and my dad look like Mutt and Jeff, tall and short, even though they’re only five or six years apart.
Nolan Corning obstructed a bunch of bills Daddy tried to get through on transportation and energy, even though they’re in the same party. He also is one of those old men who insists on kissing you on the mouth when you’re a kid, even if you don’t want to.
But that’s literally all I know about him.
Why would he want me to be raped and tortured – and now killed? What did I ever do to Nolan Corning?
Drew
Cramming myself into the hidden compartment of a surveillance van after having the shit kicked out of me by law enforcement is about as much fun as you’d expect.
I think I lost half a testicle and all vestiges of self respect as Silas drives me into Tiffany’s open garage. He kills the engine, the doors close, and I unpretzel myself, ignoring the pain, trying to will my half-broken right shoulder to cooperate. Adrenaline shoots through me like fireworks in the sky on the fourth of July.
It has to be enough. I have to be enough.
I have to get next door and save her.
What they’re doing is obvious. Set me up as a crazy ex-boyfriend stalker, then kill her in my apartment. Stage the murder. Make me the scapegoat. Leave Harry and Monica in the impossible position of having hired the very man who “killed” their daughter.
It’s a brilliant set-up.
And I’d admire it more if I weren’t the setee.
“Get out of here,” I tell Silas as he grabs my gear. “If they start sniffing around, I’ll need you on the outside.”
“You can’t be in here alone.”
“I have to. You need to be ready with a team if it gets bad enough. Right now, we can’t storm my apartment. They’ll just kill her.” Adrenaline floods me, making this conversation feel slow and cumbersome.
“Then we need to communicate on a secured line.”
“Agreed.”
“Is any line secured with these guys?” Silas asks. “You’re the cybersecurity expert.”
“I’m not an expert. I’m just smarter than anyone else on our team. We need to up our game and find someone better than me.”
“We aren’t rolling in time here, Drew.”
I take a few precious seconds and ponder. Closing my eyes, I clear my mind.
Time to decide.
Time to act on the decision.
“Use a secured line. This is all about to go down within thirty minutes. By the time they realize I’m there they’ll be dead.”
His look makes it clear he’s not sure who will be dead in thirty minutes, but he believes that someone will.
“I’ll continue tracking down Paulson.” Silas’s eyes meet mine. “I want to believe he’s not involved, but the longer he goes without being reached...”
“One of three scenarios is possible with Mark: he’s on the other side, he’s detained, or he’s been harmed. Only one of those actually matters operationally.”
Silas doesn’t even flinch.
More proof I’ve trained him well.
“Let’s hope it’s the middle one,” he mumbles.
“Hope isn’t a strategy.”
“No, it isn’t, but there’s nothing wrong with keeping some.”
“Only if it doesn’t get in the way of the mission, Gentian.”
“Dr – I mean, Pete!” Tiffany appears, her voice dropping from a high-pitched affect to a whisper. She is done to the nines, with eyelashes that look like dead spiders attached to her eyelids.
She is wearing short shorts that make Daisy Duke look like a nun. A tight flannel shirt with breasts spilling out everywhere.
And a pink tool belt.
“Oh, my God, Drew – er, Pete! What happened to you?” Genuine concern floods her expression, making her look younger and older at the same time. Her hands fly to her mouth, perfectly manicured, with nail polish the color of sand. “You look awful! Did you get into an accident?”
One simple rule I’ve learned in my line of work: people will give you your excuse. Just pause and don’t say a word. Ninety percent of the time, they hand it to you.
“Yeah,” I say, grimacing. “Bad bike accident.”
“You ride a motorcycle?”
“No. Bicycle.”
Her face falls, as if that’s disappointing. “Oh. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine. Just a flesh wound, right?” I need to speed this up.
She frowns, but drops the topic. “I’m so glad you’re here, Pete. Who’s your friend?” She goes from friendly to seductive.
“Ah, this is Joey.” Joey is the name of Silas’ cat.
“Joey. Love it.” Tiffany shakes his hand. “You here for the filming?” She cranes her neck around him. “Where’s the camera crew?”
“They’re coming separately.”
“Pete is here to block the scene,” Silas adds.
“And you’re here to...”
“Leave. Joey was just leaving. He’ll be back with the crew later. I need access to the wall between our apartments, Tiffany, to do some drilling.”
“Drilling?” Her eyes fly wide with fright. “I don’t own this place. You never said anything about drilling!”
“All expenses will be covered by the production company,” I say. It’s a lie. I will definitely pay for any damage, though.
If I live.
Her body relaxes with relief. “Oh. Sure. Right. Like Extreme Home Makeover, huh?”
“Exactly,” Silas says, nodding as he gives me a sardonic look.
“Okay. As long as you have insurance or something in the contract so I don’t get sued.” Her lips pout and her eyebrows go down. “You do have a contract, right?”
“I have to go drop by legal and get them to give me the newest version,” Silas says casually, like it’s no big deal. Like he’s not lying.
“Perfect.” She looks around nervously. Her hair, long and flowing over her shoulders, moves as one piece, like a LEGO toy hair helmet. “We’re not filming now, are we?” she whispers.