It wasn’t a nice laugh. It was a bitter, angry laugh and I could see he was terribly upset. I reached for his face and kissed him on the lips.
“I’m sorry, darling. I’m wiped. And finding two tons of illegal oil money in a house that’s supposed to be used to keep these corrupt, cockered measle-warts from stealing oil is just a steaming pile of horse manure on a hot fudge sundae of shitty absurdity. It’s so offensive, it’s hilarious.”
I gave him a commiserating smile and another quick kiss. I was also exhausted, but we were working against the clock. We needed to reach the airfield in less than twenty-four hours. We didn’t have time for Shakespearean insults or wallowing in the dejected ridiculousness of the situation.
I kept my voice gentle and patient. “Greg, help me think through this. Why would they leave it unguarded?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head, staring blankly forward. “Unless it’s a drop site. Unless someone is on their way to collect it right now, I don’t know.”
“Well then, what do we do? Do we take some of it?”
“No. I was expecting a large briefcase or a box. If this group has enough money at their disposal to leave two tons of it sitting in a garage, in an unguarded house, where anyone could come upon it, then they’d definitely never ransom the hostages for a mere million or two. We have to take all of it or none of it.”
“So . . . U-Haul?” I asked, half-joking, removing myself from his lap. Whatever vehicle we used, it would have to be big.
He shook his head. “We can’t risk renting a vehicle. And besides, we don’t have time. We need something close by, something large, something no one would suspect or question.”
I stared at him as he peered unseeingly at a spot over my shoulder. I hated to think we’d come this far, come this close, and would fail because of two metric tons of cash. I’d spent twelve hours in a crate just to . . . to . . . wait a minute.
I gripped his hand and shook him. He stared at me blankly while my mouth curved into a triumphant smile. “Greg, I think I have a way for us to move the money.”
CHAPTER 15
Wife: What is the password for the Amazon account?
Husband: I can’t send it to you via text, it’s not secure
Wife: Send me the password or I will cut you
Husband: I don’t negotiate with terrorists
Wife: Send me the password and I will send you naked pictures
Husband: Here is the password…
-Penny and Mr. Penny
Text Messages
Florida, USA
Married 14 years
Present Day
Fiona
Dr. Evans was scowling at my husband.
“You want to do what with my mobile clinic vehicle?”
“Move one hundred million dollars of corrupt oil money.”
Her eyes bounced between Greg and me, her eyebrows suspended on her forehead. After a protracted moment, she shook her head. But before she could speak, Greg cut her off.
“Think of it this way: you use the mobile clinic to save lives, yes?”
She didn’t respond, just stared at him like he was a fool.
“I’ll take your absence of outward affirmation as a yes,” he pressed on, slurring his words a little. The kidnapping and subsequent lack of rest was catching up with him. “That’s what we want to do. We want to use your mobile clinic to save the lives of six people.”
“By moving one hundred million dollars belonging to a murderous and corrupt faction of the Nigerian government?”
“That’s right,” he agreed quickly, then amended absentmindedly, “except it doesn’t really belong to them, does it? It belongs to the people of Nigeria.”
For the first time since we’d woken her up, her expression softened. Dr. Evans’s gaze traveled over Greg once more, like she was seeing him anew.
I didn’t blame her for her reluctance. After Alex responded with the address for Doctors Without Borders in Enugu, we hadn’t merely woken her at two in the morning. We’d broken into the hospital, found her sleeping quarters, placed a hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming, restrained her limbs, and—hovering over her bed—announced our presence. Our methods were sloppy, but well-intentioned.
Now we were sitting in the small staff kitchen and she was hovering over us.
In truth, we were tremendously tired.
I hadn’t been this tired since Grace was three months old and Jack was two and a half; I was at home with the kids by myself, and I’d just been diagnosed with mastitis (breast infection). CIA SERE training (Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape) had actually been quite helpful preparing me for the exhaustion of motherhood.
“What are you going to do with the money?”
Greg looked to me and I braced myself for her reaction. “We can’t tell you.”
Her face hardened again and she straightened her back. “You can’t be serious.”