The limo came to an abrupt stop behind the two jets, and the three SUVs in their little convoy formed a tight semicircle between the limo and the entrance to the airfield. Doors opened in concert, and a small army deployed, fanning out along the defensive perimeter created by the SUVs. Lea watched a two-man team set up a machine gun. This was a war zone . . . or was about to be.
Smith tapped on the window before exiting. “It’s ballistic glass. Doubtful anything will penetrate that, but heads down if it gets loud.”
He slammed the door and hustled over to join his team. Lea found that far less comforting than he’d intended it to be. The four of them sat in silence, staring at each other.
They’d bought themselves a small head start with their high-speed ascent, but now Lea saw one and then multiple sets of headlights crest the rise. The lead vehicle, an SUV, veered off the gravel road and made straight for them, picking up speed as it came. Lea heard several hollow, faraway pops. The windshield of the oncoming SUV turned a mottled white, and she watched it turn drunkenly and slam into the fence surrounding the hangar. The cars that followed took the hint and peeled away, stopping a hundred yards away. More and more vehicles arrived, spreading out across the grassy field. Headlights went off, and Lea saw a bustle of activity outside the cars, but no more shots were fired, at least for now.
The limo door opened again. Bo Huntley joined them. He handed a camouflage-green laptop to Merrick. Its hardened case looked like it could survive a five-story fall without a scratch.
“All right, sir, just need to transact a little business, and we can have you on your way. Do you have a destination in mind?”
“I’ll tell the pilot when we’re in the air.”
“Copy that. Your wife has our routing numbers.”
“She’s not my wife.”
“Thank the lord.” Veronica unfolded a crisp sheet of paper and cleared her throat, ready to read the numbers to him.
“I’m not getting a signal,” Ogden said, holding up his cell phone.
“Not an issue. The limo has a satellite hookup,” Huntley said. “So . . . CIA, huh?” Word had traveled fast.
Ogden sent a glare in Merrick’s direction. For his part, Merrick glanced over the top of the laptop at Lea and smiled reassuringly at her. Lea somehow managed to return it. Ironically, she appeared to have won over her father with ease—it was almost insulting—but to see him sitting beside her mother now made her question what she thought she meant to accomplish. Had her parents conspired since the very beginning? If so, then she’d been played right along with the rest of the world. But what else could their “arrangement” be? She wanted to scream.
It might not be nuanced, but she would have some answers.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
1,490,201.12.
Million, not billion.
It lacked a very significant zero. Gibson stared at the figure, trying to understand. It might be more money than he’d ever had at one time, but it was pocket change to someone like Charles Merrick and certainly not start-a-new-life money. This couldn’t possibly be all of it.
“Are there any other accounts?” Gibson asked Yardas, who only shook his head. “So where was the rest of the money? There’s supposed to be a billion dollars here.”
Lea’s math had been correct; Gibson had doubled-checked it himself. He tabbed through the account’s activity log, looking for signs of recent transfers. Nothing. No funds had moved in or out of this account in eight years. And what’s more, the account was liquid and had been dormant for eighteen months. So what did those fifty-six text messages mean? Gibson stared at the screen, trying to make sense of what he read.
“Where were all Merrick’s trades, Martin?”
Martin didn’t answer.
Don’t get greedy, he cautioned himself. With Merrick free, Gibson didn’t have the luxury of solving the mystery of the missing billion. A million and a half dollars, while not as much as he’d hoped, was still enough to give the Birks and the Swongers the fresh start they deserved. Enough to improve the judge’s quality of life. It was enough. So don’t get greedy. He had come too far to leave empty-handed. Gibson keyed in the transfer and entered the routing number to Birk’s account in the Caymans. His finger hovered over the enter key, stopped, and changed the amount before executing the transfer—it felt right to leave Charles Merrick a little something.
As Gibson transferred the funds, it didn’t occur to him to wonder why Yardas had fallen silent. Gibson was preoccupied, wondering if maybe there was something that he’d missed. He reached for the keyboard again as a thunderclap struck. The monitor exploded, flipping off the desk like a popcorn kernel. Gibson stared stupidly at the shattered monitor, ears ringing. The thunder came again. This time two bullets slammed into the computer’s minitower, and Gibson, with primitive understanding, threw himself to the floor.
He rolled over to see Martin Yardas holding a thick silver .357. Everything moved in that gauzy, oatmeal-slow way when his adrenaline kicked in. It gave him time to wonder about irrelevant things, such as how long Yardas had been wearing that underwear and where he’d been hiding that gun. Didn’t matter. Martin Yardas was crazy enough to use it. Gibson put his hands up, but it was the computer Yardas wanted, not Gibson. The thin man went to the desk and put another round through it like a mercy killing. Then stood there staring at it, his lips moving mechanically. Gibson couldn’t hear the words over the ringing in his ears, but when it subsided, Yardas was still saying “sorry.” Over and over as tears rolled down his face.
“Where’s the money, Martin?”
“It’s gone.”
“Gone? Where did it go?”
“Lost.”
Gibson didn’t understand what that meant. “What do you mean?”
“I lost it.”
Then Yardas cursed at the top of his lungs, doubling over at the force of it—a mad howling cry like a demon fighting an exorcism. The demon was winning.
“Lost it how?” Trying to keep him talking. Keep him on the thin side of coherent.
Yardas’s hand went white around the .357, and for a second Gibson thought he’d asked his last question, but the gun stayed pointed at the ground.
“I was supposed to invest it,” Yardas said in a whisper.
“You did.” Gibson had seen the old transaction logs on the brokerage site.
“Yeah. But I did it wrong . . . he would have been rich.”
Gibson was missing a piece of the puzzle. “Start at the beginning. How much money did Merrick have when he went to prison?”
“Three hundred and seventy million dollars.”
Much less than a billion, but Gibson still didn’t see how Merrick could have hidden it from the Justice Department. It was impossible. That kind of money would have left a trail a mile wide.
“And you’ve been investing it for him? All this time. He’s been sending you text messages with investment instructions. I saw the texts.”
“Yes.”