Guns and Roses (55 page)

Jack shrugs. “Is there any way you can turn off the sensors?”

“Ha! I wish . . . No, wait! I can raise the heat on the vault’s thermostat, to 99 degrees. That will offset any readings it takes from your body heat. But you’ll have exactly a minute before it trips an alarm to the bank’s central security division.”

Jack murmurs, “I’m ready when you are.”

There is a moment of silence before we hear Arnie again. “Okay, it’s now up around 72 degrees…78…81…85…89…92…”

Yes, we can feel it. In no time, sweat is rolling down our faces.

“It just hit 99 degrees. So make your move,” Arnie says.

In a flash, Jack is at the far wall. He pulls Box Number 1761, sets it on the large table in the middle of the room, and goes at it with a carbide pick.

“Hurry, dude! I’ve got to start lowering the thermostat…like…
now.”
Whenever he’s anxious, Arnie’s voice goes up an octave. Let’s just say he could join any touring company of
Jersey Boys
right about now.

Near the ceiling, faint trails of the infrared sensors are beginning to reappear.

“Yes!” Jack holds up a memory stick for a second, before pocketing it. “Let’s go!”

The rays are now crisscrossing the top half of the vault. Jack crouches low as he bounds out of the room, but then he freezes when a red line pierces the floor in front of him.

Another cuts horizontally, waist high.

A third zips right past his head, missing his left ear by a mere inch.

The only thing he can do now is drop onto his belly, and crawl toward the door.

“Move a little to your right,” I direct him. “Good! Okay slowly… slowly… Now roll left, about four feet… Stop! Okay you’re a straight shot to the door—”

He’s got just another five feet to go when three rays angle themselves into a star, directly in his path.

“Jack, freeze! Let me think this through.” I crouch down for a better view. “Can you tuck and roll into a power jump? That would get you through it.”

“What? Are you nuts? Need I remind you that not all of us were cheerleaders in high school?”

“Don’t knock it! It’s the most athletic pursuit, female
or
male, that schools can offer it students. Not to mention it encourages school spirit—Agh! Don’t get me started. Okay, here’s how we’re going to do it: you’re going to get into a crouch with your arms straight out. I’ll grab your forearms and pull you through slowly, about halfway. Once your torso is through the doorway, you’ll have to leap straight out at me or you’ll trip that last ray. Got it?”

He nods with a frown.

I’m sure he’ll look at cheerleaders differently, from now on.

If I let him look at them at all.

As he positions himself, I squat down too, directly across from him.  “Remember, stay low—”

“Donna, just do it. Before I pull a hamstring or something else,” he mutters.

I take his forearms. Slowly I pull him through: arms, head, and torso—

He perches like a heron, balancing himself on one leg as he waits for my final signal—that I’ve got his back, or in this case his arms above his elbows.

That he’s in the clear.

That I won’t let go.

Not on your life.

Certainly not on his.

“Now!” I shout.

He springs toward me.

At the same time, I yank him so hard that he falls on top of me.

No bells or whistles.

Just the sound of our heavy breathing.

His heart is beating as fast as mine, and I’m guessing that the jubilant look on his face mirrors my own.

We could high-five, but we kiss instead.

“Yee-
hah!
” Arnie shouts in our ears. “Guys, you did it! ... Guys? ... Anyone there? Either your eyes or closed, or you’ve gone dark on me... But I can hear you breathing, so... Hey!
The Quorum!
Remember?”

Jack sighs as he rolls off me.

It’s party time.

9:33 pm

The Quorum hides in plain sight.

From the cabin of our Stingray 225-SX speedboat, we have a clear shot of its ten-acre hilltop estate, which crowns Sunset Point, high over the sandy beaches cradling Bahia San Lucas.

The forty-two room, three-story villa has a dead-on view of Land’s End, where the gentle azure waves flowing south from the Sea of Cortez are slammed into a high flying spray by the roiling jade Pacific. There, you’ll find
El Arco
, or “the Arch,” a natural stone keyhole carved out of the seaside cliff by wind and surf and God’s good graces, for the rest of us to gasp in awe at nature’s beauty.

In honor of Cupid’s day of love, the Quorum’s event is a red-and-white ball. The invitation in my hand, secured earlier by Ryan, belongs to a dowager heiress too ill to attend, thanks to a few eye drops of Binaca slipped into her chocolate mousse during lunch with her golf partners at the Dunes Course at Diamante. Jack’s golden ticket was stolen from the hotel inbox of a producer. (Broadway, not film, so no one should miss him, anyway.)

Not that anyone could be recognized at this shindig in the first place, everyone will be wearing masks.

“Ah, hell,” roars Ryan, when he reads that in the invitation. “There goes the whole purpose of taking pictures.”

“Not necessarily,” Arnie pipes up. “Depends on the mask. If any parts of their ugly mugs are exposed, our facial recognition software may still pick up enough distinctive features to ID some of the fat cats.”

All heads turn to the computer monitor in front of us, where the Quorum’s floor plan is displayed.

“Donna, there is a secure elevator hidden in the library, here.” Ryan taps a windowless room, accessed through a hallway next to the grand ballroom. “You’ll find it behind a bookcase.”

“The books look real, but they are all just one big façade—except for
Ulysses
, smack dab in the middle of the third shelf.” Arnie explains. “Just tilt it down. I guess they figured no one would ever open that one—and
voilà,
you’re in.”

“The elevator goes straight up through the villa, to the top floor,” Ryan says. He taps the screen. “It drops you in the only room up there. Once you’re inside, go to the console holding the computer.”

“You’ll insert this memory stick,” Arnie interjects. He’s holding up a tiny black USB flash drive. “It’s been programmed to duplicate the computer’s data and email files. That should take exactly six minutes. A minute later it will drop a worm into the computer’s hard drive, which will then transmit any new data files created or viewed, whether they’re loaded onto the Quorum’s secure server, or sent to a cloud.”

“The sooner, the better,” Ryan mutters. “Our cousins have picked up some unsettling chatter on their side of the pond. There’s to be a surprise attack, at eleven o’clock tonight Pacific Time.”

“I guess their little shindig gives every Quorum suspect an alibi, since that’s exactly when the party’s over-the-bay fireworks show begins.”

I’m almost afraid to ask, but I have to do it. “Where will the bombing take place?”

“That’s the problem. It’s not just one city on the hitlist, but fourteen,” Ryan answers. “London, New York, Paris, Tokyo, Leningrad, Moscow, Jerusalem, Berlin, Rome, Geneva, Toronto, Argentina, Beijing, and—I’m sorry to say, folks: our hometown, too.”

Los Angeles.

My children are in danger.

And I’m not home to protect them.

I want to cry.

No. I want to stop the Quorum.

Jack gives a low, slow whistle. “Just great. Another Valentine’s Day massacre.”

10:16 p.m.

My floor-length, candy apple red, sequined jersey gown is strapless, has a big bow in back, and fits me like a second skin. It looks great with my sleek, chin-grazing platinum-blond wig.

If I find myself in trouble, my ring has a Roofie prick, and my heels truly are stilettos.

Not to mention that I’ve got a two-inch-long Swiss MiniGun tucked in my bustier. It fires bullets at a speed of 399 feet per second.

Don’t worry. The safety is on.

In case the Quorum’s security also has face recognition software, my papier-mâché mask makes me a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe. The crowd is thick enough that both Jack and I have blended in easily. So that I can spot him in this throng of white tuxedos jackets, his mask has the face of Charlie Sheen.

Talk about having a sense of humor.

Our orders are very clear. As Jack circles the crowd like everyone’s tiger-blooded best friend so that Arnie can download as many digital impressions as possible, I’ll plant the bug, sound the all-clear, and meet Jack at the Stingray, which Arnie has tied up in an inlet behind this pile of stone and stucco.

Whenever the plain-tux goon squad looks my way, I chat up some mucketymuck until I’m in the all-clear. I’ve recognized a few British soccer players and American Basketball players, a handful of Oscar film stars, and way too many Kardashians.

A group of three women break off to find a powder room, and I make it a point to join them. Complimenting one of them on her dress puts me in the thick of their entourage, but I break away when I’m next to the staircase that coils on the wall over the library.

Arnie is right. The wall of books looks real enough, but only one actually moves:
Ulysses.

The bookcase swings out silently. Inside the elevator, there is only one button to push.

Going up—

To take them down
.

The ride is slow and silent. Finally, the door opens. A few moments pass before for my eyes to adjust to the only light in the room: the glow of the stars reflected in the bay, below the balcony’s glass doors. When I do, I see the console. It holds just one thing: a desktop computer.

I pull the memory stick from a tiny waterproof pocket sewn into one of my opera gloves, and input it into one of the computer’s USB ports. Immediately the stick does its thing, blinking blue to indicate it’s reading and loading into its memory.

I count down the seconds on the computer’s digital clock.

As if that will make time go any faster.

Finally, the stick flashes green, indicating that its Trojan Horse is being downloaded into the computer’s stable of files.

I’ve just pulled the memory stick from the computer and slipped it back into the tiny waterproof pocket in my glove when a voice behind me says, “I thought I’d find you here.”

I look up to find myself staring at Charlie Sheen.

He steps out of the shadows. Those broad shoulders are a sight for sore eyes.

“Perfect timing,” I scold him. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What’s the rush? Don’t you want to stay for the fireworks?”

The voice isn’t Jack’s.

But yes, I know it…

“Thanks, but I’ve already got a date,” I purr, as I move closer. “Since we’re together, there is one thing I’d like to do…”

Playfully I run my fingers up the lapel of his tux until I’m close enough to pat his bowtie—

Which I grab with both hands, choking him.

“Finish you off once and for all,
you son of a bitch.”

10:56pm

He’s too strong for me. After wrenching my hands from his neck, he twists my arms behind my back until they ache in agony. I know he’d like to hear me scream from the pain, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.

“How did you know it was me?” I ask.

He grins down at me. “That necklace. How could I forget it?”

Ah, hell. I’d forgotten to take it off when I dressed for the party.

I shrug. “What can I say? It’s my favorite. ”

He yanks the mask off his face, then does the same to mine. His hand lingers on my cheek, which he strokes gently—

Before slapping it.

I don’t even flinch, although it smarts like hell.

Instead, I smile. “Frankly, I’m surprised to see you here. No, make that disappointed. I’d hoped you would have bled out by now.”

“You’re not as good of a shot as you’d like to think.”

“Hey, it’s hard to shoot at a moving target when you’re half-conscious from a serious gunshot wound. So I guess that means you’re not much of a marksman, either.”

He pulls me closer. “I’m good at some of the things you like. Remember?”

I want to spit in his face. Instead, I smile up at him. I can only imagine how much he hates my smile.

I test that theory by whispering, “Maybe you should refresh my memory.”