The Kill Order (19 page)

31

S
hock, then adrenaline flooded through Sydney’s veins, and her heart thudded triple time at the sight of Griffin in the middle of the parking lot as the gunman took aim.

She shifted into gear, stabbed at the gas pedal, then laid on the horn, driving straight toward them. Anything to cause a distraction, take their focus off Griffin and Donovan.

And just when she was wondering how the hell she could get Griffin, still handcuffed, into the van, then get Donovan and somehow get past the gunmen to exit the parking lot, the headlights of a car pulled behind the two sedans, silhouetting the gunmen. Several more cars followed. The gunmen turned to see who was entering, their attention diverted.

She didn’t stop to look, instead driving between them and Donovan. And then through the open window, she heard the deep bass of a stereo shaking the air, and someone yelling, “Par-tay!” and then the flash of cell phone cameras.

Horns started honking as more cars poured into the lot, and in a matter of seconds it was nothing but people yelling, music playing, red plastic cups being tossed, and beer flying.

The gunmen seemed to falter as the area grew more crowded. And then Griffin was at her window. “Knife!” he yelled.

She jumped out of the van, dug the knife from her pocket, cut the plastic tie around his wrists.

“Get ready,” he told her. “I’m going back for Donovan.”

She nodded, climbed into the driver’s seat, putting the van into gear, her foot on the brake. A moment later, Griffin was there, dragging Donovan into the van, and before he could even close the door, he was yelling at her to leave.

She slammed her foot on the gas pedal and gunned it straight toward the exit. Papers from the folder were flying across the lot beneath the tires of vehicles filled with kids and lighted cell phones as they snapped pictures of anyone and everyone, and she glimpsed the gunmen scrambling for the papers. She didn’t slow until she was certain they weren’t being followed, and even then she didn’t stop, making sure they were well away from the area.

“Donnie boy,” Griffin said. “Come on . . .”

She glanced in the rearview mirror, saw him leaning over Donovan.

“How bad is it?” she asked.

“Hit his shock plate.”

“He was wearing a vest?”

Donovan moaned. “It hurts to breathe.”

“Probably bruised a couple ribs,” Griffin said. “And one killer lump on his head where he hit the ground.”

“Oh my God,” Sydney said, leaning back in her seat, feeling as if she could barely breathe herself. “How okay is he? Hospital?”

“He’s fine,” Griffin said.

And then Donovan, saying, “Hell. We need to get Izzy.”

Sydney made a U-turn at the next signal, glancing over at Griffin when they stopped in traffic. “How are you?”

“Considering I thought we were all dead? Ecstatic. Definitely better than the guards. What the hell happened back there? Where’d all those cars come from?”

“Honestly?” Donovan said. “I don’t have a clue. But thank God they arrived when they did.”

“Oh no . . .” Sydney said, looking back at them. “You don’t think . . . Izzy?”

Donovan laughed, then grabbed on to his chest.

She pulled into the coffee shop lot, and through the plate-glass window, they saw Izzy sitting at a table, a tall coffee in front of him as he worked away at his laptop, one foot bouncing as though he were fueled by way too much caffeine. When he noticed them, he closed the laptop and hurried out. “You’re back.”

Griffin opened the rear door to let him in. “Don’t suppose you had anything to do with that interesting showing out there?”

He grinned. “Might’ve sent word that there was a wild party and the first hundred people to show would get free beer.”

“That was extremely dangerous,” Donovan said in a stern voice. “So don’t do it again. But damn.” He reached out, gave him a slight punch in the shoulder. “You saved our lives.”

“So where we going?” Izzy asked.

“Good question,” Griffin replied. “Whoever they were, they knew exactly where we were going and what we were doing.”

“Which means,” Donovan added, “someone’s either very intuitive, or they’ve got a pulse on our actions
and
conversations.”

“Guys . . .”

Everyone turned to hear what Izzy had to say.

“If they are government agents, they’ve probably got all the bells and whistles you guys do. Which means, cell phones? Any one of yours could now be a listening device. It’s not like they don’t know who you are.”

To which they all promptly removed their batteries.

“We need a place to regroup,” Griffin said.

“Where?” Donovan asked. “When they know every place we live? They have Lisette’s home down, definitely Sydney’s.”

She didn’t even want to think about going back there. “What about Scotty?”

“If anyone’s associated with us,” Griffin told her, “they’re going to have them on their radar.”

“I have one possibility,” Sydney said. “A weekend retreat at a bed-and-breakfast that Scotty gave me. It was some promotional thing he won, which means it’s not connected to the Internet in his name. Maybe they’ll reconsider and take us on a weekday.”

“One room?” Donovan said. “For all of us?”

“If you think of a better idea, let me know.”

“Actually,” Griffin said, “it could work. Small establishment like that makes it easier to stay off the grid.”

“So what do we do? Just show up?”

“Unless someone’s got a cell phone that they can guarantee isn’t compromised.”

“I do,” Izzy said.

He handed it to Sydney. She made the call, hoping there’d be a room open, since she hadn’t confirmed the reservation. She made up a story to the proprietor about a family reunion that lasted longer than they thought.

“You’re in luck. Winter isn’t exactly bustling. What was the name?”

“Scott Ryan.”

“Of course. And your name?”

“Sydney Fitzpatrick.”

“When might we expect you, Ms. Fitzpatrick?”

“I’m not sure. I have a few errands to run. But tonight.”

“We’ll have the room ready for you.”

“Any chance you have another? I have friends who are interested.”

“I do, but there will be a charge. It’s not included in the promotional offer.”

“That’s okay. You do accept cash?”

“Oh. Of course,” the woman said, her voice warming. “I’ll see you in a while, Ms. Fitzpatrick.”

The first thing they did before driving out there was stop off at the local Wal-Mart, buying prepaid cell phones and minutes to go with them, as well as a second laptop, since Izzy insisted that he’d need another to work with.

The inn, an old converted barn house, was located in the woods just the other side of the Potomac in McLean, Virginia. Had they not been there under such dire circumstances, Sydney might have enjoyed the old country charm. As it was, they were tense, tired, and feeling a bit out of sorts, especially, at least in Sydney’s case, when faced with the notion that there were only two rooms.

The innkeeper, Betsy, a spritely woman in her sixties, was happy to see Griffin’s cash as he paid for the extra room up front. She eyed the four of them. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit cozy. There’s only one queen-sized bed in each room.”

Sydney about choked. “I— Are you sure there isn’t another room available?”

“I’m sorry, dear.” She slid two room keys across the counter. The keychain on each had a color written on it. One blue and one green. “But the blue room has a small couch if that helps.”

Donovan grabbed the blue key, saying, “I’m injured. I need my own bed. Izzy can have the couch.”

Sydney felt her face heat up slightly, realizing the position she was suddenly in. “How many rollaway beds do you have?”

“None. I do apologize.”

“We’ll manage,” Griffin said, all business. “I don’t suppose you have anything to eat or drink this late?” He set down a hundred-dollar bill.

She smiled. “I’m sure we can find something.”

O
nce they were settled in their rooms, which were down the hall from each other, they met up in the blue room’s private dining area. Betsy served them dinner, left them the wine and brandy, then excused herself to bed after telling them to leave the dishes there and she’d get them in the morning.

As they ate, they went over plans. Izzy was busy setting up his new computer. Donovan was nursing a glass of brandy.

“Let’s have a look at that chest,” Griffin said.

Donovan lifted his shirt. There was an L-shaped purple bruise where the shock plate had pressed against the ballistic vest when the round hit. “As long as I don’t laugh, I’m fine.”

“Damned lucky you suited up.”

“Like I was going to go rescuing you
without
wearing gear?”

“Thanks, by the way.” Griffin lifted his glass. “To all of you. For not leaving me out there.”

They all lifted their glasses, drank, and after the conversation died, Sydney decided that her best option was to be in bed
before
Griffin got there. She stood, told everyone good night, then left.

Of course one thing she hadn’t thought of was that she had nothing to sleep in. And when she was standing there, trying to decide what to do, Griffin walked in, closing the door behind him, and with their near-death escape, and the brandy coursing through her veins, she was having one hell of a time trying to remember that she was furious over his actions in Mexico, and his failure to tell her about them. “I’m still mad at you,” she said.

“I realize that.” He locked the door, and she was certain she heard her heart thumping through the wall of her chest as he turned, looked at her, then crossed the room, not stopping until he was directly in front of her. He reached out, ran his finger along her cheek. “And you have every right to be. There’s no excuse, except . . . I knew I’d lose you.”

That’s exactly how she’d felt tonight, when she saw him running from the gunmen, believing he’d be shot along with Donovan.

“Answer one thing for me,” he said, “and I’ll do whatever it is you want. There’s a couch downstairs. I can sleep on that.”

“What?” she said, noting he hadn’t moved, was still standing entirely too close to her.

“Tell me you haven’t thought about the first time we kissed on those stairs in Rome. That you haven’t asked yourself what might have been.”

“It doesn’t matter what I wanted then.”

“It does. Remove our jobs from the equation. If we’d met anywhere else, we’d be together.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Close your eyes, Sydney.”

She shook her head.

He moved closer. “Do it.”

She hesitated, knew she should just order him out, but then, without knowing why, did as he asked.

He lowered his head toward her, whispered in her ear, and she could feel the heat of his breath on her skin. “Think about that time in Rome when we were standing on the stairs at the safe house.”

“Nothing happened.”

“But you remember that moment. As much as I do.”

The very realization that
he
remembered was intoxicating in itself. She’d been so certain that he would kiss her, but he hadn’t. It left her wanting him more. Just as he said, imagining what might have been.

“And that night in Amsterdam,” he continued, his voice lowering as he moved even closer. “At the museum . . .”

“We kissed . . .” She wasn’t even sure if he heard her, the words catching in her throat. They’d pretended they were lovers as part of their cover. It had been snowing and she remembered the chill of the cold stone wall behind her and the warmth of him against her . . .

“And Paris . . .” he whispered. “The hotel . . . I can still feel you in my arms, taste the brandy on your lips . . . Tell me you remember . . .”

She nodded, the memories as vivid now as they were then. They flooded her senses. She remembered his kiss, the way he slipped his hand inside the shoulder of her pajamas, his skin against hers, and then just when she was sure her knees would give out, he carried her to the bed. She’d thought about each of those nights, how close they came, how much she’d wanted him.

He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, trailed his finger along her collar, then downward, lingering at the vee. He kissed her neck, scraped his teeth softly against her skin. A shiver went through her, and the nerves and muscles in her stomach quivered. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close, his mouth against hers.

She
had
wanted this. From the very beginning. Right now it didn’t matter that she hated herself for giving in to her baser desires. The only thing she cared about at that moment was getting as close to him as she could, feeling her skin against his, his hands on her body. God help her, because she couldn’t stop herself.

And before she knew it, they were on the bed, tearing at each other’s clothes, at their own, their breathing becoming ragged, faster, harder . . .

32

Venice, Italy

H
er capacity for memorizing aside, Piper didn’t know whether it had been the blow to her head as a child that had made her a quick learner, or the fact that life had usually dealt her a poor hand, starting with nearly every foster home she’d ever lived in.

It didn’t matter how book smart you were, she thought, watching her kidnapper in the next room through the partially open door. One didn’t survive in the U.S. foster system without some form of street smarts, at least not in the types of homes in which she’d been placed. Lying on her side on a narrow, unmade bed, she struggled to loosen the duct tape binding her wrists behind her back. Her ankles were also bound together, and she could do little more than lie there.

Her captor, Vittorio, looked over at her every now and then, undoubtedly checking to make sure she didn’t move. He was talking on the phone in Italian, and she wished she’d been hit in the part of the head that allowed her to pick up languages instead. Had she been smart, she would have bought a book on Italian and read it on the plane trip over. Then again, memorizing a word in another language was a far cry from hearing it spoken. Besides, the books she’d flipped through all discussed how to order at a restaurant or book a room in a hotel. In retrospect, she wasn’t sure what she’d planned on doing in this country, except perhaps eating her way across it on a stolen credit card.

Next time she picked a foreign country to run away to, it was so going to be an English-speaking one. If she didn’t escape, though, she wasn’t going to get that chance.

“Hey!” she said. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

He ignored her, continued talking on the phone, and she heard him saying, “ . . .
istruzioni a casa nostra
. . .”

She might not know Italian, but she knew enough Spanish to figure out he was about to give directions to his house. Undoubtedly so someone could come get her, and she closed her eyes, trying to take in what he was saying. Unfortunately it was too fast and all she heard was “ . . .
sempre diritto . . . accanto la farmacia
.” Then, “
Sì un’ora
.”

That she understood. An hour. She had an hour to get out of here.

“Hey! I have to go to the bathroom!”

The man looked at her. “
Che cazzo!
Sta zita!
”

From the way he bellowed it, she figured he was swearing at her. Well, screw him. “Look. I have to go to the bathroom and if you don’t let me, I’m going to pee right here on this bed.
Pee. Comprendo!
” she said, hoping the Spanish translated over. “Right here on this bed. I hope it’s not yours.”

This time he got up, stopping in the doorway. He concluded his phone call, snapped the phone onto his belt, looking annoyed.

And just when she thought he was going to turn around, leave, he walked in, pulled her up. “This way.”

“Thank you,” she said, as he held her by one arm to keep her from falling as she hopped beside him. The bathroom was down a short hallway. The white tiles on the floor and walls magnified the cold as she stood there looking down at the toilet. And then she craned her neck around. “I can’t go like this.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a girl. I need my hands.”

He regarded her, his dark eyes filled with suspicion. “Do not do anything stupid.”

Wouldn’t dream of it
, she thought, as he took a folding knife from his belt and cut the tape at her wrists. And then he stood there in the doorway.

She glared at him, crossing her arms across her chest. “You are
seriously
going to watch me? Where am I going to go? There isn’t even a window.”

He looked up at the blank wall as if a window might magically appear and apparently decided she was correct. But only after he pushed past her, grabbed the razor blade from a mug in the sink. “I will be
here
,” he said, waving the razor in her face.

She reached over, closed and locked the door, then turned the faucet to a trickle so that she could search through the cupboard beneath it. She found a travel-sized bottle of shampoo and conditioner, extra toilet paper and towels. After using the toilet, she took the small bottles, then slid them into the back of her underwear, flushed the toilet, washed her hands, then opened the door.

He peered inside, looked around, and apparently satisfied nothing was missing, tossed the razor back in the cup, then took hold of her arm, holding tight while she hopped beside him back to the bedroom.

“Can you slow down?” she said. “I’m going to fall.”

Instead, he pulled her faster toward the table where the roll of duct tape sat. She tripped, grabbing at him, trying to slip his phone from his belt. It went flying from her hand to the floor, when he turned at the last second, and she misjudged her distance.

He pushed her toward the bed so that he could retrieve his phone. Piper fell forward, her knees striking the tiled floor. Pain shot through her and it was several seconds before she could pull herself up, onto the bed.

He drew his knife, and she froze, worried that he’d seen right through her fake fall against him. But then he used the knife to simply cut a length of tape from the roll, to bind her hands once more. He walked toward her, carrying the tape, and she held up both her hands in front of her. He wasn’t going for it, instead pulling her hands behind her back, taping them there.

And then he returned to his chair in the other room to watch his TV, leaving the door partially open. Not what she was hoping for.

She shifted on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling, her hands at her back making it difficult to get comfortable. Instead, she concentrated on the pain in her knees. But she was used to pain, she’d been hit before, and so she thought of her friend, Bo.

It wasn’t just that he’d been shot, but that he’d given her up, told them where to find her.

That was enough to send her over, and she allowed the tears to come, sobbing loudly.

“
Silenzio!
”

“It hurts! My knee! I think it’s broken!”

“It’s a good thing you won’t be walking. No?” And then he got up and slammed the door closed.

She sat there in the dark for several seconds, stunned at how easily the tears had worked.

Smiling, she hiked up the back of her skirt, pulled the small bottles out, opened the first, and did her best to direct the contents onto her wrists. If she could work it into the tape, she might be able to slip her wrists out.

I
t took longer to loosen her bonds than she’d anticipated, and when she finally was able to free herself, she worried that it might be too late. She listened at the door, heard the TV droning in the background, as well as some soft snoring. At least something was going her way.

She ripped the sheets from the bed, moved to the window, unlatched and opened it, then opened the wood shutters to a blast of cold air. But when she looked down, her heart sank. No paving stones below, or even a narrow walkway. Just the black water swishing against the building’s base. A
rio
, the sisters had called it. Not that the name mattered.

She couldn’t swim.

Somehow she’d overlooked that small detail. She’d become used to the sound of the water, had stopped hearing it—or maybe she was too intent on listening to the man in the other room. Either way she was screwed, and she dropped the sheets right there, since they’d do her little good. She turned back, looking around for something she might use for a weapon. A twin bed against the wall, a wardrobe by the door . . . Maybe something in there. She moved softly, opened the door, felt around. Clothes hanging within. Nothing else.

A muffled knock sent her pulse racing. She froze. It sounded again, and she realized it must be coming from the front door of the house. The snoring stopped, and she heard some mumbling, followed by the sound of someone shuffling across the tiled floor, then down the stairs.

What she wouldn’t give right now to be able to swim.

She looked around, wishing for rafters as in Bo’s kitchen. Wishing for the man who had helped her escape. Zachary Griffin.

Right now all she had was the narrow bed, which they’d be able to see under the moment they walked into the room.

The wardrobe, on the other hand, was right next to the door. They were bound to be looking at the bed first thing . . .

She scrambled toward the window, grabbed the sheets, knotted them together. Then, tying one end to the iron balustrade at the base of the window, she threw the length over the side.

Please let this work
, she thought, then opened the wardrobe, climbed inside, hid behind the clothes.

She heard talking from the other room. Italian first, then English. “The girl?”

“In there.”

“You did not talk to her?”

“About what?”

The sound of footsteps, then the door opening.

Piper’s heart pounded hard and fast.

“Where is she?”

“Tied up. On the bed.”

“You see anything on that bed?”

Silence, then, “The window!”

“Vittorio, you idiot! She went out the window!”

“She was tied up. I swear.”

“Yeah? How long ago?”

“All night. I was right outside the door the whole time.”

“Gianni, go out and look around.”

“I don’t even know what she looks like.”

“I’m guessing she looks like a wet nun, you idiot. Go!”

Footsteps leaving, then the sound of the front door slamming closed, Gianni apparently not happy he had to go search.

“What should I do, Paolo?” Vittorio asked.

“Nothing. We’re done with you.”

“Paolo. No—” A gasping noise followed by the sound of something soft but heavy hitting the floor.

Piper held her breath, praying they’d leave. When she heard footsteps retreating, fading, she peered out between the clothes to see Vittorio’s body on the floor, and a growing puddle of blood beneath him.

Piper eyed the open window. So close . . .

And then she looked back at the man on the floor, Vittorio. His face pointed in her direction, his jaw slack, his gaze unseeing . . .

His phone . . . Still on his belt.

What to do?

Closing her eyes, she listened to the sounds. The TV playing in the background. The icy air making her shiver. Worried that her chattering teeth would give her away, she tried to pull the clothes around her, like a makeshift blanket. Several minutes went by, the room growing colder. She tried not to think about that. Instead, she needed the courage to slip out and get that phone. If she skirted the room by the window, she could maybe avoid being seen from the doorway. And he wouldn’t necessarily be watching in here, since he thought she was gone. And Vittorio was dead. She hoped.

Now or never. She parted the clothes, was just slipping her foot out, when she heard the creak of springs from the chair in the front room. She pulled her foot in, stilled, unable to move the clothes closer together, and watched in horror as Paolo reentered the room, standing there as he looked around, like he was thinking.

About her.

Please don’t let him turn around.

He didn’t. He walked over to the window, and was just about to reach out, close it, but stopped to pull up the sheets hanging over the side. He tried to untie the length from the balustrade, but couldn’t get the knot loose, so he simply dropped the tangle of sheets outside in a pile, then pulled the window shut. When he turned to leave, she relaxed slightly, figuring that he was probably just cold.

But then Paolo stopped next to the body. Nudged it with his foot, bent down, and panic gripped her as he reached for Vittorio’s belt. But he didn’t grab the phone. Instead, he used the belt to turn the body to its stomach so he could slip the wallet out of the back pocket.

Paolo opened it, pulled out some money, tossed the wallet onto the floor, took one last look around the room, his eye catching on the open wardrobe.

He walked toward it. Terror coursed through her veins. He reached for the wardrobe door, pulled it all the way open.

And somehow over the pounding of her heart, she heard the low vibration of his cell phone. He stopped, pulled it from his pocket, answered it. “You find her . . . ?” he said, then eyed the wardrobe’s interior. He reached inside, grabbed a coat, and thankfully turned as he pulled it from the hanger. “Where the hell’s Pietro? He was supposed to be watching this place until we got here. Get ahold of him and get back to me. We’re not leaving until she’s found. And hurry the hell up,” he added, as he walked out. “It’s like a goddamned refrigerator in here.”

He walked out of the bedroom and slammed the door closed. And still she didn’t move. Fear paralyzed her, and it seemed forever before she could even think, much less force her body into action.

She needed to do something. They were coming back.

The phone was her only option. She slipped out of the wardrobe, tiptoed toward the body, careful not to step in the puddle of blood growing beneath it. And just as this Paolo did, she tugged at the belt, having to reach beneath his waist as she blindly felt for the phone. She found it, then retreated back to the wardrobe. Before she climbed in, she took a folded sweater from the shelf at the top and slipped it on, hoping that would keep her teeth from chattering. She scooted all the way into the corner, pulled the door closest to her slightly shut, hoping no one would notice it wasn’t exactly the same should they reenter the bedroom.