The Tomorrow Heist (5 page)

Eventually, she sighed, took her silent earbuds out, and shoved her phone into her duffel bag. She casually got to her feet and, with her generation's signature slumped shoulders, walked around a set of benches so she was coming up on the men from behind. As she did, she slowed her pace so she could time reaching the men just as one of them made another incursion into the girls' space. She'd accidentally bump into him and send him over the railing, slamming down onto the marble floor below. Then she'd dissolve back into the crowd that would gather to witness the terrible accident.

But before she could reach the men, someone called to them from down the concourse. The bullies said one last thing to the girls before turning and hurrying to meet up with their waiting friends. Apparently, their flight was finally boarding. Without missing a step, Tatsu swung around the pillar just past the girls before heading back to her bag. She took out her phone, sat down, and was “asleep” again moments after putting her earbuds back in.

She dreamed of the little man who stood between her and her family. For the moment.

 

Chapter Six

London

11:35
P.M.
Local Time

L
EW
SAT
IN
The Stag's Horn pub around the corner from his flat, a place he went so often he didn't even have to verbally place an order. He'd just sit down, and pints would appear on his table. It was the kind of magic Lew liked. He'd been there longer than he should have with a job staring him down in the morning, but “should” rarely entered Lew's vocabulary.

He was still pissed about the argument with Jonathan earlier though not at Jonathan. He was pissed at himself. The fact that Jonathan had wanted to walk with him in public meant his partner was feeling a little lost, and he'd tried to take advantage of that.

Lew spun his cell phone on the table in front of him with one hand and gripped a Guinness in the other like he'd fall down if he let go. He was trying to decide who he should call—­Jonathan or Emily.

He knew he could just show up at Jonny's in the morning, and they would pretend nothing had happened. Which was probably what he was going to do. But he knew the class act would be to call him and apologize, or at least confirm he was going to show. Not that Jonny needed him for this one. Or any of the jobs, lately. Which was kind of the point. Lew missed the excitement and challenge—­and the paydays—­of being The Monarch, but more than that, the types of jobs they'd been pulling lately was making Lew feel . . . unnecessary.

On the other hand, he knew he shouldn't call Emily. He was trying to stay away from her to keep her safe, but he was having trouble with the follow-­through on that idea.

“Don't do it, Lew,” he said to himself.

He'd had Emily's contact info up on his phone's screen for a while now. He kept swinging his thumb toward the call icon, but then he'd argue with himself and end up dropping his phone onto the marked-­up table where he'd spin it some more. With each attempt he had to argue harder, and for the past two beers the argument had moved out of his head and into actual speech. He knew he kept getting side glances from the few patrons left at this hour, but he also knew no one would approach him. Lew had spent most of his life fighting in one way or another, but the ironic thing was his size and body language meant he usually didn't have to.

He didn't think it was a booty call. Well, he hoped it wasn't, but he hadn't seen Emily in months, and lately, he'd been having trouble getting her out of his head. Jonathan didn't know it, but Lew and Emily's romance had never really ended. They weren't a ­couple anymore, but they still had a connection, unlike anything either of them had ever experienced in their lives.

Lew downed the remainder of his dark brew and waved for another. While he waited, he picked the phone up again. Just like all the other times he swung his thumb over the call button, but before he could swing it away this time, his phone buzzed and rang. It startled him and he dropped it on the table again. He smiled and grabbed it, sure Emily had been feeling the same way and was actually calling him. They did that a lot, had the same idea at the same time. But when Lew turned the phone over, he saw a face he hadn't seen in a year. He pressed the answer button.

“Shrimp?”

“Uncle Lew!” Natalie's voice screeched. He knew it was her, but in just a year she was already sounding different. He missed being “Unca Lew,” even if she wasn't his actual niece.

“What the hell are you—­”

“Oh my God, I've been dialing and dialing. I musta called like a thousand numbers. I didn't think I'd ever find you!” Natalie's words ran together like spaces weren't something she could afford.

“You've been what?” Lew said, trying to force himself to be more sober. Though not so hard that he didn't nod a thank-­you to the barkeep for bringing him another Guinness. “Um, how exactly
did
you get this number?” As much as Lew had wanted to give Natalie his number, he'd known how Jonathan would react if he ever did.

“Emily gave it to me months ago, but my art supplies leaked all over the notebook I wrote it in. I only had the first half of it.”

Lew had accused Emily on several occasions of calling Natalie, but she'd always denied it. Being right didn't give him any pleasure. He did smile at the idea of Natalie's systematically dialing all the possible numbers until she found him. She was a lot like her dad that way.

“Why didn't you just call Emily and get the number again?” Lew asked, a bad feeling stirring in his gut.

“That's the thing, Uncle Lew. It's Emily. She's . . . I think she's hurt. Bad.”

The shock raced through Lew's system faster than the Guinness. He fought to breathe against the squeezing in his chest. His knuckles turned white on the glass in his hand, and he forced himself to put it down before he crushed it.

Natalie told him what she'd heard through the phone hours ago. When the phone had been knocked from Emily's hand and under the sofa, the connection had continued and Natalie had heard every word, every punch, and every shot.

“I knew it was him. I'm sorry, I tried to call Dad like a billion times, but he wouldn't answer. I'm so mad at him! You've got to find her, Uncle Lew. You just have to.”

“You knew it was
him
? You knew it was who?” Lew was still reeling from Natalie's detailed description of what she'd heard, and he needed to hear the name, but he was sure he already knew.

“That terrible man that wants to hurt you guys. George. Canton George.”

W
HEN
J
ONATHAN
AND
Lew had decided to settle in London, they'd deliberately gotten flats not only close to each other, but close to where Emily lived. With Canton George still out there and after them, it was a safety issue. They were also close to all the London museums and galleries, and less than five hundred miles from Natalie's boarding school. That was all well and good, but all Lew cared about was that he was only a ten-­minute cab ride from the only woman he'd ever loved.

Lew got out of the cab a few blocks from Emily's place in Tufnell Park, the cool night air helping to sober him up as he ran toward her place. Though it was more of a stagger as he simultaneously ran and dialed Emily's number over and over.

This can't be. It just can't. She's too smart for that prick to find—­

Lew rounded the corner, and Emily's flat came into view—­or what was left of it. She lived on the third floor. Sometimes Lew would walk by just to see her pass in front of the windows—­windows that were now just boards decorated with yellow police tape. His breath was coming in pants, and he was having trouble making his legs move toward the building. His eyes fogged, and he had to blink the moisture away to see what he didn't want to see. Then it started building in him, quietly at first, but rising.

“ . . . no, no, no, No, No, NO, NO!” And then he was running, his powerful legs slamming the ground with a thwack they could hear all the way back at The Stag's Horn. Wind buffeted his long duster coat out behind him as he practically flew through the night's light rain. He pulled out the key Emily had given him and raced up the stairs. He shot down the hallway and didn't bother with a key when he saw the door was similarly covered in plywood and police tape.

Lew raised one leg and smashed his boot into the plywood. The flimsy material splintered under his force, and he was inside. The smell of gunfire and blood was still heavy in the air.

“Emily! EMILY!” Lew called as he searched every room, but he was the only one there. Back in the living room, he flipped on the lights, and his anxiety doubled. Blood was everywhere—­on the walls, the floor, even the broken bookshelf. Lew walked over to it—­the shelf he'd made for her—­and saw a tuft of hair snagged in the wood grain. With a shaking hand, he pulled it free and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. It was Emily's. He'd know her hair anywhere. The last time he'd seen it was hanging in his face as she straddled him, smiling and telling him that she hated how much she loved him.

And that broke the spell.

Lew howled and started smashing things. First what remained of the bookshelf, then the plywood over the windows. He slammed his meaty fists into the wood over and over, until blood splashed from his knuckles, mixing with Emily's blood on the floor. Exhausted, he fell down on the ground, his breath coming in hitches. When he'd calmed slightly, he managed to pull out his phone and dial, fighting for control.

“Hello?” Jonathan's sleepy voice said. “What time is—­”

“J-­Jonny. She's gone, man. It was George. That fucker took her. I . . .” Lew fought for control, pressing the index finger and thumb of his free hand against his eyes, forcing the tears out so he could see. “I think she's dead.”

Jonathan managed to get most of the story out of Lew as he calmed him down. Lew knew that part of his state was from the drink, but that didn't help.

“Natalie?” Jonathan said when Lew told him about the phone call. “What the hell was she . . .” And then Jonathan abruptly stopped talking.

“Jonny?” Lew said, getting up and shaking his head to try and clear it.

“Where are you, Lew? Please tell me you're not in Emily's apartment.”

“Uh, well I can tell you that, but—­”

“Jesus, Lew, get out of there!”

“Relax,” Lew said. “There's no way the cops would be—­”

Ding.

With the door destroyed, Lew heard the elevator clearly from where he was. And then he realized what Jonathan was getting at. If Canton George's men had found Emily here, it stood to reason Lew or Jonathan would be somewhere nearby. And if they sat on the place, they might just . . .

Lew heard footsteps coming toward the flat. A ­couple of sets. Heavy footprints, with no talking. And then Lew was in the moment and moving. He told Jonathan to meet him at his place and hung up. Lew knew he was in no shape to take anyone on, not without damaging himself. And if Emily was alive, he needed to be at full capacity to find her. With fight out of the question, he turned to flight.

Lew grabbed the corner of one sheet of plywood over the window and yanked. The nails squealed but eventually let go, wind and rain washing over Lew's face. It was too high to jump all the way down, but the overhang above the entrance was only two stories down and looked fairly solid. Lew braced himself, took a few breaths, and slipped out the window. He hung down as far as he could, then let go. As he dropped, he turned so he could see where he was landing, and realized he was going to miss the overhang. He ran through the parachute training he'd had as a soldier, and as he touched the ground, crumpled and rolled.

He'd knocked the wind out of himself, but otherwise he was unhurt. After gathering himself, he headed around the side of the building before running in the opposite direction of his flat. He'd circle back once he was sure he wasn't being followed and head home.

But something told him it wasn't going to be home for very much longer.

 

Chapter Seven

Las Vegas, Nevada

8:17
P.M.
Local Time

B
ARELY
TEN
MINU
TES
from the Strip, where tourists were staggering, players were strategizing, and young men and women were doing things that would stay in Vegas, Per and Hank sat in their rental car watching a nondescript building surrounded by a nine-­foot chain-­link fence topped with razor wire. The fence had been there before, but the razor wire was new, a security measure implemented after the bombings started.

Despite the crowds on the Strip, this street was quiet and seemed practically deserted. The building they watched wasn't the only unmarked structure in what looked like a typical industrial section of town, but while the contents of the others contained massage parlors, VIP clubs, and sex shows, this building contained nothing but the cold dead.

It was the last intact cryonic repository Harcourt owned in America. What Per wanted to know was why. Why was this building spared? Was there some significance in that, or was there some other reason it hadn't been attacked like the others, perhaps a timetable Per had yet to discover? Had the bomber been on her way here but something had happened to her? Was the pattern interrupted because of something as pedestrian as a traffic accident? Per's exterior might have been silent and calm, but inside he was a roiling ocean in a storm.

“Y'all ever been to Vegas before?” Hank asked from the driver's seat.

“No,” Per said flatly, his eyes never wavering from their target. It was the fifth time Hank had tried to engage Per in some sort of conversation in the three hours they had been sitting there, and every time, Per had responded with a single, monosyllabic answer. He was regretting not leaving Hank at the motel or leaving him for good and continuing on his own.

“Hell, I remember the first time I was here,” Hank said, launching into another of his one-­sided conversations. While most of Per's attention was on the building, part of him was fascinated by Hank's inability to endure quiet. But he knew that was a common personality trait in Americans. Silence let them think, and if nothing else, America was a nation of distraction. In another time, it was something that Per would have enjoyed investigating and dissecting. But not now. He slowly put his gloved hand on Hank's forearm and squeezed with a just few percent of his artificial arm's capacity.

“I'm going to need you to sit quietly for a little while, Mr. Green. Can you do that for me?” Per asked without taking his eyes off the building.

“Y . . . yes. Yes, sir,” Hank managed. Per released him and put his hand back in his lap, barely noticing Hank panting and rubbing his forearm.

“Good.”

When another hour had passed—­in silence—­Per had gathered everything he was going to from his proximity to this puzzling structure. He wasn't going to find any answers here, but he had known that before they had come. He was here to build his question database, to enrich the space where the answers would go.

“Tell me what you know about Dr. Reese,” Per said abruptly in the car's quiet, finding no amusement in Hank's flinch. He knew the scientist had disappeared four months ago and what was in his file, but Per wanted more.

“Uh, Reese? I only met him a few times. He worked out of our research facility in Canada, just outside Toronto. Nice enough guy, I guess. Crazy smart. I mean, genius smart. Couldn't make heads nor tails out of what he was saying when he talked about his work. He'd been with us almost five years before he . . . disappeared.”

“Yes, that's all in the file, Mr. Green. Tell me what's not.”

“Not? Okay, let's see. He liked fancy cars. He didn't have one, he just liked them. He'd go on and on about the new BMW or Aston Martin. His desk was always covered in car magazines too.”

“I see,” Per said. “Go on.”

“He was married for a while. Didn't work out, though. Got divorced a ­couple of years back. Apparently she took him to the cleaners too.”

“Anything else?”

“Listen,” Hank said, turning in his seat to face Per. Per obliged the silent request and took his eyes off the building for the first time to look at Hank. “I know what Jim—­Mr. Harcourt—­said, but I don't think this Reese thing is anything. We investigated a little when he disappeared, but there didn't appear to be no foul play or nothing. I'd just move on to something else if it were me.”

“Thank you for your counsel,” Per said, turning back to the building.

Hank started to say something else but then apparently thought better of it and just turned around in his own seat.

“Take me to the airport, Mr. Green,” Per said abruptly.

“We ain't going in?”

Per answered him by leaning back and closing his eyes.

“Where we headed to now?” Hank asked after a few minutes of driving.

“Toronto.”

Jirojin Maru

1:52
P.M.
Local Time

L
ESS
THA
N
FIFTEEN
minutes after Hank had booked a flight out of McCarran International Airport, Umi's Internet sniffer—­a computer code designed to search constantly for information all across the World Wide Web—­sent a report to her office computer. Ten minutes after that, she called Tatsu and gave her the details.

“Toronto?” Tatsu said from the computer screen.

“Is there a problem?”

“No,
Obasan
, no, of course not. It's just—­never mind.”

She knew Tatsu was tired, and rightfully so. She'd been working hard these past few weeks. But if they didn't take care of everything—­every last thread, especially now—­then it all would have been for naught. She was sure Tatsu knew that, but then again, she was young and wild and very far away.

“There's a flight out in less than an hour. I should go,” Tatsu said.

“Excellent, little one. Call me when you land, and I'll give you more instructions. And don't worry; if all goes well, you'll still be here in time,” Umi said. She was about to cut the connection, but then added: “It wouldn't be the same without you.”

Tatsu smiled and seemed to become reinvigorated by the false compliment. Though Umi wasn't a hundred percent sure it was false. Her feelings for Tatsu were starting to complicate her clear vision. Not enough to endanger things but enough to be annoying. She hit the disconnect button and leaned back in her chair. She didn't think she was showing it, but Tatsu wasn't the only one tired from the past few weeks. And the illness ravaging Umi's body, despite her medication, wasn't helping things. Umi was keeping that hidden from everyone, as well. She'd even kept it from Mikawa as his illness had triumphed over him.

“She seems unsure,” the woman standing just out of sight of the webcam said. She spoke with a slight British accent. Her name was Maggie Reynolds, an ex-­MI6 operative with a checkered past. Now she was Umi's head of security and had only recently taken the position. Umi knew her loyalty only went as far as the money given to her, but in her experience, Umi found the simplest motivations were often the best. Umi's money had lured the British spy away with very little effort. But after spending over twenty years in intelligence—­ten of those in a Russian gulag—­it really hadn't taken much convincing.

“Let me worry about Tatsu, Ms. Reynolds, you worry about your end. Has everyone been vetted as I requested?” Umi asked. She had let Maggie know that Tatsu was abroad on an assignment associated with the coming event, but she hadn't revealed any details, and she had no intention of sharing them now.

Umi still routed all security concerns through her head guard, Mr. Morgan, and had instructed him to keep Reynolds out of the loop. Umi had only wanted Reynolds for her recent MI6 credentials—­credentials that would help convince certain guests that it was safe and viable to attend the conference. The “vetting” was another ruse, simply meant to put Reynolds's face and credentials in front of the right ­people.

“About eighty percent, so far. The rest should be—­”

“Ms. Reynolds, you assured me that you could handle this. I could have hired several younger agents for what I'm paying you.” The dig wasn't necessary, but it made Umi feel better. She'd expected the disgruntled agent to be a lot easier to manipulate. But Umi supposed that was her mistake since her experience with other MI6 operatives on her payroll was not all that different.

“I am handling it. Perhaps we'd be done by now if the security staff you saddled me with didn't spend most of their time elsewhere, and you didn't keep changing the guest list,” Maggie said. Her tone was even and matter-­of-­fact, but Umi got the message. Her new security chief wasn't like the rest of her staff. She didn't cast her eyes down when Umi passed or stumble over herself in an attempt to please her.

“I'll keep your limitations in mind, Ms. Reynolds,” Umi said. She took pleasure in the effect the words had. Reynolds didn't say anything, but the smolder in her eyes was plain.

“I'd best get back to work if there's nothing else,” Reynolds said after a long silence. “Oh, I almost forgot, Captain Tanaka wants to see you on the bridge. Something about the defense system.”

“Thank you, when I have time I'll—­”

“And I wanted to ask you about Crystasis,” Maggie said, stopping in the doorway as she tapped on her tablet computer.

Umi's scalp tingled at the mention of Harcourt's company.
She can't know.

“What about them?” Umi asked, her external demeanor unchanged. After a few more taps on her tablet, Maggie looked up.

“Most of the guest list is very specific—­scientists, venture capitalists, et cetera, but Crystasis seems to have a blanket invitation to the conference. Everyone from lab assistants to administrative staff. Was that an error?” Umi searched Maggie's features but could see nothing veiled there.

“Jim—­Mr. Harcourt, Crystasis's CEO—­is an old friend. He's made his resources available to me for some special projects over the past year. As a favor, I extended the invitation to all his employees, as a kind of company vacation. Now, if there isn't anything else, perhaps you could worry less about my work and more about yours.”

It was all a lie made up on the spot. Umi had gone to great lengths to keep her name from being associated with the conference for just this reason. If Harcourt had even suspected for a moment that she was involved, he wouldn't have allowed a single member of his staff anywhere near the
Jirojin Maru
.

Maggie looked like she wanted to reply, but Umi busied herself with paperwork on her desk. After a few moments, Maggie left. When the door closed, Umi dropped her pen and took a few deep breaths. The second Ms. Reynolds had fulfilled her purpose, she had to go.

In more ways than one.

M
AGGI
E
COULDN
'
T
REMEMBER
the last time she'd met somebody who could push her buttons like Umi Tanabe. Of course, she was a thousand years old, so she'd had lots of practice, Maggie thought. The humor did little to lighten her mood. And it wasn't the first time she'd felt like this. There was only one thing that was going to let her shake off the anxiety, so she could do her job. Well, two things really, but only one could be done on the
Jirojin Maru
, Tenabe's leviathan of a ship.

She checked her watch and saw that she had just enough time before the next round of vetting interviews. She hurried back to her cabin and put on her running clothes, grabbed a bottle of water, and headed for the lower decks. They were the least frequented parts of the ship, she'd found, and perfect for some stress-­reducing laps. Tenabe had the third largest yacht in the world, so a quick 2K run meant a mere eight laps. She put in her earbuds, surfed on her smartphone to her music, and started a shuffle of fast-­beat jazz songs. The driving snare drums and smooth-­legato piano practically moved her legs for her.

With each lap, the urge to grab Umi and shove her out a porthole lessened a little more. There weren't enough laps in a day to completely remove the desire, but Maggie was used to keeping her emotion off her face. The trick had kept her alive in environments where others would have perished. Literally.

With that thought, images of her time in the Russian prison flooded back into her brain, as they usually did when she left a crack for them. She shook her head and ran faster, trying to drive the images and the memories away. It had almost worked when she rounded a corner and suddenly faced three men in strength-­multiplying exoskeleton suits carrying a huge crate and blocking the corridor.

“Whoa!” Maggie yelled as she skidded to a stop, falling backward, her phone shooting out of her sleeve holster and clattering against the wall, the soothing music—­and mood—­abruptly gone. But the run had done the trick, and she laughed at the near miss. “Sorry, guys.”

The men just stared at her, still holding the crate, which must have weighed a ton if it took three men wearing those suits to lift it. She remembered the first time she'd seen the suits. A handsome young man named Nagura, who she saw now and then on the ship, had explained that the suits were basically wearable robots, increasing the wearer's strength and stamina.

Maggie looked around and spotted her phone against the wall. She bent over to pick it up and while down there, looked back at the upside-­down men—­now with very different looks on their faces as they stared at her fit derriere and put the crate down.

Ah, shit.

She stood up and faced the trio as they made comments to each other in Japanese and laughed, the tone recognizable in any language. Maggie could tell they were working up their courage, taking small steps toward her.