Page 19 of Harris
“Did you get everything you could from the scene?”
“There wasn’t much, but yeah, we did.”
“Don’t come to the office. Meet me at the airfield.”
“Gotcha.”
I hung up, sent Anselm a text updating him, pocketed the phone, and returned my attention to Layla. “Look, I’ve gotta go. We’ve got to follow up on this lead while it’s hot.”
“Whatever.”
I jerked my pants on, stuffed my feet back into my shoes. Buttoned and zipped and tucked. Moved to kneel in front of Layla, withdrawing my knife from my pocket. Snicked the blade across the zip-ties, freeing her. As soon as she was free, she pushed past me and started dressing.
“Thought you had to go?” she asked, when I didn’t immediately leave.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Layla. I do, its—”
“I thought we were partners, Nick. I thought that’s why you taught me how to shoot. I thought—” she shook her head. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. Guess I was wrong.”
“I’m not saying never, Layla, I’m just saying not this one. Puck just said that this isn’t looking good, and you know Puck’s not given to worrying. You can shoot, yeah, but there’s more to it than that. I’ll train you, I promise. I’ll bring you on more ops. But this one? This one isn’t a game, Layla. There’s a three-year-old girl’s life at stake.”
“But you can take the time to tie me to the chair and fuck me?”
Ouch.
“Without a lead, it’s a non-starter. Now that we have a lead, we have to move on it.” We were both dressed, now. I gestured at the door. “Let’s go. I’m putting you on a flight back to Colorado.”
I led the way out of the office, Layla trailing behind me, looking morose.
The drive to the airfield was silent.
I had a bad taste in my mouth. Despite knowing I was doing the right thing by keeping Layla out of this one, I still hated the way things were shaking out.
“Layla—”
“Save it…Harris.”
Shit.
I hated this. Telling her no, and being frozen out for it, despite it being the safest thing for her. Most of all I hated being put in this position.
I parked beside my private jet, and I wasn’t even out of the driver’s seat when Lear came jogging down the stairs and trotted over to me.
“Bad news, Harris. Timetable got bumped up. They found out Jon called you in.” Lear had an iPad Mini in his hands, turned it to face me, and touched the screen to start a video message.
A camera jiggled, showing a ceiling, part of a couch, and a window, and then pivoted and settled to frame a large man dressed in basic black BDUs. A strap crossed his chest, and while whatever was attached to the strap was out of frame, I would have bet my 1917 Albatross D.III that it was an assault rifle of some kind. He was broad-shouldered, had a bit of a belly, and sharp brown eyes visible behind a tactical balaclava which hid his identity. An adorable little girl with straight, long black hair stood in front of him, and the man had a long, wicked, serrated knife held to her throat. The little girl, obviously, was Cleo, and I was impressed by her composure given the circumstances. She wasn’t fighting or sobbing, but rather was just standing there, hands at her sides, tears running down her face, although she clearly was trying to be brave.
“Nicholas Harris.” The man, his voice muffled by the balaclava, spoke with a thick accent, Eastern European, maybe. “I hear that our mutual friend Mister Lonigan has hired you to retrieve his little girl.”
The edge of the knife wasn’t quite touching the skin of Cleo’s throat, but was only a hair’s-breadth away. With exquisite control, the man lifted the knife and deftly sliced free a lock of her hair, caught it as it fluttered free, and held it up for the camera. “I am a patient man. I told Lonigan one week, but now that you are involved, I have revised our timetable. Anyone else, and this little girl would already be fish-bait. But me? I am willing to forgive stupid decisions. I have given him twelve hours to arrange for the money. I know you, Nicholas Harris. I have sent Lonigan another email with the details of the transfer, where to bring the cash so he may get his daughter back. And you, Harris, will do the transfer. Not Lonigan, not his wife, not his assistant, not any of your hired guns. You, and only you. My men are at the location already, and they will know if you try anything. One wrong move, and this pretty little thing here—” he paused, looked down, flicked the point of the knife against the shell of Cleo’s ear, drawing a single welling drop of blood. He returned his gaze to the camera. “I think you get the point. Twelve hours.” The message ended.
I turned to Lear, who had been joined by Puck and the others by then. “Do we know who this guy is, yet?”
Lear shook his head from side to side, saying softly “I think it’s Cain.”
I tilted my head to one side. “Cain? Rings a bell, but I can’t place him.”
“Not much is known about him. Your average, nefarious underworld scum. Comes from somewhere in Europe, specializes in the most evil shit you can imagine. Human trafficking. Prostitution. Drugs. Murder, by which I mean assassinations, as well as good old fashioned he just-likes-to-kill-people murder.”