Page 31

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Rav stares at his screen, mouth dry, heart pounding. He doesn’t dare look up. Erika is sitting three feet away. He angles his laptop subtly away from her. The ring is barely visible through the glare on his screen, but there’s no mistaking it. A Cartier panthère ring in rose gold.

Cartier is a massive brand. There are probably thousands of those rings out there. The woman’s face is hidden, the color and cut of her hair all wrong. Nothing proves it’s Erika Strauss on that screen.

Nothing except his gut.

She sneaks into the car park behind someone’s vehicle. Waits for them to leave and then takes the elevator, but not to Vanderford’s floor; she hits 23, just to throw us off. Then she bides her time for a while, waiting for Vanderford to show up. He’s expecting her. She picked him up at a bar, probably wearing that same killer dress she had on last night. She’s covered her tracks, paying in cash, using a burner phone, wearing a wig. Probably gave Vanderford some excuse why she needed to meet back at his place, so they wouldn’t be seen together. He lets her in, thinking he’s about to get lucky. One to the head, one to the chest, then she takes the stairs all the way down and goes out the way she came in.

Damn it, Trivedi, you were halfway there months ago.

He was right about the bodyguard, just wrong about which one. That’s not his fault; Erika wasn’t in the picture at the time. She joined the team after Vanderford was already dead and the investigation underway. But unbeknownst to him, she had a history with the band, and somehow that led to murder.

Okay , he thinks. Deep breaths. What’s his play here? He doesn’t dare confront her now. There’s no telling what she’ll do. Then there’s Nash. Is he in on it?

God, this could get messy.

Rav reaches for his laptop bag, where his phone is stashed. How do you call 911 in France? Or maybe he should—

“Hey.” Jack props himself against the table, breaking Rav’s line of sight. “It’s almost noon. We should really get going. Are you ready, Erika?”

She’s supposed to be driving Rav to the airport. The last thing he wants is to get in a car with a murderer, but if that’s what it takes to get her away from his boyfriend… “You should stay,” he tells Jack. “No point in spending your last few hours of vacation in a car.”

“He’s right,” Erika says as she tucks her laptop away. “After I drop him off, I’ve gotta pick up Mo, then back here for you guys, then straight back to the airport. It’s a milk run.”

Jack glances at his watch. “Maybe we should all go now.”

“And spend three hours cooling your heels at that little airport when you could be drinking rosé by the pool? Don’t be silly.” Rav musters a smile, still rooting around in his bag.

“What are you looking for?”

“My phone. It’s in here somewhere.”

“Let me just get my shoes and we can go.” He turns away, but Rav grabs his wrist.

“Jack.” He forces another smile. “Stay. I’d feel better about it.”

“What’s with you?” Jack laughs. “Sick of me already? Hey, Ryan, when Eloise shows up, can you give her the keys to the Aston Martin? She’s driving it to Marseille for me.”

Rav casts about for some way to convince Jack to stay the fuck here , but Erika is watching, and the most dangerous thing he can do right now is give himself away. She doesn’t know he’s on to her. His best bet is to play it cool until it’s safe to alert the authorities.

Jack is calling Rav’s phone now. “It’s going straight to voicemail. Is your battery dead?”

“It’s on silent. Never mind, it’ll turn up.”

Rav collects his luggage and moves like a zombie toward the car. It’s a half-hour drive to the airport. Thirty minutes to work out how to get Erika Strauss in handcuffs without putting Jack at risk. Is there a way to reach Mo without tipping her off? But wait, what if Mo is in on it? No, that doesn’t make sense…

He’s spinning out so much that he barely registers Eloise showing up in a rideshare. Jack gives her a few last-minute instructions about the Aston Martin, and then they’re off, Jack and Rav stuffed in the middle seat of a van being driven by a murderer.

“You okay?” Jack threads his fingers through Rav’s. “You seem distracted.”

“Just a bit worried about my phone.” Also, the cold-blooded killer sitting three feet away. He squeezes the hand in his, silently pleading with the universe to keep Jack safe.

Jack chats away as they drive, oblivious. Rav barely hears him, his eyes drilling holes in the back of Erika’s head. The things this woman has done. Executing a man in cold blood, and for what? Because her client hated the guy? Then there’s what came after. Greg Watson, gunned down in his own home. Joe Miller, on the run, so shit scared that he tried to kill the CIA bodyguard out to get him. Mo, still recovering from his gunshot wound. Most of all, Jack, terrified, looking over his shoulder night and day.

Anger chases fear in Rav’s stomach, a swirling yin and yang that’s making him nauseous. If Jack wasn’t in this car…

What? You’d take out the trained killer with your bare hands?

They’re coming into a village now, a line of traffic stacking up in front of them. “Uh-oh,” Jack says. “Hope this doesn’t make us late.”

Rav glances instinctively at his watch, and his heart skips a beat. The Marquesse. His smartwatch has a panic function on it. He presses it discreetly—and then he remembers. His watch isn’t set up for international SOS. He’s just sent a beacon out into the void, where no one will hear.

Jack’s phone rings. “Oops, that’s Charlie. I’d better take this.” He puts his earbuds in and glances out the window. “Hey, Charlie, what’s up?”

Rav starts rooting around in his laptop bag again. He knows he put his phone in here…

“Looking for this?”

He glances up and meets Erika’s eyes in the rearview. She’s holding his phone—what’s left of it. The screen is smashed. “Gotta hand it to you, Detective, you’ve got a great poker face. But you tried a little too hard to keep Jack out of the car.”

Before the words can even sink in, she whips around; the last thing Rav sees is the butt of her .40 caliber pistol swinging at his face.

Reality creeps back in fragments: sore head, blurred vision, the smell of rubber and motor oil. He’s in an old office chair, hands bound behind his back, a foul-smelling rag stuffed in his mouth and tied at the back of his head. There’s a faint electric buzz overhead, but otherwise, all is quiet. Where is he? He remembers being in the car with Erika and…

Jack.

“ Jack! ” It comes out a muffled groan. Rav struggles to get his arms free, but his wrists are bound with some kind of strap, and there’s no give to the knot.

A grunt sounds from a few feet away. Jack is sitting on the concrete floor, back against the wall, bound at ankle and wrist. There’s an oil-stained rag in his mouth and a trickle of dried blood at his temple, but his eyes are clear. Rav tries to talk, but the words are swallowed by the rag. He manages to wriggle down in his seat, using the back of the chair to slide the rag up to the crown of his head until it’s loose. He spits it out and shakes it free. “Are you all right?” he rasps.

Jack nods once.

“How’s your breathing?” If he has a panic attack with that rag in his mouth… But he nods again, and grunts something that sounds like “okay.”

Rav scans their surroundings. It’s dark except for a single fluorescent light overhead; by its flickering glow, he can just make out the outlines of Peugeots and Renaults in various states of repair. An auto garage. “Where’s Erika?”

Jack nods toward the back of the garage. Rav can’t twist around very far, but it looks like there’s an office back there. Dealing with the witnesses, most likely. There’ll be at least one mechanic tied up in that office, assuming Erika hasn’t killed them already.

It’s a messy play, bringing them here. She’s improvising. “It’s going to be all right,” Rav says. “We’ll get through this, I promise.”

Jack nods resignedly.

“I don’t think he believes you.”

Erika Strauss steps into the light, and if Rav wasn’t scared enough already, he bloody well is now. The woman before him bears little resemblance to the cool, take-charge personality he observed at the hospital that day. Sweat gleams on her brow as she paces under the flickering light, tapping the trigger guard of her Glock. She’s a cornered animal, which makes her incredibly dangerous. If she feels trapped, she might decide killing them is her best option. Rav needs to give her a better one.

“A boat,” he says.

“Shut up.”

“The nearest harbor can’t be more than a couple of miles away. Find a boat that’ll get you across the Mediterranean, and you’re home free.”

“Shut up or I’ll stuff that rag back in your mouth.”

“Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria—none of them have extradition treaties with the US.”

“Spending the rest of my life on the run in North Africa? No, thanks.”

“Think this through, Erika. Charlie Banks was on the phone with Jack when you attacked us. He’ll have called the police by now.”

“Charlie Banks heard a shout and then the line went dead. He’ll probably assume we were in a car wreck. Maybe we drove over a cliff, just like Tommy Esposito.”

“And no one saw? On the French Riviera? You’re not thinking clearly. But there’s a way out of this—”

“You can quit with the hostage negotiator shit. No one’s coming for you, all right? I smashed our phones. We’re on our own. So shut up and let me think.”

Rav tests his bonds again, but it’s a waste of time. That strap isn’t going anywhere, at least not without some leverage. There’s a knob at the small of his back, the sort used for raising or lowering the back of the chair. If he can hook the strap over it, maybe he can work it loose. He leans back as far as the chair will allow, straining to reach.

“Why couldn’t you just leave well enough alone?” She’s not looking at him, stalking back and forth with her eyes on the floor. “Dick Vanderford was a piece of shit. Christ, it wasn’t even your case anymore. And you.” She waves her gun vaguely in Jack’s direction. “Of all the strays for you to bring home. A fucking homicide detective . Thanks for that, Jack, really.” She shakes her head. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. You’re a good guy, Jack. I never meant to put you in harm’s way.”

Jack stares up at her, his expression a mixture of anger and disbelief.

“Miller was supposed to be out of the equation right after Vanderford. But he turned out to be a slippery little shit. I couldn’t track him down—”

“So you pointed him at Mo.” The realization washes over Rav even as he says it. “Overwatch. It’s you, isn’t it? You created an online persona for the express purpose of whipping Miller into a paranoid frenzy. You hoped he’d get himself shot.”

“ And he should have! ” She throws her hands up in impotent fury. “ángel Morillo is a beast. A fucking legend . And he gets taken down by some crackpot hillbilly? How does that happen?”

Because Mo isn’t a cold-blooded killer like you. Aloud, Rav says, “I guess you did your job a little too well. You made Miller desperate, and desperate people are unpredictable.”

“Yeah.” Erika stops, looking thoughtful. “Yeah, you’re right. Never underestimate a desperate man, right? Who knows what they’re capable of?” She looks down at Jack and tilts her head. “Murdering their heroes, even.”

It takes Rav a moment to grasp her meaning, and when he does, his blood runs cold. “Miller is on the other side of the Atlantic.”

“Is he? Who’s to say? If the authorities had any idea where he was, he’d be in custody by now.”

Jack glances sharply at Rav. He understands now, too.

“Deep breaths, there, Jackie boy,” Erika says. “I don’t need you having a panic attack while I’m trying to think.”

Rav arches his back, straining to reach the knob, the chair digging painfully into his arms. Just an inch , he thinks desperately. Please, just give me one bloody inch…

Erika crouches in front of Jack, her expression almost pitying. “You’ll be immortal,” she tells him. “Like John Lennon. And your poor boyfriend, gunned down trying to save you…”

“No one will believe it,” Rav says hoarsely.

“It’s not about what they believe. It’s about what they can prove.”

“Guess you’d know that better than anyone,” says a new voice.

Fluorescent light glints off the muzzle of a gun, and out of the shadows steps Ryan Nash.