“Tell her to get somewhere safe. The sheriff or the police. Even the fire department.”
“But the South African didn’t speak to Linus. They don’t know where Jessie is.”
Tank stood and stepped closer to her, suddenly angry. “Be real. If you know she’s in Vegas, so do they.”
Mary left the room to borrow Carrie Kramer’s phone and took it into the bathroom. Despite her prayers, Garrett Clark didn’t answer his phone. She left a message. “Garrett, this is Mary Grant. Listen to me. I don’t care that you and Jess are in Las Vegas. But you need to get away from that convention and go someplace safe. The people that hurt my husband-the men that killed Jessie’s dad-know where you are. Go to the police station now. I’ll be on the first flight out this morning to get you guys. Just go to the police station and stay there. Oh…and don’t use your phones. Either of you.”
Mary put down the phone and stared at her reflection. She was a mess. Her eyeliner was smeared. The circles beneath her eyes were dark enough to tar a driveway. She splashed water on her face and washed off the remaining makeup, then found a comb and tried to make sense of her hair. Standing straighter, she looked into her own eyes, trying to access some untapped reservoir of courage, to drum up some last measure of strength, or maybe just a little hope. After a moment she dropped her eyes. She had none. Still, what was she supposed to do? Give up? Throw in the towel? She couldn’t. She was a mom.
–
She found Tank lying on the couch, drifting off. She roused him and told him her plan.
“You’re sure?” Tank asked her when they’d finished hashing it all out.
“Can you think of anything better?”
“And your friend will help?”
“I think so. For Grace.”
“Okay, then. Let’s get moving.”
“You still haven’t told me where the car is.”
“The Ferrari? Don’t worry. I know exactly where it is.”
“How’s that?”
“I saw it yesterday.”
76
The knot on his skull was the size of a grenade.
Staggering to his feet, Peter Briggs drew his fingers away from his scalp. There was no blood, only a feral and incessant hammering. All in all, he decided, it might be wiser to sit for a minute. He landed in the nearest chair and after a good deal of reckoning concluded that he’d been out for five minutes.
Briggs knew that he’d sustained a concussion. By rights he should be inside an ambulance, rushing to the hospital to undergo an MRI. The idea had as much appeal as a case of the clap. Ian Prince would not appreciate learning that his chief of security had been brained by the woman he’d been forbidden to interfere with, let alone murder.
The hospital was out.
Briggs arranged his commo headset, bringing the mike to his mouth. “You there?”
“What happened? You sound like you’re dead. Must be some woman. Killed Shanks and got the best of you, too.”
“Forget about the woman. Just tell me you captured the incoming call.”
“I got the whole thing.”
“Who was it?”
“You don’t remember?”
Briggs’s last memory was of being in Joe Grant’s study looking at the flash drives. “Just tell me who it was.”
“Someone named Linus Jankowski. He’s a postdoc at UT.”
“What did they talk about?”
“She wanted to know where her older daughter was.”
“And he knew?”
“According to Jankowski, she flew to Las Vegas. I checked the flights. A Southwest Airlines jet out of Austin is due in at two-fifteen.”
“Do we have any confirmation she’s on it?”
“I’m working on the passenger list.”
Briggs struggled to take this in. It was his belief that the older daughter had merely sneaked out of the house with a boyfriend. “Why Vegas? Why now?”
“She’s going to DEF CON.”
“You’re kidding. Why?”
“I have an idea. Something I picked up off her texts yesterday.”
Briggs forced himself to stand and get moving as the Mole revealed what he’d learned about Jessie Grant’s interest in hacking and her questions about a particular line of code. “Why didn’t you say anything about this before?”
“Didn’t know we had any interest in the kid.”
“Well, you should have.”
“And that line of code she was interested in…”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Briggs. “We can continue this later. I’ve got to get out of here.”
Briggs picked up his pistol and made his way outside. On the street he struggled to regain a measure of clarity, but his short-term memory was undergoing a denial-of-service attack. Too much input. Too little processing power. He stumbled repeatedly, and before long gave up tramping through flowerbeds and the protection of the shadows for the safety of the sidewalk.
He spotted his car and crossed the street, still weaving drunkenly. A vehicle approached, headlights on bright, traveling at high speed.
“Slow down,” he called as a battered Jeep Cherokee whipped past him. He turned in time to see a large shaggy head at the wheel and a woman in the passenger seat.
Tank Potter and Mary Grant.
Briggs slid behind the wheel, tossing his pistol onto the passenger seat. His head no longer bothered him. His vision was back to twenty/twenty. His sense of purpose returned with a vengeance. He pulled the car into the street and accelerated, making sure to keep his lights extinguished. He rounded the first turn and saw their taillights mounting a gentle incline a hundred yards ahead. He closed the gap rapidly.
Ahead, the Jeep barreled past a stop sign.
For Chrissakes, thought Briggs, reinvigorated by the chase. Aren’t we in a hurry?
He downshifted and ran the stop sign, too. He knew why they were driving so recklessly. They had the evidence. Mary Grant had risked returning home in order to retrieve the information that Hal Stark had smuggled out of his office.
Briggs gripped the wheel furiously. This was his chance. Were he to recapture the evidence, Ian would be in the clear. Fail and Ian was finished, and Briggs close behind him. It came down to one thing: stop Potter and the Grant woman at all costs.
The Jeep passed an elementary school and made a right onto Anderson Mill Road, wheels screeching so loudly Briggs could hear them a hundred yards back. Traffic was light, but there was enough to prevent him from taking active measures to disable the Jeep. Besides, there were electronic witnesses all around in the form of cameras posted on all traffic lights.
He followed Potter and the woman onto the four-lane thoroughfare, turning on his headlights. He knew the road. There was a blind section ahead, a long, bending curve cutting through a patch of undeveloped scrub. No stoplights. No cameras. He would have one chance to take them.
He punched the gas and came up on the Jeep’s tail. The road began its curve. He noted with satisfaction that no cars were approaching. No lights were visible in the rearview mirror. He swung to the left and accelerated, catching the Jeep. Briggs lowered the passenger window, pistol gripped loosely in his right hand. The gap between the vehicles was a foot, maybe less. He aimed at Tank Potter. He expected the Jeep to veer away, but it did nothing to evade him. A last look ahead confirmed that no cars were oncoming. Briggs could shoot with impunity.
A burst of gas. He pulled even with the Jeep. He caught the driver’s profile. Strong jaw. Tanned skin. It was him, all right. He straightened his arm. A three-shot burst would do the trick. Aim low to compensate for the kick. He felt a spurt of optimism as his finger brushed the trigger.