They walked, the two of them, past the seaside cafés and shops, toward the center of town. Toward her bank. He held on to her each step of the way, hurting her as she passed one khaki-dressed police officer after another.
She said nothing. She obeyed and would obey. There was only one chance in a million she could get herself out of this, but she wasn’t going to try even that. Not with Michael’s well-being at stake.
He slowed her down as they crossed the street in front of Grand Cayman Bank. “Who am I?” he asked.
“Uncle Ed.”
“Say it again-and smile this time.”
She forced her lips to curve up. “Uncle Ed.”
He walked into the shade on the right side of the street and took out his cell phone. With one push of his button he was on the phone with Jazz, and she was trembling. “Jazz, let’s see what you can do to his left hand.”
“No!” she said, but he yanked her back, close to a pastry shop window.
“Say it again.”
She looked at him through a red haze of hatred, but she made herself smile, pretend this wasn’t death, that Michael wasn’t being hurt this very second. “Uncle Ed.”
“Again.”
“Uncle Ed.”
“Better. Just don’t forget I have the phone right here.” He patted his pocket. “There’s only one way he doesn’t die, and die ugly.”
IT HAD TAKEN MICHAEL too long to wrap his hand in the bathroom towel, to swallow half the bottle of aspirin. He knew Jazz would be coming back any minute, and when he did, there were going to be some changes.
Now that Tate wasn’t directly in harm’s way, he could do what he’d wanted to when Jazz had grabbed his wrist.
He went back to the bedroom. He could still unlock the door, even with his dominant hand out of commission. But that wasn’t the plan. He needed Jazz to come in here.
Once he’d taken that prick out, he’d move on, but slowly. Each member of the crew had to be taken out before he’d blow the whistle on Martini.
On the one hand, he wanted Jazz to hurry the hell up. On the other, a few more minutes for the aspirin to take affect wouldn’t hurt.
He cursed his luck for the hundredth time. Why had he bailed out Charlie so many times? Why’d he have to promise his father he’d watch out for that loser? And why the hell had he fallen in love with Tate Baxter?
There was no good outcome to this scenario. She didn’t deserve any more anguish, not on his account. Goddamn, he was a fool.
He turned too sharply and pain radiated up his arm. Yeah, some more time for that aspirin would be just great. Was that Jazz? Shit, he had to be ready to do what needed to be done.
TATE SAT AT THE BANK vice president’s desk, waiting for him to draw up the transfer papers. After 9/11, things had changed, even here, and there was a lot more red tape to tamp down on money laundering. If only they knew who Ed Martini really was. But they wouldn’t discover the truth from her.
She’d smiled, answered questions, been attentive, but now she had to remember what Michael had told her. Even though it might be the wrong choice, she had to try. If she could stop Ed now, she could still get to Michael before Jazz had done too much damage.
She began with the breathing. Taking in larger and larger breaths.
“What are you doing?”
“I-”
He pinched her on the back of her arm, and she bit her lip so she wouldn’t yelp.
“Stop it.”
“I don’t think I can.”
He smiled broadly and leaned toward her, bringing his lips close to her ear. “First his right kneecap, then his left.”
She breathed harder, deeper, faster, knowing she would hyperventilate and that would make her pass out. It was her only job, her only shot. To do what she’d done for years-have a panic attack, only this one had to be deliberate and it couldn’t last hours. She had to faint, to be cared for by someone, anyone, except Uncle Ed.
He pinched her again. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare.”
“Please, I can’t help it. It’s the agoraphobia. I have no…no control.”
“You’d better find some, bitch. Or he won’t have one-”
Mr. Granger, the vice president, reentered the room and Ed’s face changed again. He looked up at the man with concern.
“Could you bring my niece a cup of water? She’s not feeling well.”
“Of course. One moment.” He picked up his phone and asked his secretary to bring fresh water. Before he hung up, he asked, “Is there anything else I can do?”
Ed shook his head. “No. She’ll be fine.”
Tate looked at him. Tried to smile. Then everything went black.
17
MICHAEL STOOD JUST to the left of the door, waiting. His right hand, immobilized in a towel, was strapped to his back with the aid of two torn pillowcases. It felt weird, but he couldn’t strap the hand in front-it would present too easy a target.
He didn’t think he’d be fighting long. Jazz would come in, Michael would knock the crap out of him using his three remaining limbs and get the gun. The gun would make the rest of his job simpler still.
His only worry at this point was Tate. She was out there by herself. Michael hoped that Ed had ditched his weapon before going to the bank. He doubted very much even an offshore bank would appreciate a customer coming in with a loaded Glock.
But even if he didn’t have a gun to use on Tate, he’d have no trouble getting her to sign the papers. Breaking his hand was the smartest thing Ed could have done. Tate wasn’t used to these kinds of tactics and she had no idea what Michael was capable of.
How could she? He’d been so afraid of getting her hurt that he’d behaved like a civilian this whole trip. He’d been knocked out-twice-caught behind a sofa, tripped up by his brother. She probably thought he’d made up his military training.
He should have kicked ass and worried later. Even with Charlie here, with Tate so vulnerable. He’d never behaved this stupidly before, not on any mission he’d ever had. He’d have been drummed out of the Army for this.
There was a noise outside, a thump, and it brought him right back into the room, into this mission right here. He breathed deeply and evenly, balanced himself to make optimum use of what he had to work with. Jazz was going down. And if it was painful on the way, so much the better.
The lock turned and the door swung open. Michael waited until Jazz walked in, ready for anything. Only, it wasn’t Jazz. It was Charlie. He was crying like a baby, but his gun, silencer and all, was pointed straight at Michael’s chest.
TATE OPENED HER EYES. She didn’t know where she was, who the man standing in front of her was, what was going on, and fear shot through her. She scrambled back, barely realizing she’d been lying on a leather couch, and then she saw Ed.
He made everything worse. Her chest seized, her vision narrowed. And she was pretty sure he wasn’t going to get his money because she’d be dead any second.
“I’ll call the hospital,” the man said, his accent broad and his face terribly worried.
“No, it’s all right,” Ed said. “Just give us a moment. She’s disoriented, that’s all. She had a rough night on the boat.”
The man eyed Ed, then her. “It won’t take them but a moment-”
“No, thank you. We just need a few minutes alone.”
“Very well. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
“I appreciate it,” Ed said, his smile looking so genuine it made Tate’s pulse pound harder.
The moment they were alone, Ed’s demeanor switched to his true self. Malevolent, angry, brutal. He got right into her face, his arms on either side of her. If he’d been a lover, he’d have swooped in for a kiss, but there was nothing but hate in his eyes, in the way he sneered at her. “You have one more chance. You get out there and sign those papers. One more thing goes wrong, and your man is dead. You’ll go back to a corpse, you got that?”