My garage remote is built into the Jaguar’s sun visor so I reached in and hit the button. The door began to clank its way up, agonizingly slowly. I waited until it was half open then ducked underneath, crossed to the kitchen door, and let myself inside. I lifted up the loose section of countertop, held my breath, and slid my fingers into the gap. Sure enough, the memory stick was still there. I pulled it out, dropped the slab back in place, and turned to leave.
Only I couldn’t. Because my path was blocked.
A man was standing in the doorway.
Thursday. Late afternoon.
PRETEND TO WITHDRAW, AND BRING YOUR QUARRY RUNNING OUT into the open. A ruse that’s been in use since Genghis Khan’s time. Probably longer. And I fell for it. I felt like a twenty-four-carat fool.
“Officer, this isn’t how it looks. Or should that be Agent?”
A hint of a smile spread across the guy’s face.
“No agents here, Marc.” He shook his head. “And the police? They were the guys who just left.”
“You know my name?”
“I know all about you.”
“How—”
“Doesn’t matter how. I know.”
“No. I was going to ask, how did you get rid of the police?”
“It’s amazing what a well-placed anonymous tip can do.”
Not when I tried making one, I thought, which did nothing to lift my spirits.
“OK,” I said. “What do you want?”
“The memory stick. That’s all. Put it down, and back away slowly.”
I didn’t know what to do. The guy looked like he meant business, but I needed that memory stick. Without it, I’d never get the police and Homeland Security off my back. I felt my fingers tighten, pressing it into my palm.
“Put it down.” The guy shifted his weight very slightly so that his jacket gaped open, revealing the handle of a pistol. “Drop it on the countertop. All I want is the memory stick. Then I’ll leave.”
A sudden shiver rippled down my spine, triggered by something in the tone of the guy’s voice. I’d heard it before. Earlier that day. And then it clicked. This was the guy who’d thrown the Molotov cocktail. The one who’d given me the money and the phone, and told me to run. Only when I’d met him earlier, his face had been hidden. Now it wasn’t. I could see him clearly. I’d be able to describe him to a sketch artist without any problem at all. And I couldn’t imagine a single circumstance where he’d leave me alive to do that.
“You’ll let me go, if I give it to you?”
“Absolutely. The stick is all I want.”
“OK. You can have it. No problem. But can I keep the other one?”
“What other one?” He took a step into the room.
“Well, I had three. I brought them home from my old job, after I got fired. One got stolen—I had a break-in—and the police are doing nothing about getting it back. You’re going to take this one. Can I keep the third one? I’m being cooperative, here. And the data on that third stick would really help me with my research.”
“You stole that data.” He took another step toward me. “So, no. You can’t keep any of it. You can’t start trying to do deals for it. You can’t use it in your research. What you can do is give it to me. And then forget you ever met me.”
“OK, OK.” I held my left hand up as if in surrender and used my right to slip the stick into the back pocket of my jeans. “You can’t blame me for asking. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? I’ll get it for you right away. You’re welcome to it. And after that, if anyone asks, no one was here tonight. Not you. Not me. Not anyone else. OK?”
“Get it, then. What are you waiting for?”
“Give me two minutes.” I tried to steer a path around him to the door. “I’ll be right back with it.”
“Are you looking to take a beating?” He stepped across, blocking my way. “Where is it?”
My mind was in overdrive. If I couldn’t run, I’d have to hide. Or barricade myself in, somewhere. But where? Ours was a regular suburban home. It hadn’t been designed with defense against home invaders in mind. There certainly wasn’t anywhere suitable on the first floor. What about upstairs? The attic? That was the farthest away. But no. It wouldn’t work. The retractable ladder was broken. It shot uncontrollably down through the trapdoor when you opened it, and always took five or ten tries to fold it back up. So where else? Our bedroom, maybe? The door had a lock, and if I could get in fast enough I could drag the dresser in front of it for extra security. That should be enough to hold the guy at bay for a few minutes, at least.
“It’s in the safe. It’ll only take a moment to grab it. Why don’t you—”
“Bullshit. I already checked. The safe was the first place I looked, Monday night. There’s only passports and papers in there.”
“The safe in the bedroom?”
“In the home office.”
The bastard had been in my study while I’d been upstairs, drunk and asleep. And that creeped me out more than the current situation with him standing in front of me, armed and full of threats.
“That’s the old safe. The last owners installed it. The really valuable stuff I keep upstairs, in the new one. It’s much better.”
“In the master bedroom?” He sounded suspicious. “Where? I didn’t see one.”
He’d been in my bedroom, that night? What if Carolyn had been there? I felt a surge of anger start to replace my fear.
“It’s very well hidden. Impossible to find if you don’t know it’s there. That’s why it cost such a fortune.”
The guy didn’t look convinced, so I pressed on before he could ask any more questions.
“Come on. I’ll show you.”
He let me walk down the hallway in front of him, but I paused at the bottom of the staircase, foolish enough to try one more thing.
“There’s no need for both of us to troop up there. Hang out here, if you want. I’ll grab it and be right back down. The bedroom’s on the second floor. Where am I going to go?”
“Shut up and move.” The guy planted a hand between my shoulder blades and shoved hard. I went down, face-first, into the stairs. The edge of a tread hit me just below the bridge of my nose. I heard a crunch and felt a sharp, stabbing pain. Two, three, four red dots appeared on the carpet, looking like burn holes in the light-colored pile, and when I lifted my head I could feel the blood running down onto my chin.
I scrambled up the first few stairs on all fours, like a child. My upper front teeth felt like they were falling out. My heart was slamming against my ribs like a hammer, and that made me think—dresser or no dresser, I wasn’t going to be able to keep this guy on the right side of my bedroom door for long, given the strength he’d just shown. And the temper. I’d need help. But who could I call? McKenna? Was he still alive? The last time I’d seen him he was trying to rescue a man in a burning truck from three armed attackers. The odds of him having survived weren’t good. That only left the police. They’d arrest me. Throw the book at me for breaking out of jail. Resisting arrest. All kinds of things. Or hand me over to Brooking, who’d add whatever had happened to McKenna to her list of accusations. But it was a risk I’d have to take. Jail—or Guantanamo Bay—was better than the cemetery, even if it was unjustified.
The guy stayed tight behind me on the stairs. But when we reached the top he dropped back, offering me a brief glimpse of an alternative way out. He was bigger and stronger, but I was lighter and—I hoped—faster. So I feinted right, the opposite direction from the bedroom, then twisted back around and made a desperate leap for the stairs. If I could get to the hallway before him it would give me half a chance. To run back to the kitchen. Or dive out through the front door. I didn’t care which. All that mattered was getting away.