He’d been showing far too much interest in her, even after screwing up an assassination attempt on Emma’s mother. Maybe he was looking to redeem himself. Too bad. Pay for therapy on your own time, Stinko. Not mine. It took me three arduous hours to sever his links to Emma’s phone and computer, which entailed cutting off all the young woman’s service for forty-three minutes, an eternity for a chronic phone user like her. But with all the ISP disruptions these days, she gave no indication of being alarmed, nor did she take any action to try to root out the source of the problem by going to her mother. Not that Emma was likely to, given her new need for secrecy.
I’m certain Vinko is much more frustrated at this point than his young target because my perusal of his emails showed that he knows about her pregnancy. That must have whetted his appetite: white girl coupling with a black guy; the worst kind of beast with two backs to the likes of him. For those who loathe interbreeding and embrace Islamophobia, Emma and her beau would be a sweet target.
But Vinko isn’t going to find her unless I want him to. I would say the same for Lana. The manipulation of those two must be coordinated, and I’m in the position to do that, with Vinko now relegated to watching from the sidelines. I’ll cue him when I’m good and ready, if I need to.
Originally, I’d thought of corralling Sufyan as well. I even feel some gratitude toward him. His rift with Emma has driven her away from those who could protect her, making his girlfriend little more than chum in the turbulent currents she’s trying to swim.
As for Vinko, he’s already switching his attention to the death of Bones Jackson. The famous receiver had took up residence recently in Oregon, presumably to imbibe the deadly, legal dose of secobarbital that killed him. I don’t blame him. A gentle death versus the ravages of brain cancer? Not a difficult choice.
For all Vinko’s professed hatred of his former teammate, I found it amusing to see that he’d viewed online video of Jackson’s memorial service six times. But what really surprised me was an email Vinko drafted to Bones’s widow Ludmila. I thought Vinko might have expressed a scintilla of regret over his teammate’s passing, but no. He called Ludmila a “slut” for having sex with a “black monkey.” His parting words to the bereaved widow: “You are a degenerate.”
Seriously, Vinko? You wrote that to her right after the service?
At least he didn’t send it. I see that it’s still in his “draft” folder. I’m tempted to delete it. Wait a sec. Vinko’s opening it. I can almost see him subvocalizing as he rereads it.
No, don’t, Vinko. Even for you, that’s going too far.
But he just hit “send,” and there it goes.
Why?
Well, why not? I realize. That’s who Vinko Horvat really is: a racist. And that’s what racists do.
I wonder if he realizes Ludmila is Russian. Does he know the well-deserved reputation of Russian women?
I feel like I’m taking a bath when I leave his site. It’s a pleasure to return to Emma’s Fusion. She’s driven sixty-three miles, so she should be inside Baltimore proper now.
Yes, the GPS agrees.
The sun must be coming up. Her mother must be waking, too. In the next few minutes both she and her husband will start to panic. They’ll wonder if their daughter has been abducted. But how? They’ll check their tight security and find it intact. Then they’ll review the electronic history of the system and learn that it was opened from inside the house by someone who knew the code. They’ll check Emma’s room and discover no signs of struggle. And they’ll see that her phone is missing, along with key personal belongings, if my guess is good about the latter.
Most painfully, they’ll realize their only child is no longer protected by the extensive measures they’ve taken to insure their family’s well-being. And if they’re particularly insightful parents, they’ll also understand that they could protect their daughter from so much, but not from herself.
A seventeen-year-old is impulsive.
A seventeen-year-old feels immortal.
A seventeen-year-old doesn’t understand that death can come in a whisper.
Emma. I imagine my hot breath on her ear. I can help you.
So her parents will be right to shudder at the fact that Em is now vulnerable to the scores of terrorists stalking American cities and hinterlands, hunting for ever more horrors to visit upon the nation.
But don’t worry about all that.
Those are the exact words I would tell them if I could. They need only worry about me. And it’s too late for that. Their only child is trying to free herself of too much too soon, and all she’s really done is seal her fate.
The one I’ve planned for her.
And you shall share it, Lana.
The chainsaws are oiled and calling. Can you hear them? Here, I’ll start one.
How about that? Can you hear it now? The blade sounds angry, doesn’t it? Like it could cut through skin and bone and the last scraps of hope in a dying girl’s heart.
I won’t let you die without seeing that, Lana. I promise.
That’s how a mother gets to die twice.
Chapter 23
Jimmy pushed through the door that had delivered the ISIS fighter to his death, entering a short, wide hallway. He immediately scanned the ceiling and corners for surveillance cameras. Didn’t see any but that didn’t mean there weren’t fiber optics embedded in openings no larger than the head of a finishing nail.
Better move faster, then.
He headed to the only interior door, finding a digital pad for the lock. Jimmy tried the handle — a non-starter, as expected — but didn’t dare touch the pad. A false code could alert the security system.
He retreated back to the deck, resigning himself to climbing the rig. His best bet appeared to be a massive chain near the end of the dock, one of four that anchored the facility to the seabed. They ran all the way to each corner of the upper platform, where he’d seen the chief engineer and the roughnecks displayed like human trophies.
Each steel link was half his height and thick as his thighs. But the openings were ample enough for solid footholds. Keeping his pistol in hand, knife belted, and the Kalashnikov strapped across his back, he started up slowly. Nothing like those Greenpeace maniacs who’d climbed a Shell rig like they were spiders. Then again, they hadn’t just survived a boat crash and a nasty case of smallpox. Nor had they been facing armed ISIS terrorists on the platform above them.
Jimmy climbed up the anchor chain methodically, but the steel was slippery from an early morning mist that shrouded him. Good cover, bad for climbing. He paused with every advance, hearing nothing till he’d moved thirty feet above the water — Arab gibberish drifting down through the thin fog, which would burn off soon enough. It already appeared to be vanishing to a frightening degree.
Speak English. He shook his head, but otherwise remained as still as the steel that held him — except for his stomach, which felt queasy. He tried to clear his belly with a big breath, and it might have worked. Feeling better, he looked upward, listening intently for a chopper. There had been a number of them keeping watch on the platform, including some news crews that could give him away in the time it took to hit a camera switch.
Would they do that? he wondered.
Hell, yeah, they would, he answered himself a beat later. It’d be a scoop: Smallpox McMasters climbing the towers geared up like a Gameboy commando? Are you kidding? ’Course they would.