you love her, too. I’m sorry for being such an asshole.”
Fitz waved a hand in front of him. “Naw, don’t you go worrying about that. We’re all strung a little too tight right now, but no one’s pissed that you aren’t there mollycoddling us. We’re grown-up. At least, some of us are.” He grinned and nodded his head toward Marcus Wade, standing in plain view right inside the door to the terminal. Marcus was riding the staff at the airport, threatened to arrest them all if they didn’t cooperate with the investigation. He was leaning in, arguing, and the male agent behind the counter was visibly trembling.
Baldwin gave a tight smile and looked past Marcus. Lincoln was sitting in an orange plastic chair with his laptop perched on his knees, flying through cyberspace, looking for the plane. Baldwin felt certain that if anyone could find the tail number, it would be Lincoln.
Fitz gripped Baldwin’s shoulder once more, then smiled. “I’m calling Price, giving him an update. Anything you’d like to relay?”
“Just tell him to be prepared for an all-out onslaught the moment we find anything. I know the purse strings are tight at Metro. I’ll be putting some of my own capital into this investigation if need be. I don’t expect him to cover my parts. Let him know that.”
“Price won’t hear of that, Baldwin, you know that. He feels like you’re part of this team, even if you are FBI.” He flipped open his phone and left Baldwin on the freezing tarmac.
He’d almost left the Bureau, and was more than thankful that his boss, Garrett Woods, hadn’t let him go. It would have been difficult to manage the response to this incident with Taylor, the dead chauffeur, everything, if he didn’t have the Bureau as backup.
He still wanted to go out on his own, have a consulting firm that was free from the constraints of the government. Hire a couple of private investigators, do the work he wanted to do…
The thought shook him. A private investigator. He and Taylor had obviously been stalked. Someone knew every detail of the wedding plans, right down to the limousine company. He wondered if there was an unscrupulous member of the P.I. community who might have been on their tail. No sane P.I. would stalk a cop and an FBI agent. That was something that needed to be looked into.
His phone had four new messages, all from Garrett Woods, all wanting Baldwin’s attention for a matter outside the scope of the search for Taylor. Baldwin exercised a tiny bit of filial rebellion and chose not to address the phone calls just yet. Woods would tell him if it was vital that they speak immediately. In the meantime, he needed to stay completely focused on Taylor.
Thirty-Four
Unknown Monday, December 22 1:00 p.m.
T wo men sat at a table in a corner of a quiet neighborhood restaurant. One had come in through the front, the other through the back. They hadn’t met in person in many years.
One was known in many circles. His employees called him L’Uomo, quite simply, the Man. Gray-haired, cultivated, dapper, he gave all the appearances of being a successful businessman.
The other gentleman had a face that was easily recognizable everywhere he went, which is why he rarely went anywhere anymore. But L’Uomo had summoned him. Threatened, actually, with a widely disseminated contract hit if he didn’t show his face. After the debacle earlier this year, he’d had no choice. It was either surface or be hunted and killed.
And he’d already died once.
They sat facing one another, the dapper man politely dabbing his mouth with a starched linen napkin between bites. His lips were moist from sipping a vintage red, his everyday wine, a 1985 Chateauneuf-du-Pape. He ate with gusto but delicately, carefully relishing each morsel of food.
His guest didn’t drink or eat. Fear coiled in his stomach, making digestion impossible. So he watched, picking at his plate of salade nicoise, wondering why he’d bothered to order anything. French wasn’t his preferred choice of fare, but he hadn’t had a say in which restaurant they dined in. It was foolish enough for them to be seen together.
L’Uomo enjoyed his meal thoroughly, wading through the three courses and finishing with a cheese plate. Wiping his mouth carefully, he politely belched in gastronomic appreciation and finally looked his dining companion in the eye.
“So. Lazarus returns from the dead at last. I was wondering when you were going to surface. You’re like a bad penny. Never know where you might turn up.”
“That’s not entirely fair,” he protested. “You were the reason I needed to disappear. And putting out a hit on me was rather impolite, don’t you think?”
L’Uomo flicked a hand in annoyance. “Yes, yes, I’m the source of all your ills. The contract was necessary. You’re sitting here with me now, aren’t you? Just business. You know that. There has been a development. We need you to have a heart-to-heart with someone. Resolve this situation for me and I’ll consider the debt even. You can disappear again, with my assurances that you won’t be hunted by my people any longer.”
A nice offer, one worth careful consideration. Of course, nothing about L’Uomo was ever that simple. “Who?”
“You’ll see soon enough. Are you finished?” L’Uomo looked with derision at the pathetically full plate. He had no tolerance for weakness. “No appetite?”
“No, I guess I don’t. Shall we go, then? I’m not comfortable being here. I’d like to get this over with.”
“Fine. I have a little present to show you. Perhaps then you’ll understand the seriousness of the situation. The limo will pick you up in thirty minutes. Do try to eat.”
L’Uomo stood and quitted the room, smiling benevolently at each patron as he walked out.
His companion uttered a single word at his old friend’s back.
“Bastard.”
Thirty-Five
Unknown Monday, December 22 1:30 p.m.
T aylor shifted in the wooden chair. Her arms were tied tightly at the wrist to the back legs, arching her back and straining her shoulders. She could bend her wrists up toward the ceiling, a mistake on her captor’s part. She used her long, dexterous fingers to work on the knots.
She was wishing for a blanket-the room was freezing and they’d stripped her down to her panties and bra- when she realized she wasn’t alone anymore. Her fingers stopped; she closed her eyes, feigning sleep. A scent drifted to her nose-cedar, lime, a touch of mint. A man’s scent.
“I know you’re awake. I’ve been watching you. Industrious little thing, aren’t you?”
Taylor opened her eyes. A middle-height gentleman stood before her. His gray worsted wool suit was a chalk pinstripe Saville Row, the knot in his burgundy tie just so, a crisp white shirt with platinum cuff links in the French cuffs. Dad had a suit like that once. The thought nearly undid her. He was wearing a ski mask. Incongruous, the terrorist chic and the British finery.
“Fuck. You.”
The man laughed. “Oh, aren’t you the little lady? I should wash that filthy mouth out with soap.”
“What do you want?”
“There, a much more important statement. Say please, and I’ll tell you.”
Taylor stared coolly. Never.
The man stared back at her, blue eyes burning behind the mask, then arranged his lips in an unpleasant grin. “Good. You’re a strong one. That’s what I’ve heard. I have a business proposition for you.”
“Untie me first.”
“So you can escape? Not a chance. Not yet. I’ll let you go when the time is right. When I know you’re going to cooperate. And cooperate you will, Lieutenant. Trust me on that.”
