Hot Streak

CHAPTER 28

H is security men behind him, Carey ran down the corridors and burst out the side door, sprinting for his car parked at the curb. Wrenching the door open, he leaped inside. “To Molly's,” he barked, and Jess began pulling away before the men behind Carey had caught up with him. Intent on his search for a weapon, he didn't look up when two of the security men threw themselves into the accelerating limo. He kept a small Beretta in the compartment under the seat and, pushing the sliding door aside, he felt for it. The feel of the cool metal was comforting, as if he suddenly had more control of his fear or at least an even chance with the Rifats of the world. Slipping the gun into his jacket pocket, he turned to the two men breathing hard beside him and said, “I saw Rifat's man.”

Even in his worst nightmares he'd never considered having his daughter involved in Egon's asinine scheme, and he passionately hoped his emotional reaction was the overreaction of a protective father. He hoped Rifat's aide was simply out to involve him somehow in Egon's problem. They couldn't know about Carrie. Could they? The story had only hit the newsstands today; they'd have had to leave Europe yesterday to be here this morning. He hoped they didn't know of Molly and Carrie, although he wasn't naive enough to think Rifat's right-hand man was in Minneapolis to enjoy the summer lakes. At best, he was the object of their visit; and the worst, he dared not contemplate. “Go through the light,” he ordered, and Jess accelerated to avoid another car bearing down on the intersection. The one-way street had only moderate traffic at that time of the morning, and Jess wove through the three lanes at a smooth ninety. He took the left onto Helseth Memorial Highway on two tires, and pushed the speedometer into the red zone when Carey said, “Step on it.”

As they neared the Merchandise Mart, the police cars were obvious.

Four of them were parked out front as though they'd skidded on ice to stop.

And a fire truck was half visible around the south side of the building.

Please God, Carey silently prayed, his hand gripping the revolver, the safety already switched off, she doesn't belong in any of this. Shutting his eyes briefly, he drew in a deep breath and asked any god who was listening for help. When his dark eyes opened, he spoke in curt phrases to the men beside him. “They're Turks. Don't give them an edge. Shoot first. We'll work up the defense later. If they're here at Molly's,” his voice was totally without emotion, “they're after my daughter, and I want them dead.” His hand was on the door handle as Jess braked, leaving tire marks on the pavement. “If you have any problems with this, stay in the car. I won't take offense.” And he was out of the backseat before the Lincoln came to a complete stop. Up the front steps in three loping strides, he dashed through the door and took the stairs because the elevators were too slow.

When he reached the second floor, the apartment door was open, the lock plate broken from the jamb, and he could see through the foyer and hallway to the light-filled living room. The apartment was empty, deathly quiet, and when he turned back to the men who'd followed him up, his face was set in a hard brutal mask. “Check out the apartment. I'll meet you downstairs.”

His heart was pounding in his ears. Damn Rifat! Damn predators like him who took their bloody barbarian ruthlessness to peaceful people in peaceful regions of the world. If Carrie was harmed… he wouldn't allow himself to think of possibilities beyond that. But flashback images of maimed children in Vietnam filled his mind, and he swore to drive away the searing vignettes, swore his revenge on Shakin Rifat for coming within a thousand miles of his daughter.

His Beretta poised, he surveyed the second-floor corridor swiftly, and took the backstairs down. The mezzanine floor was as quiet as the second, but he was cautious when he opened the stairwell door into the corridor. Nothing… no one. And the absence of people was foreboding. Three offices on the mezzanine were normally busy with activity. A uniformed policeman stood near the main floor office when Carey eased the ground floor doorway open. One policeman and four cars outside. It wasn't reassuring. Where was Carrie?

The inside of his mouth was dry as it had been when he'd patrolled the jungles of Vietnam, never knowing if his next step was going to be his last. Taking a careful breath to calm himself, and at the same time reminding himself this was not Vietnam, death was not wholesale insanity in Minneapolis, he slipped his Beretta into his jacket pocket and stepped out into the corridor. He approached the policeman with rapid strides. “I'm looking for my daughter,” he said. In a hurry to find out from this man where his daughter was or get past him in the least possible waste of time, he kept his voice impersonal.

The man looked him over with an appraising glance. “Who're you?”

“Carey Fersten; my daughter lives here. There're four police cars outside. Why?”

“Don't know anything about your daughter.” The man showed no emotion. Even his voice was a monotone without intensity or force, the audible expression of the principle: This is only a job. When my eight hours are over, I go home. I plan to live until retirement.

“Four black-and-whites?” Carey persisted.

“We answered a burglar alarm and a fire alarm. I was assigned to keep the office secure when the building was evacuated. Most everyone headed out back. The rest of them went down the basement 'cuz someone here saw two men running that way.”

Carey felt ludicrously like a reporter. “No one's seen a couple of young girls?” Lucy had decided to keep Carrie company that day. A special treat for her birthday.

“Sorry, can't help you.” And he looked at his watch.

Carey's pulse was still racing, but he turned away with a casual nod. Passing the officer, he sprinted toward the basement stairs. At least, he thought, the police were there. Even if Rifat's men had come… he paused with sudden alarm. They could have been here, snatched Carrie, and left already.

As though a computer had short-circuited in his brain, fragmented mental impressions raced through his mind: What the hell was that aide's name? Damn Egon and his drug habit; damn Sylvie for ever walking into his life. Could he shoot the Turks with the police around? Maybe Carrie was safe with Lucy, playing the video games at the Savoy Hotel down the street, maybe Kiray, that was his name, was only at the press conference as a precaution, keeping track of him to keep track of Egon. That was it. Right, God? Jesus, he was losing it. But he'd only just found his daughter, and she was more precious to him than he'd ever imagined possible.

How many years had he tossed off the casual disclaimer to the familiar question about children? How many times had he said: “The world will survive just fine without any more Ferstens.” And all he wanted to do right now was find Carrie, wrap his arms around her, and weep with relief.

But in the next pulsebeat, he wanted to track down Rifat and “neutralize” him, as the intelligence agencies so euphemistically put it. Was that a normal paternal instinct? Or perhaps an overprotective response nurtured by too many special assignments with Mac and Ant and Luger during the winding down of the Vietnam Era, as the Defense Department referred to the fiasco that would otherwise have to be acknowledged as a lost war. But for the first time since arriving back home, Carey appreciated the lethal skills he'd acquired with Mac, Ant, and Luger. He intended to use them on Rifat.

The basement was typical of turn-of-the-century buildings. Heavy, rough-cut stone served as foundation, and the musty accumulation of nearly a century worth of dirt, dust, and darkness struck him halfway down the stairs. The silence at the bottom of the steps unnerved him, as if the vast rabbit warren of dark corridors and walled sections had swallowed up four cars of policemen. And it reminded him of the tunnels in Vietnam.

He moved slowly down the narrow passageway, weighing risk against survival. His was the kind of caution developed in deserted VC camps where a booby-trapped map if picked up would blow you away, or a dead buddy would be detonated to go off when you lifted his dog tags. His Beretta was out front as he checked each room he passed.

A faint sound reached him; had he heard a child's voice-or was he fantasizing? Straining his ears, he waited to hear the high-pitched tone again. There.

Then men's voices, low and muted, joined the child's, the undecipherable masculine resonance turning into an occasional audible word-and then many. Hurt, he heard, and then