and the clunk of the doors sliding open. Four men rushed out and stormed over to the suite’s door. Rydell saw the bodyguards step toward the security guys, arms raised in a halting what’s-going-on gesture.
Rydell grabbed his chance. He swung the door open and stormed out, sprinting past the surprised bodyguards and through the wall of security guys, waving a panicked finger back toward his bodyguards and shouting, “Stop them. They’re trying to kidnap me. Help me get out of here.”
The security guys flinched with confusion, as did the bodyguards, who were caught flat-footed by Rydell’s rushed exit. Maddox’s men stepped forward forcefully, one of them reaching for his holstered handgun, but the security guys weren’t cowed. Two of them were beefy bouncer types, and they just stood their ground and closed in on each other, creating a barrier across the corridor. One of them, the biggest one of the lot, held up a stern warning finger and had his handgun out too, a mocking you-really-don’t-want-to-do-this grimace across his face. Rydell didn’t wait to watch the outcome. He slipped into the elevator, jabbed the down button repeatedly until the doors rumbled shut, and rode down to the lobby, his nerves on fire. The short ride felt like forever. He raced out the second the door opened, flew out of the lobby, and hurtled into a lone, waiting cab. He ordered the guy to just go, and craned his head back as the cab drove off, to make sure they weren’t being followed. He made the driver take a few rudderless lefts and rights. When he was satisfied that they were on their own, he told him where to go.
IT WAS A SHORT HOP around the Common and past Faneuil Hall to get to the Garden. That late at night, the traffic was light, despite the holiday rush. As the cab turned to pull into the arena’s parking lot, Rydell spotted Matt across the street, leaning against a dark sedan. Rydell got the cabbie to drop him off at the gate, waited for him to drive well clear, and crossed the road to join them. He was halfway across when the rear door swung open and his daughter clambered out of the car and ran over to him.
He hugged her tight. He still couldn’t quite believe it. He looked over her shoulder. Matt was just standing there, leaning back against the car, his arms crossed, an angry look on his face. Rydell kept a firm grip on Rebecca’s hand as he went up to him.
“You did this?” Rydell said. More like a statement than a question.
“My friend’s in the hospital,” Matt told him crisply. “He’s been shot. Bad. I need you to make a call and make sure they give him everything he needs.”
Rydell nodded and reached for his phone. “Of course.”
“He’s also going to need protection,” Matt added. “Is there anyone you can call?”
“I’ve got the number of the detective who came out to the house,” he said. “I can call him.”
“Do it,” Matt said.
Rydell kept hold of Rebecca as he made the calls. It didn’t take long. His name usually helped speed things up.
They told him Jabba was in surgery, and that the prognosis was uncertain. He hung up and informed Matt.
“He’s in good hands,” Rydell told him. “He’ll get the best of care.”
“I damn well hope so.”
Rydell studied him, unsure about where they stood. “I’m sorry about your friend. I just . . . I can’t thank you enough for doing this,” he said, hesitantly.
“I just don’t like your friends,” Matt replied tersely. “They have this habit of locking people up.”
Rebecca turned to meet Rydell’s guilty look.
“And . . . ?” Rydell braced himself for more. Were they now both his prisoners?
“And nothing. My friend’s been shot and your buddies still have my brother.” Matt stared at him, hard. “I thought you might want to help me make things right.”
Rydell brought his hand up and massaged his temple. He looked at Matt, then slid his eyes over to Rebecca. She was eyeing him with a mixture of confusion, fear, and accusation.
He didn’t know what to do. But he had no one left to protect.
“They’re bringing him back,” he finally said.
“Who?” Matt asked.
“The priest. Father Jerome. He’s left Egypt. He’s on his way here.”
“Where here?”
“They’re saying Houston,” Rydell said. “It’s only just hitting the wires. Wherever it is, they’re bound to put a sign up over him, and the odds are, that’s where you’ll find Danny.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “You were right,” he finally conceded. “They’re planning something. Something they needed me around for. I don’t know what it is, but what I thought the plan was, what they insisted was still their plan . . . it’s not it. It’s something else. It’s all about the priest now.”
“Who would know?” Matt asked him, fixing him squarely.
“The others.”
“I need names.”
Rydell held his gaze, then said, “You only need one name. Keenan Drucker. It’s pretty much his show. He’ll know.”
“Where do I find him?”
“D.C. The Center for American Freedom. It’s a think tank.” Just then, Rydell’s BlackBerry trilled. He fished it out of his pocket, checked its screen. And frowned at Matt.
Matt looked a question at him.
Rydell nodded. It was Drucker.
He hit the answer key.
“What are you doing? Where the hell are you?” Drucker asked sharply.
“Working late, Keenan?” He looked pointedly at Matt, holding up his free hand in a stay-put gesture.
“What are you doing, Larry?”
“Getting my daughter back.” Rydell let that one sink in for a beat. Drucker went mute. Then Rydell added, “Then I thought I might head down to the
“Why would you want to do that?”
“’Cause I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with what we set out to achieve,” Rydell shot back fiercely.
Drucker let out a rueful hiss. “Look, I made a mistake, all right? Taking Rebecca was way out of line. I know that. And I’m sorry. But you didn’t leave me any choice. And we’re in this together. We want the same thing.”
“You’re not doing this to save the planet, Keenan. We both know that.”
Drucker’s voice remained even. “We want the same thing, Larry. Believe me.”
“And what is that?”
Drucker went silent for a moment, then said, “Let’s meet somewhere. Anywhere you want. Hear me out. I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. After that, you decide if you still want to bring this whole thing down on top of us.”
Rydell swung his gaze around to Matt and Rebecca. Let Drucker sweat it out for a beat. He knew he needed to hear him out. Too much—his whole life, everything he’d achieved, everything he could still achieve—was at stake. “I’ll think about it,” he replied flatly, then hung up.
“What did he want?” Matt asked.
“To talk. To convince me to play ball.”
Matt nodded, then pointed at Rydell’s BlackBerry. “They might have a lock on you.”
Rydell held up the device, a curious expression on his face. “What, this?”
“They were tracking us. Through my friend’s phone. Even though we’ve been careful. We only had it on for short bursts.”
Rydell didn’t seem the least bit concerned. “We can do it in the time it takes your phone to send out a text message.”
Matt didn’t get it.
“It’s one of ours,” Rydell assured him. “A piece of spyware we developed for the NSA. But there’s nothing to worry about here. We’re fine. My phone’s vaccinated against it.”
