She paused, and a hopeful glint entered her eyes.
“Have you heard from your sister?”
Tina wanted nothing more than to keep the hope glowing in her mother’s eyes, but she didn’t want to lie to her either.
“No, Mom, I haven’t.”
Her mother tried to smile but it was a weak attempt.
“Your father’s been gone three years. Losing him was hard, and I thought it was something I could get over, and I thought maybe I was starting to, but then Holly …”
She paused, her eyes growing intense.
“What if something happened to her? What if she was in an accident or worse? How would we even know?”
Tina realized she had never been in a position where she needed to comfort her mother. She wasn’t sure she was up for the task, but she wanted to take this burden off her mother’s shoulders any way she could. She thought that if she could—if she somehow managed to make her mother feel better—that might help make her hatred of life subside.
Reaching across the table, Tina took her mother’s hand in hers and gave it a soft squeeze. She forced a smile.
“It’ll be okay, Mom. You know how Holly is. She’s like a cat. She always lands on her feet.”
Thirty-Four
Eventually the car slows to a stop, and the trunk pops open. Louis stands outside, the fob in his hand, but he’s not alone. Two freelancers stand behind him, their Berettas drawn.
Louis says, “Would you like to come out?”
It’s hard to judge how long I’ve been in the trunk. At least twelve hours. The sky behind Louis has some light in it, but it’s mostly dark, the sun about to set.
I sit up, slowly, my muscles having cramped from being squeezed into the trunk all this time, and the two freelancers take a step back for caution.
We’re parked behind what looks to be an abandoned warehouse. The SUV idles a couple yards away. I climb out of the trunk and tilt my head back and forth on my neck, stretching the muscles, and then I stretch my arms over my head and rotate my shoulders.
Louis watches with his blank gaze.
“Did you get any rest?”
I just look back at him.
“What do you think?”
Louis steps away, toward the SUV, and returns with a bottle of water. He hands me the bottle, and I take a long swallow, the kind that’s too greedy and causes water to dribble down my chin.
“Now what?”
Louis motions toward the car.
“Now we continue on our way. The only reason we stopped was because I felt it was time for you to get out of the trunk.”
What a gentleman.
My instinct is to try to sit behind the driver, but Louis knows better. He opens the rear passenger door. Once I climb in, he shuts the door and circles around to climb in beside me, and the driver—another freelancer—starts the car and gets us moving.
I’m conscious of the Beretta holstered to the driver’s hip, just as I’m conscious of the Glock holstered to Louis’s hip. I could easily make a move for one, wrestle it away before the other reacted, but there’s the collar around my throat to take into consideration, plus the fact these assholes will kill my family if I don’t do what they say.
As we drive over the gravel toward the front of the warehouse and back onto the highway, I think about how many hours I’ve been in the trunk, how many miles that adds up to, and what Louis said before we left. So it’s no surprise when I spot one of the highway signs alerting drivers that Los Angeles is thirty-two miles away.
Louis sits slightly shifted toward me, which is smart. If I were to make a move, he’s better prepared for it. Plus, he still has the fob in his hand.
He says, “You should get some rest.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you.”
“You need to make sure you’re focused enough to accomplish this mission.”
“Get me a gallon of Red Bull, and I should be good to go.”
Louis makes a face and glances out the back window at the trailing SUV. The setting sun slants through the windows, casting a dark orange glow on the side of his face.
“What time is the hit, anyway?”
Louis looks at me again, considers his answer carefully, but then gives a slight shake of his head.
I frown at him.
“Hey—you want me to kill this guy, I need more intel.”
“You’ll get it when the time is right.”
“And when is that?”
“When we get there.”
“Where is there?”
Again Louis doesn’t answer. He’s looking annoyed. Which makes me think I might soon earn myself another zap.
“Look, aiming through a scope and pulling the trigger? That’s a piece of cake. When I’m out alone in a field shooting at a stationary target. And something tells me Cortez isn’t going to stand still long enough for me to get off the perfect shot. So I need to know what I’m dealing with. Where I’m going to be positioned. Where he’s going to be positioned. How many people will be around him. The time of day. Where the sun is placed in the sky. Whether there’ll be clouds. You know, important stuff like that.”
Louis stares ahead, out at the highway and the traffic ahead of us. He doesn’t look like he’s going to answer, and while I’m certainly game to keep asking him questions, something tells me it isn’t in my best interest to bug him too much either.
Finally he says, “You’ll be in a hotel room in downtown Los Angeles.”
“A hotel room.”
“Yes. Seventh floor. Five blocks away from where your target will be.”
“And where’s that?”
“Another hotel. He’ll be entering from the street.”
“Why not the parking garage?”
Louis’s lips curl into a thin smile.
“Someone on the inside has taken care of that. It’ll be a great photo op for the president. There will be some reporters there, photographers, the local TV news. His car will pull up outside, he’ll step out, wave to them,
