Perry's killer playlist

Move and he dies.

“You were only a pawn, Perry,” Gobi said. “How do you say, leverage. . for them to find me.”

My throat felt tight. I didn’t say anything.

“Is time to go.”

“No.” I took a step back and my heel bumped into something black piled under the seat in front of me. Diving suits and masks. Oxygen tanks. Regulators.

“Oh, no,” I said. “No way.”

Gobi was moving faster now, putting on the wetsuit.

“Screw that. I’m not doing this. I’m done.”

She spat in the mask and rinsed it with water from the canal, checked the oxygen gauge, and looked up at me. The sirens were very close now.

“It’s an island,” I said. “They’ll just keep looking for you.”

“Not now.” She nodded in the direction of the explosion. “We are dead. At least until they do not recover bodies.”

“We can’t just-”

Gobi thrust a pair of swim fins toward me.

“I’m not going any farther,” I said. “I’m calling my dad, he’ll get a lawyer. I’m going home.”

“That is not possible anymore.”

“Why not?”

She looked up at me one more time through the swim mask, staring right through me. I saw something new in her face then. Sadness.

That was when she held up Paula’s iPad.

23. “If There’s a Rocket Tie Me to It” — Snow Patrol

The screen had cracked back at the cafe, but it still worked.

I stared at it and felt the world go sideways.

In the picture on the screen, my mom and dad and Annie were sitting on a wooden bench in a room with no windows. The walls behind them were dirty white, the color of March snow. It was a very clear image. The resolution was excellent. Dad was holding a copy of the New York Times up to the camera so I could see today’s date. His chin was already starting to show the beginnings of stubble. Mom’s eyes were bloodshot, the tip of her nose red, like she’d been crying. But Annie was the worst. She was wearing a dirty pink T-shirt and her favorite pair of jeans, hugging herself, and her face just looked blank, like inside her head she’d gone to find a place where she wouldn’t have to be scared anymore.

“Where are they?” I heard myself ask.

Gobi shook her head. “I do not know.”

“What?”

“Is Paula’s iPad,” Gobi said. “If I had not come tonight, she would have used this picture on you.”

“For what?”

“To get to me.”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Leverage, Perry. Think.”

The sirens were practically on top of us now.

I looked at the iPad again.

“Armitage did this?”

Gobi nodded.

“And you killed him.”

“It was assignment,” Gobi said.

“Screw your assignment! Your assignment got my family kidnapped!” I wanted to throw the iPad at her as hard as I could. “You shot Armitage! The cops wouldn’t even know where to start looking for them!”

“Is not a police matter.”

“What?”

She just looked at me. “I must finish.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Kaya gave me multiple targets. Monash was first, then Armitage.” She glanced away. “There is one more.”

“Who?”

“You know.”

Of course I did. “Paula.”

“She was right about the shotgun being empty. But we were out of time. If I had paused to reload, and finish her off, the other snipers would have killed me.”

“Hold on.” I was trying not to lose any remaining control I might still have over my sympathetic nervous system, which didn’t seem to be feeling very sympathetic toward me right now. “If she’s the only one left who knows where my family is, then we need her alive.”

Gobi held up Paula’s iPad, then slipped it into a watertight packet and sealed it shut. “We have everything we need.”

“Are you sure?”

“Not until we get a chance to look at it closely.” She looked around. “We need to get out of here.”

She didn’t have to ask again. I had already started putting on the wetsuit.

24. “Hold Your Colour” — Pendulum

Two people pulled out of Venice that night on an overnight Eurostar sleeper, a man and a woman who didn’t give the city so much as a backwards glance. They were traveling under the names Myra Abrams and John Galt, carrying full sets of ID retrieved from a train station locker, along with clean sets of clothes.

Before we left, there had been a whispered conversation on the platform, neither of us looking at the other:

“How do you know they won’t follow us?”

“They will.”

“What?”

“The second boat will not stall them forever.”

“Then what?”

She had brought out a folder bulging with receipts and itineraries. “I have booked three different flights out of Venice Airport. Four sets of train tickets. Two rental cars. All of this will buy us time.”

But how much time, Gobi?

How much is enough?

After the conductor came by for our passports, the compartment lights were dimmed and she retrieved the iPad from the waterproof bag where she’d stowed it. She’d changed into a white T-shirt and a leather jacket and jeans, her hair tucked back under a green Mao cap with a low brim that did a decent job of covering her face. At first glance she looked like any other young traveler whiling away the long night. Glancing over her shoulder, I flicked my gaze over the first CNN headlines trumpeting the assassination of George Armitage without really seeing them. It had taken less than an hour for the shock wave to go global. Gobi didn’t offer the iPad, and I didn’t ask to see it. Anything of Paula’s that I had to touch, I wanted to bleach first. It felt as contaminated as my memories of