Simone’s words revolved through his mind. Remember when Jada was stung by a bee? That’s how I am right now. That’s how Jada is, too. .
Finally, he understood.
Jada had been stung only once in her life. Last September, the three of them had been touring model homes in an upscale subdivision somewhere south of the city, and as they’d entered one of the decorated bedrooms, a yellow jacket had buzzed across the room and landed on Jada’s exposed shoulder, attracted, perhaps, by the fragrance of her lotion. Jada went nuts, slapping at the insect and screaming, and the damn thing stung her before Corey swatted it to the floor and smashed it under his heel. Jada got a red, dime-sized welt on her skin that didn’t go away for several days.
The community also stuck out in his memory because railroad tracks curved along the border of the properties. He remembered that he and Simone had wondered aloud who would want to buy in to a neighborhood where a freight train might jostle you out of sleep in the middle of the night.
But the clincher, the reason he was absolutely certain his interpretation was correct, was that Gates-Webb Security had been in contract negotiations with the developer to provide burglar alarm systems in all of the residences, and the deal had fallen through because the builder’s own financing collapsed amid the nationwide mortgage crisis. The development was most likely unfinished, half-completed houses standing empty, lots bare and deserted; Corey had seen it happen numerous times in the past couple of years.
Since he’d learned Leon and Todd were working as a team, he figured Todd could have told Leon the perfect place to keep Simone and Jada on lockdown, with no fear of neighbors interfering or noticing. He doubted Simone knew of Todd’s involvement-but she had known exactly where they were being held.
God, I love you, babe, he thought, squeezing the steering wheel and pressing the gas pedal a little harder. Sorry it took me so damned long to figure out your clue.
Although he knew he was right, he could not remember the subdivision’s address or name. He would have to check company records.
To do that, he had to go to the office. Going there was about as risky as going home, but he saw no alternative.
He took the entrance ramp onto I-20, heading west. At that late hour, and in the rainy weather, traffic on the interstate was light. But many of the drivers who were out rocketed past Corey at speeds in excess of ninety miles an hour, heedless of the slick pavement, typical Atlanta drivers who left their common sense at home when they hit the roads.
His BlackBerry vibrated. It was a text message from Todd:
So U got out, Im impressed. But I still have U.
Selling GWS is the only option. Lets make a deal.
Call me.
“Kiss my ass,” Corey muttered.
He deleted the message.
55
As the windshield wipers swept back and forth, Corey passed by the office, checking out the building, parking lot, and the adjacent roads for possible surveillance vehicles or anything out of the ordinary.
The office windows were dark, as they should have been at a quarter past eleven. He didn’t notice any suspicious cars in the parking lot or in the surrounding area.
He made a U-turn at the next traffic light and returned to the office. He parked in the back, between the building and a thick row of hedges, concealing the truck from the road.
He found an umbrella stashed in a storage space underneath the seat. Hail the good Rev. Otis Trice, always prepared.
He doused the Chevy’s lights, but left the engine running. Warding off rain with the umbrella, he dashed to the side entrance. For an alarming moment, he thought he’d lost his keys, but then he located them buried deep in his front pocket.
He took the staircase to the third floor. The GWS office suite was empty, air conditioner and computer servers humming softly. A faint glow filtered inside from the street lamps, but mostly, deep shadows lay everywhere.
Avoiding switching on lights, he hurried to his private office, to fetch a flashlight that he kept in a drawer. As he rummaged inside, he tried to ignore the photos of Simone and Jada clustered on the desk. His nerves were already so frayed he felt capable of snapping with little provocation.
Flashlight located, he lifted his hooded windbreaker off the coat hanger beside the door. He shrugged it on and went to the lounge.
In a cabinet above the sinks, he found a bottle of Advil. He tossed four tablets into his mouth and chased them with a cup of cold water. The knot on his head hurt like hell, and he needed something to dull the pain for a while.
Although they aimed to run a paperless work environment, as a backup they kept hard copies of all contracts, signed or not, in an administrative area next to the lounge. He approached the wide, three-drawer file cabinet that stood next to a laser printer and high-speed copier, and pulled out the bottom drawer.
He thumbed on the flashlight and scanned the beam across the file labels.
“Ah, here we are,” he said.
He found the manila folder he wanted in the “Canceled Contracts” section. The file included the subdivision name and the sales office address.
Archer Lake Homes
478 Archer Way
Fairburn, GA 30213
The contract had been canceled four months ago, with a note in his own neat handwriting describing the reason: “builder financing problems.”
He tore out the page that listed the address, folded it into his pocket, and rushed out of the room.
As he was striding down the corridor to the exit, lights streaked across the hallway wall. Vehicle head lamps?
He ran to the nearest window and looked out into the rain.
Three stories below, a silver Crown Victoria roared across the parking lot. His stomach plummeted.
The FBI had found him.
56
Corey had come too close to finding his family to be hauled into FBI custody, questioned, charged, or otherwise delayed. He had endured too much struggle and pain in the past twenty-four hours to have the patience to deal with any more pointless roadblocks.
He would speak to the Feds later, but on his terms. All that mattered right then was getting Simone and Jada back.
Footsteps ringing through the stairwell, he took the stairs to the ground floor and whammed the exit door open with his shoulder. Rain snapped against his face. He lifted the umbrella.
The government sedan had swung behind the Silverado. Copying the license tag. Running it through the state’s motor vehicles database, pulling up Otis’s name and address, now going to get him involved in this fiasco, too.
Anger rippled through Corey, but it was mostly anger at himself. His own flaws had created this situation, had brought about these circumstances that jeopardized his family and friends. He had to deal with it now, head on.
He sprinted to the truck.
One of the agents climbed out of the sedan: a slender, dark-haired Asian guy so fresh faced he might have graduated from the academy that afternoon.
Squinting against the rain, the agent held up a badge and shouted, “FBI! Halt, sir!”
Without slowing, Corey went to the driver’s door. The agent ran toward him.
“Mr. Webb, halt! That’s an order!”
Corey opened the door. The agent lunged at him.
Corey thrust the umbrella like a sword toward the man. The pointy tip stabbed into the agent’s abdomen. He grunted in pain, staggered backward.
Corey scrambled behind the wheel as another agent got out of the sedan. He was grateful that he had left the engine running, because every second was precious.
Outside the truck, both agents barked orders at him, drawing pistols.