He looked at Hort. “What are you going to do with her?”
Hort waved a hand dismissively. “Forget about it.”
“I asked you a question,” Ben said, his voice as low as a dog's growl.
“And I answered it. The only way I can.”
“Where are you holding her?”
“Let it go, son. You're already on thin ice.”
Ben shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice rising. “No. No. No.”
“Ben, I trained you. We've bled in the same mud. We carry the same cost for the things we've done. Men like us-”
“Tell me where you're holding her, Hort. Tell me you're going to cut her loose.”
A long, silent moment spun out. “Last chance,” Hort said. “Will you vouch for your brother? Can I trust you?”
Ben flexed his hand. The knuckles popped. He'd never felt so boxed in. The feeling of pressure, of being squeezed, was almost physical.
He glanced left. A large man in sunglasses was leaning out from behind one of the pillars, his hand resting just inside a dark jacket, intent on Ben and Hort.
Shit. He glanced right. Another man had sidled up the sidewalk and was watching them with identical posture and focus.
There would be a third man inside the restaurant, or just outside the fire door. Obviously, he had badly underestimated Hort's manpower situation. And they'd moved on him, by either instinct or design, at the very moment he'd been most distracted by his own inner turmoil.
Part of him was enraged at his own naïveté. He should have seen this coming, but deep down, he'd trusted Hort. Stupid. Hort had always taught him the mission came before the man. Another part of him wanted to laugh. Five armed men a tendon twitch from a gunfight, and the yuppies around them were sipping their lattes and reflecting on the latest Pilates routines without the barest clue.
“How do you want to do this?” Hort said quietly.
Several scenarios played out in Ben's mind. None of them involved more than a ten percent chance of survival. He might have taken those odds if the only chips he was playing were his. But what would happen to Sarah? And to Alex?
“What are my options?” he said, still glancing left and right.
“You have two. You can come with me and we can work this out, or we can leave you here. I really didn't want it to be this way, Ben.”
Ben drummed his fingers along the table. Going with them was the same as going to a secondary crime scene. How many times had he sworn never to let that happen to him?
He knew he could drop Hort before anyone could stop him. But he'd be dead himself a second later.
We'll do those steps another time, he thought. When it's just you and me on the dance floor.
A part of him knew the thought was just bluster. But it was all he had at the moment, and it was enough to get him through.
“All right,” he said. “I'll come with you.”
32 HEAD-ON
Alex was in his car, driving aimlessly, trying to figure out what to do. He had finally broken down and tried Ben, but there was no answer. He knew he was supposed to stay away from the usual places, and he was okay with that, but he wanted his cell phone on because maybe Ben or Sarah might check in, and he figured that meant he should keep moving in case someone was tracking the signal. But God, he was tired. He wished he could go somewhere, a park bench, anywhere, and just close his eyes for a few minutes.
He wondered what it would be like with Osborne when this whole thing was sorted out. How could he even look at the guy again, after what he'd done?
He thought about what Ben had told him, how they'd taken incriminating photos or video of Osborne in Thailand. Ben seemed pretty confident that it was no more complicated than that, but… could they really have picked Osborne out of all the Sullivan, Greenwald lawyers and identified, and then exploited, his vulnerability? The more he thought about it, the more far-fetched it felt.
He thought of Osborne's ego case, the photos of all those Valley and Washington players. The guy was connected. Well, maybe that's how they came to focus on him. He was known in Washington-he'd even testified to Congress a few times about visa quotas and capital gains taxes and other such issues near and dear to the Silicon Valley heart. Maybe… maybe he was more involved in this than Ben was giving him credit for. Ben was so arrogant about his skills, and he'd as much as told Alex that he thought lawyers were nothing more than a bunch of latte-swilling sheep. That arrogance would make him cocky, and blind him to just how shrewd and politically savvy players like Osborne could be. The more Alex thought about it, the more he thought Ben had missed something about Osborne's involvement. And the more sure Alex became that Ben was making a mistake about Osborne, the more sure he became that Ben was making a mistake about his commander, too.
He was going in circles, literally and figuratively. Enough. He was going to confront this head-on.
He drove to Sullivan, Greenwald but, mindful of Ben's admonitions, parked in the office and theater complex across the street. He crossed Page Mill on foot, used a back entrance, and headed straight to Osborne's office. He pushed away all the thoughts that were trying to crowd in-all the reasons he was being stupid, all the ways it could go wrong. He swallowed but his throat stayed dry.
Osborne was on the phone, his cowboy boots up on his desk. Alex closed the door and walked straight in. Osborne gave him a look- Don't you even knock?-and went on talking. For one second, Alex's doubts threatened to paralyze him. Then something broke through, and he strode behind the desk and depressed the receiver button on the phone.
Osborne swiveled his feet off the desk and planted them on the floor. “What do you think you're doing?” he said. He swatted Alex's hand off the receiver and started punching in a number. Alex picked up the unit and hurled it across the room. It crashed into the wall and shattered.
Osborne leaped to his feet. “Are you crazy?” he said, his eyes wide.
Alex looked at him. His heart was pounding but his head felt marvelously clear. “What do you know about Obsidian?” he said.
“I don't know anything. Obsidian was yours, remember? And your Bible-quoting brother already asked me all this. At gunpoint, I should add.”
“You're lucky he didn't kill you.”
“Yeah, well, you're lucky to be alive yourself.”
And all at once, Alex knew Osborne had snowed Ben. There were no photos. He was afraid, yeah, maybe of exposure, but not of that. Otherwise he wouldn't have been looking at Alex as though he were no more than an annoying bug. He wouldn't have reverted to asshole mode so quickly.
There was a Lucite deal tombstone on Osborne's desk. Without thinking, Alex picked it up like a rock and belted Osborne in the head with it. Osborne cried out and fell, smacking his face into his desk on the way down. Alex stood over him, brandishing the tombstone, breathing hard.
Osborne rolled left and right, clutching his face, blood gushing from his nose. “You little shit,” he gasped.
Alex smiled. He felt exhilarated. He was either flying or falling-he couldn't tell which and he didn't care.
“I made a copy of Obsidian,” he said, improvising. “I've posted it to a Usenet newsgroup with full details of your involvement and everything else I know. Right now it's encrypted. But if I don't punch in a code within one hour, it decrypts and disseminates to a dozen other newsgroups. So you better tell me what you know.”
Osborne tried to stand. Alex said, “Stay where you are or I'll bash your head in.”
Osborne stopped moving. “You're done here, hotshot. And not just at Sullivan, Greenwald. When I'm finished making calls, you won't be able to get a job with a firm in the entire Valley.”
Alex laughed. He recognized the technique-a double-down, a negotiating escalation. He'd never negotiated using a heavy object before, but apparently the principles were the same.