He stuck out his hand. “Give me another sandwich.”
Frowning, she dug into the bag on the seat between them. “You’re not leaving any for the firefighters.” She slapped one into his hand. “No more for you after this.”
They’d hit the Deli on their way out of the city, the coffee/sandwich shop that catered to cops, students, and professors, and anyone else who liked a good meal. It had been her turn to get breakfast, so she’d ordered Kane’s favorite-egg and pastrami on rye-then on impulse, added a dozen breakfast sandwiches for the firefighters, who wouldn’t have any trouble wolfing them down. When the Deli’s manager had found out who the food was for, he’d thrown in a thermos of coffee for free.
“There are still ten left,” Kane said. “How many can one pretty-boy firefighter eat?”
Olivia’s face flushed hot. “Kane,” she said warningly.
He looked unapologetic. “We’re almost there. You should do something with those bags under your eyes. Powder or something.”
She drew a breath. “Kane,” she said, the warning gone ominous.
They’d stopped at a red light, so he leaned over and pulled her purse from the glove box and dropped it in her lap. “Little lipstick wouldn’t hurt either.”
The light turned green and he started through the intersection without another word. Fuming, she flipped the visor down and checked the mirror. And winced. “Ye gods.”
“Indeed,” Kane said gravely.
She gave him a dirty look. “At least my hair’s okay.”
Kane shrugged. “If it makes you feel better to think that.”
Her long hair was pulled back in a tidy bun at the base of her neck. Which made her tired eyes look even more haggard. She sighed. “I really hate you sometimes.”
“No, you don’t.” He glanced over at her. “Any more than you hate him. You didn’t see your face, Liv,” he added when she opened her mouth to protest. “When Barlow said Hunter had nearly fallen four stories, you went white as a ghost.”
“I’m always white as a ghost. I never tan.” But she snapped her compact open and powdered her face with hurried strokes. Worse than driving up to the scene all haggard would be driving up while doing her face. She did have some pride, after all.
Kane handed her his comb. “Lose the bun, girlfriend. Braid it if you have to, but lose the bun. It makes you look”-he gave a mock shudder-“like a librarian.”
She laughed as he’d wanted her to and he grinned. Kane’s wife was a retired librarian and Olivia knew he loved her dearly. “Jennie would kick your ass for that.”
“Not if she knew it made you laugh. Hurry, now. We’re almost there.”
Monday, September 20, 9:45 a.m.
Eric found the bench and the padded envelope taped underneath. He leaned forward as if to tie his shoe and grabbed the envelope, slipping it inside his jacket, his fingertips brushing the cold steel of his gun as he did so. Heart pounding, he sat back, sure everyone on the street was watching him, sure they all knew he had the gun.
But no one glanced his way. Everyone was busy going about their own lives while he sat on a bench in plain sight, a fucking gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans and picking up packages like he was some James Bond wannabe.
I am an engineering student. I’m on the dean’s list. I’m one of the good guys. This cannot be happening. But it was. He walked the six blocks back to his car and got in.
He stared at the envelope, then ripped it open and shook out a cell phone and an MP3 player with a two-inch video screen and earbuds. A brittle laugh broke free. Soon that guy from Mission Impossible would be telling him the tape would self-destruct.
But it wasn’t funny. This was a nightmare. Whoever this guy was, he had video that could bury them all. Eric found the texter had painted a “1” on the back of the MP3 player and a “2” on the back of the cell phone with red nail polish.
Feeling like a fool, he put the buds in his ears and turned the MP3 player on. He hit PLAY and instantly the Mission Impossible theme blared in his ears. He gritted his teeth, then felt his stomach lurch when the video of the fire began to play on the tiny screen. Fury boiled up within him and he wanted to throw the MP3 player out the window. But he didn’t, and seconds later the music quieted and a computer-altered voice began to speak. It was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman.
“You followed my directions. Very good. It is now time for your first test. If you pass, you remain in my good favor. If you refuse or if you fail, this video will be released to the police and the media and you will live the rest of your life in a very small jail cell surrounded by ape-sized men who will find you most entertaining.”
A prison filled the screen, followed by a photo of a man being sodomized. A pain shot up Eric’s neck and he realized he’d clenched his teeth almost to the breaking point.
“This is your target.” The photo changed and Eric let out a breath, swallowing the bile that had risen in his throat. The new picture appeared to be a factory. “The address has been sent to your phone as a text. You are to take your three pals and set fire to his place of business tonight. Make sure not a timber is left standing.”
And then Eric understood. The texter’s price was not money. It was far worse. Numbly he continued to watch the screen, but no new photos appeared.
“The proprietor has a guard dog,” the voice continued. “Deal with it, however you wish. If you wish to tell your compatriots the truth, feel free. If you fear they will not comply with your direction, tell them anything you choose, but know if even one of you chooses not to participate, the video will be distributed and all of you will go to prison.”
The voice had not faltered once, had not shown a hint of emotion.
“If anyone stands in your way, kill them. If for any reason your target appears to have been warned, or if any inventory in his place of business is removed unexpectedly, your video will be revealed. When you are finished, use the camera in the cell phone to document your activity and text the photos to the number provided. More directions will be provided at that time. Good luck, Eric, and if you should be caught”-now the voice laughed, a cruel, brutal, smug sound-“the world will know what you’ve done.”
The factory faded, replaced by a single frame from the video of last night. The very image that haunted him. The girl, her hands on the glass, her mouth yawning open in that horrible scream that, even in his mind, had no sound at all.
The file ended and the tiny screen went black. Eric opened the cell phone, clicked on the single text message it held. It was, as expected, an address. He wondered what the “proprietor” of this business had done to earn the wrath of the texter.
And he wondered what the hell he was going to do.
For now, he’d go to his ten a.m. calculus class. Maintain his normal schedule. And he’d think. Hard. There had to be a way out of this. There had to be.
He started his car and had put it in gear when the disposable cell chirped, startling him. He took a second to gather his thoughts. And his courage.
He flipped the phone open. Another text. yes or no?
Wildly Eric looked around, wondering if the texter had followed him, was watching him. His eyes searched windows and cars and people standing idly on street corners. It could be anyone. Panic clawed up, grabbed his throat. It could be anyone.
Who r u? he typed.
the invisible man.
A few seconds passed and the phone chirped again. yes or no? Next to the words was a link and before Eric even clicked on it he knew what he would see. The face in the window. His chest was so tight he could barely breathe. Yes, he typed back. “You sonofabitch,” he muttered. Again the phone chirped.
wise choice. i look forward to seeing your pictures tonight.
Eric closed the phone and stared at it. How had the SOB known he’d listened to the MP3 file and read the text? Either he was standing nearby, watching, or he had the cell phone rigged. Eric looked around the interior of his car. Or he’s wired my car and is watching me on a PC somewhere.