He made his way to the Vault, cocked back in his chair at his L-shaped desk, and reread every last word of the printouts he’d taken from Jack’s cabin. They contained the starting points of the investigation into René Cassaroy, the trails the FBI was currently running down. The crime-scene photographs taken at the chalet seemed less useful, capturing the aftermath of the bizarre events. Bullet-riddled basement lab. Barn with two G-Wagons and a blue wrestling mat. Files spread across the Pakistani rug of the fourth-floor study, each one sporting a bright yellow evidence and property tag.
Evan set the papers to the side. It made no sense for him to follow the same tracks the FBI was. They had more resources and would be too far ahead. The question was, what did he know that the FBI didn’t?
He started with René’s escape. Jack had mentioned that the Bureau was looking into helicopter flight logs, so either the agents were on René’s heels already or he’d covered his tracks. René didn’t have to go in any one specified direction, which made it harder to—
Evan stopped, excitement pulsing in his chest.
Dex.
Severed hand, lifted out by helicopter.
His destination would have been set. A hospital. Not just a hospital — a hospital with a department of surgery and a helipad.
The FBI had no idea what had gone down in the ballroom, so they wouldn’t know to search for a patient missing a hand.
A quick Google spin gave Evan only three contenders within a helicopter tank’s distance of Chalet Savoir Faire.
To the databases. Whenever Evan did break-ins from his computers in the Vault, he went through a string of anonymous proxies, remote services that allowed him to go in with one IP address and come out with another. He routed through Shanghai, then Johannesburg, bounced between a triptych of Scandinavian countries, then popped through Colombia and Moldova for good measure.
He was ready to attack. Most hospitals relied on the Epic medical-records system, which Evan knew well. In no time he’d jimmied a few virtual back doors.
The second hospital rang the cherries. A six-foot-five male, 290 pounds, with a severed left hand had been admitted at 1:47 P.M. on Sunday, October 23. Name given: Jonathan Dough.
Heh.
The record noted that the patient did not — or would not — speak. He’d been seen immediately by a vascular surgeon and taken directly to the OR. He’d checked out early the next morning against medical advice. Payment had been made in cash.
Evan scanned the discharge forms. Most of the personal information had been left blank. But there at the bottom, a phone number was given.
Why would Dex, a mute, have a cell phone?
Already Evan was reaching for his RoamZone.
He dialed. It rang. And again.
A click as someone picked up. A heavy breath came across the receiver.
“René Cassaroy,” Evan said.
“You found the Easter egg I asked Dex to hide for you. I’m glad. I’ve been waiting for your call.”
It took Evan a moment to adjust to the sound of that voice again, especially here within the walls of his own place. He realized he was on his feet, pacing around the Vault. “Why’s that?” he asked.
“I wanted to talk to you. Set a few things straight.”
“There’s nothing you can say that will change what’s coming.”
“That’s where I tend to think ahead. You see, given what I know of you, I thought you stood a reasonable chance of getting out of that valley alive. I don’t know how you did it, but count me impressed. I’ve never had the opportunity to … behold a specimen like you.”
“I’m planning to give you another chance. To behold me.”
“That’s what I assumed. Which is why I took out an insurance policy.”
“Which is what?”
“Despi.”
Evan stopped pacing.
“You thought you were clever knocking out a few of my surveillance cameras. But did you really think we couldn’t regulate you in that room? We had full audio. You should’ve heard yourself, pathetic and delusional, babbling into a broken phone, talking to … talking to whom? Who were you talking to like your life depended on it?”
“Myself.”
“I guess you were.” René laughed. “But my favorite listening came from the snippets we picked up of your conversations with Despi. The woeful tale of her kidnapping. How we kept a loving eye on her parents, her sister. We listened to you two form your fragile little bond. I know you care about her. I know you’d be upset if any harm came to her.”
Evan was gripping the phone too hard, the tension radiating up into his right shoulder, fanning the flames. “Yes,” he said. “I would.”
“We have men in Despi’s vicinity, watching her just as they did her sister, her parents. You’re familiar with the work they did there?”
“I am.”
“She’ll be left alone if you leave me alone,” René said. “So decide if your need for revenge is worth her life. You’ve failed her once already.” The brief pause was underscored by the faint hum of the connection. “If I get the tiniest indication that you’re within a hundred miles of me, I will have her gutted.”
“What makes you think I’ll give you the tiniest indication?” Evan said, and cut the line.
66
Banged Up in All the Right Ways
“How’d it go? The Somali-pirate routine?” Tommy Stojack ambled across the cave of his armorer shop, passing warped speedloaders, cutting torches, a stray crate of antitank grenades with Cyrillic lettering on the shipping label. He reached into a jumble of ARES pistol frames stacked like chicken bones atop a Pelican case. Each frame was a forging of aluminum — basically a solid piece of metal shaped like a gun.
Evan said, “It went just fine.”
“You rescue the princess, slay the dragon?”
“Something like that. I came to settle the bill.”
Evan handed Tommy a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills. Tommy hefted it, as if gauging its weight, then smiled his gap-toothed smile and tapped the roll into his shirt pocket.
Evan looked at the aluminum forging. “You said you had the upgrades for me?”
Tommy crossed his arms, mock annoyed. “‘Hey, Tommy, by the way, thanks for producing a cutting torch, a suppressed subgun, and a skiff for me out of thin air from ten states away on twenty-four hours’ notice.’”
“Right,” Evan said. “Thank you.”
Tommy jabbed at Evan with a forefinger that had been blown off at the second knuckle. “‘And a grappling fucking hook.’”
“And a grappling fucking hook.”
“‘And how have you been, Tommy?’” he said, circling his hand in a prompt.
Evan said, “How have you been?”
Tommy shrugged, dropped the shit-slinging routine. “Nothing but high-speed, low-drag antics here. This new broad I’m seeing, she wanted me to try yoga. I told her I wasn’t in touch with my inner vagina enough, ya know?” He raised that stub of a forefinger. “Then I tried that shit. And I realized. I’m not in touch with my inner fuckin’ SEAL enough.”
“It’s that hard?” Evan asked.
Tommy dug through the mound of ARES frames, grabbed one in particular. He’d machined out the interior, drilling the pivot points for the fire-control group. Pistol frame in hand, he limped back toward his workbench. “Those skinny bitches, they can balance on a pinkie finger for longer than I can stand up anymore.”
“So you’re doing yoga now?”
“Hay-ell no. But I will tell you. Yoga pants? Best invention of the past hundred years. Let’s just say downward dog gives me upward dog. But even that ain’t worth it.”