I crept toward the curtains, ears straining, heart racing.
“Come out, Murdoch! This is no time for games.”
Damn! I’d been detected. My eyes flew to the curtain but saw nothing. Of course not. Tom had called me Murdoch, which meant he hadn’t seen me. He must have heard me. I’d been quiet, but the door still made a few slight clicks. Perhaps Tom had simply sensed the pressure change during its operation. I wouldn’t put that power beyond the capabilities of the fitness freak I’d observed practicing tai chi and extreme calisthenics.
I swiftly considered three responses. I could stay silent and prepare to pounce. I could rush the room. Or I could attempt to bluff my way into striking position.
Could I bluff this man? Not if he recognized me. My disguise was good, but not great. Of course, even if it passed initial muster, the last thing I wanted to do was engage in hand-to-hand combat with a guy whose bedtime routine burned more calories than a mini-marathon. But Skylar’s life, if not already extinguished, was at stake. And I had my ceramic knife.
I went with the bluff. “It’s not Murdoch. It’s Vondreesen. I thought we should talk.”
31
Breathless
I WALKED INTO THE CREMATORY like I owned the place—which was precisely the impression I wanted to give.
Tom was alone. Alone and empty-handed and standing across the room beside the control panel of a stainless-steel cremation retort. I had no doubt that Skylar was already inside. But was she unconscious or dead?
If unconscious, there was still hope. The machine was silent. My objective crystalized in that split second. I had to prevent Tom from pressing the ignition switch.
“You need any help getting the retort working?” I asked.
“What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you came to help me push a few buttons.”
So far, so good. I put on a crafty look and took a step closer. “A man of your means deserves impeccable service. Discreet service.”
I could see the calculations churning in Tom’s mind as his taut facial features made microexpressions. Was this a shakedown? Had Murdoch betrayed him? Should he kick me in the nuts? Snap my neck? Or was this all BS? “Who are you, really?”
It was my turn to calculate, but I had no time. One couldn’t waiver while bluffing. I had to either stick with the greedy partner scenario, or go in an entirely different direction. Which was the more likely to get Skylar out alive? “Casey McCallum,” I said, using the name of a character in the book I was reading. “FBI. I’d show you my badge, but I had to leave it in the bushes outside the door to avoid alarming the metal detector.”
“Along with your gun,” Tom replied.
I flicked my forearm toward the floor, sending the stiletto to my palm where it snapped open with a swish and locked with a click. “Along with my gun,” I repeated.
I was an even six feet tall and weighed 190 pounds, much of it muscle. I was well trained to fight and armed with a familiar weapon. But I didn’t give myself even fifty-fifty odds against the smaller, older man with chiseled cheekbones.
Most men wear suits to hide their flaws. This guy wore suits to camouflage his perfections. The strength and discipline Tom had demonstrated as part of his daily routine were Olympic level. Nobody would confuse me with an Olympian.
“I suppose you’re going to tell me backup is on the way?” Tom said, his gaze on my eyes, rather than the knife. Would we launch at each other, or pursue alternative actions? The answer to both was yes. We were each preparing to pounce while pretending to explore other options.
We both knew it.
But we both played along.
“Would I have exposed myself if backup wasn’t coming?”
“You would if you wanted to save the girl.”
Save her! That implied she was still alive. Alive in an oven that had yet to ignite.
“What led you here?” Tom pressed.
Time to delay. Not because backup was coming, but to make Tom think that was my tactic. “We’ve been getting reports of a man posing as a CIA recruiter. Calls that coincide with missing-persons reports. It’s amazing how far you can get these days by harnessing the power of big data. The tools are lightyears ahead of what we had even six months ago. Now we can cross-reference airline records with rental car reservations and hotel receipts. Add in IP addresses, voice recognition software, and cell phone calls, and it’s almost like having a crystal ball. It’s not perfect yet, but hey, here I am.” I waved the stiletto.
“You’re awfully talkative for an FBI agent. Makes me think either you aren’t one, or you’re playing a game. In either case, game’s over. You have a choice to make.”
I tested my hold on the hilt of my blade. It was texturized to add friction, but slim. During combat, I had to grip with gusto to keep it from slipping.
I rehearsed my next moves.
Tom would be expecting me to go for his throat. The quick kill. The arterial spray. That would be the smart move with a normal knife. That or the heart. But my stiletto was not a normal knife. It was four inches long and sharp as a master barber’s razor. It would part flesh faster than a guillotine. All I had to do was drag it along a limb. A forearm, a calf, a triceps, a hamstring. Didn’t matter. A single swipe could inflict a wound long and deep enough to be instantly crippling. Then blood would gush and consciousness would slip away. “What choice is that?”
“What do you really want to do? Attempt to catch me or try to save the girl?” His left hand shot out fast as a cobra strike, flipping the incinerator ignition switch.
After he struck, Tom stayed still. He didn’t run. He didn’t pounce. He just stood there blocking access to the Emergency Stop button.
In my condition of heightened awareness, I heard the hiss as gas began flowing, then the click-click-click of sparkers bringing flames to life. When the ventilator began humming, I charged. I had no choice. I had never talked to Skylar, and she knew neither my face or my name, but I had studied her biography, and I had shared one of the most important days in her life. And nobody—almost nobody—deserved to die this way.
Tom dodged at the last possible instant and put a powerful punch into my solar plexus. He’d set the trap, and I had leapt into it.
I doubled over, struggling to remain on my feet and keep control of the stiletto. Even though I couldn’t stand, I could still slash. Still sever fingers and toes. Weren’t wounded animals the most dangerous kind?
While I gasped for breath, Tom took my picture with his cell phone. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his prints from the ignition switch, and walked out of the room.
32
Custom Catering
FELIX ANSWERED HIS FRONT DOOR rather than let the butler get it. He knew who it was, and experience had taught him that servants sometimes caused coeds to tense up. Even those spending summers working on Jupiter Island, the Southern Florida enclave where the average house cost $4.5 million and residents were more likely to see their neighbors on television than in person.
Her dress was similar in cut and style to the one she’d been wearing when he propositioned her at the Seven Stork Steakhouse, and it immediately had the same effect. The sky-blue pattern even brought out her eyes. “Holly, pleasure to see you again.”
“Likewise, Mr. Gentry.”
Felix watched her process the revelation that he was dressed for tennis rather than business. “Please, call me Felix. You’re this way,” he added with a welcoming gesture.