Текст книги "If You Dare"

Автор книги: Alessandra Torre

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 76

Present

MIKE’S FINGERS FLY, a blur of dexterity, the computer screens before him changing in rapid succession. He is sidetracked, shifting through a guard’s financials, when a new file uploads to the Tulsa Pod 23’s database. Fifteen minutes later, when he shifts back, he sees the report, double-clicking on it as he reaches for a fresh soda. The door to his mini fridge stays open, his act forgotten when he sees the name on the top of the form. Deanna Madden. He skims the report quickly, the short text making the job easy.

Female was seen standing beside the cell’s back wall, facing forward. I turned on the light and saw graffiti painted on the wall in the inmate’s own blood, the words “Get me out.” The inmate does not need medical assistance and has not been questioned at this time. Incident will be reported to shift supervisor Markus Kumna. Inmate has had a number of issues while held, and her arraignment is scheduled for 14:00 tomorrow. ~ Dimarka Trible, 23:36 p.m.

Adrenaline surges. A message for him. And he is ahead of the game. This will be child’s play. He wanted the go-ahead, and here it is. Clicking on windows, he minimizes all but the two he needs, Kavut Security’s internal interface and Ned Millstone. Hunching forward, the strain in his back burning red, he goes to work.

Ned Millstone was born to Frank and Beth Millstone in 1971. He graduated from high school in 1989, attended a technical college in Ohio for two semesters, then dropped out. He worked in the restaurant business for seven years, then enrolled in the police academy, after which he was placed into corrections. Ned Millstone is now an eight-year employee of the city and a four-year frequenter of the Sapphire Rose Gentleman’s Club. He has a twenty-three-year-old girlfriend who, five months ago, was a patient of the Hillcrest Medical Center’s maternity ward. His new baby is something his wife, Barbara Millstone, born Barbara French, sole heir to the French’s electronics conglomerate, knows nothing about. Barbara is, according to her father’s medical records, within months of inheriting a billion-dollar empire. A hundred pieces falling perfectly into place to make it one helluva bad time for his love child to come to the attention of his wife. Mike digs the last piece of the puzzle out, Ned Millstone’s cell phone number. Then he leans back in his chair and types in the number, dialing via Skype, on a line that can serve an unlimited number of purposes and still never be traced.

“This is Ned.” The voice sounds out of breath and irritated.

“Ned.” Mike smiles. “You don’t know me, but for the next few hours, we are going to be very good friends.”

CHAPTER 77

Present

I SIT ON my bed, my back against the wall, and stare at the clock. Occasionally, my eyes drop. Two or three times, my head snaps down and I catch it, bringing my chin back up. Some minutes disappear but for the most part, I am vigilant. Mike will come through. Mike will help. Mike can do anything and everything.

If he could protect Deanna Madden and make her untraceable, he can get me out of here.

If he could track down a guy from his IP address and send me a digital copy of the guy’s hard drive, he can get me out of here.

If he could steal a million bucks from me, give it away, then steal it back, he can get me out of here.

If he really cares for me despite knowing all that he does, he will get me out of here.

I hear the slow pat of the next round, a guard approaching, steps moving closer, then a slight pause at my door, one that has me leaning forward, my back leaving the wall, and through the dark I see movement along my floor. I am off the bed in a breath and on my knees on the floor, my hands catching the index card as it slides along the floor into my space.

It’s a layout of the building, printed on paper and taped onto the card. The map looks to be from an outside source, the handwriting across its surface Mike’s. On the left side, in tiny writing, a list of instructions. I start with the first instruction and examine the lines and arrows drawn on the map, corresponding times in clear print next to each X on the map.

I finish my initial read, then glance at the clock. Forty-two minutes. I read the instructions again. And again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. I read the list until I can close my eyes and see the building’s layout. I read the list until I have mentally walked through every piece, every pause, every step. Three minutes. I fold the paper into a tiny square and stuff it into my pocket. If I have to, if this plan fails and I am again arrested, I’ll eat the damn thing.

I stand before the door and take a deep breath.

One minute.

Step 1: Your door will open. Head to #2. 6 mins left.

The door pops open with a quiet click and I step outside, not pausing as I turn right and walk through the dim hall, the red lights in the hall bathing the entire area in blood. The third door I pass, I see the man, out of the corner of my eye, standing in the dark, behind the open door, like a boogeyman of my childhood dreams. He is shirtless and I stop, looking into his cell, his face in the shadows, and it takes a full heartbeat for my mind to catch up and to realize that my cell is not the only that Mike has opened. This will be interesting. I continue forward, seconds counting down, the map in my head, the steps on the list, pushing me on.

Forward, then left, then down, then right. I stop at a door, a lit office to my left, its chair empty and turning slowly, the crawl of movement creepy. I don’t touch the door’s handle, I wait. Behind me, like the foul odor of an exhaust, a presence. I turn and see the bare-chested man, his face pale red from the lights, his eyes on me. “Hey,” he says.

“You fuck with me or fuck this up, I will kill you.”

He smiles and there is a black hole where a front tooth belongs. “I’m getting out tomorrow anyway,” he says. “Just along for the ride.”

I hear his sentence but all it says to me is that he is stupid. It doesn’t matter. Stupid is easier to control.

Step 2: The lock will turn green. Move through it and the next door, then hurry to #3.

Like a maze. A simple maze. Except now I step through the door and I’m in the booking area. I move quickly, my new toy following behind, and see three officers in the open room, two at their desks, one at a Coca-Cola machine to my right. The soda buyer—my large and friendly Ms. KeepYourHeadDownAndColor, glances up, then down at the machine, then her head jerks back up, her feet in motion as her mouth opens wide, a scream of hell-raisin’ bellowing out. And here I thought we’d become friends. I jerk forward, hearing the screech of chairs against linoleum, a man two desks over falling as he lunges for my shirt. But I am quick, I am ready, I came prepared, and they are off guard and all I have to do is get across this room and into the next, all I have to do is shut that door behind me and Mike will lock its mechanisms, and these three will be locked in, captives. It’s humorous, really. I dart around a seating area and shove on the door, its keypad already green, and I glance up at a security cam as I slam my back against the door and lock all of them, including my new toothless friend, behind me.

Except the door doesn’t lock. It hits a hand, the collision of bone and muscles and gristle, a hand that moves and flexes, a hand attached to a voice, one that barks in pain. I lift off, then come back down, my feet planted on the floor, my body turned sideways, shoulder against the door as I use every muscle I have to break through the appendage. It flexes, shakes, and in the moment it jerks back, I slam my shoulder again, the door moving past the place where the hand had been and clicking into place.

The door will lock behind you. I will be watching.

LOCK. The lock turns red a second before a chorus of unknowns attack its surface. And just like that, I lose my human pet. I take a deep breath and push my shoulder off the door, wincing slightly. Sometime, I’ll need to ice it. Once all the ass kicking is over and precious seconds are in greater supply. I roll the shoulder and turn. Before me, a long hallway, one final sprint, the exit door before me in full metal glory, the red sign above it a beacon to my fate. Only one issue stands before me, his legs spread in a fighter’s stance, halfway between me and the hallway’s end… a hulking giant of a man. I don’t move, I don’t advance. I just stand, my breath heavy as it breaks from my chest, and I stare.

I have fought many men in my lifetime. If I ever get through this moment, through this chapter in my life, if I ever avenge Jeremy and escape a prison sentence, I will learn how to do it properly. Because although I have fought many men in my lifetime, I have won very few times. And never without a gun or a knife, a weapon or an advantage. And right now, in this interaction right here, I have only one card to play and it is Mike’s instructions, and I square my shoulders and put all of my trust into the man I have never met.

Step 3: Fight. Take the keycard attached to his shirt.

That was the whole step. The map stopped at this hallway with its X, then continued out to the parking lot, the gate which I would open with the keycard. Why Mike could unlock every internal door yet needed me to fight this heap of muscle to get out of the parking lot made no sense to me. Should I survive this, I’ll be sure to give him a piece of my mind.

I stop dicking around and step toward the man. A few feet from him, I stop, the fluorescent light above our heads beaming down on the man’s features, his face hard and set, his hands raised and already clenched. I sneak a peek at his fists and my confidence withers. Muscular and strong. I have to lift my chin to look up at him. Maybe sexuality will work. I pull at the bottom of my sweatshirt, pulling the material up my stomach and over my breasts. When his eyes drop, I lift my knee and go for his balls.

Weak. Cowardly. I know. But you stand face-to-face with Goliath and see if you fight fair. Besides, any morality issues dissolve when one of his big meat hooks blocks my knee, his balls effectively protected, my sneak attack card gone, just like that.

“Not there,” he grumbles. He points, and my eyes wander up his outstretched finger, to his face. “Here.” Our eyes meet and his are blue.

“Really?” I frown.

“Hurry.” He closes his eyes and tenses. I don’t hesitate, widening my stance and throwing my sore shoulder into the jab, barreling the heel of my hand up, right at the underside of his nose, the connection of my hand and the delicate belly of his nose loud, bloody, and delicious. He staggers, a hand going to his nose as he swears loudly.

I don’t wait for a recovery, I see the green light hit the exit door and I step forward, yanking at the clip on his shirt, his identification coming off in my hand, a quick thank you whispered. I start, then stop, digging my nails into the guard of his holster, the pop of metal sharp and beautiful, my hand wrapping around the textured grip and pulling. Goliath doesn’t like that, he drops his head and hand and spins, reaching for me, but I am sprinting down the hall, the push on the door yielding me my first cool and perfect kiss of freedom. I spin and shove against the door and hear the slam of his head against the metal, his face bloody and furious in the thin window. I mouth an apology and then rip away from the door and into the freedom of the night.

The sky is clear, the parking lot small, our slice of prison surrounded by the buildings of the city. I jog down a set of steps, sliding the gun into my sweatshirt’s pocket, an unfamiliar unease stealing over me. A gun wasn’t on the list, wasn’t on my directions, but in this moment, I have nothing. No cash, no connections, no phone. I am free yet hunted, the night air terrifying in its openness. I zigzag through a line of cars, the bright lights of the parking lot shining down. And then, like clockwork, they all turn off. Mike. I look up and manage a smile, a wave of endorphins pushing through my system in the newly created dark. I am not alone. I can do this. I can force my life back into order, find my way back to good. I reach the gate and hesitate for a moment, staring at the bars before me, the one last guard between me and the outside world. Then, the photo of Jeremy’s battered face coming to mind, I swipe Ned Millstone’s card through the reader and jog on silent feet through the crack of the opening gate. I need to, in this final chance at freedom, at least find the truth.

Step 4: Go five blocks west to the McDonald’s and wait by the pay phone.

I flip the hood up on my sweatshirt and begin to jog, the weight of the gun slapping a hard and tempting beat against the knot in my stomach.

CHAPTER 78

Present

WHEN A PHONE rings in the night, you answer it. Especially if you’re on the force. Especially if you’re a mother with kids. Especially if you have thirty seconds before your husband will wake and any spousal love will go to shit.

Brenda sits up in bed and hunches forward, over the cell, the BLOCKED screen familiar and, at the same time, depressing. She’ll have to get up, go somewhere, do something. Probably uncover a dead body and knock on some mother’s door. “Hello.” She whispers the word.

“Boles, this is Eva Aransoti, dispatch number one eighty-nine. There’s been an incident at the Fourth Street booking station.” The crisp female voice is that of someone fully awake, with no regard or sympathy for anyone soundly sleeping.

Fourth Street. Deanna Madden. The case that won’t stop giving. She slides out of bed and walks to the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind her. This woman was a disaster. Lock her up and she was assaulting every person in sight. “I thought Madden was in solitary.” Maybe she won’t have to go anywhere. Maybe she could knock out this chat and then crawl back into bed. Still three good hours of sleep left before breakfasts and showers and lunch money and backpacks.

“She was. Something happened at the station and all of the inmates were released.”

Her eyes fully open. “All of them?” What kind of thing releases an entire pod of criminals?

“We need you and Reuber there.”

“Okay. I’m fifteen minutes out.” She feels along the wall and flips the light’s switch. “Wait.” She rubs her forehead. “Why me and Reuber?”

“Deanna Madden is the only one who escaped the booking compound. The others were redetained.”

“But Madden is free.”

“Yes. You can review the footage at the station.”

“I realize that.” Brenda stands, yanking down flannel pajama pants and digging through the dirty clothes basket for yesterday’s khakis. “Thanks,” she adds as a polite afterthought, before hanging up the phone, flipping the light off, and tiptoeing into the dark bedroom.

In the car, without coffee or a breath mint, she calls David. “Did you hear?”

“Yep. I’m walking out right now. Think she’ll head to the hospital?”

“I’m gonna call them next and have a plainclothes posted by his room. See if she shows.”

“All right. I’ll be at the station in ten.”

“See you there.” Reaching down, she flips on her lights and pulls out onto the quiet street.

CHAPTER 79

Present

THE GRIM REALITY of my situation looms larger as I run. I have nothing. My weapons, shipped to Mike. My apartment will have a new lock on it, crime scene tape stretched across its front. I cannot go to see the man I love, for I am a fugitive, with a name I can’t use, money I can’t access, and no one nearby to call on for help.

He was pushed out the window.

He was stabbed six times.

He was left to die.

Jeremy is my person; I only have two of them in the world. You do not fuck with my people; I will fight you to your death to protect them, I will climb buildings to kill you slowly over a drop of their blood. Jeremy’s blood was a flood that has gone unpunished, and I feel the hot prickle of vengeance push at my psyche, a tempting chorus I stop midsong, my hands covering useless ears, my breath hard and fast when I stop running and break, wheezing out a few exhales. I cannot do this. I cannot go red, not when everything else is falling apart.

I hear a siren and sink into a doorway. Stand in its shadows as a cop car, then a second, screams past. Then, my heart thumping in my chest, I step out and run farther. One more block. I see the golden arches ahead of me. They haven’t changed much in four years. Same fluorescent yellow, same billions served. I see the pay phone, installed against the building’s exterior brick, and slow to a walk. I don’t like it. Too brightly lit, exposed to anyone who drives by. I stop on the opposite curb, seventy-five feet from the phone. Debate Mike’s instructions, though I have nothing else to follow.

Against the restaurant, the phone begins to ring. I hesitate, the sole of my tennis shoe bending over the curved edge of the curb, then step forward, rolling off and across the asphalt and into the bright light.

“Hello.”

“Hey, babe.”

I have to smile at his tone, so warm and relaxed, like we didn’t just break a dozen laws together. “Hey. Talk quick, this pay phone has a freaking spotlight on it.”

“There’s an Uber car in the back of the parking lot. It’s a red Taurus. I paid with a credit card, the driver will take you wherever you need to go.”

I grip the phone. “Any change in Jeremy?”

“No.” His voice drops. “I’m sorry, Dee.”

I nod without speaking. It’s been too long, too many days. If he doesn’t come back… I try to refocus, bits of my psyche floating loose like flaking skin. “Thanks for getting me out. I don’t know how you did it, but I appreciate it.”

“No problem. One day, over beers, I’ll brag to you about the complexities of it all. Whenever that day comes, ooh and aah a lot for me.”

One day. “Deal. I’ll call you when I can.”

“Get a cell phone when you can.”

“I need cash, that’s my first issue.”

“Don’t have any friends in town?”

I bite on my bottom lip in response. The silence on the line grows, each second another embarrassing weight on my solidarity. I shrug, a motion he never sees. “I’ll call you when I can. If I can.”

“Be safe.”

I smile sadly. “Always.”

Then, before he has a chance to say anything else, I hang up the phone. Glance around and head to the back of the parking lot. See a red Taurus idling beside a Dumpster, and step toward it.

I stop beside the driver’s door and bend over. Look into the face of a woman, one in her midfifties, her white hair styled in the short-haired manner favored by grandmothers everywhere. I blink in surprise. She rolls down her window. “You Jessica?”

Jessica. I smile the friendly smile cams.com’s most popular coed. “Yes.”

“Hop in.”

I open the back door and slide into the middle of the backseat. She locks the doors and shifts into drive. I stare at the lock and run my hand along the handle. “Where to?” she calls back, her eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.

“For the moment, please head south.”

She nods and doesn’t comment. I run my hands over the top of my jeans and try to think. I’d kill for some cash right now, no pun intended. I feel naked and unprotected. I turn my head and watch dark houses move past—catching myself seriously considering breaking into one of them. At three in the morning, how do I differentiate between an empty house and a sleeping one? I know of one house that’s empty, its new owner hovering between death and life. But I can’t go there, I can’t step inside the house where, just four days ago, I had so much hope.

“Mulholland Oaks. It’s an apartment complex on Greenvale Street. Please take me there.” Inside my chest, my heartbeat quickens, pushing blood to every vein, my hand trembling against the armrest until I grab it with my other hand and force it still. Forget planning or weapons or cash. I can’t wait any longer, both for logistics purposes and for my own control. The police will come looking for me. And I can’t not find out the truth.

I am unprepared, this is stupid and reckless, but I need it and I need it now. I feel a familiar tightening of my body, my brain, a loss of intelligent control, and I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and let it happen.

Four a.m. Smack-dab in the middle of my witching hour. Inside, a prickle of excitement flares. I am going to Simon for answers; that is what I need to remember. And if his answers are wrong? Well. I push aside that thought for now.

I reach out and tap the back of her seat, two blocks away from my complex. “This is fine. You can let me out here.” The car quiets, rolling to a smooth stop and I step out, she leaves, and I’m alone on the street. I flip up my hoodie and head home, a moving smile in the darkness.