Blonde Ops (29 page)

“Yeah,” added Kevin, “what if there's another manhole cover to lift? You're going to need some muscle.”

“Thanks,” I said, glad to have them with me. I held my phone aloft to provide some light and something caught my eye.

Not far from where we stood there was a scuff of red—from the bottom of Mrs. Jennings's brand-new Louboutin heels. “Look!” I motioned with the light. “Mrs. Jennings left a trail. That mark is from her shoes.”

We followed the arched tunnel using my phone to light the way, although every so often a beam of light came down from a grate in the pavement above. We moved at a maddeningly slow pace. It was hard to walk in the dark and on uneven ground in heels—platforms or not—and I didn't want to miss another clue if Mrs. Jennings left one.

Then we came to one place where part of the arched wall had collapsed. The fallen stones were scored with white streaks of lime. We had to pick our way over the tumbled rocks and ankle-deep muck that smelled like a Dumpster full of rotting food. Kevin moaned more than once about his ruined pants and shoes, and I tried not to think about the greasy water sliding between my toes. I thought I saw something move in the shadows, heard the scritch of tiny paws. Rats? I was okay as long as I didn't have to see them.

“We should call Candace or the police,” said Sophie as she stumbled and just barely caught herself.

“She's right, Bec,” Kevin gagged. “This is crazy! Whoever took her is desperate and dangerous!”

I looked at my phone, then held it up for them to see. “We can't. No reception down here. And there's no time.” I suddenly stopped short, and like a cartoon or bad movie, Sophie bumped me, having been bumped by Kevin, and I had to catch myself from pitching forward.

In front of us was a four-way divide: left, straight, right, and up a twisting flight of steps.

“Which way do we go?” said Kevin.

I focused the phone light. No red scuff, but I spied a small gleam. Rushing over to it, I picked up one of the golden disc-shaped earrings Mrs. Jennings had been wearing at the interview. It lay on the ground at the bottom of the steps.

“They took her this way!” I started to climb, but Kevin pulled me back.

“What if they have guns?”

I was not glad he thought of that little detail, but we couldn't stop here. “Then we have to be extra careful.”

“So let me go first,” he volunteered, but I scooted up before he could do anything, and the stair wasn't big enough for both of us at the same time. I heard him mutter something about ballsy interns. That almost made me smile.

I led the way as we crept up a long, crumbling spiral staircase. It was too dark to see the top, and the dull light from my phone barely illuminated the decaying stone. I prayed for another sign. I almost didn't see the next red scrape. Unless you looked for them, the scuffs were hard to spot. Either Mrs. Jennings was dragging her feet on purpose to leave a trail or she was putting up a good fight. She knew the CIA, Secret Service, and Italian police would be searching for her.

The kidnappers probably knew the trail well enough that they didn't need the light—and weren't looking for signs marking the way. If they had known what Mrs. Jennings was doing, they would have stopped her. That might be the case farther along. We'd know soon enough if the trail died.

One of the steps crumbled under my feet, sending down a noisy shower of rocks.

“Watch it!” Kevin yelled, coughing.

“Nice way to help us sneak up on them, Kevin,” I retorted.

“Shut up, you two, before all of Rome hears you!” Sophie whispered fiercely.

“Help!” Taj's voice came faintly from above.

And I'd never been so glad to hear it.

“Where are you?” I called, “Is Mrs. Jennings with you?”

“Bec? Thank God! Mrs. Jennings is hurt! Come help. Who's with you?”

“Kevin and Sophie,” I cried, stumbling up as fast as I could. “We're coming!”

His voice was getting louder, we were getting closer. By now all of us were breathing hard from climbing as fast as we could. I wanted to sprint up the stairs but after all the exertion, my legs were rubbery. I didn't even want to think about the return trip. Once we got to the top, I'd call Candace and fill her in.

“Hurry!”

I dug deep into my core and forced myself to run up the rest of the way, Kevin and Sophie at my heels.

“Almost there!” I called. My heart was pounding, my lungs screaming for a rest. We rounded a corner and there was another small glint—the other earring by a doorway. I was so glad we wouldn't have to pry open a manhole. A dark head poked hesitantly through the opening. I lifted the phone up and caught Taj's face—he looked anxious and shocked.

I scrambled up the remaining steps and bursting through, found myself in a small, tight alley with walls covered in peeling yellow paint and roofed by the blue sky far above—and Taj standing there.

I threw myself into his arms and hugged him to me tightly. I didn't care what sort of gunk was on me or how terrible I must have looked. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “Everything's fine now.”

Behind me I heard Sophie come up. She gasped.

“What the—” said Kevin, but he didn't finish. I opened my eyes and pulled away.

Taj was not alone.

Mrs. Jennings leaned against the wall—held around the neck by Ortiz, who was pointing a gun straight at her head.

 

TRICKS AND TIPS FOR
THE EDGE-Y GIRL

Want to tone those thighs? Take the stairs—your butt will thank you later.

27

A quick glance around the alley told me exactly where we were: the narrow passage between Angelica's Bakery and Taj's way-off-the-beaten-path, hole-in-the-wall hotel. The crookedness of the alley prevented a direct line of sight from the street at either end. Ortiz stood blocking one way, a big goonish guy, the other.

“Mrs. Jennings, are you okay?” asked Sophie. The First Lady's dress was rumpled and had smudges of dirt smeared on the silky green. Her smile was shaky, though she tried to hide that fact.

“I'm okay.”

Ortiz readjusted her grip on the gun she held to the First Lady's head. Sophie's indrawn breath next to me proved she was as riveted as I was on the pressure Ortiz's finger was putting on the trigger.

“Don't anyone do anything sudden or stupid,” Ortiz warned.

“Please do what they say,” Mrs. Jennings pleaded before directing a defiant gaze at Taj. “This won't end well for any of you. Let me go before anyone gets hurt.”

The other guy laughed.

Kevin swore softly. I realized that one of us should've stayed behind in the tunnel until we knew what the situation was. Now there was no way any of us could go back for Candace or the police, even if we could find our way through the tunnels. What I wouldn't give for Dante to show up now with a pack of cousins. That Swiss Guard would work. Or Nunzio the ambulance driver. He looked like he could manage a takedown. Anyone! Please!

Taj's eyes didn't flicker with regret or indecision. “No. It's too late for that. Now everyone move away from the door. Slowly,” he ordered.

“How did you know we were even here?” I demanded, stepping away from him.

“A little falling rock told him,” said Ortiz. “And the yelling too. Not so quiet, are you?”

“I mean, that we'd follow you.”

Ortiz gave me an incredulous look. “If there's one thing we've learned about you, Juliet, it's that you have a knack for sticking your nose where it doesn't belong and then figuring things out.”

Disappointment and then rage rippled through me, and I guessed that Candace didn't have a clue that one of her agents had gone rogue.

I tried to piece together what happened in front of the office; someone threw a smoke bomb—I guessed it was this new guy—then Taj hustled Mrs. Jennings into the sewer. If he had to fight Varon off, he had the element of surprise. Ortiz lingered behind once Mrs. Jennings was snatched, giving false directions and making sure that no one could interfere with what they were planning, including me. She took off down the alley to meet up with Taj, this guy, and the captive Mrs. Jennings.

I assumed that meant that she had a hand in Parker's accident. Did she tamper with the car, or at least know it had been tampered with, and then crash it on purpose—knowing she would walk away and Parker wouldn't? As agents they would have both been trained on how to survive a car accident—unless, of course, the car had its safety features dismantled. If that was the case, having me show her how to control the car was just a big show. She wanted to see how much I'd be able to figure out, then shadow me to make sure I couldn't cause trouble. I scowled at her, but she only curled her lip and motioned with her gun.

“Follow Taj. Nice and easy, and real quiet. Remember I have the lovely First Lady in a choke hold and I can break her neck in a second—not that I want to,” she added.

How polite. She didn't want to kill the First Lady—just threaten her, kidnap her, and possibly paralyze her.

We had little choice but to do as Ortiz said and follow Taj when he opened a little door in the hotel's wall and started climbing up a straight, narrow staircase.

Oh God, not more stairs! Up, up, up. These were steep and not easy to climb in my shoes with my tired legs. Taj stopped at a landing, then ushered us into a tiny hall, and then a large room with tall windows covered by elaborate grilles of scrolled iron. The high ceiling, peeling plaster, cracked molding, and tarnished silver mirrors on the wall gave me the creeps. I didn't want to die—especially here and now.

I hadn't really taken a good look at the other man in the alley, but I did so now. He was tall, and dressed in a fitted shirt and jeans and leather loafers. He had that same swarthy European look Taj had: olive-skinned, dark-eyed, and chestnut-haired. And like Taj, not quite placeable in any specific ethnic group. And I'd seen him before …

Oh my God.
The biker at the Pantheon.

And the driver of the white car that almost took out Dante and me.

“
Em breve, Luca. Vamos
,” Taj said to him, and he nodded.

That wasn't Italian.

Mrs. Jennings was forced to sit in one of the chairs, and her hands were bound with zip ties.

“This way, please,” said Taj, a courteous arm extended, indicating for us to move over to the grimy windows, as far away from the door and the First Lady as possible. Cautiously, we shuffled across the room, urged on by Luca, who nudged Kevin's shoulder with his gun.

“Hey, careful of the shirt! It's Marc Jacobs!” Kevin groused.

Typical. Here we were, facing international kidnappers who were holding the First Lady of the United States hostage and planning to do who knew what, and Kevin was worried about his clothes.

We were directed to sit on the floor with our backs to one of the wrought-iron window grates. Out came more zip ties.

Seriously?

“Why?” I demanded of Taj.

Luca shackled Kevin and then started on Sophie.

From across the room where he stood next to Mrs. Jennings, Taj's eyes met mine. I would have sworn a shadow of regret passed over them, but he'd fooled me too many times for me to care.

“I wish I could explain everything to you, but I can't. Just understand it's something that I had to do. If you were in my place, I think you'd do the same thing.”

I snorted. “You think so? Then you don't know me very well.”

Done with Sophie, Luca grabbed my wrists, forcing me to fall back against the railing. I glared at Taj, wishing him all kinds of terrible fates. As much of a long shot as it was, I hoped, somehow, that I could be a participant in the kick-ass payback he so deserved. Go viral with his photo and a caption saying he was a lowlife kidnapper who wore knockoffs. What would be worse for him? The felony or the fashion faux pas? Either way, it would be sweet.

“I think I do. You're rebellious, but loyal”—he gazed at the First Lady—“doing whatever you have to do to correct a wrong.”

“I don't know what wrong has been perpetrated on you, Taj—” Mrs. Jennings started, but he silenced her with a squeeze on her shoulder.

“Everything will be made clear to you very soon, Mrs. Jennings.”

I jerked forward, but Luca's fingers dug into my wrists, slamming me back against the railing.

“You
had
to kidnap someone? Not just someone—the American First Lady! What could possibly be that important?” I didn't think he would answer my question. He was all about secrets and lies. Even if he told me, I wouldn't believe him. Then a jolt of realization tingled through me.

What could possibly be that important?

He was wealthy, so it wasn't money.

Family? He had a brother.…

Taj could afford to pay a ransom—but if he orchestrated kidnapping the First Lady, the situation, whatever it was, had to be something that money alone could not solve. If he wanted the First Lady alive … did he want to make a swap? This brother—if that's what this was about—must have been very important, and probably very shady. But in what way?

Luca fastened the zip ties around my wrists. I didn't struggle; that would only make them tighter and give him an excuse to put me in a more awkward position. When he stood up, I tried moving my hands—yes! There was a little slack.

“What I don't understand,” Kevin said, “is how neither the CIA nor the Secret Service found anything on you. They checked everyone out.”

Taj shrugged and his features softened into an angelic innocence. “I'm just a fashion blogger.”

“You used your blog to get close to Mrs. Jennings,” I said, working it out. “Candace said she met you when you first started, so she could vouch for you. And you knew Parker too—but I guess you didn't set off any alarms with them. They knew you for several years.” I glared up at him. “Who are you working for? How long have you been planning this?” I didn't believe that an eighteen-year-old would be the sole mastermind behind something this big.