Death by Denim (18 page)

I stepped backward and my foot hit the BlackBerry. The contact was like a bolt of lightning shooting through me. I knew exactly what I needed to do.

I
n that instant, everything began falling into place in my mind, like pieces to a puzzle. Labruzzo kept us locked up in that room so that the GPS in my shoes would bring my mom to the factory, but he sat down at the end of the hall so that he could make a quick getaway when my mom and her entourage arrived. The Mole hung around, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to detonate his explosives. He would want to watch, that was certain, so he would be using a remote electronic device. Like a BlackBerry.

I stooped down and swept up the phone, stuffing it into my shorts pocket, and then spun and ran back through the doors into the factory.

It took only a second to see that I was right. I didn’t stop to look back, but I could hear The Mole toss Seth aside and come after me.

I rushed into the huge room with all the looms. The Mole’s heavy footsteps rang out behind me. I dodged between the machines, in and out of the shadows, deeper and deeper into the mill.

“Stop,” he yelled.

Ha. He wasn’t even gaining on me. One of the distinct disadvantages of having other people take care of your business, I suppose. He should have been more active.

And I should have been more careful. I wasn’t watching the ground ahead of me. In the next instant, white-hot pain slashed through my foot. I fell hard to my knees and twisted around to see a shard of metal about the size of the BlackBerry I had stolen sticking out of the bottom of my foot. My stomach lurched and I had to swallow hard to keep from throwing up. Running through an abandoned factory without shoes . . . not smart.

I didn’t even want to look at the thing, let alone touch it, but I knew the metal would have to come out. Breathing deeply, I gripped the shard with shaking fingers and pulled.

“Aaagh!” The cry ripped straight up from the center of my gut before I could stop it. I pressed my lips together, but it was too late. I’d given away my location. I could hear The Mole’s footsteps slow and change direction.

Dropping the metal shard, I dragged myself behind one of the looms. The Mole must have seen that I had gone down, because he quit running. I could hear him, kicking through the debris on the factory floor, making his way to my hiding spot.

I pulled my knees close to my chest and pressed my back flat against the side of the loom, but it didn’t matter how invisible I tried to make myself; a smear of blood trailed behind me, marking my position. All I could do was listen to the heavy scrape of his shoes drawing nearer. I held my breath, hoping he would pass me by.

He didn’t.

The Mole stepped around the corner of the loom, grinning down at me like a demonic jack-o’-lantern. “Hello, my dear.”

I scrambled to the side, hoping to crawl under the loom to get away, but he stopped me, stomping hard on my leg. I screamed in pain.

“Give it to me,” he said.

“Give what to you?”

“You know exactly what.” He held out his hand. When I didn’t move to give his BlackBerry to him, he ground his heel into my leg. I cried out again.

“This is not a game, little girl,” he said. “Where is it?” His face contorted in rage.

“I don’t have it,” I said.

The heel pressed down, down.

“I threw it away while I was running!”

Grind.

I howled.

“Give. Me. The. Phone.”

But there was no way I was going to do that.

He stomped down and I heard my own bone snap. Pain rolled like thunder up my leg, followed quickly by a wave of nausea.

“I don’t have it!” I screamed. Of course, he and I both knew it was only a matter of him bending down to take it from the pocket of my shorts. But after what I’d done to Labruzzo out on the dock, maybe he didn’t want to get that close.

He raised his foot again.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Back away from the girl, Brezeanu.”

I twisted around to see both Seth and Ryan, side by side, guns leveled at The Mole. He froze where he stood, but only for a moment.

“You will die for this,” he growled at me, and then dived behind one of the looms.

Seth looked torn. His muscles coiled taut and his eyes darted back and forth, watching for movement. I understood exactly what he was feeling. It had to end. As long as The Mole was alive, we would never be safe. But Seth wasn’t a killer. He might be able to hunt The Mole down. He might even be able to pull the trigger, but then he’d be as haunted the rest of his life as he would be if The Mole were still on his trail.

Ryan must have sensed it, too. “Get her outside,” he barked. Like he was giving an order. Like Seth didn’t have a choice.

Seth hesitated for only a moment more. Then he stuffed the gun into his waistband and stooped down to scoop me up in his arms.

Over his shoulder, I locked eyes with Ryan. “Thank you,” I mouthed.

He nodded brusquely—a motion that caused considerable pain, judging from the way his jaw clenched in reaction to it—and then turned his attention back to finding The Mole.

 

We had taken only a few steps when The Mole’s words rang out like the voice of God, nowhere and everywhere all at once. “You think it’s over?”

Seth spun, searching the shadows. I buried my face in his shoulder to keep from crying out from the movement.

Ryan raised his gun with both hands, though I could tell he had no clear target.

“You amateurs! You nothings!” From the disdain in his voice, I could practically see the sneer on The Mole’s face. “You think I wouldn’t have planned a fail-safe? You think you’re home free because you stole a
phone
?” He laughed. Not the wicked, confident laugh of a master criminal, but the shrill cackle of a madman.

I clung to Seth. “He’s insane,” I whispered.

Seth didn’t say a word, but held me tighter, cupping the back of my head as if he could protect me.

Ryan backed to where we were standing. “This place is wired like Times Square at Christmas. Get her out,” he whispered to Seth. “Now!”

 

Seth turned toward the docks and I watched over his shoulder as Ryan crept down the rows of looms, gun raised and ready. And then a shadow moved, just out of my range of vision. I gasped and gripped Seth’s shoulders.

“What is it?”

A dark figure leaped from behind a loom and rushed toward the staircase. Ryan spun and fired, but the shot went wide. The Mole clambered up the metal stairs, Ryan close behind. My eyes snapped up to the window of the room where we had first seen the Mole that morning. His sanctuary. His lair. The fail-safe! That’s where it would be.

“Ryan!” I screamed. “The room!”

At the sound of my voice, The Mole turned his head, slowing him down just enough for Ryan to dive for his ankles. The Mole crashed to the walkway, flailing his feet. Ryan grabbed one of his legs and held on to it like a bucking bronco. He shot an angry look to where we still stood in the room below.

“Mulo! Get her out of here!”

“No!” I cried. I tried to wriggle out of Seth’s arms. “Help him!”

“Mulo!” Ryan yelled.

Seth’s arms tightened around me and he ran down the corridor to the loading dock exit. We pushed through the swinging doors and he drew up short. Bright headlights lit the dock, punctuated by red and blue flashes from half a dozen police cars. The muzzles of several guns immediately pointed toward us, clicked and ready, and a confusion of voices ordered us in both Italian and English to freeze before Mrs. Mulo’s voice rose above them all. “Seth!”

The guns lowered. From out of the glaring lights, Victor and Elena Mulo rushed forward, arms outstretched. My mom wasn’t far behind.

And then a shot ripped through the air and chaos broke out on the docks again. Seth dropped to the ground, and I tumbled from his arms, fresh pain shooting up my leg.

“Secure the perimeter!” someone yelled.

“It came from inside!” another voice answered.

The burnt-tar smell filled my nose and for a moment I thought I must be imagining things until I lifted my head to see a pair of snakeskin boots. I screamed and pushed myself backward until I realized that Marlboro Man was lying facedown on the dock, his hands tied with plastic handcuffs behind his back. His face was turned away from me. But right next to him lay Labruzzo, trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey. He glared at me with his good eye and mouthed, “You’re dead.”

That’s when I passed out.

 

I was only vaguely aware of what happened next. I heard a voice cry, “Get them down from there!” I could feel myself being carried and coddled. I recognized my mom’s voice, but I didn’t know what she was saying to me.

I caught only a few of the words that were flying around me. “. . . still in there.” “. . . a lot of blood.” “. . . without alerting the local authorities.” “. . . broken leg.” “. . . in the van.” I was aware of hands. Hands prodding, comforting, tying my leg to a splint. Dressing the wound on my foot. Reaching into the pocket of my shorts.

My eyes flew open. Caraday. I grabbed her hand. “No! Don’t you touch it!”

Mom was at my side in an instant. “Aphra, what is it? Are you all right?”

I could only stare at Caraday, who stared back at me with wild green eyes. “She’s working for him!” I cried. “Don’t let her have it!”

Caraday shook her head and exchanged a worried glance with my mom. “I think she’s delirious.”

“No! I know—”

“Honey, relax,” Mom pressed my head back down. She didn’t believe me.

I struggled against her. “Where’s Ryan? He can—”

Caraday spoke to someone behind me. Someone I couldn’t see. “Can’t you give her something?”

“No.” I struggled against her grip. “No! Don’t . . . you understand? Caraday . . .” I lost the rest of my statement in a haze of pain.

Caraday’s voice was gentle, so gentle. “It’s going to be all right, Aphra. It’s over. You did it.”

I pushed her away again. “Seth!” I yelled. “Seth!”

“She’s going to hurt herself,” I heard Caraday’s voice say. Where did my mom go? Where was Seth?

Hands came at me. Held me down. I felt a sharp prick and then my arm was flooded with warmth, followed by a disconcerting numbness.

Someone reached into my pocket and took the BlackBerry and I was powerless to stop them. I think I cried, but I’m not sure.

“Go!” I tried to warn everyone, but my mouth could barely form the words. “We need to get out of—”

But the rest of the sentence was blown away in the force of an explosion so strong, it sucked the air straight from my lungs. I gripped someone’s hand—I hoped it was my mom’s—and prayed we would get out alive.

T
he first thing I saw when I woke was my leg, wrapped in plaster, and suspended from a series of pulleys and cables above the bed. It hurt too much to turn my head, but I took in as much of my surroundings as I could with my eyes. Railing on the bed. Pink plastic pitcher and a cup with a bendy straw on the nightstand. Weak sunlight filtering through Pepto-Bismol-pink curtains, the rest of the room stark, white. A hospital. Mom slept in a chair in the corner, her mouth hanging open as if in silent protest.

The events leading up to the hospital came back to me in small pieces, not necessarily in order. The Mole playing his cello. The Mole crushing my leg. Ryan’s head. Seth cradling me in his arms. Caraday reaching for the BlackBerry. Labruzzo looking up at me with his one good eye.
Boom.

Mom woke with a start, as if she could hear my thoughts. She saw that I was awake and rushed to my side. Her hands had been wrapped in gauze, but she stroked my hair with the backs of her fingers. “How are you doing?”

I tried to speak, but my throat felt raw. The words came out in a hoarse whisper. “I’m sorry for leaving, Mom.”