The Tomorrow Heist (6 page)

“Take it easy, guys,” Maggie said even as she realized they probably had no idea what she was saying. She'd picked up a little Japanese in the past few months, but nowhere near enough to say
Hey, don't rape the pretty blond lady
. And after exhausting herself with her run, she wasn't sure she could take on these three brutes all at once—­especially with those damn suits. At least, not without getting hurt herself.

She tried to move back the way she'd come, but one of them stepped in her path. Reflexively, she gave him a rabbit punch in the nose and pushed him away, old habits from her time in the Russian gulag kicking in. His bulk didn't move, and she only managed to push herself closer to the two men behind her. The man touched his smacked nose and seemed to growl. He tried taking a swing at Maggie, but she easily brushed it aside and smacked him two more times in the nose, harder this time. A little blood trickled out one of his nostrils.

This is bad, she thought, turning and squaring off against all three. But before she could ready herself, the other two grabbed her by the arms. She struggled to get free, but it was impossible while they were wearing those suits. It was like trying to pry open a bear trap.

“Don't!” Maggie said, slight panic working its way into her chest.

“Is there a problem, Ms. Reynolds?”

Maggie looked past the man in front of her and saw Umi's small form standing in the hallway. She winced at the irony, noticing that even in English, the old woman's words had an effect on the men. The two behind her immediately let go and moved back behind the crate.

Maggie was more concerned about the brute in front of her. With his bloody nose, he didn't seem as easy to dissuade and appeared to be trying to decide what to do.

Umi barked something in Japanese and after a long stare at Maggie, the man finally moved past her to join his comrades.

“And I suggest you get back to work as well, Ms. Reynolds, if you're finished with your playtime.”

“Yes, Mum,” Maggie said, bowing her shoulders and walking past Umi. The honorific had just slipped out, but her embarrassment wouldn't let Maggie try to explain before she left.

It was much later—­when she was showered, dressed, and back in front of her vetting computer—­before her pride let her think clearly about the scene belowdecks. She kept wondering what had been in that huge crate. The area was technically off-­limits, and equipment was stored in a completely different hold at the other end of the ship. But more importantly, what was Umi doing down there?

The next scientist's face popped up on Maggie's computer for his vetting interview, so she put the questions aside, but not before she decided to go back down there later. This time, though, she was leaving her earbuds in her room and bringing her gun.

 

Chapter Eight

London

Friday

8:00
A.M.
Local Time

A
FTER
SPENDING
TWO
hours calming Lew down to the point where he didn't want to grab a ­couple of grenades and run back to Emily's flat, Jonathan had finally lain on Lew's couch and stared at the ceiling for another two hours before he gave up on sleep altogether. He'd tried to call the headmaster at Natalie's school, but no one answered. Lew had assured him that Natalie wasn't in any danger when she called him, and had only been worried about Emily. Jonathan wanted to think that was the reason he hadn't tried to call Natalie, thinking there was no need to wake her up, but he knew a bigger part of it was the fact that he hadn't seen or spoken to her in so long. Regardless, he would have to call her in the morning to get to the bottom of this.

After making a few phone calls, he slipped out and left Lew snoring under the influence of his beers, anxiety, and a fistful of sleeping pills. When he got back, carrying a ­couple of large coffees, Lew was up and waiting for him. Most ­people would have been out cold for another half day.

“How's the head?” Jonathan asked.

“I'll tell you once the paramedics bring me back to life,” Lew said, rubbing his temples. Jonathan handed him a coffee before taking a long drink of his own. “Where have you been?”

“Getting this,” Jonathan said, pulling a few stapled pages out of his jacket pocket. “Preliminary forensic report.”

“From Emily's?” Lew asked, the bleariness seeming to almost completely fade from his eyes.

“Yep.”

Jonathan had pulled some strings from his old life in the intelligence community to get an early copy of the forensic report from Emily's loft. A lot of ­people owed him favors, especially in the UK, where his agency had run joint missions back in the day. His contacts had gotten him the report in under an hour. Which had surprised even him.

“What's the verdict?” Lew said.

“There was a lot of blood at the scene,” Jonathan said, wishing he'd started somewhere else when he saw Lew's face fall. “The good news is that while there was some blood at the scene that belonged to a female, it was only trace amounts. Most of the blood was male. Enough for a ­couple of corpses.”

“Corpses? She killed them?” Lew asked, hope obvious in his wide eyes.

“No idea. And it was enough
blood
for a ­couple of corpses, but no bodies were found at the scene. And while the place was riddled with bullet holes, most of the brass and slugs had been cleaned up. But they were in a hurry and missed a few. Looks to be P90 fire. From the bullet trajectories, at least two shooters.”

“What the hell did she get herself into?” Lew said. “Wait, the good news? What's the bad news?”

“Well, just like the corpses, Emily was nowhere to be found when the locals got there. I'm guessing whoever took out the attackers and cleaned up must have taken her with them when they Casey Jones'd out of there.”

“Shit. What else?”

“They found a cell phone and a computer tablet at the scene. Both have already been sent to computer forensics for analysis. It's a good guess that the phone is Emily's. Did she have a tablet?”

“No idea,” Lew said. “I guess we better make that call now.”

Jonathan knew he was talking about Natalie. “Yeah, I've been thinking about that. I'm not sure we should. I mean—­”

Lew marched over to Jonathan, reached in his pocket, and pulled out his phone. He took Jonathan's hand and slapped the phone in it.

“Call her, or I'm going to make you look like I feel,” Lew said. Jonathan thought about saying something clever like “oh yeah?” but gave in and dialed his daughter's cell phone. He wasn't as worried about endangering her now as having to face her anger for not calling sooner. When it started to ring, he pushed the speaker button and put the phone down on the table between him and Lew.

Jonathan took a deep breath and was getting ready to say “Hi, Baby,” when she picked up the line and immediately took a strip off him. For the first minute, she cursed more than Lew on a bad day, but even as her boil seemed to slow, he could feel her wrath coming through the line.

“If it wasn't for Emily and Lew, I don't know that I'd ever talk to you again, Dad. I'm serious. I mean, a year? Don't you care about me at all anymore?” That last was punctuated with a crack in her voice. It hurt, but it was also the best thing Jonathan had ever heard. She was hurt more than mad. He was starting to think about ways he could fix things between them but remembered that that would have to come later. There were other priorities right now.

“I'm sorry, Natalie, I really am, but we—­”

“Don't call me that,” she said abruptly.

“Call you what? Natalie? Uh, that's your name, honey.”

“Not anymore. Everyone here calls me Nina now. That's my name.”

Jonathan looked at Lew and mouthed
Nina?
Lew shrugged and nodded.

“Fine, Nina, just try to remember everything you heard—­”

“I don't have to. When the phone banged to the floor, and I heard the men yelling, I started recording the call. Hang on a second, and I'll play it for you.”

Despite the name nonsense, which Jonathan would deal with later, he felt pride at his daughter's ingenuity. A moment later, muffled voices emanated from the phone. His skin prickled when he recognized Canton George's voice demanding to know where he and Lew were. Then the convincing started, and Jonathan saw Lew wince with every smack that echoed from the speaker.

Then, with a wooden crash, the fight was over. Emily begged for Natalie's safety and a male voice said he thought Emily had killed someone named Neill. Lew actually clapped his hands at that. But his attitude fell when George ordered the man to kill Emily. The few seconds of silence that followed seemed to last forever. It was finally broken by a tremendous crash. And gunfire. Even without the police reports, Jonathan would have recognized the unmistakable sound of P90s' rapid firing. Again, silence stretched out, and Jonathan and Lew held their breath and waited. Someone yelled “Clear!” and then a strange man's voice was heard.

“Are you all right, Ms. Denham?”

“Yes! She's alive!” Lew shouted, jumping to his feet.

“Lew!” Jonathan chastised, trying to listen to every sound.

“Sorry,” he said as he sat down with a huge grin on his face.

“She's out.”

“What's her condition?”

“They worked her over pretty good, missing a ­couple of teeth and definitely some broken ribs, but I think she'll recover.”

Lew seemed to have trouble catching his breath as they heard the prognosis.

“Get her patched up, then I'll meet you at the Gallery. I've delayed the locals, but not by much. Get a move on.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gallery?” Jonathan and Lew said at the same time.

After some rustling, the room grew quiet. Then the man spoke again, but it was loud and clear, unlike before.

“If you've listened to this, you know we saved Ms. Denham. We have her, but she's not a prisoner. We are making sure she gets the care she needs. You just need to come and get her.”

A tingle started at the base of Jonathan's spine and slowly scampered up into the back of his skull. Realization was setting in.

“Yeah, like we're just going to walk in there,” Lew said.

“Lew.”

“What? Why the hell would we trust this guy?”

“Lew!”

“What?”

Jonathan took a deep breath and leaned down toward the phone.

“Where do you want to meet?” Jonathan prayed he was wrong. Hoped against hope that “Nina” would get on the line and start chastising him again.

“What are you—­”

“The Sandstrom Gallery. I'm texting you the address. I look forward to meeting you, Mr. Hall. You too, Mr. Katchbrow. Oh, and come unarmed.”

The line went dead.

And so did Jonathan's hope.

“I
KNEW
WE
should have killed that guy instead of just locking him in his own vault,” Lew said.

Lew's head was spinning with all the revelations in the past few minutes. Not to mention the thumping hangover. But what he did know was that Emily was alive. Or, at least, she had been after the attack at her flat. Regardless, it was a hundred times better than all the scenarios that had been rifling through his brain since seeing the blood on her floor last night. On the other hand, Natalie was now an unknown. Which made Jonathan an unknown. They'd tried to call Natalie back after the voice had hung up, but the call wouldn't go through.

“You're right about that,” Jonathan said. He walked to the window and pulled open the bench where Lew kept his weapons stash. He took out one of the Beretta 9mms, pressed the eject button, and examined the clip.

“Uh, what are you doing?” Lew asked, though he knew.

“The same thing you should be doing. Getting ready,” Jonathan said as he slammed the clip back in the gun's grip. He took a shoulder holster out of the window seat and slipped it on.

“He said no guns,” Lew said. He had to find a way to manage Jonathan, or he was going to blow this thing, including Lew's chance to get Emily back in one piece. Not to mention Natalie, whom he loved like a niece. Lew knew he was no good at this kind of stuff. This was usually Jonathan's forte, but right now, Jonathan was doing a pretty good Lew impression.

“I think I gave you too many pills last night,” Jonathan said, staring at Lew incredulously. “Even if you buy what that guy was selling, we have no idea what happened to Natalie. I hesitated last time, and it almost got her killed.” Jonathan shoved the gun into his holster, then took another Beretta out of the window seat and held it out for Lew. “I won't make that same mistake again.”

“No, you're making all new ones this time.”

“Lew, think about it. How the hell did that guy get to Switzerland and find Natalie so quick? Hell, how did they find Emily just in time to save her from George's men? And if they know where we are, and they have Emily, why wouldn't they just bring her here?”

“Well, because . . . because—­” Why the fuck, indeed.

“It's a ruse,” Jonathan said. “Hell, he probably works for George! I'm not sure of all the fine points, but I do know we have to go in hard, or we're not coming out.”

Lew hated to admit it, but Jonathan was making sense. And walking into traps seemed to be their specialty lately. After a few more moments rationalizing, Lew sighed and grabbed the weapon. “You know those were P90s we heard in the recording. Why do you think these peashooters are going to be of any use against machine guns?”

“Because we're going to be Han Solo this time,” Jonathan said.

Lew just stared at him blankly.

“Han Solo. You know,
Star Wars
?”

“How I became best friends with a nerd is beyond me.”

“Whatever. The point is, we're going to shoot first.”

“Now that reference I get.”