Say No More Page 8

  “Roger that,” LeBlanc answered through her receiver. “No activity to report. It’s been quiet.”

  “How come I have to be Tolstoy on this op?” Donner asked. “I wanted to be Stephen King.”

  “For the same reason you don’t get to be the hot blonde,” Liv answered. “It’s all a conspiracy.”

  “Damn straight,” he said. “Don’t forget the tartar sauce. I hate malt vinegar. Ruins a perfectly good fish.”

  “Americans are so odd.”

  “We just know what we like.”

  Liv got out of the car, smoothly adjusting her shirt so no one could catch a glimpse of her weapon, and walked across the street to the stand on the corner.

  “Damn, woman, maybe put a little less bounce in your step,” Donner said. “Those two cars almost crashed trying to look at you.”

  Liv rolled her eyes and kept walking. It was late afternoon, so there was no line as she went up to the counter and ordered. She moved to the end of the counter once she’d paid, seemingly occupied with her phone while trying to keep an eye on the front of Bixler’s house. And then a black SUV turned onto the street, and she felt the hairs at the nape of her neck stand on end.

  “I think we’ve got incoming,” she said. “Black SUV. It just pulled in front of the house.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw one of the street agents at the crosswalk, putting himself in position to walk directly in front of the house for a visual.

  The SUV blocked her from seeing the passenger as he got out, and the guy behind the counter passed over Donner’s fish and chips and her tea. Liv took her time putting the sugar and milk in her tea, then asked for extra tartar sauce for Donner.

  “It’s Richards,” the agent across the street confirmed.

  “Roger that,” LeBlanc said. “Milne and Huxley are exiting our vehicle and going around back on foot.”

  “Tolstoy on foot,” Donner said.

  Liv saw Donner get out of the Mercedes and make his way toward her, a big goofy grin on his face. He was dressed like a tourist in jeans and a Captain America T-shirt, and he’d put on a Washington Nationals cap.

  “Thanks, honey,” he said, making sure to overemphasize his American accent. “I was starving.”

  She and Donner moved down the sidewalk so they had a better visual of the front door, and she drank her tea while Donner stood and ate his fish and chips out of a newspaper.

  “Next time you guys get the back door,” LeBlanc said. “We’re going to have to climb that giant stone fence if there’s trouble back here. We have a visual of the back door through the iron gate. Looks like the maid is taking out some trash.”

  The front door opened and Liv froze, the cup at her mouth, when Richards walked down the front steps with his head down. But as he reached the bottom he touched his finger to the side of his nose, and then he disappeared inside the SUV, which drove away.

  “That’s it,” Liv said. “That’s the signal. It’s a go. I repeat, it’s a go. Let’s lock it down.”

  She and Donner dropped their food and ran across the street, ignoring the blaring horn of a car as it approached, and she pulled her weapon, keeping it low and in front of her. She saw the black tactical van turn the corner with a squeal of tires, and it stopped a couple of houses down, the back doors swinging open as black-clad men wearing body armor scrambled out, submachine guns slung over their shoulders.

  “We’re in position,” LeBlanc said from the back door.

  “Tac unit is in position,” Liv said. “Breaching now.”

  The tactical team used the battering ram, and had the heavy English oak door hanging from its hinges in a matter of seconds. She and Donner waited as the tac unit filed through first, and then followed.

  A man shouted from somewhere to her left, and doors slammed upstairs. There were four targets—Bixler and the three servants—and all they had to do was get them in handcuffs. She and Donner took the right side of the three-story town house, moving fast and low as they cleared rooms.

  As they turned the corner into the kitchen, a shot rang out, and Donner went down in front of her. Liv dropped to her knees and rolled, using the large island as cover, as another shot splintered the wood to her right.

  She glanced at Donner and saw that he’d been hit in the shoulder and was bleeding pretty badly, but he’d been able to take cover out of the direct line of fire to the side of the butler’s pantry.

  “Drop your weapon,” she shouted. “You don’t have a chance of survival. The others have already been taken down.”

  She’d gotten a glimpse of the shooter—the housekeeper—dressed in simple black slacks and a white button-down shirt. From the intel they’d done, she knew this was Beatrice Hardee, and she’d worked for Bixler for thirty-three years. There was speculation, but never any proof, that her only son was Bixler’s. She was at least midfifties, her face lined and her mouth pinched with determination. There was no question she was loyal to Bixler.

  “Beatrice,” Liv tried again. “You have to know somewhere inside you that what Bixler’s doing to those girls is wrong. Think about their families. They need help. They’re just children.”

  “Nobody helped me,” Beatrice said bitterly, the angry tears evident in her voice.

  “They should have,” Liv told her. “And we can help you now. If you were one of Bixler’s victims, we can appeal on your behalf and get you the help you need. Please, put down the gun, Beatrice. Think of those girls. You know what it’s like to be in their place. Let them go home.”

  She saw Donner gesturing to the tac unit to stay back, and then he caught her eye and motioned. He could see Beatrice’s reflection in the stainless-steel refrigerator. Liv nodded and moved toward the end of the island, her calves and thighs burning as she stayed squatting.

  “Please, Beatrice,” she said again, using the woman’s name as often as she could. “Those girls are scared. They just want to go home.”

  There was nothing but silence for several minutes, and everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Liv chanced another look at Donner, worried about his shallow breathing and the pallor of his skin.

  “Beatrice?” she asked. “Are you still with me? You have a son, don’t you?”

  “James,” she said softly. “He’s just like his father.”

  And then the gun went off again, and she closed her eyes when she heard Beatrice’s body drop to the ground. Taking no chances, she crept around the island slowly, her weapon pointed at the sensible black shoes that greeted her. She came slowly to her feet and stared at the woman who’d endured a lifetime of pain. She’d shot herself in the chest. And her face was relaxed into what looked like peace—probably the only peace she’d ever experienced.

  Liv put her fingers to Beatrice’s neck to check for a pulse, but there wasn’t one. And then she ran back to check on Donner.

  “I’m glad I had fish and chips instead of the granola,” he said when she knelt beside him. “That would’ve been a shitty last meal.”

  “Shut up,” she said. “We need to get pressure on this.”

  “Just a flesh wound,” he said. “Go open that door and let those girls know they’re going home. I wouldn’t mind going home to see my own.”

  “I’ve got him,” LeBlanc said, coming to kneel beside Donner, holding two towels he’d taken from one of the bathrooms. “The tac unit is clearing the rest of the house, but we’ve got the others in cuffs and locked down. Petrovich is calling to get a warrant so we can start going through electronics and bagging evidence. We’ve taken probable cause as far as we can without that piece of paper.”

  Donner grabbed her hand and she looked down at him. “If I die, do I still owe you the fifty pounds?”

  “If you die, I’m coming after you in hell to claim it,” she said. Her mouth quirked in a crooked smile, but she wanted to cry. Donner was her friend. Her only friend. “It’s in your best interest to stay alive, Donner. I was going to buy you a fancy dinner.”

  “I’m feelin
g better already.” And then he gritted his teeth as LeBlanc applied pressure to his wound.

  “Agent Rothschild,” the leader of the tac unit said.

  She turned. He was standing beside Beatrice’s body, but he wasn’t looking at her. He nodded to the pantry door Beatrice had been standing in front of—guarding—and he said, “We need to clear this one. Could be an unknown in there with them.”

  She nodded and moved behind the two-man team, waiting as he opened the door to the pantry. The light came on automatically, and a cool rush of air hit them. It was temperature-controlled. The space was large, clearly not part of the original design of the house, and its floor-to-ceiling shelves were packed with canned and baking goods and small kitchen appliances. On the floor was a square trapdoor with a round iron handle.

  The team leader stepped into the pantry and pulled the door up, and the smell that greeted them was strong enough to make Liv’s eyes water. The tac unit turned on the flashlights attached to their weapons and stepped carefully onto the stairs as they made their way down into the dark hole.

  The fetid smell of human waste got stronger as they descended, and she could hear the whimpers. This wasn’t the first time she’d come across a scene like this, and it wouldn’t be the last; still, her body trembled with anger.

  The team cleared the room quickly and found a light switch on the wall. There were shrieks as the light hit their eyes. The cellar was no more than a cage with concrete walls and a dirt floor. Bixler had added the iron bars that trapped a dozen girls, ranging in age from around six to thirteen. They sat huddled together, filthy and bruised, and the panic and fear in their eyes was heartbreaking.

  “We’re here to help,” she said in Russian, walking to the cage and standing so they could see her clearly.

  “No, no,” some of the girls said, shaking their heads, their panic growing.

  A little red-headed girl of seven or eight said shrilly, “He’s coming, he’s coming.”

  “You’re safe now.” Liv spoke softly, keeping her voice steady. “You’re going home.”

  The girls were crying now, and she couldn’t understand why their fear was escalating. “That man will never hurt you again. I promise. We’ll take you to your families.”

  “He said we can never leave,” another girl said, this one a little older. “He will find us, and he will hurt us worse if we do.”

  “It’s going to be hard for him to do that in prison,” she told them. “He’s a bad man and he’s going to be locked up for a long time. He’s in handcuffs upstairs, waiting for the police to take him away.”

  “No,” the girl said again. The others just kept shaking their heads and crying. “You’ve made it worse. The Sultan will find us. He paid for us, and he knows where we live. He’ll kill our families. You’ve made it worse,” she screeched.

  “The Sultan can’t touch you ever again.”

  Her pulse quickened at the thought of a new hunt. She didn’t know who The Sultan was, but it would be her next mission to find out and take him down.

  She turned to look at the two officers and said, “Let’s get these girls out of here and back to their families.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Dante settled in for the long flight, and took a sip of the martini he’d made as soon as they’d taken off.

  Trident owned The Gravediggers, and it was an off the books organization that was so top secret the president didn’t know of its existence. Dante had learned during his time in America that it wasn’t really the president who held power anyway. The trident symbol they used on everything signified the three directors who ran the organization—a man from the Department of Justice, a man from the Department of Defense, and a woman who was the president of the largest weapons manufacturer in the world.

  Eve reported to The Directors, and The Gravediggers and The Shadow reported to Eve. The Gravediggers risked their lives on every mission they undertook. But it was The Shadow that made sure things were in place so they succeeded on those missions. They made sure equipment got where it needed to be, they were there for transportation, and they were there for cleanup when things got messy.

  Trident didn’t do anything halfway, and that included the luxury jet he was on. The plane was shades of gray, with soft, dove-colored walls and a plush charcoal carpet. There were six large leather chairs and a couch in a conversational setup, a small kitchen, and, behind the seating area, a bedroom and bathroom.

  “How is your martini?” Elaine asked.

  “Spectacular, Elaine, thank you for asking. You’ve never told me much about yourself. Were you patterned after someone?”

  “Oh yes, I thought you knew,” she said, sounding disappointed. “They never told you my origins?”

  “I can’t say they have, but I’d much rather hear it from you,” Dante said, wondering why he was worrying about a computer program’s feelings.

  “My voice is that of Marissa Tate,” she said. “It’s a lovely voice, I think. I believe I could make commercials if I so choose.”

  The martini glass stopped halfway to his mouth. “Marissa? You’re Axel’s wife?” he asked.

  “Oh no,” Elaine said quickly. “I’m only her voice. My body is quite different.”

  “You have a physical manifestation?”

  “I don’t have a human form,” she said. “But I have created a physical likeness based on my personality. It is possible they could manufacture my physical form in the future, and I want them to get it right.”

  “Do you have a picture?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Stand by.”

  A table rose from the floor—similar to the one in his apartment—the top an opaque white.

  “You’re the first person I’ve ever shown,” she said. “I’d like your opinion. Let me know if I should make any changes.”

  “I’m sure you know best how you’d like yourself designed when it comes to that,” Dante said. “You’re a brilliant woman.”

  “You are correct,” she said, making him grin.

  There was a shimmer over the tabletop, and a 3-D rendering appeared. The woman was about a foot and a half high, but it was easy to see her every detail. Especially since she was naked.

  “Elaine,” Dante said. “You’ve no clothes on.”

  “Of course not,” she said. “How are you supposed to see all of me if I’m clothed? I believe I have read that the British are rather uptight when it comes to the naked body. Am I correct?”

  “No,” he said. “You just took me by surprise.”

  Not to mention that Elaine had given herself the body of a forties pinup girl, black hair that curled halfway down her back, red lips, and cobalt-blue eyes. He couldn’t imagine releasing the physical form of Elaine on the world.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  “Yes, I know. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He chuckled and said, “I hope I get to meet you in person someday. The entire team owes you a great deal. You’ve saved all of our lives more than once.”

  “That is my main function,” she said. “But I would like to meet you all one day too. I’d also like to meet Chris Hemsworth and have sex with him. Humans seem to enjoy sex a great deal. I think I’d enjoy it most with him.”

  “You’re not the only woman in the world to think that, I’m sure,” Dante answered wryly. “How do you know humans enjoy sex?”

  “It’s in the movies. I’ve seen them all, and I find that love is a universal theme. Someday I will make cow eyes at a man and then we’ll have sex, and I’ll scream. It sounds horrific, but from my reading, I’ve discovered those are sounds of pleasure.”

  “Hmm,” Dante said. “They are indeed. Would you mind if we shift topics to the current mission?”

  “I’m capable of juggling hundreds of topics simultaneously. But yes, I’m happy to discuss your mission. I have to say, To Catch a Thief is one of my favorite movies. You’re just like Cary Grant. Where would you like to start?”

  “Please pull up the 3
-D rendering of Mittal’s palace in Dubai. I need a list of staff, security, and permanent residents, as well as Mittal’s schedule for this week. Oh, and those ground-penetrating radar and satellite images.”

  “Those will take some time,” she said. “You should sit back and enjoy your martini. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes, I need the most likely locations for the Turner I’ll be collecting as my fee for this job, and every scrap of information you can find on this famous vault that’s inside his office. Eve seems sure that’s where he’ll keep the launch codes. Pull up a 3-D image of me as well. We’re going to run through several scenarios and see which one is the most likely to keep me alive.”

  “I’m sure you’ve run the probabilities in your head,” she said. “You’re quite brilliant in mathematics as well.”

  “You are correct,” he said, mimicking her earlier response.

  “Then you know that the initial probabilities are not in your favor.”

  “Which is why we’re going to do everything we can to turn them in my favor.”

  “I’m amazing, but I’m not a miracle worker. Stand by,” Elaine said.

  “I don’t remember you being so cheeky,” he told her.

  “It’s part of my charm. And my programming. I’m built to grow and adapt as I learn new things. That includes facets of my personality. I believe I’m becoming quite a handful.”

  Dante lowered the shades over the windows, and a white screen came down on each side wall, while another dropped from the ceiling.

  “How much time do we have left on the flight?” he asked.

  “Approximately eight hours and fifty-one minutes.”

  “Well, I’ve always said I like a challenge,” he said.

  One by one, the screens started filling with the information he’d asked for.

  “I’m still working on satellite and radar,” Elaine said. “And I have the most recent blueprints of the palace.”

  A rendering of Mittal’s palace shimmered into form above the white table. It was Mughal in style, a white monstrosity with a large onion dome in the center and an ornamental finial rising from the top. Minarets sat at the four corners of the stone walls that surrounded the palace. Outside the stone walls were lush gardens and fountains, which were surrounded in turn by even higher stone walls and minarets. It was an imposing example of architecture.