Plot counterplot, p.4
Plot/Counterplot, page 4
“Meaning I work for hire,” she replied. “As you surmised, I learned my trade in my homeland. With the IRA. Until I met with an unfortunate accident.” He tried not to look at her scars as she said it. “And then your President Clinton entered the fray and the next thing you know, the fighting is over. What’s a working girl to do? I had to repurpose myself.”
Dylan watched her eyes carefully and read between the lines. Xavier was not the boss of this operation—and neither was she. Someone hired her. Someone was pulling both their strings. “So you don’t really care what the cause is. You’re just in it for money.”
Xavier and Mr. X looked at one another for a long moment. The expression on Mr. X’s face changed.
“No,” she replied. “I wouldn’t say that.” Dylan detected a slight stiffening in her neck. “We are both highly motivated to complete this mission. So don’t delude yourself into thinking we’re going to give you any choice about helping us.”
“You’ve committed actual acts of terrorism? For your current employer?”
“Yes.” She did not correct his use of the word “employer.”
“Prove it. Give me an example.”
“Not that I need to prove anything to you. But did you read about the explosion at the Cartwright Institute of Hawaiian Antiquities a few weeks ago? Not far from where you live?”
“Some kind of gas main explosion.”
“Yes. Triggered by two pounds of K4.”
“That was your organization?”
“That was me,” Xavier said.
Dylan’s toes hurt and his head felt as if it would implode from insufficient oxygenation. But he knew he needed to keep them talking. “Why the explosion?”
“Unexpected problems. Big disaster. We lose four men. I barely escape. But I got intel.”
“And attracted far too much attention in the process,” Mr. X said. “We should’ve gone in quietly and we should’ve had a contingenCy evac plan more sophisticated than blowing the place to bits. One clever idea would’ve been more useful—and less obtrusive—than six pounds of K4.” She pursed her lips. “Please don’t misunderstand me, Taggart. We’re very good at what we do. But for the task we will next undertake, we need to be better than very good. We need to accomplish the impossible.”
“Sounds like time to quit.”
“No. Time for fresh perspectives. New ideas.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with me.”
“Isn’t it obvious? We need a new idea man, Dylan. And we choose...you.”
Chapter 4
Leilani awoke screaming.
Her throat was so raw it hurt. Where was she?
It took her several moments to realize she was still in Dylan’s condo. In the living room on the sofa opposite the kitchen. Her entire body ached and her left leg throbbed and—
She looked down at herself. She’d been naked before, but now she was wearing a nightgown, her nightgown, the pink laCy number she’d worn earlier that night. Before Dylan took it off.
Every muscle in her body stiffened. Who put it back on?
She pulled up the nightgown and stared at her legs. Her left leg had been bandaged. A three-by-three inch air-permeable gauze bandage covered the worst laceration. All the wounds had been cleaned.
Had she been to a hospital? If so, how did she get there? Was she discharged?
“Dylan?”
“He ain’t here.”
She bolted upright, eyes wide, hands crossed over her breasts.
Someone sat on the other side of the coffee table. In the armchair, his legs crossed. The man with the acne-scarred face. The one who had hoisted her by the neck and—
She pushed up onto her feet, desperate to get away, to create as much space as possible between herself and that hideous man. The moment she put weight on her left leg, a painful jolt radiated through her femur. She hobbled forward, ignoring the hurt, rounding the sofa and heading toward the door—
“You can’t get out.”
She grabbed the doorknob and pulled on it, but it was locked. Where was the key? She had to get out of here before that madman came after her and—
“I’m not gonna hurt you. Probably.”
She paused, took a breath, and noticed that he was still sitting in the armchair. He hadn’t moved.
“I’m really not gonna do anythin’ to you. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy it. Xavier left me here to give you a message.”
Leilani grabbed the back of the sofa. Whether he was moving or not, she felt better with a large object between them. Her heart pounded and the agony in her leg intensified every second she stood. “I—don’t believe you.”
“Look, you’ve been out for hours. If I wanted to do somethin’ to you, it’d already be done. Who do you think got you looked after?”
Someone had treated her wounds. That she could not deny. “Why would you want to help me?”
“I don’t. I’m a soldier. I do what I’m told. Xavier said to take care of you, so I called in a doc who works for us. He looked you over good, got you all cleaned up. Got the glass out. Gave you a shot of somethin’. I don’t know what it was.”
Leilani had to control her gag reflex to keep from vomiting. A stranger—some criminal doctor—injected a foreign substance into her body. She didn’t know what it was and she had no way of learning. She felt dirty. She didn’t think she had been sexually assaulted. But she felt as if she had.
“Where’s Dylan?”
“I can’t tell you that, or why they took him or who we work for, so don’t bother asking. Here’s the message.” He rose slowly to his feet. Leilani reflexively took a step back. “After I leave, you’re gonna be tempted to call the cops. Don’t. If you tell anything to anyone, we kill you.” He smiled. “After we have some fun with you.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be, sister, because this operation is bigger than you can imagine. We’re everywhere. If you call someone, we’ll know. If you write anyone, we’ll know. If you so much as leave a hint or a clue, we’ll know. You’ll die a horrible death. And so will your boyfriend.”
She glared at him, her lips curled.
“I’m gettin’ the impression you’re not convinced you oughta keep your trap shut. So let me show you somethin’. Go take a look in the bedroom.”
Cautiously, keeping her eyes on him at all times, she edged into the bedroom.
All the air rushed out of her lungs.
“Bad, ain’t it?”
Leilani had met Kane Fielding, the security guard, on several occasions. He was a friendly, easy-going man. She liked him.
His brains were spilled out on the floor surrounded by a pool of his own blood. The top of his head was missing. His face was a ghastly turquoise.
While she stared at the decaying corpse, the pock-faced man grabbed her neck and shoved her downward. Her face was only inches from the corpse, the splattered brains.
She held her breath. She was a paramedic. She was used to blood. But not this. Never anything like this.
The man shoved her in even closer. “That’s what happens to you if you open your fuckin’ mouth.”
He released her, then pressed his hands together. “Lemme give you somethin’ else to think about. You call the cops, they’ll think your boy plugged the guard.”
“They wouldn’t be so stupid. Dylan doesn’t even own a gun.”
“The records will show he bought a gun two years ago and that gun plugged the guard. His prints are on it, and we’ll arrange for the police to find it. They’ll assume the guard stumbled onto your loverboy’s cocaine racket—”
“What?”
“—when they find the huge stash we planted. They’ll think he killed the guard to keep him from exposin’ his drug trade. With all the people we own in the police force and the courtroom, I can guarantee your boy spends the rest of his life in prison. Where I understand sensitive writer-types don’t do so hot.”
“It’ll never work. I’ll tell the police what I know.”
“You go anywhere near the police station, you’re dead.”
Leilani didn’t know what to say. She felt trapped, boxed in, unable to think of any way out. She’d forced herself to be tough her entire life. She’d had no choice—no parents since the age of ten, never fitting in anywhere. She’d always managed to brazen out a solution, no matter what problems confronted her. But at the moment her mind was blank. She was just as powerless as she’d been when this gargoyle threw her across the room. Totally vulnerable, utterly exposed.
“I’m outta here.” He grinned. “Unless maybe you’d like to go a few rounds with me on the sheets. I hear you’re pretty hot stuff.”
Her eyes were cold. “Go.”
He leaned in so close she could feel his fetid breath on her face. “How about a French kiss, sweetheart? You’ll like it. I promise. You think that queer-ass writer-boy of yours is hot shit? I could show you what it feels like to have a real man between your legs.”
Without thinking about it, Leilani slapped him across the face.
He massaged the sore spot, laughing. “Gotta hand it to you, baby. You got a pretty mean swing.” He laughed some more, then he wrapped his hand around her throat and shoved her back against the wall. With his other hand, he grabbed her waist and hoisted her into the air.
Don’t throw me! she thought, her eyes clenched shut. Please don’t throw me!
“Do you know how badly I could hurt you?” he bellowed. “I could cut you in places you didn’t know you had. I could do you till there’s nothin’ left to do!”
She felt his elbows bend and braced herself for impact.
He dropped her onto the sofa.
“But the boss says no.” His voice resumed its previous tone. “Not now, anyway.” He winked, then walked to the door and unlocked it. “So remember. Not a word to anyone, cunt. Or I’ll be back.” He closed the door behind him.
Leilani curled up into a fetal position, arms wrapped around her legs, hugging herself tightly. She told herself to be strong, told herself to be brave, but no matter what she did or thought, she couldn’t stop the trembling.
Chapter 5
“Me? Work for terrorists?” Dylan wanted to laugh in her disfigured face, but he knew that wouldn’t be smart, especially with this noose wrapped tightly around his neck. Play along with her, he told himself. The more you learn, the better you’ll be able to fight them. To formulate a plan. That was what he did best. But a plan required information. “What is it you want to do?”
“You didn’t answer my question. Will you help us?”
“I don’t know whether I can help until I know what you want.”
“I’d rather have you on board before I reveal all the details.”
“I understand your reticence, but I can’t give any meaningful acceptance until you tell me more about the operation.”
“The details of the operation are what we want you to devise.”
“Tell me the objective and I’ll tell you whether I can achieve it.”
She laughed, but the laugh had no merriment in it. “You’re good, Taggart. But I’ve been in this game a long time, so don’t waste your energy trying to outthink me.” She ran a long black fingernail down the side of his cheek. “Our immediate objective is to steal military intelligence that will allow us to control a radical new scientific device of enormous power.”
Something about the way she said it—devoid of inflection yet teeming with phrases like “enormous power”—made it impossible to doubt her. She wasn’t just delusional, though insanity was a definite possibility. He wondered how much more he could get her to say. “What do you plan to do with this...device?”
She broke eye contact and paced around him in small circles. He couldn’t turn his neck far enough to follow her movements. “There’s a conference being held in Hawaii in about two months. Many important people will be there.”
“Tell me you’re not talking about the G20 summit.” Dylan stayed well informed on world affairs—his job required it—and he knew the annual summit of the leaders of the greatest economic powers was being held on Oahu in a few weeks.
“Very astute.”
His neck was raw from the rope and he didn’t think he could remain on his toes much longer. “Which leader are you planning to assassinate?”
“Does it matter? Someone wants a job done. We’re going to do it.”
“I wasn’t aware that political assassinations could be outsourced.”
“How naïve. Have you heard of Blackwater USA?”
He had, of course. “Weren’t they a private security firm?”
“That would be a generous way of putting it. They’re the consortium the CIA hired in ’04 to locate and assassinate top Al Qaeda operatives. Since 1976, the CIA has been barred by executive order from carrying out assassinations—so they hired someone else to do it for them. Blackwater also guarded American diplomats in Iraq, using extreme force on several occasions. Seventeen civilians were killed. After the political donnybrook and a few mergers, they changed their name to Constellis Holdings.” She paused. “But if the CIA can outsource assassination...”
“So can your employer.” He listened to her voice carefully. He had good reason to believe she wasn’t telling him everything. She had broken eye contact just before Dylan mentioned the G20. The alleged assassination plan might be a total fabrication. At best, it was a small part of her overall scheme. “Why do you need a super-weapon? Wouldn’t a few well-placed snipers suffice?”
“Still baiting me, aren’t you?” Her eyelids fluttered. “Or perhaps you’re simply unfamiliar with the level of security the G20 summit will have. Snipers could never get anywhere near the leaders. The entire city block will be cordoned off and anyone entering will be subjected to high-security searches. Airspace will also be restricted. Any plane or copter attempting to violate it will be shot down on sight. To get near these leaders with weapons, we would need a small army. Possibly a large army. And every soldier involved would know that he or she was probably on a suicide mission. Hard to find paid employees willing to do that.”
Dylan wasn’t buying it. Granted, the G20 would be tough to infiltrate, but these people seemed extremely resourceful. And she had mentioned a super-weapon. There was something she wasn’t telling him. Probably a great deal she wasn’t telling him.
“Who are you working for?” Dylan asked. “Al Qaeda? The Taliban? China? Pakistan? Russia? North Korea?” Dylan watched her face carefully as he rattled off each potential employer, but he didn’t detect any meaningful reaction.
“All you need to know is that we require your help.”
“And you think I’d be useful? That’s absurd.” Dylan drew in his breath. “I’ve never held a gun in my life. I just make up that stuff in my books.”
“Writers have been very useful to people in my line of work in the past.” Dylan wondered what she meant by that. “And they will be again.”
Dylan’s body ached and his neck bled. But he kept moving the conversation forward. “Okay, but why me? There are lots of writers out there.”
“It’s convenient that you live in Hawaii, near the weapon’s installation site. But there’s more to our selection than that. There are many people writing exciting adventures with stalwart heroes running and jumping and shooting. But your Fargo Cody is different. He doesn’t even carry a gun. He says reliance on guns makes people sloppy. He relies on his brain. And in book after book, he ingeniously concocts nonviolent plans for breaking into supposedly secure places, getting what he wants, and getting out again. Without detection.” She paused. “That’s the one thing you write better than anyone else. And that’s what we need.”
“I’m flattered. But I already have a job.”
“What if I told you working with us could be quite lucrative?”
“I’ve got plenty of money.”
“What if I said you’d never have to write again?”
“I like writing. It’s what I do.”
Xavier cut in. “What if she said, if you not do it, I make your life endless misery?”
Xavier pulled on the rope, hoisting Dylan into the air. He felt his neck burn as the noose seared his throat, choking him and gashing him at the same time. His legs flailed beneath him. He grabbed the rope with both hands, trying to create some slack, but he could not fight gravity. Oxygen seeped out of his brain. He could feel blood on his fingers.
“Stop,” Mr. X said. “Let him down.”
Xavier obeyed with a grunt. Dylan fell to the ground on his hands and knees. He remained there for several moments, gasping, trying to clear his head.
Imagination, he told himself. Use your imagination. Find a way out. Escape.
“You’re planning an escape, aren’t you?” Mr. X crouched down beside him, pressing her face next to his. “I can see the wheels churning behind your eyes. I can see the plot twists and character reversals falling into place. But they won’t help you here. And besides, I already told you—once we’re done chatting, I’m letting you go.”
Dylan felt a stiffening of the rope, requiring him to get back on his feet. “If you’re going to release me,” Dylan asked, still short of breath, “why would you tell me about your plans?”
“Because you won’t be able to tell anyone. Or stop us.”
“How can you be sure?”
“You’ll never have a chance.” Her thin sliver of a smile was a knife gash across her face. “In fact, I’m so certain you won’t be able to stop us, I’ll tell you even more. We’re not just killing one of the twenty world leaders. We’re killing all of them. And thousands of other people who will be in attendance at the opening press conference. Journalists, security officers, attaches, protesters, spectators. All dead in an instant. We’ll create a new world order—one that isn’t dominated by the current superpowers.” She paused. “And I for one will be a very happy woman.”
Dylan kept a straight face, but he mentally made copious notes. When Mr. X was agitated, she talked more. Useful information.
“You think you’re smart, Dylan, very smart and oh so wise about the world. Let me tell you something. You know nothing. Your lack of real-world experience permeates your books. All you have is a clever imagination. I’m going to take that imagination, introduce it to the real world, and create an ingenious means to an impossible end. And you will not be able to stop me.”
