18:45
Their house glows down below, hidden behind tall walls, brick, ten-feet high and covered in foliage. No signs of life. No cars. But the lights are on full, meaning there’s someone inside.
I walk on, gritting my teeth as the cold wind kicks up from the lake.
A blur of black breezes past me. A Tesla, driving past like a spaceship. His Tesla. My heart’s in my mouth.
Landon Bartlett.
He shouldn’t be here at this time. But he’s long gone. That thing is way too fast to even notice someone on the sidewalk.
He didn’t see me. Right?
I slip into the park. Back in summer, it was all overgrown, but now it’s all bare branches and rotting leaves. The wind making the bare trees creak. Cars swooshing through puddles. Everyday Seattle suburb sounds. Nothing to worry about. Yet another German car passes on the street.
A group of kids lurks by the bench, just goofing around, laughing and joking. A couple of them are singing that song, the one that was on TV for like ever when I was a kid. Taken. I can see Cole Delaney shouting into the camera, his band rocking out behind him. It sends a shiver up my spine.
I shuffle across the damp grass toward the lakeside street and survey the house again. Three stories, ornate as hell, made out of brick. The kids are now singing another of his songs, that reggae one.
The house gates clatter open and a car powers through. Her car, that giant Nissan SUV. Huge and brown, lit up like the fourth of July. Jennifer Bartlett gets out into the cold night. She looks tiny next to her massive car, the engine still running. Dark hair, green dress, steely gray eyes. She wraps a fur coat around her bare arms, her heels clicking as she walks up the drive.
Selfish, entitled, egotistical, vain, spiteful…
Makes my skin crawl just seeing her there.
The house door opens before she gets there and a woman steps out. Their nanny. Jeans, sneakers, same striped shirt I’m wearing. Perfect.
Jennifer hands the baby over. Ky. Six weeks old. His screams bleeding out through the night. “I’m running real late, so I need some help here.” Then Jennifer says something I don’t catch and gets back in her car. She drives off through the gates, still hanging open.
And the rain starts, heavy, thick and fast, drenching me in seconds. The kids by the bench squeal and scream as they run off, heading home to their Xboxes and PlayStations.
But I stand there like a statue, watching and waiting in the rain.
Through an upstairs window—third floor, on the right—there’s a flash of stripes, hooped earrings and a dark ponytail. The nanny putting Ky down. Screaming again, meaning the window’s open.
And just like that, the rain stops.
The side door opens and the nanny slips outside the kitchen. She lights her cigarette and leans against the wall, hiding under the eaves as she sucks deep, probably fearful the rain will start up again.
And she’s left the door hanging open.
Go.
I slip down to the street. The intercom is inset into the wall, some fancy high-end thing made of brass. I press the button and the buzzer sounds from inside the house, leaking out across the front yard’s old cobblestones.
The nanny shakes her head and I see the equation playing out in her mind. Just as easy to come down to the street as to go back inside. And besides, she’d have to extinguish her smoke if she went back in.
Here she comes.
So I dash back up to the park, pocketing my shades, and haul myself up the tree. The bark is slimy from the rain, but I’m over the wall in seconds, and I drop down into the yard.
The nanny’s still talking into the intercom, her voice shrill and distorted. “Hellooooo?”
I dash over and sneak in through the open door, into the bright kitchen.
The house smells the same, those Bed Bath & Beyond candles spreading vanilla talons everywhere. The kitchen wall’s a new color, a soothing lime-green instead of the angry terracotta. Metal pots and pans hang over the stove in the middle, designer cooking equipment they never use.
Through the window, the nanny’s given up on the intercom and is walking back to finish her smoke.
I crouch low and sneak past the kitchen units into the hallway, connected to that huge-ass living room. It’s silent as the grave, so I take the stairs real slow, my damp footsteps squelching on the machined wood. But still quiet. Thank god for those cheap sneakers.
Up on the second floor, I wait in front of the door, my heart thudding in my chest. Knowing what’s behind the wood. And I open it.
The room is bigger than the house I grew up in. Yellow walls, bookcases filled with pretty much every single kid’s book ever published. High-end speakers playing whale song. A fancy crib in the middle.
Ky lies on his back, asleep and cooing, his arms outstretched in a Jesus Christ pose, his tiny fingers twitching. There’s a baby monitor hidden in a bear. No camera in that, though, so I sneak over and stuff another toy bear over the microphone.
The crib’s another matter, though. There’s a camera pointing into it, so I walk behind it and peer through the bars. Ky gurgles in his sleep then licks his lips slowly, the most perfect little boy.
I reach in and scoop him up. He’s way lighter than I expect. It’s like there’s no weight in his lower body, but his skull is real heavy. I coo at him and he blinks hard. Definitely smiles at me.
I swaddle him in his blanket.
18:50
The building was barely twenty years old, but it had been done up like it dated from pre-Revolutionary times. Oak paneling and wooden benches everywhere, jarring with Seattle’s new image as a futuristic metropolis, a world away from East Coast decadence.
The side door opened and the judge shuffled through in his long black gown.
“All rise!”
Special Agent Max Carter stood, caught up in the wave sweeping the room, then sat back down again, and whatever the judge said was lost to the noise inside his skull.
In the dock, Mason Wickstrom stood, shoulders slouched, head bowed, his eyes scanning the crowd. Tall, but grayer and thinner, the long months of incarceration had hit him hard. He didn’t see Carter, but he must surely know he was there. Mason had given so much—his freedom, his future—in return for answers, and he was here to pay the price for his revenge.
But Carter wasn’t here for Mason. Those answers weren’t just for him, but for someone else, someone still free to roam the world. As free as you could be with the FBI and Interpol on your tail.
A bang of the gavel hushed the noise in the room.
Mason looked over at the judge, showing genuine contrition.
“Mr. Wickstrom, you stand here accused of one of the most grievous crimes in our nation. Abduction of a minor. Two counts. How do you plead?”
Mason looked across the court and Carter could swear he focused on someone. Maybe even gave them a brief nod. “Guilty.”
Carter’s gaze searched the crowd like a boat’s floodlight through dark sea, but he couldn’t spot her among the many faces.
“And of the murder of Harry Youngblood and Franklin Vance; how do you plead?”
Definitely looking at someone, not too far to the right of Carter’s position. Mason gave another nod, like he was saying his sacrifice was worth it for his revenge, for their revenge. Then back at the judge, jaw clenched. “Guilty.”
A loud gasp came from the right, then a woman stood up and stormed out of the crowded court. Carter watched her go. Not his target, but one of the victims, a poor innocent caught up in Mason’s revenge. Megan Holliday, weeping for the loss of a son. A hundred-year sentence could never make up for that, but the knowledge he’d be going away for at least two life sentences would help in the long term.
Another bang of the gavel. “I will adjourn for sentencing.” The judge banged his gavel one final time, but something made Mason’s eyes widen as the judge left his stage.
Carter rose with the rest of the crowd, still searching the faces.
And there she was, hurrying toward the exit. Wearing a blonde wig, heavy makeup softening her dark skin tone. But definitely Layla al-Yasin.
Every backward glance showed him following her, showed him closing in on her.
Carter put his cell to his ear. “Lori, I’ve got eyes on the prize.”
19:00
Carter’s feet slapped off the sidewalk, the butt of his handgun rocking against his chest. The wrong shoes for this kind of chase, the wrong holster. He hung a left on Pike and sprinted toward the old market.
But he’d lost sight of Layla.
He stopped, breathing heavily, and put his cell to his ear. “Lori, do you have her?”
“Think so.”
“You think?”
“She’s gone into Pike Place Market.”
“Got it.” Carter swallowed his groan and shot off again, thighs and knees burning. The market was less than a block away, a surviving chunk of old Seattle. A long, low building with a few entrances dotted along its three-block length. A ton of tourists milled around, hitting the market and the first Starbucks, even this late in the day. “Where?”
“Inside. Main entrance.” And her call went dead.
Carter stuffed his cell in his pocket and sprinted on, having to slow at the crosswalk, waiting to weave between traffic, but then he was off again, racing over the brick cobblestones toward the market. He thought he caught a flash of Lori’s blonde hair at the far end, following someone inside.
Carter raced over to the main entrance, drawing his gun as he entered. “FBI!”
The crowd screamed and rushed away from him, cowering and ducking. The guys behind the fish counter stood there, arms raised, maybe used to drug raids. To his right, most people hunkered down, but some raced away from him. The chaos made Lori near impossible to spot. He set off past the other fish stall, then into smells of baking yeast and fresh flowers, the tourists and stallholders peering out from behind the stalls.
And there she was, Special Agent Lori Alves thundering toward him, chasing Layla al-Yasin. Definitely her.
Carter hadn’t dared hope his ploy could work, but the case hitting court had dragged her out into the open, like baiting a fish with a worm.
And she was closing in on his position.
Carter dropped to one knee and trained his pistol on her. “FREEZE!”
In one fluid movement, Layla ducked to the side and grabbed hold of an ice cart, sending it flying toward him.
Carter tried to get out of the way, but he wasn’t quick enough. Ice showered him and the cart hit his leg, knocked him backward. He tried to stand, but slipped on the ice and tumbled over again. He managed to fight the cart out of his way, and used it to push himself up to standing. Then he slipped on the ice again, his ass thudding into the hard floor. This time, he used a post to get upright, his white-knuckled fingers grabbing on tight.
He spotted his piece in amongst the ice and reached for it, scanned the stunned crowd.
No sign of Layla al-Yasin.
19:01
Chase Bartlett stood on the stage, his lips moving almost automatically as he recited his speech.
The giant ballroom filled the entire ground floor of the Bartlett Foundation’s office block and was rammed full of local dignitaries. Made Chase think of those ridiculous parties in a Batman movie, where Bruce Wayne would run up against the villain, both of them in disguise. And here he was, front and center. As he talked, he looked through the crowd, focusing on the biggest benefactors. Respectful smiles at the men, winks at the widows like the slut he was.
Chase took a deep breath and pulled himself back to his speech, to making up the last section, the part he’d run out of time writing. “When my brother and I,” he waved to the side of the stage, “when we took over running our family foundation based on our parents’ will, our mission was clear. To help people. And we did, starting out in Oregon and Northern California, the area our mom grew up in. Our treatment centers in Yreka, Eugene, and Cougar Falls are industry-leading, providing the best affordable healthcare to the men and women who served this great nation, overseas and at home. But we want to expand, we want to do more. And not just to those great heroes, but to everyone else, which is why the Bartlett Foundation is expanding our operations into our home city of Seattle.”
A ripple of applause hit across the room.
“Thanks, bro.” Landon Bartlett joined Chase onstage, slapping him on the back as he swapped places at the microphone. Chase watched from the side now. Landon had a rower’s frame, a wide V tapering down to a slim waist. A thick beard down to his chest masked the model looks Chase hadn’t inherited, but at least he’d escaped the gray hair. The whole image gave Landon the dead-eyed stare of a psychopath.
“Landon Bartlett Sr—our father—was a great man. As many of you know, he made a ton of money from investments back in the eighties. Apple, Microsoft, Hewlett Packard, you name it, he was there, shepherding and guiding, helping them grow into what they became. He then spent twenty years representing Washington state in the United States Senate, winning four elections. He sadly died eight years ago, but he left his entire inheritance to the Bartlett Foundation. Neither Chase nor I have any need for money thanks to the love and support he gave us, but we want to help those less fortunate. So we’re happy to pay it back to the people of Seattle by opening The Landon Bartlett Sr. Cancer Center.”
Huge cheers rattled around the room, much louder than for Chase’s speech.
“Clear your schedules for next month’s official opening.” Landon’s beard twisted as he grinned. “Your invites are in the mail and I’m itching to see you all there. Have a good night and enjoy yourselves.” He stood there milking the applause for both of them.
Chase joined him centerstage. He grabbed Landon’s hand and raised it high in the air.
Landon wrapped his arm around Chase, smiling as he spoke: “Doofus, I need you to sign the paperwork. Tonight.”
Chase gave a final wave to the crowd and led Landon offstage. “Anything to do with Zangiev?”
“Chase, I swear to God… No, it’s the final payment to the developers. The check needs to be countersigned by you, or there’s none of this.” He waved his arms back at the crowd. “No adulation, no press, no TV interviews. Got it?”
“Right.”
Landon reached into his sports jacket and pulled out a checkbook. He passed it to Chase. “Here.”
Already signed on the left, but needing a signature on the right. Fifty-three million dollars.
“Landon, that’s a heck of a lot of money.”
“Just sign it and you can go.”
Chase took his pen out of his jacket pocket and clicked it. He added his signature, but didn’t hand it over yet. “This better be aboveboard.”
“Are you implying something here?”
“Landon?” Jennifer powered over to them, looking like five million dollars. Her dark hair scraped back under a tiara. A green dress, low-cut and figure-hugging. She grabbed her husband’s hand and leaned in. Not even a glance at Chase, not even a glare. “The photographer wants to take our photos now, then I can get out of here.”
“Fine.” Landon towered over his wife, but hugged her tight as he grinned wide.
The big photographer crouched low and clicked his camera.
Landon smiled wider. “What’s the rush, Jen?”
“The nanny.”
“She’s fine.”
Click, smile.
“No, she’s a disaster. I need to get back—”
“Have a drink, Jen. It’s been months since you let your hair down.”
Click, smile.
“Can I get one with all three of you?” The photographer made a bunching motion, urging Chase into the shot on the other side of Jennifer. “Nice big smile, Chase. Perfect. Perfect.”
Click.
“She doesn’t have a handle on Ky’s needs.”
Click.
“Okay, fine. Just don’t make her feel like shit. We’re trusting her with our son’s wellbeing.”
Click.
“Fine.”
“Ma’am, you can go.” The photographer still held up his lens. “Just need a few of the brothers.”
“Thank you.” Jennifer waltzed off into the crowd. Hadn’t even looked at Chase.
“Nice to see you too, Jen.” Chase ground his teeth as he smiled.
Click.
“No need to be such a dick.” Landon did that eyebrows raise their dad always did in photos. Made him seem a lot friendlier than he was.
Click.
“I’m not the dick here.”
“Okay, guys.” The photographer stepped forward. “Chase, can I get some solo shots of you?”
“Sure.” Chase elbowed his brother in the stomach, playfully, but still not exactly the behavior guys in their forties should get up to. Then he posed for the camera, draping his suit jacket over his shoulder.
A man in a suit joined the line to speak to Landon, like kids waiting at a flea-ridden mall to sit on Santa’s knee. He recognized Chase and cut out to walk over instead. Dark hair swept back, shit-eating grin. Yep, Congressman Xander J. Delgado. He even smiled at Chase. “Thanks for your card. Means a lot.”
“Good luck.” Chase blinked at the latest photo. The flash seemed way too bright. “I think it’s high time you stepped up to the senate.”
“Some say it’s a step down from the house of representatives.”
“Congress will take care of itself, but your side faces a tough battle in the senate over the next few years.”
“Thanks. Listen, I’m stoked about your new cancer center. An incredible cause.”
“Don’t mention it.” Chase blinked again as the flash was even brighter.
“Xan the man!” Landon danced over to Xander in jerky movements, like they were back in their frat house at college, each step caught by the flash. He shook Xander’s hand, giving the full alpha-male arm grab, then back pat as they tried to outmuscle each other. Pair of dorks. “Good to see you, bro.”
“And you. It’s been way too long.” Xander smiled, genuine for once. “How’s your son?”
Landon laughed. “Ky’s good. He’s a great kid.”
Chase stared at the photographer. “We done already?”
“Just a couple more.”
Delgado looked around the place. “Jennifer still here?”
Landon’s expression darkened as he gave Chase a sideways look. “She was. Can’t bear to be separated from Ky.”
“I get it.”
“How? You don’t have kids.”
Delgado shrugged. “I’m engaged. Raising someone else’s kid has its own challenges, let me assure you.”
“Seriously?”
The photographer clicked again. “And you’re done. Thanks.”
“No, thank you.” Chase put his jacket back on and walked over to join them, curious as to what they were cooking up.
Landon shrugged. “Ky has really bad colic. Kid barely sleeps. We’re lucky to get him off for an hour every evening, around about now. We had to take on a nanny so Jen can get any sleep at all.”
“Landon?” The photographer seemed mighty pissed now, like he wanted to just get on home. “Some solo shots of you?”
“Sure.” Landon walked over to the stairway leading up to the offices, posing against the banister.
Chase snorted. “Dude wants to bang the camera.”
“Pretty much the only thing he hasn’t.” Delgado laughed. “He’s a changed man nowadays.”
“Ain’t he?” Chase raised his eyebrows. “What are you after, Xander? Campaign donations?”
“Can’t deny it.” Xander tightened his tie a notch. “You know I’m running in the special Senatorial election for Chris Holliday’s old seat. The other team are playing dirty, and I need any dime I can muster.”
Landon stepped between them. “I leave you for one minute…” He was smiling wide, unlike the photographer. “How much you giving him, Chase?”
“Nothing yet.”
Xander stared at him. “You know you don’t have to.”
“Come on, let’s get a beer.” Landon led Xander away.
Chase followed them, wanting to keep an ear on what they were cooking up. Someone bumped into Chase, knocking his shoulder. “Sorry.” Chase recognized him right away.
Boris Zangiev. Barely five six, but the guy could kill with one look. Guy was serious bad news. “Mr. Bartlett, how nice to see you.”
Chase pulled on a smile. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Zangiev spoke with a slight Russian accent. “Nice to see your dirty little secret hasn’t torn your foundation apart. How Landon ruined your marriage.” He walked off with a wink, Landon set in his sights.
Chase stood there, seething. Landon told him?
Zangiev slapped Landon on the back. “Where is your beautiful wife?”
“Jen had to go home. Our baby’s not well.”
“Oh, I hope it’s nothing serious. I was going to wish you both congratulations.” Zangiev took Landon to the side, out of Chase’s earshot.
Delgado put a cold bottle of European pilsner in Chase’s hand. “You hear what happened in the presidential debate?”
“Bits of it. This alcohol-free?”
“Something like that. Need to drink like a hundred to get a buzz on or something.”
“Right.” Chase took a sip of biting beer from the bottle. For once, he was less interested in Delgado’s campaign gossip than in what Landon was talking about to Zangiev. What he might be selling to his brother.
“Tell you, this whole thing is killing me.” Delgado took a long pull of beer. “So much tougher than running for congress. My campaign manager will go ape when she finds out I’ve had a beer before my own fundraiser.”
“Got to let your hair down every so often, dude.” Chase couldn’t help but keep his focus on Landon and Zangiev. They seemed to be arguing, but their voices were low. “Sorry, Xander, I don’t think I can make your thing tonight.”
“I don’t expect you to. It’s just killing me, man.”
“Know the feeling.”
“Yeah, your old man would have had you two up on stage during his rallies, right?”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Landon gave a final nod and slapped Zangiev on the back, and the Russian left. Landon came over and took the spare bottle from Delgado. “What a guy.”
Chase leaned in close. “What happened there?”
“Nothing to keep you up at night, little brother.” Landon laughed. “Hold my beer.” He handed it over and got out his cell phone. One of those experimental folding Samsungs that kept on snapping until they finally fixed it. He put it to his ear. “Yello?”
“You still have that box at CenturyLink, Chase?”
“I can’t hear you.” Landon turned away from them, pinning his other ear back with a finger.
“Xander, you sure it’s good optics to be seen in a private box when you’re running for senate in this state?”
Landon turned back. His face had gone white. “I’ll be right there.” He ran through the crowd, bumping and jostling as he went.
Chase handed both beers to Xander and jogged off after him. “Landon?” He grabbed his shoulder. “What’s up?”
Landon turned to him, face full of fury. “Get offa me!”
“What’s going on?”
“That was Jen.” Landon’s Adam’s apple bobbed through his thick beard. “Ky’s been taken.”
19:02
Layla runs past the comic store, almost knocking a huge guy over. Two big bags of books tumble across the floor. Her backpack drops and rolls. The big guy shouts something at her.
“Sorry.” She sneaks around him, ignoring his yells, and grabs up her backpack, then runs on.
But she can’t see the exit. Carter will be on to her, following her down here, and she’s trapped like a rat in a cage.
No. There. Down the ramp.
Layla hurtles down, her feet slapping off the tiles, and bursts out the door into the freezing air, the sun long past sending any rays of warmth down to the bowels of the old docks. The place stinks of rotting fish and stale cigarette smoke.
She listens hard. No footsteps, no sirens, but hard to hear much over the construction work. A Caterpillar backhoe eats up the old viaduct, the jaws chomping away at both levels of concrete, opening up another stretch of waterfront to connect with downtown. The aquarium across the road is the first new building finished, lit up and open for tourists.
Layla sets off across the road, walking not running, figuring the noise is good cover. But she has no idea where she’s going, she’s just getting away from the courthouse. . . .
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