I test a new idea inside my head. Richardson and Bennett can handle it; they’re trained Sawgrass operatives. There’s plenty of time to collect the tools we need; we can take all night if necessary. Tarasov will be at his most vulnerable first thing tomorrow, when he’s certain he’s about to be set free.
As Kate stares glumly through the two-way, I take out my phone. I’m grateful I had the foresight to insist Megan carry a burner for the duration of the game. She answers cheerfully, “Hey, Cocoa Puff.”
“Nut. Don’t come in tomorrow.”
Kate whirls on me as if I’ve lost my mind.
I tell my sister, “Call your people. Have them stay home too.”
“You’re shutting down the game?” She sounds incredulous.
I shake my head. “Exactly the opposite. I’m turning up the heat.”
Kate’s eyes narrow. She glances toward the break room, as if she’s considering having the Sawgrass men shake some sense into me.
“Think about it,” I say to Megan, but I’m staring at Kate as I deliver every word. I’m mindful of the fact that Nutmeg’s burner isn’t secure. “In the real world, we’d have seventy-two hours. But in this game, we don’t give a shit about actual due process. We can wait forever.”
Megan says, “All the more reason for everyone to clock in as usual. Keep the pressure on.”
I’ve already said more than I should have on an open line. But I chance sharing a few more details. “There are different types of pressure. And with an empty office…”
Megan has always been quick at filling in blanks. No one ever has to say words likewitnessorevidenceortestimony. She says, “I’ll call off the team right now.”
“Until further notice,” I say.
“Got it, big brother.” She makes a kissing noise and ends the call.
The look Kate gives me is sharp enough to shred paper. “You’re going to torture the shitehawk.”
“I believe the preferred term is enhanced interrogation.”
Kate’s grin is feral.
“Twelve hours,” I predict. “Before he shatters like a bottle of cheap Karkov vodka.”
43
KATE
The Sawgrass team are busy while I sleep. They set up a table at the far end of the boardroom, beyond the range of all three cameras. They lay out a gleaming array of tools—pliers, a meat cleaver, a hacksaw with jagged teeth…
They spread a blue tarp under Tarasov’s chair.
When Richardson and Bennett take their usual places, they leave the door open to the empty cubicle farm. The Sawgrass guards wrestle off Tarasov’s hood and headphones, but there’s no trip to the toilet this morning. No offer of a sandwich. No coffee, with or without bitter grounds.
After registering the darkened floor, Tarasov grows very, very still. “What time is it?” he finally asks.
“Nine o’clock,” Richardson says. “In the morning,” she adds, always helpful.
“What day is it?”
“Thursday,” Richardson says with an encouraging smile.
Tarasov shakes his head, visibly confused. “Where is everyone?”
Richardson says, “MAJAT staff are working from home today.”
“Working from home?” Tarasov sounds like he’s fighting to master a whole new vocabulary.
