A satellite truck now blocks half the street. The scrum of reporters grows thicker by the hour. The indictment was intriguing enough, but my clients are starting to make public statements. Half the moguls I met in Idaho are claiming they’ve never seen me before. Everyone fromThe New York Timesto tech-bro podcasters wants my reaction on the record.
“I’m not asking permission,” I say to Jacobson. We’re standing beside the Camry I always drive to the Andersons. The flat of my bodyguard’s hand is planted against the driver-side door, keeping me from getting behind the wheel.
“You’re the client,” he says. “You don’t need my permission. But Sawyer Best says you’re the best hacker he’s ever met. So I’m certain you understand logic.”
There isn’t anylogicto the situation. I’ve tried Linda Anderson’s cell phone three times. She isn’t answering. Mr. A either. Every minute I delay, the threat grows.
And the threat isn’t just Nikolai Tarasov. I have to believe he’ll hold onto his shiny new weapon until next Friday, the newest deadline he’s set. I want to believe that, anyway. He might decide to take out the Andersons just to prove he can.
No. The real threat is that the man and woman I’ve thought of as my parents for the past thirteen years have just learned I’ve been lying to them every single time I’ve set foot inside their home.
The indictment’s not a problem—they’ve known about every count of fraud since I went away to juvie. But it’s my billions. It’s Lone Wolf. It’s the fact that I’ve purposely disguised every single detail of my actual life. I’ve lied with every word I’ve told them since I walked out of juvie.
I’ve paused long enough that Jacobson thinks he has permission to continue. He steps close enough for me to smell his aftershave. “The boss says this operation isn’t secure.”
“It isn’t. One of your men is talking to Tarasov.”
He grimaces. “The only way to change that is to set a trap. Feed false information to the team, one by one, and see who bites. But that takes time.”
Or you can torture everyone until someone breaks--that’d be a hell of a lot faster. And I’ve got a room you can use, right downstairs.
Jesus Christ. I’ve spent too much time working for mobsters. Or supporting Kate.
“I don’thavetime,” I say.
“You can’t drive out of here without a full team—advance car and a tail car at least. I’d prefer you have a decoy or two. Call it a minimum of eight men. And the whole time we’re setting that up, we won’t know if the weak link is with you, or if we’re leavinghim back here. Wherever he is, only half my men will be around to neutralize him. Are you willing to take that risk?”
I have to get to the Andersons. I have to plead my case. “I don’t have a choice,” I say.
I step toward the Camry with the confidence of a seasoned grifter closing the deal on the long game. But there isn’t any con here. If Jacobson doesn’t move, I’ll be forced to draw on my krav maga training, and I’m willing to bet he has his own closet full of black belts. There’s no way we’ll both walk away unharmed.
“I’ll drive you,” Jacobson says.
I freeze.
“Just you and me. The Escalade has black-out windows. No one will know you’re inside. No one will think you’re stupid enough to go anywhere without a team.”
A thought flickers across my brain—Jacobson could be the mole. If he gets me alone he can get rid of me easily enough, krav maga black belt or not. Tarasov will be married to my widow before sunset tomorrow.
But Best said Jacobson is his top man. And the clock is ticking. I have to get to the Andersons before their hurt sets in so deep it can never be dug out.
“Let’s go,” I say.
It takes almost five minutes to clear the crowd at the gate. But after that, with the address set in Jacobson’s GPS, his full attention is on safe transport—constant surveillance of the road in front of us, both side mirrors, the rear-view. He changes lanes like he’s performing brain surgery. He follows the posted speed limit as if it’s a religion.
I spend the drive watching the disintegration of my life on my phone. Termination notices are starting to hit my inbox. A few long-time clients take time to write apologies—they have to be accountable to their boards of directors, they truly wish me well.Most simply say I’m fired. I’ll be lucky if I work for a single bank or Fortune 1000 by the end of the day.
The street is quiet when we pull up in front of the Andersons. Impossibly, it’s only four in the afternoon.
The July sun is bright through the leaves of the dusty trees that line the sidewalk, and the Andersons’ lawn is parched. If this were an ordinary visit, the last Sunday of the month, I’d head straight for the garage to set out a sprinkler. I’d use the oscillating one, the top-of-the-line model I convinced Mr. A to splurge on at the end of last season. I picked it up for him at the hardware store, running in while he sat in the car. I told Mr. A we were lucky to get an end-of-season discount, a steal at $9.99. I tossed in another forty bucks.
I’m not here to help with the yard work.
“Ready?” Jacobson asks.
“You’re not coming.”
“All those arguments about your safety? They run double out here in the field.”
