Page 125 of Fury In Death

“We don’t know what’s going on!”

“You’ll be cleared to go home very shortly.”

She wound her way back to Wyst’s office, where his coordinator sat, hands folded, distress covering her like a blanket.

Her comp had already been removed, and Trueheart, a uniform, and Callendar worked on Wyst’s office.

“I don’t know what’s happening. I want to go home. I never want to come back here again!”

“Don’t blame you. You’ll be cleared shortly. Where is Wyst?”

“I just don’t know! He was here, then he wasn’t. He must’ve left when I was on a break, and he didn’t leave me any instructions. Then the police are coming in, and—”

“When was your break?”

“Ah, maybe around three.”

“Peabody, have someone check security, confirm that. He left no instructions? Didn’t tell you where he was going?”

“No, honest, but . . .”

“Let’s hear the rest.”

“Well, I—it’s not like him to just leave that way, and he’s been so upset, so snappy, you know? I tried to work, and I saw that the executive penthouse was blocked off for tonight and tomorrow. He’d actually canceled—and that’s my job—the exec who was coming in to use it, and booked him in a hotel.”

“Is that right?”

“So I looked, and I saw the swipe for the penthouse is missing. The one Mr. Wyst keeps. Um, he uses it sometimes, sure. Even keeps some of his things there—locked in one of the bedrooms. But he never told me he needed it tonight.”

“Trueheart, as soon as this area is cleared and secured, get contacts, then let the staff go home.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s go, Peabody.”

“Car’s on the way. Why didn’t he take off like O’Brian?”

“Has to make arrangements. Has to decide if he can hunker down long enough for us to take Redman. He doesn’t know we linked Cruz, the bombing. But he’s worried there. He’s making arrangements, transferring funds, shutting things down in a way if he can skate, he can open it all up again.

“He’s smarter than O’Brian,” Eve continued as they rode down to the main level. “He’ll have solid ID, a solid plan, and a covered flight to a country without extradition. Not what he wants. He wants what he has, what he believes he can take and have and keep. So he’s going to be careful not to jump too fast, too far.”

“Too late,” Peabody said, with more than a little glee.

“Yes, it is. Let Feeney know we’re out for the arrest, and to take over the op.”

Chapter Eighteen

He’d studied the building carefully. Sometimes Wyst stayed there. He stayed there now. His texts, his calls made it clear he intended to stay there overnight. Enough time to organize the various arms of his wealth, no doubt, pack what he needed, wanted.

Then he’d fly away, or so he thought, on one of the company’s luxurious shuttles. As if distance would save him, as if he could close himself in a glamorous fortress anywhere in the world and stay alive.

But now he’d closed himself in the sumptuous penthouse, alone. Alone was best. With a security detail, of course, but they wouldn’t save him.

Today came reckoning.

Because he’d studied the building, as he’d studied the homes of the guilty, because he’d made all the necessary plans, he walked into the lobby—big, beautifully done—and took the glide to the mezzanine, where a man could have a drink at the fancy bar or meet friends for dinner.

Security was tight here, some of the best he’d encountered. Elevators and stairs to the residents’ floors accessible only by authorized swipe.