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43
Olivia
Macy’s
High Point Mall
Thursday
Olivia looked back to see Savich jogging through Macy’s front doors to find his supposedly forgotten scarf. She waited a moment, took a big breath, kept her head down even though she’d spotted them when she and Dillon had come out of the store, waiting, waiting. Of course they were watching him, too. Come on, boys, he’s out of the way, let’s get this show on the road. Her hand closed on the Honda door handle. In a matter of seconds, the van started up, reversed, and screeched to a halt behind the Honda. A man jumped out, pinned her arms to her sides, threw her into the back of the van, one fast practiced series of moves. He slammed the door shut. Olivia kicked up at him, heard a hiss of pain, but the driver grabbed her by the neck, jerked her head back, and pulled a pillowcase over her head. Still she lashed out with her feet. A fist slammed against her head and she saw white and fell back, stunned. She heard him yell, “Allez!” It was the Frenchman. He threw Olivia on her stomach against the rough carpet, came back over to her, and dug his knee into the small of her back. The van hurtled through the parking lot, tires shrieking, people yelling after them.
He shouted to the driver, “Slow down, you fool! The flics will come!”
The van slowed. Was the driver the man who’d shot at her at her Monday night?
Olivia tried to push herself up, but he pressed the muzzle of his gun into her back. “You do not want to ever walk again? Answer me!”
“I want to walk again.”
“Smart girl.” The pressure from the gun eased. He called to the driver, “Go carefully, turn left out of the mall, then straight ahead.” She felt his attention on her again. “You think the agent will follow us? Non, I broke the car. I see le bouffon—he yells on his mobile, calling for help. But it will not matter, we will be long away. And the license plate it has la boue—the mud on it. And this Chrysler van, it is everywhere.” He looked back down at her. “Now I take your guns. Non, you will not fight me again.” He drew her Glock from its clip at her waist, reached down and pulled out her ankle pistol. He patted her down, found the knife strapped at her waist, and pulled her cell from her jeans pocket. Olivia felt a gust of frigid air when he opened a window. She heard her cell phone clatter to the pavement.
She had to keep her wits, but it was hard to even breathe. “Please, take off the pillowcase, I can’t breathe.”
“You will be a good girl, oui?”
“Yes.”
He pulled the pillowcase off her head, shoved her onto her back. Olivia stared up at his swarthy face, and its two days of beard scruff. His eyes were covered with opaque sunglasses, his hair dark and curling, a few flecks of silver at the temples, so maybe in his early forties. Even with his heavy coat, she could see he was well built and very strong. He called out, “Turn left here, Claude, keep straight. They will not know where to send the flics.”
He leaned back, grinned down at her. “We were ready to take both of you, but that stupid agent made it easy. He forgot his scarf, right? And the fool left you alone to go get it.” He laughed, looked pleased with himself.
Olivia ran her tongue over her dry lips, swallowed. At least she could breathe again. “Why don’t you tell me your name?”
He grinned at her, nice teeth, but a bit yellow from smoking Gauloises. “You will call me René.”
His real name? If so, it meant he planned to kill her. “How did you find me? How did you know where the safe house was?”
René stroked his pistol over her earlobe, light as a lover’s fingers. Olivia didn’t move. He laughed quietly. “It is good for a woman to be in her place, quiet, obedient. And now you will tell our driver exactly where Mike Kingman is hiding. I know for sure you have the knowledge. You also know what I want. This time do not think to tell me the lie.” He leaned close. “I have won, accept it. The brain, the patience, I have them both. Fortune now shines on my head, that is something you say, oui?”
Olivia nodded, let acceptance and defeat bleed into her voice. “Yes, you have it exactly right.”
He patted her cheek with the muzzle of his gun. “Good girl. Now give Claude directions—oui, that is the name we give him—tell him how to get to Kingman or I shoot your kneecaps, like your old American gangsters. Do you comprehend?”
She drew in a deep breath. “If I take you to him, you’ll kill us.”
He moved the pistol to her breast, leaned close, his hot breath on her cheek. “If I get the flash drive, why waste bullets?”
She slowly nodded. “You must know he hasn’t been able to access that flash drive, it’s encrypted. He can’t even copy it without the key and you can’t either. Only certain people at the CIA have the key.”
“That is not your concern. Tell Claude the directions. Maintenant—now.” He pressed the muzzle hard against her left knee and started humming. It was scarier than anything he’d said.
“Why don’t you call Mike? Negotiate a trade?”
“So he can run again?” He laughed. “Give Claude the directions.”
Olivia looked through the windshield. “Go straight until you see Brewer Avenue, turn left.”
It was the slower way to Galesburg. After Claude turned left, she called out, “Turn right at the next street, Culver, and stay straight. We’re going to Maryland, to the Potomac.”
