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45
Olivia
Abandoned Boathouse on the Potomac
Near Galesburg, Maryland
Olivia studied Claude, considered trying to take him. He was a man you’d pass on the street and never notice—medium height, slender, brown hair and eyes, unremarkable in every way, except for his eyes. She saw a dark pit behind his eyes, and oddly, a look of pleasure. Was it at the thought of killing her? And he wasn’t stupid. He kept his distance, his Beretta aimed at her chest, not her legs. She said, “Are your parents French?”
He eyed her a moment, as if wondering if she had a hidden meaning. Finally, he nodded. “My father, yes.”
“You were raised in Indiana. I doubt your parents wanted you to be a criminal. Do you kill people?”
He smiled. Like René, his teeth were yellowed from smoking. He shrugged, said only, “My parents are dead, past caring what I am or what I am not. Yes, I kill when necessary. As do you. You killed Razhan, a man at the top of his profession. Rock-hard, deadly. If I had a beer, I’d toast you.”
She raised her chin. “Well, he’s not deadly any longer, is he? He’s just dead. Who hired you to come to my house?”
“You tempt me to shoot you in the mouth, just to shut you up. I wonder if René has killed Mike Kingman yet? He will, you know, he wants to, hates the guy’s guts.”
“Why? He doesn’t even know Mike.”
“René hates to be thwarted. He hates to think anyone is smarter than he is, even if only for a little while, even if, in the end, he wins. He told me once he liked killing a worthy opponent more than he liked having sex. I imagine he’s facing this Kingman down right this minute, getting that flash drive.”
Mike
But René was still walking the perimeter of the derelict boathouse, looking up into the trees, searching the bushes for shadows, for movement. He heard nothing and saw no one. He walked around to the front of the boathouse, marveled it was still standing, and finally he knocked once on the decaying wooden door, called out, “If you shoot me, my partner will kill Olivia Hildebrandt. She is nearby. I am here to trade her life for the flash drive. I want only what is mine, the flash drive, not your lives. Will you agree to a trade?”
René heard boot steps, then, “Come in.”
René heard no surprise in Kingman’s deep flat voice. Had he tried to call her again with no luck? Impossible when her cell phone was smashed in the parking lot at the American mall. Of course Kingman had known he’d come.
René pushed the sagging door inward, his pistol held against his leg, and stepped in, blinked to adjust to the dim light. He saw Mike Kingman standing silent and still in the middle of the room, a Glock in his left hand pointed at René’s head. He’d seen photos of Kingman—at least ten years younger than he, tall with blue eyes, shaggy dark hair, a hard, handsome face. He was wearing only a flannel shirt, scruffy jeans, and scarred boots. There was no fear in his eyes, only calm determination, like the rhino René had barely escaped in the Serengeti. Well, the rhino had died as easily as anything else with a bullet between his eyes. René hated him on sight. He said, “Lower your gun, Mr. Kingman. There is no reason for you to shoot me, and I have no reason to shoot you. A gentleman’s trade, that is all I want.”
Mike lowered his Glock to his side. “What’s your name?”
“You may call me René. Are you alone?”
Mike waved a hand around him. “Do you see anyone else?”
René looked about the long, narrow room, perfect for a large boat, he supposed, three windows on each side covered with cardboard. Boat hooks and chains hung down overhead, like ancient torture devices. The floor was a dirty green linoleum, cracked and chipped, the wooden floor beneath it rotting. A fortune-teller’s beaded curtain closed off a bed, he supposed, another a toilet at the back of the room. There wasn’t a kitchen, only a rough wooden plank laid over drawers. On top stood a small refrigerator and a microwave. There was an ancient sagging blue sofa, the material ripped and worn, stuffing poking out. There was a small folding table, two chairs. A small generator rested beside the table.
“Pull back the beads, show me no one hides there.”
Mike kept his eyes on René as he lifted the beads, showed him a narrow cot with two blankets stacked on top, two boxes on the floor, clothes flopping over the sides.
“Now the other. Show me.”
Mike pulled back the beads to show a narrow shower and a toilet. He dropped the beads and they chittered together.
Mike studied the Frenchman. He was in his early forties and well built, his face lean, carved in stone, his eyes onyx, filled with a killer’s knowledge, a killer’s lack of empathy for his fellow man. He looked watchful. He looked relentless. Mike wouldn’t underestimate him.
He said, “Prove to me you have Olivia. I want to speak to her before we make the trade.”
René said, “Very well. I pull out my cell phone now, I do not reach for another weapon.”
“Two fingers.”
Slowly, René pulled out his cell, dialed a number. “Claude, tell Olivia to say hello to Mike.”
