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No—wait. Damn, he should have seen it before. The vomiting. The severe headache. That hadn’t been a virus; that had been her brain beginning its recovery, fighting through and around the memory-wipe process. That was why she hadn’t reacted at all to Winchell’s comment: she’d already been aware something was going on. And at the first feasible opportunity, she’d destroyed her cell phone.
She probably didn’t remember everything; she might never get all of it back. But her basic personality was reasserting itself, which meant the process was breaking down. That was a good thing to know, concerning the future applications of the process—because it would be used again, maybe already had been.
Al would need to know that, at some future date, but definitely not now. If they knew the process was breaking down, Lizzy wouldn’t live out the morning.
But for now, everything had settled down. Lizzy was at work, none of his network of watchers was reporting anything alarming, and he was able to get some sleep.
He was awakened at noon by an alert. He swung his feet down from the desk, sat up in his chair, and studied the computer screen. Lizzy was in her car, and moving. It was lunchtime, so that wasn’t unusual. Everything else was normal, too. There was some old coffee left, so he zapped it in the microwave, threw a sandwich together, and downed both as he monitored her.
The trackers showed her stopping, and the screen gave him the address. Another screen gave him the physical picture of her location. Shit, she was at the bank again. A big alarm sounded in his head. She’d stopped at the ATM yesterday on the way home from the sporting goods store. Why was she going back to the bank less than twenty-four hours later?
Cash. She was getting more cash. She knew better than to use a credit card, would know it was instantly traceable. Not by regular cops, no, but Felice’s people, Al’s people, his own … hell, yeah.
Was she planning on running?
He sent out an alert code, eyeing the movement of Lizzy’s car on the map. Now she was heading back in the direction of the office. She stopped again; he pulled up the address of a barbecue restaurant. She was picking up lunch. Okay, everything still mostly normal, except for the bank. Al’s analysts might or might not catch that, because a different analyst was on duty now and he wouldn’t necessarily know that she’d stopped at the ATM the evening before. The surveillance records were destroyed daily. Al got updates, and he’d sure as hell catch that anomaly if—big if—the analyst now on duty reported that she’d gone to the bank.
He’d just swallowed the last of the bitter coffee when all hell broke loose.
His computer screen blew up with a red-flagged message, and simultaneously his secure land line began ringing.
“Fuck!” He snarled the word as he surged out of the chair. He knew exactly what was happening: that fucking Felice had bypassed Al and was acting on her own. If she succeeded, if anything happened to Lizzy, he’d blow that bitch’s world apart.
He answered the blaring phone as he read the message: Attempted hit going down.
“Are you on site?”
“Almost there. Just got the message.”
Another IM came through: Owner outside with shotgun, returning fire.
“Did you get that?” Xavier asked. He had his Glock out and was checking the clip, slapping it back in. He couldn’t sit there reading IMs when Lizzy was under fire. The coldness he always felt was settling in his veins, his stomach. If they killed her, within the hour the world would know what they’d done, but Felice’s ass was his. No matter what precautions she put in place, no matter where she went, he’d get her—and he’d make her pay.
“Yeah, I’m almost there. Shooters are peeling out.”
“Do you see her?” That was the most important detail, the one on which his life, and the lives of several others, hinged.
“Not yet. I’m just pulling in. Shit! There she is! She’s coming straight toward me!”
She was alive. The fist squeezing his heart eased its iron grip.
The world hadn’t ended.
“I’m on the way,” Xavier said tersely. “Keep me updated on the secure cell.” He broke the connection and went out the door.
Felice wouldn’t hit only Lizzy. She was far from stupid. The big question was, would her people try to take him here at the condo, or aim for a more secluded area, such as the stretch of road a couple of miles down, which was the fastest route to where Lizzy was?
They couldn’t have known where Lizzy would stop to get lunch, but the restaurant was on the way back to her office, so they might have originally planned to hit her there, but then th
e opportunity at the restaurant presented itself and they went for it. Setting up on his own most direct route, to get him, would be a logical move.
Felice wasn’t using Al’s people; he’d have known if she was. Al himself would—maybe—have prevented it. The big question was: was she using other operatives, or had she gone outside and hired civilians?
Civilians. They would know only what she told them, they wouldn’t have any contacts that might trip her up, and the cost would likely be cheaper, which would make it easier to hide the money in some unrelated item.
What she would do was have eyes on him, to alert the team when he left the condo.
He had options. He could take his truck, leaving from his private garage on the first floor of the condo—or he could take “J.P.’s” car, and leave from that unit. He also had a motorcycle stored at another secure location. But those vehicles were unknown, and perhaps that wasn’t what he wanted. The best option might be to drive his known, expected vehicle, draw out the team that was on him, deal with it now. That would get them out of the way and send Felice scrambling to replace them.
