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“And while you were making your little speech, I had an idea. I called up some very bad people who are real eager to meet you. I think you know Ivan Zacharov, don’t you? Turns out he’s willing to pay a lot of money for the pleasure of personally murdering a certain governor.” He grins. “Bad luck for you, Cassel.”
As the trunk lid comes down, plunging me into darkness, and then the car starts to move, I wonder if I’ve ever had any other kind.
16
THE AIR GETS WARM FAST in the trunk, and the oil and gasoline fumes make me want to gag. Worse, every bump in the road sends me sliding around, banging against metal. I try to brace with my feet, but as soon as we turn a corner or hit a pothole, my head or arms or back smacks into one of the sides. The way I’m tied, I can’t even curl against the blow.
All told, this is a pretty bad way to spend the last hours of my life.
I try to think through my options, but they’re dismal. I can’t transform, not with three amulets around my neck. And since I can’t touch my own skin with my hands, even if I somehow managed to rip the amulets off, I’m not sure I could change myself anyway.
One thing I have to say for Agent Jones—he is thorough.
* * *
I hear the moment that we pull off the highway. The noise of traffic dims. Gravel under the tires sounds almost like heavy rain.
A few minutes later the engine gutters out and a car door slams. I hear voices, too distant and low to be recognized.
By the time Agent Jones opens up the trunk, I am wild-eyed with panic. The cold air rushes in, and I start struggling against my bonds, even though there’s no way that I am going to do anything but hurt myself.
He just watches me squirm.
Then he pulls out his knife and saws through the rope. I can finally extend my legs. I do so slowly, my knees hurting from being bent too long.
“Out,” he says. I struggle to sit up. He has to help me onto my feet.
We are outside, underneath a massive industrial structure, with huge iron framing pieces holding up a tower that looms above us, spewing fire into the cloudy late morning sky. Plumes of smoke rise to blot out the shining steel bridges leading to New York. It looks like it’s about to rain.
I turn my head and see that maybe ten feet away from me is another sleek black car, this one with Zacharov leaning against it, smoking a cigar. Stanley is standing next to him, screwing a silencer onto a very large black gun.
Then, just as I am sure nothing about this can get worse, the passenger door opens and Lila steps out.
She’s got on a black pencil skirt with a gray belted coat and calf-high leather boots. Sunglasses cover her eyes, and her mouth is painted the color of old blood. She’s got a briefcase in her gray gloved hands.
I have no way to signal her. Her only glance in my direction is cold and perfunctory.
I shake my head No, no, no. Agent Jones just laughs dryly. “Here he is, just like I promised. But I never want to see his body again. Do you understand?”
Lila sets down the suitcase next to her father. “I have your money,” she tells Jones.
“Good,” says Agent Jones. “Let’s get started.”
Zacharov nods, blowing a cloud of smoke that spirals up and away from him, like the plumes from one of the buildings. “What guarantee do I have that you aren’t going to try to pin it on my organization? Your offer came as a real surprise. We don’t make so many deals with representatives of the government.”
“This is just me. One man, doing what I think is right.” Agent Jones shrugs his shoulders. “Your guarantee is that I’m here. I’m going to watch you gun him down. My hands might be clean, but we’re both responsible for his death. Neither one of us wants an investigation. Forensics might find a way to place me at the scene. If I rat on you, I’ll go down for kidnapping at the very least. I’ll hold up my end of the bargain.”
Zacharov nods slowly.
“You got cold feet?” Jones asks. “You get to be a worker hero, and eliminate a guy who has been gunning for you lately.”
“That was a misunderstanding,” Zacharov says.
“You mean that you haven’t been sheltering Shandra Singer? My mistake.” Agent Jones doesn’t even attempt to disguise his sarcasm.
“We don’t have cold feet,” says Zacharov.
“I’ll do it,” Lila says. Then she looks at Stanley, pointing to the gun. “Give me that.”
