Jeff Abbott: The Last Minute

‘We can decline to do business with anyone who makes us uncomfortable.’

‘What is problem?’ Mila said. ‘Maybe you make misunderstanding, and this is easy to fix.’ She tried a bright smile with him.

‘You claim to be Lilia Rozan, from Bucharest, immigrated here three years ago.’

‘No claim. Am.’

‘That particular Lilia Rozan is currently in a cancer ward in New Jersey.’

Misstep. We’d used a bad identity. Mr Bell stood a little straighter. He was nervous but he had the muscle here. ‘So, Mr Derwatt, we want to know who you and the lovely missus are.’

‘We’re wanted by the police,’ I said. ‘We had to lie.’

Mr Bell smiled. ‘Details, please.’ The two men were on each side of him. They didn’t have their guns out but they thought they didn’t need to; we were unarmed.

I looked at Mila. ‘Look, our money’s good as anyone else’s. Please.’

The bald man moved behind Mila. She clasped a hand over her wristwatch.

‘We want to know who you are. Right now. Or he starts in on your wife.’

Mila turned, hands clasped together as if in prayer. ‘Oh no, please, don’t hurt me. We just want a baby. Please. That’s all we want.’

He shoved her into the wall. She kept her footing but tears sprang to her eyes. ‘Oh, please.’

I stayed very still. The bald man glanced back at me, frowning with disgust that I would let him manhandle my woman, and in that second Mila pulled the watch from its band. Connecting them was a thin steel wire. She leapt onto his back and looped the garrote over his neck, the watch and the band serving as handles so that she didn’t slice her fingers off. His yell became a gurgle in an instant.

I hammered a fist into Mr Bell’s chest and he went heaving into the air and landed on my money. The redhead started to draw but he couldn’t decide, for one crucial second, whether to shoot me or save his buddy, now purpling under Mila’s wire. As he swung the silencer-capped Beretta 92FS back toward me – hello, self-preservation – I launched into him. I levered the gun down as he fired and he hit his own foot. He howled and I slammed a fist into his solar plexus and then into his throat. He staggered back and we fought for control of the gun. He was bigger than me. I wrenched the gun, pushing it back toward his chest. His eyes widened as he realized the barrel was going to slip under his chin. It did and I squeezed his hand and his own finger pulled the trigger. A spray of blood and flesh fountained as it carved a path into his face. He looked surprised before the bullet distorted his flesh.

I freed the gun from his fingers and whirled, aiming at Mila’s opponent. But that guy was already gone. She’s not big but still a hundred pounds, hanging onto a wire; a throat can’t survive the trauma. The bald man lay in a sprawl at her feet; she hovered over Mr Bell, panting.

‘You all right?’ I asked her. She nodded. I felt a tickle of bile at the back of my throat and I swallowed it down.

‘You killed them,’ Mr Bell said, gasping. People say the most obvious things when they’re in a daze.

‘They sell people,’ I said. ‘They’re worse than I’ll ever be.’

‘Who are you?’

I didn’t answer. I’m just a man who wants his stolen child back. My son I’ve never seen, except on this video, being carried by a woman who sells human beings for profit. My child. I was much closer to finding my kid than I’d ever been. And I thought of the times I rested my hand on my wife’s pregnant swell, feeling the bubble of movement beneath the skin, knowing it was a baby but not knowing it was going to be Daniel, this unique and special person who I’d never gotten to see with my own eyes, hold with my own arms.

I’m coming, I told him, my breath like a prayer on the air.

Mr Bell swallowed; his mouth quivered as he looked at the dead men. ‘Okay, you can have a baby. Whichever one you want.’

‘I want one born on January 10th at a private clinic in Strasbourg called Les Saintes. His birth name on the certificate was Julien Daniel Besson but his real name is Daniel Capra. This woman took him from the clinic. All we’ve been able to find out is that she travels on a Belgian passport under the name of Anna Tremaine. Now, I asked around, and I found out that you work with Anna Tremaine.’

He gave a half-nod. He was scared to death, blinking at the bodies of the muscles.

‘Where is my son?’ I asked, very quietly.

‘I didn’t handle that placement. Anna would know. Oh, God, please don’t hurt me.’

‘Don’t lie to us.’ Mila held up the watch-garrote, slicked with blood.

‘I’m not lying. I’m not.’

I squatted by him, put the silencer – still warm – against his modishly unshaven cheek. ‘Did Anna know you were suspicious of me?’

‘Um, no. We initially reject every adopter – we claim they aren’t suitable, that there’s a hole in their story. Our clients are normally so desperate, they will do almost anything not to be rejected. Usually we can pressure them into “qualifying” by sharing information that is valuable – you know, insider info on a company, or they can render services to us that can be useful later.’

Extortion and blackmail, as if illegal adoption wasn’t enough. What charming people.

‘So you meet us. We pass your test. Then what?’

‘I call Anna. We set up a meeting. You give her the rest of the money. Then she makes a phone call and the child is brought to you.’

‘Has my son been sold?’

‘I told you, I don’t know. Please. Please!’

‘Watch him,’ I said to Mila. I opened the laptop. On the screen was a catalog in PDF format. Pictures of babies. Countries of origin. Description of parents, if known – but no names. The spring catalog featured over two dozen children. Beautiful kids on the auction block. I scanned it quickly. None were listed as being born in France and I didn’t see what the point of lying in the catalog would be.

‘You’re going to call Anna Tremaine, and you’re going to set up a meeting.’

Mr Bell’s lip trembled.

‘Where is she based?’

‘Her cell phone has a Las Vegas area code. But that’s not where she necessarily meets people,’ he added in a little rushed lie.

‘Las Vegas will be just fine.’ I decided I’d make it extra easy for Anna Tremaine. ‘You tell her that Mr and Mrs Derwatt have checked out and that we’ll be in Vegas tomorrow night to collect our child and pay the money.’

‘You have to pick one, then.’

‘What?’

‘A child. You have to pick a child.’

‘This one.’ I just pointed to the infant whose picture was on the current page of the digital catalog.

‘Okay.’ His breathing slowed. ‘I’ll do it, please don’t kill me.’

‘Call her. Now. And if you say a single syllable that I don’t like, I will kill you.’ And I slipped Mila’s garrote around his throat. The bloodied wire lay against his shirt and I tightened it enough so that the steel lay against his soft throat. I gave him an address in Las Vegas to suggest as a meeting place. He nodded.

He dialed. He waited. I leaned close enough to hear.

‘Yes?’

‘Anna. It’s Bell. The couple today, the Derwatts, they checked out okay. They’ve made their selection.’

‘Which one?’

‘Number fourteen.’

I could hear the barest scratch of pen and ink. ‘All right.’

‘They don’t want to meet in New York. I think they would be willing to come to Las Vegas.’

A pause. ‘All right.’

‘Do you know a place called The Canyon Bar, just off the Strip?’

‘Oh, wonderful,’ she said. ‘Hipster parents.’

‘They suggested meeting there. Tomorrow evening at nine.’