Jeff Abbott - The Last Minute

I looked under the sink; nothing. Then I turned, my face level with the paper towel dispenser, and, beneath it, the metal disposal bin. You needed a key to open it, to access and pull out of the trash can. I peered down into the piles of dirty paper towels. Jammed my arm down as far as I could reach.

At the bottom I ran into a package. Rectangular. I felt a flick of wire along its edge.

Slowly, bracing myself against the wall, I pulled my arm up. The distant hum of people evacuating was growing quieter.

I pulled the package free from the pile.

C-4. It was wrapped in gift paper that read BABY’S FIRST BIRTHDAY . Four wires led off a cell phone, a cheap prepaid model, to curl into the packaging. I had no idea which wire to cut, no idea if the bomb was functioning.

I ran out the back door. Several patrons had gone out this way and I saw people getting into cars, leaving The Canyon now that the party had ended. I ran, holding the package, trying to find a deserted spot where I wouldn’t put anyone at risk. A small shopping center stood to my left and I arrowed behind it. Every store was in darkness.

Gingerly I unwrapped the package, careful not to disturb the wires. It was simple. Three of the wires were fakes, going nowhere taped under the paper, a blue one fed from deep in the explosive to the cell phone. I pulled out my pocket knife and I cut it.

I leaned against the building and then twenty seconds later the bomb’s phone rang.

When my heart settled back into my chest I answered. ‘You bitch.’

‘I don’t like being called names,’ Anna said. ‘You can tell how serious we are. You don’t deviate from the plan. You don’t cross us.’

‘You’re an idiot to give me a job and then risk blowing me up a minute later.’

‘There was no risk. You did exactly what we knew you would do. Just keep doing what we tell you.’ Anna hung up.

My hands wanted to shake and I wouldn’t let them, I fought the fear down. I walked back to the club.

Lots of the patrons had left but a good sized crowd remained in the parking lot, curious or optimistic. I took it as a compliment to The Canyon that they hung around. I was sure many had walked their tabs. It didn’t matter.

Mila met me at the front door. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happened?’

‘She knew who I was. The trap was on me, not Anna.’

‘Ah, Sam. I am sorry. What did she say?’

I took a deep breath. ‘Rough night. Let’s talk tomorrow. You have a place to stay?’

Her gaze burned like fire. ‘What are you not telling me, Samuil?’ Tension broke her voice; she only used the Slavic form of my name when she was upset.

‘There’s nothing you can do, Mila. Thank you for coming. This is my problem and mine alone now.’

‘If she knew who you are, then she had a reason to come meet you.’ Realization dawned in her eyes. ‘Daniel. She wants to make a deal for Daniel.’

‘This is now my problem,’ I said again. ‘Thank you for your concern.’

‘Do not do this alone. What is the ransom? God, let me help you.’

‘I can’t tell you. She’ll kill him.’ I kept my voice from breaking. Just barely.

‘Sam.’ So much in that one syllable. Pain for me, desperation to help, a simmering fury.

‘I play by their rules, and that means no you hanging around. Go, Mila. I’m sorry.’ The approaching whine of police sirens sliced through the night. Now, empty, the bar was quiet. The air weighed like steel between us. ‘I have to go. I have to be on a flight in two hours. If you want to help me, deal with the cops. Oh, and there’s a pound of C-4 explosive behind a Dumpster in the shopping center. Get rid of it. I’m not really inclined to leave it lying around.’

‘Sam.’ Her mouth worked. ‘What do they want you to do?’

‘It has nothing to do with you,’ I said, my voice rising. Her face was stone. This was the woman who had helped ensure the CIA didn’t find me while I hunted for my wife’s kidnappers, the one who had given me every support in my new life. She deserved better than my silence. ‘They want me to kill a man.’

‘Who?’

‘Someone who is a threat to them.’

‘You commit one murder for them to save your son, they can ask for a thousand more. They can tell you a thousand lies, make a thousand promises, give you a thousand orders, and you will be their slave to save that child.’

I couldn’t breathe. ‘I don’t need you debating me. I do what I have to do.’

‘Then go. Go before the cops want to talk to you.’ Mila didn’t wait for me to answer. She bolted past me and out the door toward the arriving police cars.

I stood in the mess of knocked-over chairs, and half-full drinks, and the eerie serenity of a bar that has been emptied of people in a matter of minutes. The light machine kept playing and gleaming dots danced along my face, my skin.

Get to the airport. Get to New York. Find and kill this Jin Ming. Save my boy.

Henderson, Nevada

Leonie opened her eyes, then blinked. She’d fallen asleep at the desk and her cheek felt mashed and drool-stained. Charming, she thought, wiping at her face with her fingers. The computer kept playing music from Rent, turned low, set on repeat. She preferred songs with a story these days. She’d filled her iTunes library with musicals and movie soundtracks. She hit the space bar and the rising voices, imploring her to live for today, went silent. She blinked again in the sudden quiet, forcing herself to stay awake.

My God, what happened to me? Fourth or fifth time she’d fallen asleep while working this week. It was getting to be a bad habit. She’d had an early morning.

She glanced at the clock. She’d fallen asleep after putting the baby down. It was close to 10 p.m. Exhaustion had caught up with her. She was still in T-shirt and jeans and got up from the desk in the corner of her bedroom, shucked her clothes, put on thin cotton pajamas. She brushed her teeth, wiped the sleep from her eyes. Now she’d probably have trouble going back to sleep, and the baby would sleep straight through the night. Oh well, she could get some work done. Leonie had decided early on that they called it single motherhood because you had to make every single second work to your advantage.

‘Honey,’ her well-meaning octogenarian neighbor, Mrs Craft, would say, ‘why don’t you hire a nanny? I’m sure you can afford it.’ And Mrs Craft would look around at the granite countertops, the vaulted ceilings, the plush Persian rug over the immaculate hardwoods.

‘I don’t like having strangers in the house,’ Leonie said.

‘A nanny, once you get to know her, she’s no stranger.’

And Leonie had just shrugged instead of saying what was in her heart: I can’t take the security risk. I can’t have a nanny finding out what I do. The load of long, solitary working hours and taking care of Taylor was endurable. Taylor was worth every sleepless night.

Leonie brewed a pot of hazelnut decaf and switched to the Chicago soundtrack on her iPod, connected to a small set of speakers. The saucy strains filtered out quietly over the bedroom. She opened her laptop and checked her emails; she kept several anonymous accounts to stay in touch with clients.

Nothing from Gunnar. She heaved a sigh of relief. As clients went, Gunnar was being rather difficult. Kept changing his mind on what he wanted. First he wanted to relocate to New Orleans; no, he decided it was too close to Atlanta, he would see someone he knew, in the bars of the French Quarter. Too likely he’d be found. Then he wanted Canada. No, he realized actual winters, with actual snow, took place in Montreal. Now he wanted Panama but had started making noises about there being nothing to do in Panama, as though the entire country lacked nightclubs or movie theaters, beaches or bookstores. She couldn’t start creating his fake life without him choosing where to hide.