Andrew Grant - Even

“What’s inside?” Julianne said, curious now.

I opened the envelope and shook the contents into my hand. It was a Social Security card. About a hundred years old, judging by the creases and stains. It was hard to read. I could just about make out a name-Charles Paul Bromley-and a number, 812-67-7478.

“What do you make of it?” I said. “Does it look normal?”

“Well, yeah, pretty much,” Julianne said. “But I wonder why he kept it in an envelope, not his wallet? Seems a bit unusual.”

I wrapped the card up and put it back in the driver’s pocket.

“Maybe it wasn’t his,” I said, thinking of the one in Agent Raab’s jacket. “We’ll figure it out later. No time now.”

Julianne halfheartedly guided the driver’s feet while I dragged him into the cage, attached his wrist to the back wall with a cable tie, and went back for the passenger. I put him in Julianne’s cage and secured him to the side wall, well out of the driver’s reach.

“Happy now?” Julianne said. “Can we go?”

I took the padlock from Julianne’s cage and fixed it onto my door.

“What are you fiddling around with now?” she said.

I picked up the other padlock and hooked it onto Julianne’s door.

“You’ve already beaten the crap out of them and tied them to the walls,” she said. “Who do you think they are? A pair of Houdinis? Let’s just get out of here before someone comes.”

I locked the padlocks and tossed the keys into an open box on one of the shelves. It wasn’t a perfect solution-those guys were still breathing-but at least it would slow them down. And sometimes, you just have to go with what you’ve got.

Julianne went up the stairs like a greyhound out of a trap. She didn’t waste any time in the hallway, either. It was a spacious, rectangular area with tall white walls, quarry tiles on the floor, and a dramatic angled ceiling above a galleried landing. There were two internal doors to our left, an external door on the far side-I could see bushes and a brick path through a window-and a wide arch in front of us leading to a formal living room with two low white sofas, several abstract paintings on the walls, and a variety of tall bookcases overflowing with hardbacks.

Julianne ignored all these and headed through another, narrower archway to our right. It led to a combined kitchen/family room. The center of the space was taken up with a large blue L-shaped sofa and a glass coffee table on wheels. It sat on a rug with a Picasso-style design woven into it, and was piled high with all kinds of magazines and catalogues. Fashion, design, music, cars, art, you name it. A long bookcase ran all along one wall-hardbacks at the bottom, paperbacks at the top, except for one section that held five small trophies. Next to that was an elaborate wood-burning stove, and in the far corner there was another doorway. I couldn’t see where it led.

The kitchen was separated by a peninsular unit that housed some cupboards and a dishwasher. The worktop was black granite, immaculate, uncluttered by kettles or toasters or other utensils. The sink was under a small window that looked onto a screened porch. It was empty. There was another archway in the wall to the left leading to a dining room, as well as some more units and a gas cook top. Next to the cook top was a wooden block holding five steel-handled chef’s knives.

“Grab one of those,” I said. “The center one.”

“A knife?” Julianne said, disappearing through the archway. “Scissors would be better. There must be more cutlery somewhere. I’ll check through here.”

I had no idea what she was thinking, turning her nose up at a chance like that, but there wasn’t time to argue. I put the driver’s gun down and took out the knife. It was solid and heavy with a gleaming five-inch Sheffield steel blade. There were five drawers under the cook top. I opened the top one a couple of inches and wedged the knife inside, sharp side up. But before I could get enough pressure on the blade to cut the tie, I heard footsteps from the dining room.

Two sets.

Julianne came into the kitchen first, followed by the older guy who’d brought my food. His right arm was around her neck, and he was holding an old Army Colt to her left temple. She was standing stiffly, back arched, grimacing. He was smiling. His throat was unguarded. I closed my fingers around the knife blade. It was a good weight for throwing. How much did I want to save this woman? It was unlikely I could stop the guy getting one shot off. But certain I could stop him getting two.

I heard the clatter of heavy feet on wooden stairs. Someone was coming down. They paused in the hallway and then appeared through the arch. It was someone new. He was huge. At least six feet seven. His head was shaved and he had to duck as he came in. He was wearing a smart blue suit with a white shirt and striped tie. It was hard to tell without the hair, but I put him in his late thirties. Apart from his freak size he looked like a businessman stepping out of a meeting to grab a coffee.

“What’s going on, George?” he said. “Where’s Jason and Spencer?”

“Don’t know,” the older guy said. “Found this bitch sneaking around, and him in here playing with the utensils. Haven’t seen the pretty boys.”

“Where are Jason and Spencer?” the tall guy said, looking at me.

“Who?” I said.

“The two guys I sent to fetch you.”

“Oh, them. Downstairs.”

“Dead?” he said, looking at the knife.

“No. Just… resting.”

“George, take the woman back down there. Lock her up, and see what’s going on with those fools.”

The tall guy stepped aside to let George get past with Julianne. Her eyes stayed on me, wide and frightened, as if begging for help.

“Let’s you and me go upstairs,” the tall guy said. “We need to talk.”

I didn’t move. The knife was still in my hand.

“Going to use that?” he said. “Go ahead. I’m not carrying.”

He held his arms out to the sides, as if inviting a search.

I stayed where I was.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go. My boss is upstairs.”

I didn’t reply.

“Come on,” he said. “My boss is waiting. That’s not good.”

“Your boss?” I said.

“Right. Wants to talk to you.”

“You think I’m one day old?”

“What?”

“You think I was born yesterday? You snatch me off the street and lock me in a kennel like a dog because your boss wants to talk?”

“OK, look, I won’t bullshit you. The thing with the kennel-that was wrong. But with everything jumping off at once-journalists sniffing around, FBI all over the place, you suddenly on the loose-we had to move fast. We made some mistakes.”

“Just a few.”

“We know that, now. We should have shown more respect, but we needed you off the street.”

“Why?”

“To keep you out of anyone else’s pocket. We heard some rumors. Needed time to check them out.”

“Rumors? About me?”

“Look, put the knife down. Come upstairs. Hear what we’ve got to say. It’ll make sense. And what’s to worry about, anyway? If we wanted you dead, you’d be on the slab already.”

“I’m not meeting anyone like this,” I said, holding up my hands.

The tall guy came over and very gently took hold of the knife handle. He waited for me to clear my fingers, then severed the tie. It fell to the floor, leaving a narrow red welt around both my wrists.

“Happy now?” he said. “So let’s go.”

He slid the knife back into the block, picked the driver’s Colt up from the countertop, and turned to lead the way. As he walked toward the hallway he slipped the gun into his jacket pocket. It rattled against something metal.

And as sincere as the guy had seemed, I doubt it was his keys.