Andrew Grant - Even

Whether to do it at all.

The tall guy took me to the family room and asked me to wait while he rounded up the items I was going to need for tomorrow. Then he left me on my own with the sofa to sit on, a stack of magazines to read, and plenty of time to think about what I’d let myself in for.

Lesley’s plan had a reasonable chance of success, I thought. It was simple and straightforward. Realistic objectives had been set. The necessary equipment and personnel had been promised. Commitments had been made, and assurances given.

As for me, I was perfectly clear what my role was going to be. Less sure how much to expect from the other people who were involved. And certain I was going to need more coffee. Typical of a first day in a new job.

I was hoping to lay eyes on my new partner at some point, but the only person to come near me in the next twenty minutes was George.

“It’s all here,” he said, dropping a battered leather Gladstone bag onto the sofa next to me. “Check it if you want.”

I opened the bag and looked inside. It was neatly packed. At one side a black polo shirt had been rolled around some socks and a pair of boxer shorts. Next to the clothes were five clear Ziploc bags. The first held a watch, to replace the one the FBI had held on to. The second, a toothbrush-still in its wrapper-toothpaste, and deodorant. The third, a dozen cable ties and a clasp knife. The fourth, money. One thousand dollars in mixed bills. And the fifth, a gun. A Springfield P9. I took a closer look.

“This is Cyril’s?” I said.

“Right,” George said.

“How can you tell?” I said, pointing to a blurred patch on the right-hand side of the frame. The serial number had been burned off with acid.

“Lesley said so. You want to call her on it, be my guest.”

“Hotel reservations?”

“Taken care of. Online. Patrick’s got confirmation.”

“Who’s Patrick?”

“The guy you’ll be working with.”

“Where is he?”

“Right here,” said a voice from the hallway.

“Typical Patrick,” George said, shaking his head. “Always has to make an entrance.”

Patrick stayed out of sight for another moment then glided rather than stepped into the room. He hardly made a sound. He was only about five inches shorter than the tall guy, but I doubt he made five percent of the noise when he moved. He did have an advantage with his shoes, though-a pair of soft black Lacoste trainers, rather than shiny city slip-ons. They went well with the black tracksuit he was wearing, but looked a little strange next to his charcoal overcoat and the tan leather suit carrier that was slung over his left shoulder.

“Been working out?” I said.

“No way,” he said. “Hate that stuff. Was on my way to soccer practice. Then Lesley called. Just had time to grab some stuff for tomorrow and come down to meet you. You are David, right?”

“That’s right. I am. Glad to be working with you. You all set?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Then how about we pick up our passenger and hit the road? I’m getting hungry.”

“Sounds good to me,” he said, raising his eyebrows at George.

George fetched a pair of orange-handled scissors from a drawer in the kitchen and then led the way downstairs. Julianne was back in her cage, lying on the floor in the same position as when I’d first seen her. There was no sign of anyone else, but the floor in front of the cages had recently been mopped. It was still slightly damp, with large swirling marks spiraling out from the spot where the driver had landed.

Julianne didn’t react when George released the padlock but she sat up, looking surprised, when she realized it was her door that had swung open.

“What’s happening?” she said. “David? Are you all right?”

“Of course,” I said. “And so are you. It’s over. We’re leaving.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re leaving. Right now. Getting in the car. Going to the city.”

“What are they doing here?” she said, pointing at George and Patrick.

“Helping us,” I said. “Don’t worry. We’re all friends now.”

“How did that happen?”

“I fixed it with their boss. Just like I said I would.”

“Something’s not right,” she said, stepping back into the corner of the cage. “It’s a trap. They’re going to kill us.”

“If they wanted to kill us, they’d have done it already,” I said.

“Don’t believe you. I’m not coming.”

“Fine. Stay, then. Lock it, will you, George? I’m not wasting my time. There’s a steak waiting for me at the hotel. And a hot shower. And a king-sized bed. Be seeing you, Julianne. Take care.”

I turned to go. Patrick followed.

“Wait,” Julianne said. “You sure this is on the level?”

She’d come out of the corner and was standing with her head tipped to one side, eyes narrow with suspicion. George had hold of the door, ready to slam it closed.

“Of course,” I said. “Anyway, what have you got to lose?”

She didn’t answer.

“You should listen to him, you know,” George said quietly.

Julianne chewed her bottom lip for a moment then shrugged, rolled her eyes, and moved to the cage doorway.

“OK, then. But I’m not going anywhere with this on,” she said, holding out her hands.

George cut the plastic tie, shoved it in his pocket along with the scissors, and led the way around toward the garage. Julianne followed. Patrick walked next to her, but I lagged behind. When they turned the corner I dodged back to the wooden shelves by the far wall. I started just beyond the spot where the passenger had lunged at me earlier, slipped my hand underneath, and slid it back toward the cages. After eighteen inches my fingers touched something round and metallic. It was the barrel of the passenger’s. 45. He hadn’t gone back for it. Or he hadn’t seen where it went.

I pulled the gun out. It was scratched and dusty, with clumps of gray fluff caught all around the trigger guard. I blew them away, stuck the barrel into the waistband at the back of my jeans, and started moving toward the garage. I caught up with the others before they were even through the door.

George popped the black sedan’s trunk with the remote and turned to Julianne, looking a little sheepish.

“That better be for the luggage,” she said.

George looked down at the floor. I shook my head.

“Oh, man,” she said. “Why do we have to ride in there? I hate it.”

“Sorry, Julianne,” I said. “We don’t. You do.”

“What? Why me?”

“Think about it. They couldn’t let you go if you’d seen where this place is. You could lead people back here.”

“What about you? How come you can see it?”

“Bring the police here, and I’m in as much trouble as these guys. It’s part of the deal.”

“What deal? You’ve done a deal with these people? David, what were you thinking?”

“Staying alive has a price, Julianne. Like it or not. I just found a way to pay it. For both of us. All you have to do is get in. That way, you’re forty-five minutes from freedom. Otherwise, you’re back in the cage.”

“But does it have to be the trunk? I really, really hate it in there. Don’t you have a car with black windows or something?”

We both looked at George.

“Sorry,” he said. “Black windows stop you looking in. Your problem’s looking out.”

Julianne sighed, went to the back of the car, and put her hand on the rear fender.

“I’m not climbing in on my own,” she said.

George was closest. He did the honors.

Patrick drove. George had offered me the keys, but I declined. I wanted to get a good look around the neighborhood. I had the feeling I might need to return.