Ridley Pearson - Cut and Run

The guard lowered his voice and spoke quickly. “The phone is transmitting from here on the compound.”

Philippe felt it as a blow to his chest. Eyes darting, looking for an answer in all that darkness, he muttered, “Not possible. Impossible. Here?”

“Here,” the man answered, feeling obliged to say something.

Philippe’s eyes landed on the tortured face of Paolo. The man’s objections to the treatment of the girl rang loudly in his head. “Oh, shit,” he said, under his breath.

He carefully instructed the guard to show Paolo into the study and for him and one other to stand by once he had Paolo inside.

Philippe suppressed a rush of panic. The one-eyed dog had betrayed him, had carried her cell phone with him in order to lead the marshals to his doorstep. He composed himself, struck a solid, confident expression and pose, not wanting to reveal any of his suspicions. He glanced around one last time, peering into the darkness, and strode inside.

Crawling toward the fringe of woods that bordered the road descending from the manor house, Larson witnessed part of the impromptu meeting between the driver of the Mercedes and a bodybuilder type. He wondered if it had anything to do with him. The brief flash of terror in the driver’s eyes had felt good.

A moment later the driver spoke into his cell phone, and within a few seconds, two other men sped down this same hill at a run.

At great risk of being seen, Larson rose and cut through the woods and paralleled these two, now confident that they’d been ordered to beef up Penny’s security. A trap for Hope and whomever she brought with her.

His shoes soaked through, wet from the ground cover. He caught a glint off the two black leather jackets as the road snaked gracefully down the long throat of the hill.

At the bottom of the decline, the paved road crossed a noisy creek before rising again. Larson stopped short as he came across a formidable obstacle course-wooden walls with hanging ropes; car tires lashed together and suspended over a sand pit; a series of low stone walls; a shooting range with standing targets. It looked like something from an army boot camp.

He slipped through the course, using it as cover, keeping the two guards in sight. As they approached a double-wide trailer home, a floodlight came on, triggered by a motion sensor.

The guards arrived at the top of a set of raw-lumber steps and knocked.

Larson drew closer, careful now of each footfall.

The door was answered by a guy in a T-shirt and black jeans. Larson saw the blue flicker of television light. That, in turn, told him the windows were blacked out from the inside, just like the farmhouse. That alone told him he probably had found Penny.

A sense of triumph and fear mixed in him as a cocktail. He felt the first trickle of sweat catch up to him. His mouth was dry.

He glanced at the face of the Siemens, wondering if Hamp and Stubby were on their way.

Larson needed a look inside the double-wide. But he didn’t want to walk into their trap. Instead, he needed to set one.

“Talk to me,” Philippe said, stepping through the study’s door, his back now covered by two men, unseen, behind him. The room smelled richly of oiled leather and bookbinder’s gum. Three thousand volumes of rare books ran floor to ceiling, encased in imported library shelving complete with air-bubble glass-panel doors and brass fittings. A single Heriz covered the parquet flooring. An antique globe and an Englishman’s partners desk faced a pair of worn leather chairs that dated back to American independence. Paolo occupied one of these chairs, looking completely out of place, a mutt among the pedigreed. The light fixture, four fogged-glass orbs, had been converted from gas to electricity at the turn of the twentieth century. A land baron, looking vaguely unhappy, loomed large in an oil portrait that hung over a wrought-iron grated fireplace.

“You said you’d get me a doctor,” Paolo said. He delicately touched the skin near his eye, then withdrew his hand.

Philippe reached up under his coat and pulled the.22 out from the small of his back. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was loaded with live rounds and was accurate. He remained out of reach of Paolo, knowing his fast reaction time. He did not provoke him, did not aim the gun directly at Paolo, but its presence said it all.

“Empty your pockets.”

“Sure.” Paolo, confused but not about to object, did as he was told. He placed several credit cards and some bills and change on the edge of the desk. The stub of a pencil. A small pocket watch with a badly scratched face. His cell phone.

“Behind your belt.”

“You said my pockets.”

“Everything.”

“Whatever.” Paolo slipped the razor blade out from behind his belt and placed it on the desk. He kept it within reach, his eye on the gun in Philippe’s lap.

“Show me the phone.”

Paolo took the phone off the desk. It was a clamshell design, not powered up, its small screen dark. This didn’t fit with what Philippe had just been told.

“Turn it on.”

“But…” Paolo said. “I mean, think about it. If they have a lock on me, they’ll pull a location. Why risk that?”

Philippe reached forward and swiped the phone out of the man’s hands, knocking it across the room. The battery came loose as the phone hit the floor. “When and where did they get to you?”

“What the fuck?”

Now Philippe aimed the gun directly at him. “When… and where?”

“How about who ?”

“You needed a doctor,” Philippe said. “I can understand that.”

Paolo turned the injured side of his face toward Philippe. “Does this look like I’ve seen a doctor? What’s going on here?”

“The more you stall, the more you piss me off.” He made a point of the weapon. “Never piss off-”

“-the guy holding the gun.” Paolo knew Philippe’s inside jokes better than his teacher knew them. “I’ve had no contact with them. You hear me? None! They did not turn me.” He said earnestly, “Don’t you get it? All I want… all I want more than anything is to do this job for you. This woman… she did this to me.” He touched his face again. “It’s my turn.”

“What did you do with her cell phone?”

“I never had her cell phone. If I did, she’d be dead, and I’d be offering it as proof.”

Philippe had trained the man well: He showed no signs of breaking even under the threat of the gun.

“Let me help fill in some of the blanks,” Paolo offered.

“That’s the idea.”

He extended his arms. “Are you going to do this or not?”

Philippe lowered the gun. Paolo might have hidden her cell phone in the Mercedes, so that it wouldn’t be found on his person. But a second explanation presented itself, however improbable. “If it’s not a plant, then it’s her. She’s here. Could you have been followed?”

“No way.”

“Could the girl have signaled someone, gotten word to someone?”

“Impossible.”

“Because if she’s here, you have to tell me how she found us, you see?” Philippe talked to himself, working this out. “One of our guys could have given us up, I suppose.” He answered Paolo’s puzzled expression: “We suffered a setback last night in Florida. It was messy. Two of our guys and the professor. The phone could be her and this marshal, I suppose.” He considered this further. “Might even be intentional on their part. Or just plain reckless. We’d be stupid not to find out-to pass up the opportunity, if that’s what this is.”

“If she’s on this property, I owe her,” Paolo said. “Cut me in on this.”