Джеффри Дивер - The Final Twist

“If I do that, it might go off and hurt someone.”

“Now, now, you know better’n that. Those Austrians’re too clever for accidents. Be a good boy and behave. Miss Julia’s looking a little queasy. We don’t want to upset her. Be a sorrow and shame. Go on, go on.”

“What is this?” she repeated, her voice quavering.

Droon snapped to Shaw, “ Pistole , son.”

Shaw did as he’d been told, tugging his shirt up, revealing the weapon.

“Look at those abs. You must work out till the cows come home.”

Shaw pitched the gun to the ground.

“Pull those jeans cuffs up too, would’ya, boy? You look like an ankle holster kind of guy.”

Shaw complied.

“Goody good. Now. You, Miss Julia, you can stay fully clothed, much to my disappointment, don’tcha know? I heard you say you’re not packing heat.”

“You heard?”

Shaw glanced at the plumbing van. “They were listening. They know about the cassette. The analysis.” He looked to Braxton. “After you stole the voting tally I thought you’d forget about us.”

“We couldn’t afford to do that.”

Droon said, “You’re our favorite number-one reward-seeker, Mr. Colter Shaw.” He chuckled. “It’d hurt too much to say goodbye.”

Helms waved his hand to silence the irritating man and stepped forward. “I wanted to see you in person, Shaw.” He looked him over, and the man seemed enormously unimpressed. This was mutual. “The Shaw family... you’ve caused me nothing but grief.”

“Grief?” Shaw laughed cynically. “My mother’s a widow, thanks to you.”

He sighed. “That again. It wasn’t supposed to happen the way it did. We thought Ashton had found the vote tally certificate. Our man was simply going to pay him a lot of money for it.”

“Your representative for those quote ‘negotiations’ was an armed trespasser on our property at three in the morning, tracking my father in the woods. What you meant to say was torture him until he told you where it was hidden, and then kill him. You’re tedious, Helms.”

“Tedious?” The handsome face darkened. The word had insulted him. Shaw realized whom he resembled: a younger Warren Beatty. His voice honed: “The Endgame Sanction. It’s going to change the country fundamentally.”

“Stalin changed Russia fundamentally. I don’t think that’s the kind of standard you want to be touting.”

“BlackBridge didn’t vote on Proposition Oh-Six. Mr. Devereux didn’t vote on it. We were hired to locate a document that’d been duly passed by the citizens of the state in a legal election. We’re just enabling the will of the people.”

The words sounded like they came from a spokesperson at a press conference.

Helms continued, “Just think, Shaw. The amendment gives any corporation the right to run for office. A do-good nonprofit.”

“You’re not the shining light of social conscience, Helms. You’re destroying neighborhoods with your Urban Improvement Plan.”

Helms shrugged. “I never held a gun to anybody’s head and said, ‘Here. Take these drugs. Or else.’”

The big man with pale skin, the van driver, just watched everything quietly. Maybe he was the hitman who’d been brought in to replace Blond. The man who had his sights on the SP family.

Irena Braxton appeared impatient. “We knew that Gahl had found the voting tally and hid it.” She glanced toward the white envelope. “We never knew he was sucking up evidence too.”

“The tape recorder was in our safe house when you broke in,” Shaw said. “You had a chance to get it then.”

Helms muttered, “Well, better late...”

A nod toward Droon, who said, “Now, Miss Julia. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to give us that envelope and your purse — or wallet, if ‘purse’ is too sexist a thing to say. Sorry for the offense. I’m going to get your partic’lars, find out where you live and your family or, if you prefer, loved ones live.”

“No, please!”

“Yes, please!” he mocked. “Then you’re going back to the office and you’re overwriting every single bit of that digital copy of that cassette. ‘Overwrite’ is the key word. ’Member that. Nothing really gets deleted ’less you overwrite it, as you probably know, being in this business.”

Braxton said, “No calls to the police. Or my associates’ll drive straight to your house.”

“No!” Her voice choked. “I have children!” Her hand kneaded the envelope manically.

Droon said, “Settle there, Lovely. You make sure everything’s gone and... promise never to say a word about this again. And your little ones and hubby’ll be fine.”

“How could you do this?” she raged.

Droon frowned as if he didn’t understand the question. He turned to Shaw. “I want the original cassette too, don’tcha know? Where is it? And don’t be playful. We don’t have all day here.”

Shaw’s face darkened. “All right.” He held up his right hand — indicating no threat — and reached into his jacket pocket with his left, removed the cassette.

“Lookee. Wasn’t that easy and painless? Toss it here.”

Shaw did and the man picked it up.

In that giddy, grating tone, Droon said, “All right, Miss Julia, the sooner you hightail to the office, the sooner—”

“Wait.” The urgent word came from Braxton. Her head was angled, eyes squinting. “Wait.”

Helms was frowning, and Droon turned toward her.

“You were scanning his safe house when you picked up the call from Julia, right?” Braxton asked.

Droon said, “Well, yup.” There was an uneasiness in his voice, as he looked at his boss’s powdered, troubled face.

“What phone did he pick up on? What was the number?”

“I...” Droon was thinking. “It started with eight-four-five or eight-four-something, I’m pretty sure. I can look up—”

“Jesus Christ!” Braxton’s voice raged. “That’s his iPhone!”

The woman would know that Shaw had been using his encrypted burner — the Android platform — since he’d been in San Francisco because he knew BlackBridge could listen in on the iPhone, which was unprotected.

If Shaw had picked up the call about the audiotape on the Apple, it was because he wanted them to hear the conversation.

“It’s a trap! There’s nothing on the tape. The static? That was just bullshit. He’s got people here.”

The pale man and Droon lowered their stances and scanned around them, weapons extended.

Shaw was disappointed. He had hoped to play the game out a little longer to get more information from Droon and Braxton — and more incriminating admissions.

Braxton whispered to Helms, “Get back in the truck, Ian. Now.”

Colter Shaw then gave a nod.

From the woods nearby, the “park ranger,” who was, in reality, Ty, Russell’s associate from his group, called, “You with BlackBridge, hands where I can see them! Drop the weapons. Lie facedown on the ground! If you present with a weapon or any threat, you will be fired on.” He let loose a burst of rounds from his silenced H&K submachine gun. Dirt kicked up ten feet in front of the BlackBridge crew. “Now!”

The pale op did exactly as told, tossing his pistol away as if it were burning his skin. Braxton, grimacing, unhooked her macramé hippie purse from her shoulder and dropped it. She began kneeling. When finally down, she eased face forward to the dirt. Ian Helms followed suit.

Ebbitt Droon began to do the same, making a show of reaching out to set his gun gingerly on the ground. But he suddenly reared backward, putting the plumbing van between himself and Ty. He looked right at Shaw, his eyes both sadistic and amused. “No, sir, no, sir.”