Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Rogue

“This was on Roslov’s desk,” Floyd said. “I thought he was having a pop at American capitalism, so I liked the idea of taking it away from him.”

He handed it to me, and I turned it over and examined it closely. “You take anything else?”

Floyd shook his head. “The other guys did, but not me. I didn’t have a gear bag. I was just the pilot. There must have been hidden cameras in the place. They must have filmed us to know that it was me who took the Bull.”

There was nothing unusual about the bronze figure. Not as far as I could see. “What about the documents and data?”

“I think they got something,” Floyd said. “But I don’t get told that kind of information.”

“We need to get this into the lab,” I said to Justine. “Find out why people are prepared to murder for it.”

Beth hadn’t been able to break the main pipe — it was too strong — but she had snapped off a two-feet section of the thinner sprinkler feed. A little more than an inch wide, the pipe wouldn’t be much use as a weapon, but it had potential as a tool. Beth had set to work using the jagged broken end to gouge away the concrete by the back wall. She’d been at it for over an hour and had created a hole beneath the corrugated-steel wall that was sufficiently large to put her hand in. She felt cold earth on the other side and her heart leaped.

Given the time, she knew she could dig her way out.

Every fiber of her being wanted sleep, and her muscles ached with fatigue, but she kept digging. Whenever she felt as though she couldn’t keep going, she looked at her babies, who were still asleep despite the glare of the strip lights that hung high above them.

Maria and Danny were all the incentive Beth needed to force herself on. She would die for her kids, so pain and torturous labor were nothing in comparison. She kept working and forced the opening wider, a millimeter at a time. She groaned as she stood up to take a short break and stretch, but her rest was short-lived.

She heard an exterior bolt being drawn back and hurried over to her cot, dragging it to conceal the hole. She jumped into bed, tucked the length of pipe beneath her, and pulled a thin blanket up to her neck. She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep as the door swung open.

She heard footsteps approach. A hand shook her. She turned over to see Andreyev standing close by her. He held a cell phone that was connected to some kind of digital relay about the size of a pack of cigarettes.

“We offered your husband a deal some time ago,” Andreyev said. “He did not take it. We believe he needs more convincing. You will talk to him and tell him to come to us. Or we will kill one of your children. We do not need you all.”

Andreyev indicated the two masked men who stood over Danny and Maria. Both were aiming pistols at her sleeping children.

“No blanks this time,” Andreyev assured her. “When I give the word, one of them dies.”

We were thirty minutes from Manhattan Heliport when the satellite phone rang. Floyd passed it to me. I removed my headset before I answered.

“Mr. Morgan,” Andreyev said. “I hoped I would have heard back from you by now. Maybe Captain Floyd needs some encouragement to reach a decision. Please put him on the line.”

I could tell from Andreyev’s tone what was coming next. The man was angry and he would take that anger out on Beth and the children. I had to try to buy some more time.

“He escaped,” I replied. “I gave him your offer and I think he must have got suspicious that we were still working together. He took off around Denville. Just made a run for it. We tried to chase him down, but he shook us off. We’re out searching for him right now.”

Floyd looked at me quizzically from the co-pilot’s seat. Justine tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned, she shrugged as if to say: What’s going on?

I signaled them both to be quiet and waited for Andreyev to respond. I could tell I’d taken the wind out of his sails. I just had to pray he hadn’t heard about Rick Ferguson going missing yet.

“Do you have any way of contacting him?” he asked.

“No. He has no phone, no money. I don’t know where he’s going. We had a reported sighting outside a convenience store in Livingston. That’s where we’re going now.”

“If I find out you’re playing games—”

I cut him off. “What games? You think this is a game to me? I’ve already lost two agents in this. No more innocent people need to die. I made a promise to Beth to protect her and the kids. I want to take your deal and get them to safety. And I thought Floyd did too, but maybe he’s more of a coward than I gave him credit for.”

I shook my head apologetically at Floyd.

“You have twelve hours, Mr. Morgan,” Andreyev responded. “Find him and call me. Or I will be forced to punish the people I have at hand.”

He hung up and I made sure the call had disconnected.

“What the hell was that?” Floyd asked.

“I just bought your wife and kids more time,” I replied. “We’ve got twelve hours to save them.”

I set us down at Manhattan Heliport, which was located at the southernmost tip of the island. By the time I’d settled the charter, Jessie had arrived to collect us. As Justine, Floyd and I made our way through the parking lot to the Toyota, I thought back to my last time here — chasing the assassin who’d killed my friend. Far too many people had died as part of the twisted games of state played by enemies set on destroying everything we stood for. I was determined that Beth Singer and her children wouldn’t be added to the list of victims.

Jessie caught sight of the Bull replica as I climbed into the front seat of the Toyota and she slid in beside me.

“Souvenir?” she asked.

“We think this is what they’re after,” I replied. “We need to get it into the lab.”

She nodded, started the engine and pulled out of the heliport, before heading north on FDR Drive.

“Everyone OK?” she asked.

I nodded, and Justine and Floyd did likewise. None of us said anything, though. I think we were all too aware of the ticking clock.

It was approaching 3 a.m. and everywhere was eerily quiet. There were hardly any other vehicles on the road, and as we turned off FDR Drive and made our way through the city, there were hardly any people around either. It was as though New York had inhaled and was holding its breath for a moment, pausing before breathing life into a new day. The bright lights of electronic billboards shone over frozen sidewalks and the LED advertisements stuck to the handful of yellow cabs that navigated the deserted streets danced across the lanes like fireflies.

Jessie drove us north to Madison and East 26th where we parked in the subterranean garage before taking the elevator to Private’s offices. Sci and Mo-bot were waiting for us.

“It’s good to see you, Jack,” Sci said warmly when we stepped out of the elevator. He clasped my hand and pulled me in for a hug.

“This is Joshua Floyd,” I said. “Seymour Kloppenberg.”

“Good to meet you. Congratulations on getting out of Afghanistan,” Sci said, shaking Floyd’s hand. “Call me Sci.”

“Thanks, Sci,” Floyd replied.

They all looked at me expectantly.

“Sorry to keep you all up,” I told them. “But we think this is what they’re after.” I brandished the Wall Street Bull. “Taken off the desk of a Russian asset called Konstantin Roslov. We need a full analysis.”

“We’ll find out what we can about Roslov,” Jessie said, and Mo-bot nodded.

“And I’ll have a look at this thing,” Sci remarked, taking the Bull from me. “It’s heavy.”