Charlotte Bennardo - Blonde Ops A Novel

I hadn’t really taken a good look at the other man in the dim alley, but I did so now. He was tall, and dressed in a fitted shirt and jeans and leather loafers. He had that same swarthy European look Taj did; olive-skinned, dark-eyed, and chestnut-haired. And like Taj, not quite placeable in any specific ethnic group. And I’d seen him before …

Oh my God. The biker at the Pantheon.

And the driver of the white car that almost took out Dante and me.

“ Em breve, Luca. Vamos ,” Taj said to him, and he nodded.

That wasn’t Italian.

Mrs. Jennings was forced to sit in one of the chairs, and her hands were bound with zip ties.

“This way, please,” said Taj, a courteous arm extended, indicating for us to move over to the grimy windows, as far away from the door and the First Lady as possible. Cautiously, we shuffled across the room, urged on by Luca, who nudged Kevin’s shoulder with his gun.

“Hey, careful of the shirt! It’s Marc Jacobs!” Kevin groused.

Typical. Here we were, facing international kidnappers who were holding the First Lady of the United States hostage and planning to do who knew what, and Kevin was worried about his clothes.

We were directed to sit on the floor with our backs to one of the wrought-iron window grates. Out came more zip ties.

Seriously?

“Why?” I demanded of Taj.

Luca shackled Kevin and then started on Sophie.

From across the room where he stood next to Mrs. Jennings, Taj’s eyes met mine. I would have sworn a shadow of regret passed over them, but he’d fooled me too many times for me to care.

“I wish I could explain everything to you, but I can’t. Just understand it’s something that I had to do. If you were in my place, I think you’d do the same thing.”

I snorted. “You think so? Then you don’t know me very well.”

Done with Sophie, Luca grabbed my wrists, forcing me to fall back against the railing. I glared at Taj, wishing him all kinds of terrible fates. As much of a long shot as it was, I hoped, somehow, that I could be a participant in the kick-ass payback he so deserved. Go viral with his photo and a caption saying he was a lowlife kidnapper who wore knockoffs. What would be worse for him? The felony or the fashion faux pas? Either way, it would be sweet.

“I think I do. You’re rebellious, but loyal”—he gazed at the First Lady—“doing whatever you have to do to correct a wrong.”

“I don’t know what wrong has been perpetrated on you, Taj—” Mrs. Jennings started, but he silenced her with a squeeze on her shoulder.

“Everything will be made clear to you very soon, Mrs. Jennings.”

I jerked forward, but Luca’s fingers dug into my wrists, slamming me back against the railing.

“You had to kidnap someone? Not just someone—the American First Lady! What could possibly be that important?” I didn’t think he would answer my question. He was all about secrets and lies. Even if he told me, I wouldn’t believe him. Then a jolt of realization tingled through me.

What could possibly be that important?

He was wealthy, so it wasn’t money.

Family? He had a brother …

Taj could afford to pay a ransom—but if he orchestrated kidnapping the First Lady, the situation, whatever it was, had to be something that money alone could not solve. If he wanted the First Lady alive … did he want to make a swap? This brother—if that’s what this was about—must have been very important, and probably very shady. But in what way?

Luca fastened the zip ties around my wrists. I didn’t struggle; that would only make them tighter and give him an excuse to put me in a more awkward position. When he stood up, I tried moving my hands—yes! There was a little slack.

“What I don’t understand,” Kevin said, “is how neither the CIA nor the Secret Service found anything on you. They checked everyone out.”

Taj shrugged and his features softened into an angelic innocence. “I’m just a fashion blogger.”

“You used your blog to get close to Mrs. Jennings,” I said, working it out. “Candace said she met you when you first started, so she could vouch for you. And you knew Parker too—but I guess you didn’t set off any alarms with them. They knew you for several years.” I glared up at him. “Who are you working for? How long have you been planning this?” I didn’t believe that an eighteen-year-old would be the sole mastermind behind something this big.

He looked away. “Too long to let you ruin it now. And I’m not going to explain myself to you.”

I sneered at him. “Well, congratulations! Your cover’s been blown for good. Even if you get away, the whole world will know who you are. The U.S. and Italy will slap all your pictures on the most-wanted list!” I yelled.“Good luck trying to hide now!” My voice sounded shrill even in my own ears.

“I know,” he mused regretfully. “But none of that matters. I have only one important thing need to do.”

I couldn’t imagine planning something like this years in advance, then having to give up my life and identity forever.

“Is this about your brother?” I said. Maybe catching him off guard would get him to spill some details.

He didn’t seem to acknowledge my question, but for a fraction of a second his lips twitched. Then he was all business again, motioning for Ortiz and Luca to move on. He wasn’t giving that up, not here, not now. He might tell me other things if I worked on him.

“The biker at the Pantheon,” I said, looking at Luca. “It was him! He wasn’t going for Mrs. Jennings, he was going for you. But he almost took you out!”

Taj inclined his head at the gunman. “We passed a message.”

“I didn’t see you give him anything,” said Sophie, “and I was looking right at you.”

“Me too,” added Kevin.

I narrowed my eyes in disbelief. “I didn’t see anything.”

“A few hand signals were enough. A wave, two fingers held up, a sweep of my arm indicated the time and place for the next move.”

I stared at him, incredulous. “You told him all that by waving arms and fingers?”

Taj sighed, exasperated. “Come on, Bec, haven’t you learned not to leave evidence? A note can be found if it’s not destroyed. I don’t leave anything behind that I don’t mind others finding. Not on paper—and never electronically. E-mail and electronic searches can be traced, even if it’s erased. You of all people should know that.”

“Yes,” I grumbled. The misadventure with Dean Harding seemed a lifetime ago, but it was going to haunt me forever.

“I had Ortiz put an antenna in your room and wear one on her to trace your movements and online activity. When she borrowed your phone, she planted a bug. I knew where you went, what you did, who you talked to.” He chuckled. “Nice handle, Cap’nCrunch.”

He got me there. He really was a master. I felt the blood rush to my face.

“But what about people—they can be evidence too,” I insisted a little desperately.

Taj looked at Ortiz and Luca. “True. You can’t eliminate all risk from a situation, but you can do your best to minimize it—involve as few co-conspirators as possible, pay them outrageously well, and have something on them to guarantee their continued loyalty.”

I never would have thought not to trust Ortiz.

“Some things I had to do myself.” He moved his fingers like he was rubbing something between them.

I gasped. “Mrs. Jennings’s cape! When you touched it, you stuck the GPS on it!”

Taj’s gaze settled on me. “Very good.”

“You were going to take her there, at St. Peter’s,” I said, dumbfounded. On holy ground, in front of the Secret Service, tourists, the Swiss Guards, schoolchildren. It was so bold I could hardly believe it.