A Harmless Little Ruse (Harmless #2)(54)

My heart stops. Just stops, like a deer walking calmly through a dewy dawn, ears perked by a sudden interruption, a pending doom.

I stare at Mark, half-listening, blood starting to boil, mind turning into a tornado. “What?”

“You heard me. Paulson said this was the best approach, so he’s escorting her personally. Anya arranged it all.”

“Say that again.” I can hear my voice drop like a drawbridge.

Mark’s brow furrows and he mouths the word, What?

I’m staring at Mark. He’s staring back.

“Anya arranged for Mark Paulson to transport Lindsay back to the...coffee plantation,” he says, annoyed. “Look, I don’t have time for -- ”

“That’s impossible, Harry,” I grind out.

“What are you talking about?” His reply is impatient. He’s done with me. I’m a bother and if I don’t get him to realize what he’s doing, more than one person is about to die.

Or worse.

“There’s no way Mark Paulson just got on that helicopter to escort Lindsay to the Island.”

Mark’s mouth opens with shock, then snaps shut.

“I talked to him on a cleared, secure line. Anya arranged it. Hell, I just watched them from across the grounds, climbing aboard the chopper. Don’t tell me it’s impossible.”

“Harry, you just sent her to her death,” I shout. I’m shaking uncontrollably, and I can’t look at Mark. Who do I trust? Mark made me leave The Grove last night, telling me it was for everyone’s good, that I needed to let the dust settle on all the media craziness. Then he hinted I should go to Jane’s apartment. Gave me her address. Was that all a lie?

My friends from high school turned on Lindsay and me four years ago.

Is Mark not what he seems, too?

I want to tell him about the microchip, to have Paulson track her...but...

Three officers rush into the room.

“Why?” Harry asks, shaking me out of my whip-fast thoughts. “Why would you say such a thing, Drew?”

“Because,” I say slowly, turning on the speaker phone just before they pin my arms behind my back, “Mark Paulson is right here with me.”

Paulson’s eyes narrow, his eyebrow fixed in place, the only sign of stress a twitch in his jaw muscles.

“He’s what?” Harry’s not faking the incredulity.

“What are you talking about, Drew?” Mark asks, stepping closer to me, then backing up as the three officers make it clear he’s next if he doesn’t.

“Jesus, is that Mark Paulson? He really is there with you? You’re not delusional? Then who the hell just took Lindsay?” Harry shouts into the phone. “Where is my daughter going?”

I’m slammed, cheek down, on the concrete floor and everything fades to a brilliant, familiar red.

The color of one of Lindsay’s scarves.