Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(100)

“So far, we’ve attacked them frontally,” he explained as if to a child. “The results have not been good. Alone or together, they’ve bested every direct assault we’ve leveled at them. What does this suggest?”

“That we have to increase the—”

“No,” King said sharply. “No more frontal attacks. They have the McClouds behind them, and Tamara Steele, and Val Janos, just to start. Have you done any research on these people? Have you any idea of their backgrounds? What they are capable of?”

“Ah . . . yes, but Melanie and I—”

“Perhaps you and Melanie have not been paying attention. We cannot afford to engage an army. We’re exposed, overextended. We have to control them. It’s clear that he has bonded with Parr. He’ll do anything to protect her now. Look at this.” King tapped the keyboard, selected a portion of the video the satellite photo had taken.

It showed Bruno Ranieri basically dragging Lily Parr up a cliff by her wrist. Pulling her up onto a ledge. He crouched with her there, leaning in to cup her face. They spoke for a few moments. Then he kissed her, very passionately. She wrapped her arms around his neck.

“So?” King prompted. “Hobart? Did you learn anything?”

“But . . . but—”

“You and Melanie take Parr. And we control Ranieri with her.”

“But Parr is in that Steele woman’s fortress,” Hobart whined. “The defense system is beyond state of the art. How can we possibly—”

“You and Melanie will go to Cray’s Cove and set up base,” King said. “Brute force is not working. Let us default to intelligence and guile. You two will listen, watch, and use the creativity and unconventional thought processing inculcated in you since babyhood. And we will see if any of that seeding ever took root, hmmm? I, for one, am curious.”

“Um. Yes, sir.” Hobart’s voice was subdued.

“Watch that place like a cat watches a mouse hole,” King said, giving in to the urge to micromanage. “Document every vehicle that comes and goes. Listen and watch. The device in Rosa Ranieri’s purse needs constant monitoring. Sooner or later, they’ll get careless, and you two will jump into action. You’d better hope it’s sooner.”

“We, ah, have a time issue?” Hobart asked.

King’s jaw ached from clenching. The man had delivered the transcript of that conversation in Tam Steele’s house the night before and had not made these connections himself. “Tony Ranieri’s letter would inconvenience the Ranieri family,” he explained. “The one that Rosa Ranieri holds. In her purse, we discovered. Which you held, Hobart. In your hands, in the baby supplies store. Entertain, hmm?”

“But, sir, I had no idea—”

“Silence,” he snapped. “Don’t waste my time. Bruno Ranieri will focus his attack on his Ranieri cousins now, since he knows no other place to attack. If he leans on Michael, then I do have a problem. So yes, there is a time issue, Hobart. As you so euphemistically put it.”

“But . . . then shouldn’t we—”

“Silence,” he snapped again. “You and Melanie take Parr. Bring her to me. No bodies, no noise, no police. And if you manage that small task, then maybe, just maybe, you will save your skins. We will see.”

Hobart’s shame and despair filled the silence. King decided to relent, just a little. Fear and shame were powerful motivators, but he was throwing a tantrum. Demoralizing the few functioning agents left to him was counterproductive. “Hobart,” he said. “Wait. Don’t hang up.”

He pulled up Hobart’s command codes out of his memory and judiciously chose a Level Five motivator sequence. It was a phrase of ancient epic poetry, written in medieval Georgian. It was designed to reinforce mood, stimulating endorphins. A fizzy rush to get a jump-start on the task at hand. More a lollipop than anything else.

Not that Hobart deserved a treat, but King was a practical man.

He recited the phrase, gave Hobart a moment to collect himself. “Now off with you,” he said. “Get to it.”

“Yes, sir.” Hobart’s voice was almost tearful.

King broke the connection and stared down at Zoe’s wasted form, wondering if there was any point at all in rehabilitating her. He would never have considered such a thing before, after a failure of such proportions. She was played out. It might be dangerous to recycle her at this point. But he had just lost eight operatives, some in their prime, others entering their prime. It was no simple matter to assemble more, with his stable out in the world, busily engaged in various profitable enterprises. He didn’t keep them around idle, kicking their heels.

He had to learn the lesson hidden in this terrible blow. It was his assumption of natural superiority that had brought him to this. He’d underestimated Bruno Ranieri. It was intriguing.

He turned away from Zoe’s humming, blipping machines and pulled up the recorded satellite image of yesterday morning’s debacle at the cabin, running the film forward until he got to the part he wanted.

Bruno Ranieri staring up at the sky. Giving him the finger.

Neil stared at the image for a long time, running it back and replaying the short sequence over and over. He wanted to hear the younger man’s voice to analyze his speech patterns. Get inside his head. He dug his phone out and punched in Hobart’s code again.