The Games (Private #11)(44)

Two hundred yards in, a thousand vertical feet below the cliffy north end of the mountains, Urso heard the hum of a generator before spotting a gathering of shacks hidden in the trees at the top of a small clearing, less than an acre. On the roof of the largest building was a satellite dish. That was not an uncommon sight in Rio, except this dish was joined by two others, and all three pointed in different directions.

The Bear saw the shadows of men to either side of the largest shack but went confidently to the door and knocked twice. The door soon opened.

The woman who called herself Rayssa stood there.

“Any trouble?” she asked.

“A little,” Urso admitted before handing over the knapsack. “But nothing to be worried about.”

Rayssa looked doubtful but took the pack and stood aside. The Bear entered the shack, saw fourteen-year-old Alou sitting in front of a desk made from a door turned flat. On top of the desk were three large iMac screens and a keyboard. Alou finished typing something in and hit Return. The two screens on the outside began to play the evening news. The center one showed the websites of the local papers. After watching several minutes of coverage focused on the upcoming Olympic Games, now just days away, Rayssa said, “The police, the Wises, and Private have kept it out of the news.”

Urso gestured with his chin at the knapsack, said, “Let’s change that.”

Rayssa nodded. She said to Alou, “Be ready in fifteen minutes.”

“The security’s strong, right?” the Bear asked.

Alou looked insulted, said, “It goes out in bursts, with corrupted and misleading metadata.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Rayssa said, “Don’t worry about it. He’s tested it. It works. Not even Private was able to track us.”

Urso chewed at the inside of his lip, said, “Where’s Wise?”

“Next door,” Alou said.

They went out the back of the shack and crossed a narrow gap to a smaller, tin-roofed structure. One of the Bear’s men stood at the door. He wordlessly moved aside and let them in.

Andrew Wise was dressed in another blue workman’s coverall, now with a black hood over his head. Straps held his chest, arms, and legs to a sturdy chair. The American billionaire heard them come in, turned his head their way, and tried to say something through his gag.

Rayssa ignored him. She went to a tripod mounted about three feet in front of Wise. She removed a recently stolen Canon HD camera from the knapsack, checked the SIM card, then attached the camera to the tripod and aimed it at her hostage.

Rayssa handed a black hood to the Bear and put on the primitive mask she’d used during the ransom demands for the Wise sisters.

“Okay, then,” Rayssa said, walking toward the billionaire. “It’s time to get down to it. The real reason you were brought here, Mr. Wise.”





Chapter 50



I HEARD THREE sharp knocks on my door at the Marriott. Despite the disaster of the previous evening, I’d been in desperate need of sleep, and around ten that morning I had gone there rather than to Tavia’s flat.

The knocking came again. I groaned, forced my eyes open, and looked at the clock. Six thirty p.m. I’d slept eight solid hours, the longest stretch I’d gotten in a month.

“Jack?” Cherie Wise called through the door. “Are you there?”

“Two seconds, Cherie,” I yelled back.

After throwing on sweatpants and a hoodie, I went to the door, looked through the peephole, and saw Cherie standing there, trembling, still wearing her clothes from the night before. I yanked the door open. “Cherie?”

“What am I going to do?” she asked, and burst into tears.

“Come inside,” I said, taking her by the elbow. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” she blubbered. “That’s the point. They’ve had him more than twelve hours and nothing!”

“Andy’s a big coup, and they know it,” I said, leading her to a seat. “They’re going to be extra careful before they contact us. And after the gunfire, they have to know there are federal police involved too. You’ve got to take a lot of deep breaths. Live in the moment until we know more.”

Wiping at her tears, Cherie said, “I’m sorry, Jack, I’ve just never been through anything remotely like this.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” I said. “Anybody in your boots has the right to cry.”

“Not very Jackie O. of me.”

“I’ll bet Jackie O. had more than her share of moments like this, times when she hadn’t slept and felt like she was all alone in the world.”

Cherie sighed, blew out her breath, and slumped in the chair.

“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “It’s just left me feeling so burned, so cheated. One minute I get the girls back and the next Andy’s gone.”

Cherie paused, tensing again, acting as if she were far away and contemplating the unthinkable.

“We’d been having trouble in our marriage, Jack,” she said. “I won’t bore you with the sordid details, but the truth is…I’ve been up all night because I want Andy back. I really do. I want to tell him that all is forgiven. I want to hear him say it to me.”

The billionaire’s wife looked tortured and forlorn as she drew her feet up, hugged her knees, and whispered again, “I want to hear him say it to me.”