Blindside (Michael Bennett #12)(52)

It was dark and smelled of urine. Not the image I had of a cybercriminal’s hideout at all. Not even a decent super-villain lair. This sucked.

I had tried to pick up some intel on the ride over, but the men had spoken to each other only in Dutch. I worried about Bill Fiore and his wounds. I hoped he was getting treatment right now. That would mean he’d also alerted the local police to my kidnapping. I wasn’t a hopeless case yet.

Now I found myself in a room where the only light was a line along the bottom of the door, from a bulb at the base of the stairs next to it. I sat on a hard, wooden chair, like I was waiting to see the principal at a Catholic school. My hands were still secured by the cord handcuffs. And just like in a holding cell of a police station, there was a bolt in the wall with a ring on the end big enough to tie a rope through. That rope was attached to my handcuffs and kept me in place. I wasn’t impressed with Estonia’s restraint technology. I felt like I was in the Alabama of the Baltics. But I was secure. I had already tried to break free and only had sore wrists to show for it. Maybe I should watch my New Yorker’s natural tendency to make fun of Alabama.

Several times I heard people on the stairs who then walked past my room and toward the loading dock. After about thirty minutes, someone came down the stairs and stopped, then turned toward my room. Finally I was going to have some human contact.

Whoever it was, they hesitated outside the door. After another minute, a head popped into my room, allowing in some dim light. It was Natalie Lunden.

She didn’t say anything. I think she was shocked by the sight of an American police officer held prisoner in her boyfriend’s office building.

I managed to say, “Where are we?”

She didn’t answer. Natalie stepped into the small room and kicked away dead bugs near her feet.

“Are they going to torture me?”

She shook her head and said, “Henry doesn’t do that kind of thing.”

“Tell that to the guy Henry had shot in the head.”

I could tell by the look on Natalie’s face she had already been thinking about that. She looked like she might be ill. That’s just what this little shithole of a room needed: vomit.

Natalie said, “Henry acted rashly. He wasn’t thinking. He’s been under a lot of stress.” Everyone wanted to make excuses for criminals. Sometimes they were just assholes to the core.

“You’re kidding yourself. You’re not some wide-eyed country girl, for Chrissakes. You went to MIT. Can’t you see Henry is bad news?”

Natalie thought about it for a moment, then said, “I know what you think. But I’m here by choice. I wasn’t lying when I told you I bought my own ticket. It wasn’t my mom’s choice or my dad’s. I did it.”

“But why? For that little twerp with a Napoleon complex? How many steroids does he take to look like that? He looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger and Tom Cruise had a baby.”

Her pretty face flushed. She swallowed and said, “He loves me. And I love him.”

Then I understood. The one thing in the world that can screw up a good education, derail career plans, and generally mess with your head: love.





CHAPTER 74





OLLIE AND CHRISTOPH sat in an office on the ground floor of the new building. There were six offices on this floor and ten on the floor above them. Plus there was a loading dock and four storage rooms in the basement. It was dreary—that was the word Christoph thought of. No style or splash.

Henry was expanding. And getting crazier.

Ollie said, “I can’t believe Henry had Joseph shot. I think he was just trying to impress the American cop.”

Christoph said, “No doubt Henry can show off, but in his defense, gunshot wounds are hard to explain at hospitals.” He had his doubts about their employer, but he didn’t want to fuel Ollie’s growing dissatisfaction.

“But it’s like he thinks he’s some kind of god, ordering death sentences.”

Christoph nodded. “He pays well and is making money. Don’t worry about it. He said we could have this office space for ourselves.” Christoph liked the idea of them having their own office. Henry had designated this room just for them. At the moment, there was only a table and two folding chairs in it, but they had already ordered two desks and a bookshelf.

Ollie had a different take on it. He said, “Why on earth would we want an office? It’s just another way for Henry to keep track of us. Next thing you know, he’ll tell us to work regular hours. Do you want to get high at night and wake up at seven thirty the next morning for the rest of your life?” Ollie shuddered.

The way Ollie put it, Christoph wasn’t nearly as excited. He did like the easy hours they could generally set on their own. He was too lazy to go to school—that’s why he had to make the most of his youth and lack of conscience. He didn’t think he could be doing this kind of work into his forties.

Christoph said, “Doesn’t it make you feel more professional?” But looking at his partner, and his nasty black AC/DC T-shirt and long, greasy hair, he realized Ollie didn’t care anything about feeling professional.

Ollie said, “There’s only one thing that makes me feel professional: getting paid. If we didn’t get paid for killing people, we’d just be psychopaths. I don’t care about offices or if the boss likes us. I just want to get paid for our work.”