Lock In (Lock In, #1)(82)

“We’re fine with that option, by the way,” I said.

“Yes we are,” Vann said. She ticked up another finger. “Door number two. You talk.”

She put her hand down. “Make your choice. You have five seconds, after which we assume you’re going with door number one.”

“Which we’re fine with,” I said again.

“Yes we are,” Vann said.

Schwartz sat down and waited until the count of four, maybe four and a half. “I want a deal,” he said.

“Of course you do,” Vann said.

“Full immunity,” he began.

“No,” I interrupted. “You don’t get that.”

“You’re going to prison, Schwartz,” Vann said. “You better get used to that. What we’re discussing now is where, how long, and how bad it will be.”

“Full immunity or nothing,” Schwartz said.

“‘Nothing’ works for us,” I said.

“Mr. Schwartz, I don’t think you fully appreciate what I meant when I said you are magnificently f*cked,” Vann said. “It means that we have more than enough to bury you. Forever. And we will. Forever. But the fact of the matter is, you’re not the person we really want. You’re not the main attraction. I’m pretty sure you know who we’re talking about, here.”

“But if we can’t get him, we’ll be happy to take you,” I said.

“It’s true,” Vann said. “And let’s be honest, Schwartz. He’ll be happy to let us take you, too. You of all people should know how many lawyers he has and how good they are. The very second he learns we bagged you is the second all of it—all of it—gets shoved onto you. I can see the press release now.”

“He’ll be shocked and disturbed at the allegations and will pledge to cooperate fully with the authorities, which means us,” I said.

“And you know what,” Vann said. “At that point we might just decide to cut our losses and go with what we have. We’ll still look good, and honestly it’ll be a nice object lesson for you on the subject of blind loyalty to a man who’ll be happy to throw you to the dogs.”

Schwartz was silent again. Then, “What are you looking for from me?”

“All of it, of course,” Vann said. “Dates. Plans. How you used Accelerant’s various companies to further your goals. Who else is involved. What the end game was. What both you and Hubbard were planning to get out of it all.”

“Why you chose Sani and Skow,” I said.

“That’s right,” Vann said. “You have the upper echelons of the Navajo Nation ready to run you down with a car. You picked the wrong guy to mess with when you picked Sani. It’s probably just as well we’ll be putting you away for a while.”

“How long?” Schwartz asked. He was entirely defeated now. “How much time are we talking about here?”

“Are you asking for a specific number of years?” I asked.

Schwartz turned to me. “I have children, Agent Shane,” he said.

“You’re missing that soccer game, Mr. Schwartz,” Vann said, surprisingly gently. “You’ll be missing high school graduation too. Depending on what we get from you now, we can work on having you out to walk one of them down the aisle.”





Chapter Twenty-four

NICHOLAS BELL ENTERED Cassandra Bell’s second-floor apartment and entered the living room, which was in fact where Cassandra Bell lived, the bedroom of the apartment being used as storage and as a lounge for her caregivers. Cassandra’s morning caregivers had left for the day. Her afternoon caregivers would not come to the apartment for another hour. Nicholas walked over to the living room’s major feature: a cradle, in which lay a young woman. She looked, as all Hadens did, as if she were sleeping.

“It’s good of you to come see me, brother,” Cassandra said. “I haven’t seen you at all this last week.” Her voice was carried by a speaker next to her cradle, into which was also embedded a small camera, which she could use to see within the apartment. Cassandra preferred a simple real-world presentation. Which may have been why Nicholas paused when he saw the unfamiliar shape in the room. A threep.

“A gift from an admirer,” Cassandra said, following Nicholas’s gaze. “Not someone who admires me enough to know that I don’t use nor have I ever used a Personal Transport. But one of my caregivers knows someone who needs one. It’s waiting for her to come take it.”

Nicholas nodded and smiled and took his small backpack from his shoulder. He unzipped it and reached inside.

“Why, brother,” Cassandra Bell said. “Did you bring me a gift?”

“Yes,” Nicholas said. He took the large kitchen knife he had drawn from the backpack and thrust it into the young woman in the cradle, driving it deep into her abdomen.

Two more hard, deep thrusts into the belly, pushing upward. A rough jab downward, piercing the left upper thigh—a thrust in search of the femoral artery.

The flesh sliced open, pale.

Three thrusts making a sloppy triangle of cuts just below the sternum. One vicious slash on the left side of the neck and a matching slash on the right, opening up the arteries taking blood to the brain, and the veins drawing it away.