The Athena Factor (34 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Athena Factor
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Tomaso, generally so very in charge of himself, started. “Sir?”
Lymon gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Just do it, all right? If you don't, he's going to kill her.”
Tomaso's dark eyes held his for a moment, and he finally nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Lymon made his way through the house, out past the foyer table, where he collected his helmet, and into the yard. Afternoon light cast a yellow glow through the trees as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket, turned it on, and punched the number for the West LA station handling Christal's case.
Come on, Christal, let them tell me you've been found safe and are at the station giving a statement.
But she wasn't. The police had nothing to report.
S
id was starting to think he'd been taken for a ride. The cabdriver he'd hired at LAX didn't speak English. Sid didn't speak Spanish. He hadn't remembered that it took so long to get from the airport to Wilshire Boulevard. But then, he'd been riding with Christal last time, sharing conversation, laughing, enjoying the odd moments of just looking at her and thinking how pretty she was.
This time he was in the back of the cab, his suitcase propped under one arm, while traffic moved, stopped, and moved again. The slightly pungent tang that periodically rose up from the floorboards suggested that the greasy-looking stain between his shoes must have had its origins inside a human digestive tract. When he rolled the window
down, all he could smell was traffic. And the Mexican cabdriver called back that he was doing something to the
frio
, whatever that was.
Sid tried to think about other things.
So, it was with relief that the cab finally took a left onto Wilshire, proceeded another three blocks, and pulled up at the curb beside a fire hydrant.
“Estas
aquí,”
the driver told him.
“¿Es
el
numero, no?”
He pointed at the address on a jewelry shop window.
“Yeah, we ought to be three doors down.” He hoped he was right. Lymon had taken him in the back way. The obnoxious odor rising from the floor made his decision for him. He forked out the thirty-five bucks, opened the back door, and hung his travel bag over his shoulder. As the cab pulled away, he took stock of the sidewalk, then started down the block. Not every business had a number over the door, but Sid had the general idea.
LYMON BRIDGES ASSOCIATES was printed in block letters on a sign screwed into a brick wall. Sid sighed with relief, opened the aluminum-clad glass door, and thumped his way up the wooden steps. At the top he opened a security door and stepped into Lymon's office. He could smell coffee, the odor of wood and dust, and the slight mustiness of carpeting.
June's fortress of a desk stood empty, its surface cluttered with a computer screen and keyboard, a blotter, a stand of pens and pencils, telephone, and all the other impedimenta of a good cleric.
Soft voices were coming from the rear. Sid dropped his bag on the leather-upholstered couch beside the door and walked past June's desk.
He found Lymon's office occupied. Lymon himself sat behind the desk. June was half-perched on one corner, staring down at the computer monitor. Another guy, a darkly complected, fit-looking young man, lounged in Lymon's office chair. They all looked worried as they glanced up.
“Sid?” Lymon cried in surprise, rising to his feet.
“What's the matter with you? Don't you check your machine?” Sid asked. “I called just before my flight left DC.”
He got a good look at Lymon's face, seeing the stress. “What's the news?”
“Nothing,” Lymon answered, then gestured around. “I think you know everyone here but Salvatore.”
“Sid Harness,” he said, taking the man's hand and feeling the bundled strength implied by the grip.
“My pleasure. I've heard a lot about you.”
Sid jabbed a thumb in Lymon's direction. “He lies.”
Salvatore grinned. “Then so does Christal. She told the same stories.”
“What are you doing here?” Lymon asked, coming around the desk. “How did you get here?” He looked puzzled. “Why?”
Sid shrugged. “It's Saturday. I've got a slew of annual leave coming. I thought you might need a little help on this end. Having a tame FBI guy in the closet can be helpful.” He scuffed his toe for effect. “And on top of all that, Christal's my friend.”
A knowing smile molded Lymon's lips. “Yeah, I thought so. You eaten?”
“Not on airplanes these days. I grabbed a donut at the Winchell's down the block from my house. That was a little before seven this morning.”
Lymon turned to June. “Call Al's. Have him make up a to-go order of burgers.” He looked at Salvatore.
“I'm on it, boss.” The muscular man rose to his feet, nodded to Sid, and stepped out.
June picked Lymon's phone off the cradle and tapped numbers by memory.
“What happened?” Sid asked as June spoke carefully into the phone.
“Here're the photos. Take a look for yourself.” Lymon led him to a work table in the office's back corner.
As Lymon narrated the events, Sid fingered the photos. Each had that slightly off color of an infrared shot. The image quality was remarkably good. The guy taking the photos had started with a party walking down the sidewalk. Sid could see a figure being carried. From the postures, Christal was completely limp. Alive, or dead? He couldn't tell.
The series of photos led to an open van door, then pulled back, showing a motorcycle pulling up.
“You and Ms. Marks?” Sid asked.
Lymon nodded. “Sheela was going to spend the weekend with Christal.”
“Huh?”
“It's complicated.”
Sid read the look in Lymon's eyes, let it go, and flipped through the rest of the photos. The most telling was of a tall man shoving Lymon and Sheela over, while in the background, a familiar face was caught full-on. Hank Abrams had been in the process of dragging Christal's limp body into the van, but had looked up in time to see the man push Lymon's bike over. Hank's expression reflected worry and distress.
“What do you think?”
Sid thumbed through the rest as the van motored off. “Is that a license number?”
“Yeah, a Ryder rental. The local FBI is working on it.”
Sid tapped the stack of photos against his palm. “How'd you get all this?”
Lymon chuckled, tension in his voice. “Sheela did it. She managed to enlist the service of the paparazzo who shot this. Look, it was just fortuitous. The guy caught on that Sheela was doing something, tailed us, and took these photos.”
“What?”
Lymon's shadowed eyes held no humor. “It's how people live out here, Sid. Sheela wanted time to relax. She talked Christal into letting her spend the weekend in her hotel room. We just happened to ride in at the right moment to see it all happening.”
“You're sure it's Christal these guys were after? Maybe they got wind of it, thought they were getting Sheela?”
Lymon bent and picked up a gaudy green flyer. Sid took it and unfolded the paper. The big letters jumped out at him. “Genesis Athena.” Looking up, he asked, “You think that's what this is all about?”
Lymon crossed his arms, glanced at June, and shrugged. “It's the best we've got.”
“Why?”
“Answer that, my friend, and we'll know what Christal was on the verge of discovering.”
“What about Hank?” Sid asked.
“I called his boss this morning. Verele says he knows nothing about any kidnapping. According to him, Hank is no longer in his employ. He says he took a position with a client.”
“Sheik Amud Abdulla?” Sid said, remembering. “You believe that?”
“Look, I know Verele. Verele Security isn't into breaking the law. My take is that Genesis Athena offered Abrams a better deal. I think the good Sheik just lifted Christal. Did she tell you about the first time he saw her?”
“About that night in New York? A little. I did some research for her.”
“We know.” He tapped a file folder that lay closed on the desk. “Genesis Athena. What is it, Sid? What's the Sheik doing? Why'd he grab Christal? What did she discover that scared them so?”
Sid could feel June's probing gaze as she studied him. He shrugged, glancing at the woman. Lymon had a thing about surrounding himself with attractive women. “You got me, cowboy. I just ran some stuff through the computer.” He heard the rear door open and close down the hall. Salvatore had been really fast. “She faxed me some papers, a questionnaire. I had the psych guys down at Quantico look at it. They thought it was a test of some sort. A sort of psychological evaluation.”
“To evaluate what?” a fine contralto asked from behind him.
Sid wheeled, and stared into the most bewitching blue eyes he'd ever seen. They pinned him like a study moth, and it took his floundering mind a moment to realize that he knew that perfect face. Had seen it staring down at him with rapt wonder from the screen.
“Jesus Christ,” he mumbled.
“Not even close.” The goddess was offering her hand. “I'm Sheela Marks. And you are?”
“Sid Harness,” Lymon called from behind when Sid's words failed him. “He's a very dear and very old friend.”
Sid swallowed hard, managed to shake Sheela Marks' hand, and watched as Lymon pushed past, a frown on his face.
“What's happened?” Sheela asked.
“What are you doing here?” He looked past her to the tall handsome man who waited in the hallway. “Hello, Paul.”
“Mr. Bridges,” the man replied respectfully.
And then Sheela Marks put her hands on Lymon's shoulders, looking into his eyes. “Lymon, I have to know what's happened. Have the police called? The FBI? They won't talk to me, but I know that you have connections.”
“Nothing, Sheela. Not a word. No one has called here or even to her mother in New Mexico, for that matter.” He seemed to harden. “She might have just dropped off the face of the earth.”
Sid could feel the electricity flowing between them, could read the body language. For a long moment they looked into each other's eyes, and then Sheela Marks said, “I have to find her, Lymon. No matter what it takes.”
 
 
Gray dreams began to shred, giving way to a terrible sweetly metallic taste that clung to Christal's dry tongue. She shifted, vaguely aware that her body had the gritty feel of numbed cotton. A faint ache lurked behind her eyes. For the moment, it was fine to lie in the safe grayness, hanging halfway between wakefulness and the fragments of fleeing dreams. Some voice deep within urged her to surrender to the dream again. Fall back into the mist of unconsciousness. It would be so much easier that way.
Easier? Than what? A slippery premonition goaded her to blink. A white haze glared when she flicked her gritty eyelids. The fluffy muzziness in her brain refused to give way to thought.
She pulled her hand up, hearing it rasp across linen. Rubbing her eyes, she blinked again. Shit, was she hungover?
Her tongue moved dryly, and swallowing was almost impossible. The first saliva tasted foul—really foul.
She made a face.
Pushing with rubbery muscles, Christal sat up, aware that she wore only panties and a brassiere. Her glazed vision had trouble coming into focus, so she massaged her rheumy eyes with her palms until she could make out the small white room. Her new cosmos consisted of a solid metal door, a table with a plastic drinking glass and water pitcher, a round window, and her bunk. A smaller wooden door led where? To a closet?
“What the … ?” She struggled with her brain. Thought seemed to be such a flexible problem.
Where the hell am I?
She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to pin her mind in place. Home was the Residence Inn in west LA. She had been doing what? Getting ready for Sheela to come and stay the weekend with her.
She had been where? Headed home after doing some last-minute shopping. She could remember walking the supermarket aisles, selecting things to cook, things she thought Sheela might like to try.
Then, a faint memory stirred. First it was the emotional recollection of fear, and then the hazy images of Hank Abrams, his hands up, a pleading expression on his face as he glanced at something behind her shoulder. A hand had clapped over her mouth, dragging her back. The sting in her neck …
“God, where am I?” She swung her feet over the edge of the bunk and stared down. Her shoes were resting side by side on the gray-carpeted floor. Her clothes were neatly folded on a small nightstand at the head of the bed.
She swayed as she stood, bracing one hand against the cold wall, and felt unforgiving steel beneath. A hard rap with her knuckles confirmed the fact. Her slim brown fingers contrasted against the white paint.
Steadying herself, she turned to the round window and stared out in disbelief. The sun was either rising or setting, capping the waves with yellow, hollow troughs dark and rippling as the muscular swells rose and fell.
Shit! She was in the middle of the Pacific! On what? A ship? She pressed her nose to the glass, bending her face this way and that as she tried to see to either side. Endless water rolled off to the golden horizon.
She made a face as she poked and prodded her stomach and abdomen. Why the hell were her insides so tender? Talking inventory, she could see a bruise on the back of her hand. From what? An IV? Her arms and shoulders were sore. What the hell had they done? Dragged her like a corpse?

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