Touch & Go (30 page)

The ends appeared ragged and ugly. Without saying a word, I trimmed off both, handing one doughy piece to Ashlyn, her favorite part of the cinnamon-roll-making process. The second, I handed to Radar.

He didn’t even acknowledge me. But he picked up the bite of dough and popped it in his mouth. Just like that.

Some negotiations are not a matter of heavy battery, but slow advancement. Gains made so subtly, your opponent doesn’t realize you’ve even moved until they’re forced to watch the victory dance.

I made two dozen rolls, given that men of Z and Mick’s size ate at a certain volume, let alone if one homemade cinnamon bun was a treat, then three to four was an act of gluttony destined to be followed by a state of satiated lethargy, if not an outright sugar coma.

This kind of yeastless roll, thin and flaky versus thick and doughy, was Ashlyn’s favorite. I’d evolved the recipe twelve years ago, when my three-year-old hadn’t the patience to wait hours for homemade baked goods. Turned out, basically using pie dough halved the prep time while still yielding plenty of cinnamony delight. Our family recipe, now being shared with our family kidnappers.

While the commercial kitchen filled with the warm scent of baking cinnamon and caramelizing sugar, I inspected Ashlyn’s table. My daughter has always been creative, and her latest efforts didn’t disappoint.

She’d taken over one of the rolling stainless steel prep tables. Given that the overall color scheme in prison had a tendency to be stark white, she’d placed six red cafeteria trays to serve as institutional
placemats. Each red tray was topped with a plain white plastic dinner plate. Then, she’d taken smaller salad plates, centered each on a dinner plate and written, in brightly colored condiments, the individual’s name.

Z’s single initial was particularly impressive, standing out in bright red ketchup script. For Radar, she’d used yellow mustard. Mick got green pickle relish, and for a moment, my child and I shared a smile; Ashlyn loathed relish. Always had, always would.

In the middle of the table, Ashlyn had filled a glass bowl with multicolored layers of dried lentils, topped with an artful arrangement of three eggs, a wire whisk and a single piece of cooked bacon, stolen from her father’s pan. Add in the collection of plastic cups, silverware and rolled-up paper napkins, and the overall effect was rustic and charming. A piece of home.

The oven timer chimed. The cinnamon rolls were ready. Justin plated the eggs and bacon. We positioned the platters on the table, and just like that, showtime.

Z appeared five minutes later.

His own power play, I would guess, as he entered the kitchen in slow, measured strides, his face perfectly expressionless even as the wafting scents of fresh-baked buns and crisp-cooked bacon must’ve hit him like a wall.

Radar was already at the table, perched on the edge of a metal stool. He had a slightly glazed-over look on his face and was staring at the cinnamon rolls as if they were the last drop of water in a desert. But he remained still, hands at his side.

Z took in the table, still advancing steadily. Now his gaze flickered to me, where I stood next to my waiting stool, as did Justin and Ashlyn.

He smiled and I could tell he saw right through me, understood completely every step I’d just taken and why.

Z dished up first. Two rolls, half a plate of eggs, half a dozen
pieces of bacon. He passed each platter to Radar, who filled his plate, then dished up a plate for Mick, presumably working the control room, before returning the remaining food to the middle of the table. I hadn’t been around last night, but Justin and Ashlyn seemed to be waiting for something.

“Eat,” Z ordered at last, and they each took a seat.

A reminder of who was in charge. I wasn’t concerned. Second bite of the cinnamon roll, Z’s eyes fluttered down, the quick rush of buttery pastry and gooey cinnamon sugar hitting his bloodstream, intoxicating his senses.

I wondered what he was remembering right now. A mother, a grandmother, even just a moment in time when Z had felt warm, safe and loved. The true power of comfort food. It didn’t just fill one’s belly, it evoked a mood. And now, my food was triggering Z’s memory, forming an association between my handmade rolls and his own sense of well-being that would be difficult to break. Hence the past eighteen years I’d spent making homemade treats for Justin and his build crew. Because nothing earned undying devotion faster than freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Then, even the toughest of the tough turned instantaneously into a little boy, savoring a childhood treat while gazing upon the provider of that treat with fresh adoration.

I could use some adoration right about now.

My family was already eating. I picked at my own food, avoiding the greasy bacon, nibbling on a single roll. I should eat to build my strength, but I didn’t completely trust my stomach yet. Not to mention Z and his crew had commandeered the majority of the food. I didn’t want to take even more away from my daughter and husband.

“You’re going to ask for something,” Z said after the second cinnamon bun, while reaching for a third. “You anticipate my mind will be so muddled by your homemade rolls, my senses so overwhelmed by this lovely display of domesticity that I will say yes.”

“We’re not going to ask for something, we’re going to give you something.”

“You have nothing to give. And you’re wrong about the rolls. Cooking as good as this…now I have even less incentive to let you go.” His gaze flickered to my husband and there was a look on his face I didn’t understand.

“You’ve invested a lot of time in this operation,” I stated evenly. “Time, money, resources. I’m sure you and your team don’t want to walk away empty-handed.”

“Not about money. Didn’t I already say that?” Z glanced at Justin, my husband’s battered face, swollen eye.

“Mom.” Ashlyn nudged me, voice low. For the moment, I ignored her.

Z pulled his attention away from Justin long enough to eye me skeptically. “Besides, hasn’t your husband told you everything yet? That business isn’t going so well? That he no longer takes a salary? That, in fact, you don’t have money to offer?”

My face didn’t change expression. I had just learned these things, of course, but it surprised me that Z knew such details as well.

“Did he tell you about all the pressure he’s under?” Z continued in a bored voice. “Use that as his excuse for all of his
extracurriculars
. Poor Justin, just trying to feel like a big man.”

Justin flinched. I could feel his leg tensing up next to mine, preparing to stand. And do what? Pound the table? Take on the bigger guy with the cobra tattoo?

“Mom.” Ashlyn again, voice still low. She’d pushed away her red tray, her shoulders hunched as if with trepidation.

“Nine million dollars,” I said, ignoring both my family members.

For the first time, I could tell that I’d caught Z off guard. His face froze, the green cobra tattoo staring at me with twin beady eyes. Radar was less circumspect. He did a short double take, jaw hanging open, before quickly composing himself.

“We start today,” I continued calmly, “and it can be wired to the account of your choice by three P.M. tomorrow. We do the work. You get the money. But the demand has to be delivered today, and you have to let us go. Price of ransom. The victims must be recovered safe and sound.”

Z frowned at me, which, in fact, made the cobra’s fanged mouth move in unsettling ways around his left eye.

“Nine million dollars,” I repeated. “Guaranteed payday. You’ll leave this prison rich men. Not bad for a few days’ work.”

Z didn’t immediately say no. Almost absently, he pulled apart his third roll, biting into one half, flaky pastry catching around the corner of his hard-set mouth.

“How?” he asked.

“Insurance policy. On Justin, but also Ashlyn and me.”

“Company policy?”

“Yes. Perk of being an owner. Justin might not currently draw a salary, but he still gets great benefits.”

“They’ll pay?”

“That’s why you carry insurance.”

Another bite. Z chewed. Z swallowed. “Cash?” he asked abruptly.

“Wired to the fund of your choice.”

“I will not go on camera.”

“We have it all worked out.”

“One wrong word…”

“It’s in our best interests to have this all go as planned.”

“Nine million dollars,” he repeated, a concession of sorts.

“Three apiece. Or, more likely, five for you, two for each of your men.”

Radar didn’t look concerned by this split. Z actually smiled. And once again, the cobra tattoo seemed to twist and shudder around his perfectly shaved head.

“The background report,” he declared dryly, “had not indicated that you would be a problem.”

“Would you like another cinnamon bun?”

Z smiled again. Then his gaze switched to my husband, and the sudden coldness in his eyes made me start. He despised my husband. I could see it clearly, in the directness of his gaze. Hatred at a level that was beyond professional, had to be personal.

And for just one second, I hesitated. Maybe ransom was a bad idea. The exchange of money for hostages was inherently complicated. So many things could go wrong. A simple misstep could lead quickly and catastrophically to further violence, even death.

Especially when dealing with a man who’d covered his head in a giant fanged viper.

“Radar.” Ashlyn’s voice from beside me. My daughter no longer reaching toward me, but across the table toward the youngest commando.

Radar? Why would my daughter ask for…

I turned quickly, grabbing for Ashlyn’s arm but missing, as without another word, she slid off the back of her stool and dropped limply to the floor. Blood, so much blood, pooling on the lower half of her orange jumpsuit.

“Ashlyn!” Justin, already on his feet, then immediately drawing up short. “What the…”

Ashlyn’s staring up at me. Eyes, so much like my own, now filled with regret. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

And in that moment, I understood.

The men were scurrying around. Radar pushing back his stool, Z announcing in an authoritative voice for Justin to come with him, for Radar to tend to us.

I ignored them all. I focused on my daughter, who’d tried to warn me yesterday that we didn’t talk to her anymore. Not just moments
in a marriage, I realized now, but moments in an entire family, when you stopped seeing one another. When you shared space, but no longer yourselves with one another.

I did my best to see her now. To gaze into her eyes. To comfort her with my own presence. As I knelt on the floor and held my daughter’s hand while she miscarried.

Chapter 27

WYATT GOT THE CALL just as he and Tessa were leaving Chris Lopez’s neighborhood. Nicole, or should he say, Special Agent Adams, sounding crisp and cool as always, reporting that contact had been made. Justin Denbe himself, shortly after ten this morning, had appeared in a video presenting the ransom demands.

Tessa knew how to drive. Her years as a state trooper? Or just a lifetime living in Boston? Wyatt couldn’t begin to hazard which, but half a dozen white-knuckle moments later, they were careening down the alley that ran behind the Denbes’ town house, where sure enough, the FBI’s huge mobile command center squatted like a fat linebacker in the middle of an old lady’s tea parlor.

Inside, they found Nicole’s partner, Special Agent Hawkes, manning a laptop at a small table, flat-screen monitor mounted above. Nicole paced in the limited space behind him, obviously agitated. As Tessa and Wyatt walked in, she gestured to the oversize monitor with a jerk of her chin. Nicole had her arms crossed over her chest, one finger tapping her elbow restlessly.

She wasn’t just agitated, Wyatt realized. The FBI agent was upset.

He and Tessa exchanged a glance. He gestured for her to take the remaining seat across from Hawkes, while he stood next to Nicole. With all of them in viewing position, Hawkes hit the play button on his keyboard, and the rest of the story emerged.

The ransom demand had been delivered via a video message. It featured a single close-up shot of Justin Denbe, his face a black-and-blue battered mess, staring into the video camera with one good eye as he slowly listed the kidnappers’ demands. Nine million dollars, to be wired directly into a single account by 3:00 P.M. EST on Monday, at which time the entire Denbe family would be safely released. Failure to meet the demands would result in further harm to the Denbe family. More details to follow.

At the end of the twenty-second clip, Justin held up the front page of the morning paper. A brief close-up of the Sunday edition’s date, then the screen went blank.

“
Union Leader.
” Wyatt identified the Manchester-based newspaper. “Means they’re still in New Hampshire.”

“But no word on the rest of the family?” Tessa asked. She was leaning toward the computer screen, as if that might help.

“Justin Denbe contacted his insurance company via telephone at ten twenty-three this morning,” Nicole provided, fingers still tapping. “He demanded to speak to a manager, saying that he and his family had been abducted. He was afraid for his life and evoking the special circumstances clause in the kidnapping policy: Essentially, in the event that the policyholder faces credible risk of imminent death, the company will pay out half of the value of the life insurance policy as additional ransom. Given that a dead Justin Denbe would cost the company ten million in life insurance, it’s in the company’s own best interest to pay up more now, in order to save later.”

Wyatt turned that around in his head: “So, instead of paying out just the four million in ransom insurance, the company will pay that, plus an extra five from the life insurance policy?”

“Precisely.”

“Nine million in ransom versus ten million in death benefits,” Tessa murmured. “Once again, the captors seem to know a great deal
about the Denbes’ personal affairs, including just how high they can go with their ransom demand before capping out.”

“Our theory has always been that the kidnappers are professionals.” Hawkes spoke up, recuing the video. “Given that, it makes sense they’d do their homework before embarking on this enterprise.”