Touch & Go (43 page)

“Mick stabbed him,” Ashlyn erupted suddenly. “He took his knife, and he, and he… I hate him! I hate him I hate him I hate him. We Tased him. We hit him, we fought him. Why can’t a man like him just die!”

The dam broke. Ashlyn burst into tears, falling into her mother’s embrace. Libby grabbed her daughter tightly, and they clung to each other, a family of three now forever a family of two.

Tessa didn’t say a word. That snowy night years ago, she and Sophie had done the same. In fact, they still did. Because some kinds of pain didn’t magically fade away. While knowing they at least had each other helped make the bad days easier to take.

Wyatt returned, murmuring low in her ear. “Tire tracks, headed down the hill. Must be on open road by now.”

Tessa got the message. “Libby, Ashlyn? I know you are hurt. I promise, we’re here to help. But first, we need your assistance. The men who did this. They’re getting away. Wouldn’t you like to do something about that?”

Her words got their attention. In a matter of minutes, she had them ensconced in Wyatt’s cruiser, more blankets, more water, Ashlyn now tearing into one of the energy bars while Libby did most of the talking.

Plain white van. Neither of the women remembered any identifying marks, had not really seen it much from the outside anyway. Their captors, on the other hand, they could describe in great detail. Three men, a huge guy with a cobra tattoo, a second big guy with crazy blue eyes and checkerboard hair, then finally, the smaller born-again nerd.

Libby and Ashlyn talked, Wyatt worked the radio, getting the description circulating immediately to all available law enforcement officers.

More vehicles arrived, state police cruisers, unmarked detective’s vehicles, not to mention the feds, tearing up the long, snaking drive.

Not much longer now, Tessa knew. The feds would take over and with at least two members of the Denbe family safe, her assignment would wrap up, with even Wyatt finding himself relegated to cleanup. Except the kidnappers were still out there. Men so brutal that even after being paid nine million dollars, they’d been willing to slaughter an entire family.

The feds’ black sedan making the final climbing turn.

Tessa studied Libby Denbe and she made her decision.

Tessa squatted down, taking Libby’s hands in her own. “You are strong. Your daughter is strong. Trust me when I say you are both doing remarkably well. Now, I just need a couple more things from you. You understand, right, that whoever did this knew you, knew your family?”

Libby got it immediately. “Inside job,” she murmured. “They overrode our security, knew everything about us, even mentioned having done research.”

“Do you think they were professionals?”

“Yes, former military. Justin thought the same.”

“Did you know them?”

“No. I think they were mercenaries. Hired to do the job.”

Tessa nodded, not surprised, but troubled. Because if someone had
hired professionals to take the Denbes away, would that person really be happy to have them reappear in Boston?

“I know,” Libby said quietly, as if Tessa had spoken out loud. “I think that’s why Mick tried to kill us. Because while they didn’t want to say no to all that money in ransom, the fact remained, their assignment was to kill us.”

Sitting beside Libby, Ashlyn didn’t even flinch. Which said something about her past three days.

Behind Tessa, the sedan had come to a stop. The sound of car doors opening…

No more time to beat around the bush. “What about your drug problem?”

Libby flushed, replied steadily: “The younger one, Radar, had experience as a medic. He took care of me, including providing methadone.”

Tessa frowned, something about that niggling in the back of her mind.

Car doors, slamming shut.

Her voice lower, more urgent: “Did you cheat on your husband? I need a name—”

“No! Why would you even? We were working on our marriage—”

“Then who’s pregnant?”

Libby’s eyes widened. She glanced almost involuntarily at her daughter.

Tessa’s turn to be surprised. Not the mother, but the daughter, the teenage daughter. Meaning…

“Ashlyn—”

“Libby Denbe, Ashlyn Denbe? I’m Special Agent Nicole Adams. This is Special Agent Ed Hawkes, with the FBI.” Nicole had appeared, standing stiffly at Tessa’s side, voice impressively commanding.

Tessa took that as her cue to leave. She rose, giving Libby and Ashlyn one last reassuring smile. Then, with Nicole Adams pointedly stepping forward, asking about immediate medical needs…

Tessa checked in with Wyatt, who was still working the radio.

“Any luck?” she asked, meaning with capture of the kidnappers.

“Negative. But good news is, there’s only one access road coming in and out of this prison. Given that we got cops pouring in from all directions, as well as choppers en route, one white cargo van shouldn’t be so hard to find.”

Tessa nodded, waited a beat. “You sure about that?”

“No,” he declared flatly.

They watched more cop cars pour into the property and start climbing the knoll, vehicles that, by definition, should’ve already come across any and all white cargo vans traveling a lone access road.

“They knew this place,” Tessa murmured. “According to Libby, the kidnappers were professionals. Not only knew all about the family, but mentioned doing research. Meaning, they probably picked this location deliberately, having run across it while researching Justin Denbe—”

“Or being informed of its availability from someone else inside Denbe Construction,” Wyatt filled in. “Someone who could provide them with access, show them how to run the place, probably even identify an old back road, maybe used during construction, for getting heavy machinery on site.”

Tessa sighed heavily. They didn’t have to say the words out loud to know the truth; the plain white van wouldn’t be discovered anytime soon. Once again, the kidnappers were one step ahead.

“Justin Denbe is dead?” Wyatt asked, having only gotten to hear bits and pieces of her conversation with Libby and Ashlyn.

“Died protecting his family from one of the guys… Mick?”

“His body?”

“Took it with them. Covering their tracks, maybe? I don’t know all the details yet. I ran out of time to ask questions.”

Wyatt smiled faintly, understanding her dilemma perfectly. Then,
his expression grew more serious. “The family was attacked even after the ransom was paid.”

“Libby believes the kidnappers’ primary assignment was to kill them. The ransom money was just a nice perk.”

“Kill
them
,” Wyatt pressed, “or kill Justin? Assuming it’s Anita Bennett, wanting to take over the company, Justin’s death alone would be enough.”

“Or,” Tessa followed his train of thought, “ditto with a mystery embezzler who feared Justin’s tracking efforts were growing too close.” The thought that had bothered her earlier clicked into place. “One of the kidnappers has medical training. He assisted Libby with detox, even provided methadone. Now, if the mercenaries were just going to kill her in a matter of days, would they really go to that much trouble?”

“Meaning Justin was probably the intended target,” Wyatt supplied. “The kidnapping was a nice way of framing the incident so it wouldn’t be immediately traced back to, say, the company. Justin died in a ransom exchange gone bad, not an ‘accident’ that might lead to undue police questioning.”

Tessa frowned, still not liking it. “All very elaborate.”

“No more so than embezzling eleven million over nearly two decades.”

“True. So, we’re looking for someone patient. Who has inside knowledge of the Denbe family, the firm’s finances and the prison project. Who would also have the connections to hire some ex-military mercenaries. Who would instruct those mercenaries that it was okay to kill Justin, but supply Libby with medical attention should she need it.” Tessa stopped. “Is it just me, or is it too obvious?”

Wyatt looked equally disturbed. “He wasn’t even around when the embezzling began,” he warned.

“And yet?”

“Chris Lopez.” Wyatt sighed.

“Chris Lopez,” she agreed.

MONDAY AFTERNOON, 3:22, plain white cargo van heading west. Not toward the main entrance of the prison compound, but toward the side of the property, where the hard-packed ground showed traces of the access route once used by scores of construction vehicles during the first phase of the building project.

Earlier in the day, after shutting off the power, Mick had spent quality time clipping away at the perimeter fencing, until he could roll aside a section just large enough to form a van-size hole. Now, Radar drove slowly through the opening, braking long enough for Mick to jump out and unroll the fencing back into approximate position. Nothing that would hold upon closer inspection, of course, but they didn’t care about eventualities. They cared about the next thirty minutes. All they needed more or less. Thirty minutes for law enforcement to interrogate the woman and the girl, compare notes, activate additional resources and churn, churn, churn.

At which time, the chase would begin in earnest.

Not that it would matter, as the men would already be gone.

White cargo van, through the perimeter fencing, heading due west deeper into the woods. Earthmovers had once traveled this way. Excavators ripping off the top of the knoll, to make it flatter and more suitable for a massive building. Then, dirt haulers bringing in new, better dirt for fill, topsoil, whatever the plans required.

The access road was broad, the kind of hard-packed earth that couldn’t yield any tire tracks, as it had nothing left to give. The sparse vegetation that had managed to grow in during the ensuing two years bowed under the weight of the relatively light van, before springing back again.

Their base camp was six miles in, at the base of a hill that Radar
had studied for weeks before finally deciding it would do. A rocky hill. Not huge, but comprised mostly of boulders, New Hampshire being the Granite State and all.

He pulled forward, then carefully backed his way in between two rocky outcroppings, the mountain version of parallel parking. Satisfied he was as close as possible to the target, ensconced on three sides with stone, he killed the engine and they began the next phase of operations.

All necessary supplies were in the van. Z had a bag of tricks. Mick had a bag of tricks. Radar had a small bundle, being the most nondescript of them to begin with.

Z started with his “tattoo.” Solvent to sponge, sponge to shaved skull, and inch by inch, the green cobra disappeared, scrubbed away as if it had never existed. Next, he exchanged his black commando gear for a pair of broken-in men’s jeans, comfortable T-shirt, oversize gray hoodie bearing the Red Sox logo and even larger L.L. Bean barn coat. Since a tinge of green remained on his skin, he donned a Red Sox cap. Add a pair of scuffed-up hiking boots, and he could be any white guy who lived in New England. Just a dude, hanging out in the mountains until the right plane could take him to a better location…say, a beach in Brazil.

For Mick, the transformation was even easier. Pop, pop and two bright blue contact lenses were out, leaving behind warm brown eyes framed by surprisingly thick lashes. Quick buzz of the electric razor and the checkerboard hair was gone, leaving a smooth, round skull. If Z was a mountain dude, then Mick went for Euro chic. Straight-legged black jeans, a fine-knit cranberry-colored sweater covered by a slightly rumpled dark sports jacket. A tourist, probably visiting from Canada, which, as a native French speaker, worked for him. Over his shoulder, he slung a black leather attaché case, carrying fresh ID, not to mention paperwork on his new bank account, now flush with $1.5 million dollars. His cut; Radar had received the same,
while Z, being the brains of the operation, had pocketed $2 mil. As for the remaining $4 million…there were brains and there were masterminds. Masterminds, it turned out, were very expensive.

Not that Mick was complaining. Any operation was only as good as the planning behind it, and given how smoothly this operation had gone, it would be the easiest 1.5 million Mick had ever made.

Last person to swap out his disguise: Radar. He changed clothes. That was it. From jeans, flannel and baseball cap to Dockers, white button-up dress shirt and designer wire-rim glasses. He looked like any young professional in Boston. Maybe a recent MIT grad, now killing it at a software firm. A job he probably could’ve excelled at, had he been inclined to do things such as real work.

Now Radar placed his old gear in the van. So did the others. A pile of incriminating evidence, not to mention the bloody knife as well as additional gore. They stepped away, putting some distance between themselves and the vehicle.

Z hadn’t been lying. Radar’s true expertise was demolition.

And given that forensic techs were so good that even blowing up a van couldn’t completely destroy all the evidence, they were going for one step better. Disappearing. Burying the van in a small avalanche of boulders, the kind that occurred naturally all the time in the Granite State, just ask the Old Man of the Mountain. With any luck, the van, the remnants of their operation and all traces of evidence would never be seen again.

They donned protective eye gear, as taking a rock fragment to the cornea at this stage of operations would be just plain stupid.

Z gave the signal. Radar pushed the button. A small rumble. Not terribly loud. Explosives are as much about placement as power, and Radar had worked hard to identify the hillside’s natural weaknesses. Then with almost a groan, the top half of the rocky terrain gave way, and the ensuing slide whomped down upon the white van. The shatter of glass, the squeal of crumpling metal, then, the van was gone.
Random boulders continued to rain down for a few minutes afterward.

The men waited patiently; for, again, to rush at this stage of the operation would be stupid.

When the dust settled, they made their final inspection. The van, every square inch of it, was gone, a fresh pile of rocks forming the perfect tomb.

Z made the call.

“Men,” he declared. “
Vamos
.”