Cassidy Jones and the Seventh Attendant (Cassidy Jones Adventures, Book Three) (25 page)

“Yes, I can see that,” Visser answered Moreau as I pulled up into a crouch. I mentally prepared myself to launch onto the deck. “The boss will be very pleased. He’s due anytime.”

The surprise crossing Moreau’s face gave me pause. I glanced at Mr. Phillips and caught surprise on his face, too, but his expression immediately went blank. I lowered myself to my stomach again. Clearly, Visser’s boss making a personal appearance had not been on the agenda.

But he won’t be here anytime soon
, I thought, not hearing a single boat motor in Elliot Bay, nor in the Puget Sound, for that matter.

No sooner had I thought this than my ears picked up a disturbance in the water to the left of the trawler. I pulled myself to where I could see the waters swirling into a whirlpool fifteen feet from the deck. Moreau ran to the side of the ship to see what was happening as a black submarine broke through the surface of the water.

Visser’s men drew their weapons, aiming them at Emery’s dad and Sanchez, who had drawn their weapons, too.

“He has arrived,” Visser announced smugly. “Gentlemen, I suggest we don’t greet him with firearms. Lower your weapons.”

Eyes narrowed on Visser, Mr. Phillips gave him an amicable smile. “Your men first.”

Sighing, Visser motioned for his men to comply.

When all barrels were pointed downward, Mr. Phillips kept his cold gaze on Visser and said to Sanchez, “Stand down.”

Sanchez lowered his gun, as did Mr. Phillips.

At this point, the submarine had fully surfaced and the trawler’s spotlight had been directed on it. A hatch door opened on top of the submarine, and a brawny man in a black leather trench coat emerged, armed with an Uzi. Dread slithered through my stomach when I observed the empty expression on his face. I had seen this show before.

As anticipated, the henchman sidestepped to the right, and an almost identical henchman followed him out of the submarine: Uzi, black leather trench coat, slicked-back hair, a face familiar with brutality.

The next henchman did take me aback, however. For whatever reason, we had not been informed that there had been two prison breaks.

Sultrily, Selma Heart appeared from the hatch, wearing that mocking smile I remembered so well on her full, blood-red lips. Raven hair slicked back and tucked behind her ears, round blue eyes, fair complexion, a button nose . . . She had the face of an angel and a heart as black as tar.

Hips swaying, she moved into position, her Uzi swinging casually at her side. Her smile never let up as she snapped the weapon to her eye and put Emery’s dad in the crosshairs. The other two henchmen on the submarine and Visser’s men followed her cue. Moreau and Sanchez looked from gun to gun. Unruffled, Mr. Phillips stared at Selma. Her smile expanded behind the Uzi.

“Your firearm, Mr. Meyer,” Visser said, as if trying to stay patient with a spoiled child.

With a grin at Selma, Mr. Phillips gripped the gun by the handle and held it out to Visser.

“Nice try
,
handsome,” she called, holding her gun steady on him. “
Mr. Meyer,
put the gun down ever so slowly, and keep those gorgeous eyes on me.”

“You’re scaring the children,” Mr. Phillips quipped, referring to Moreau and Sanchez, who looked baffled. He followed her orders.

Selma laughed. “My favorite pastime. Watch him carefully over there. Don’t fall for that charming smile. He’ll fill you up with bullets, if given the chance.”

“I see my reputation precedes me.” Mr. Phillips gradually straightened up, hands in the air, weapon at his feet, his eyes and smile never leaving Selma.

Moreau found his voice. “What is going on here, Meyer?”

“A dire miscalculation on my part,” Mr. Phillips replied, loud enough for Selma to hear.

“None of us are perfect,” she called back, smiling. “Slowly put your hands behind your head and take four big steps back from the gun. Boys, give him plenty of room.”

While Mr. Phillips did as he was told, I tried to digest the scene taking place before me. It felt a lot like watching a movie. Of course, all that would change if bullets started flying, and if they did, some were sure to hit their intended target: Emery’s father.

I can’t intervene yet
, I concluded,
or Mr. Phillips’s blood will be on my hands
.

As to why those guns were trained on him, I could draw no conclusions, other than Emery’s dad wasn’t as bad as I had assumed. Or was he even worse? Selma certainly wasn’t taking any chances with him.

Once Mr. Phillips’s gun had been cautiously secured by one of Visser’s men, Selma pumped her fist in the air, striking a rock star diva pose. “Let’s get this party started!”

As if that was his signal to enter, Arthur King Jr. popped out of the hatch, flipping his palms up to present himself. He wore a rainbow vest and bow tie under a red cloak, blue knickers, white knee-high socks, pointy black shoes with big gold buckles, and a top hat. He looked like a clown attending an opera. His four-foot-ten frame and weasel-like face added to the disturbing and ridiculous display.

“Did someone call my name?” He grinned, revealing the sharp, pointy teeth he had sunk into my arm on the roof of King Pharmaceutical. Removing the hat, he took an elaborate bow.

Behind him, a figure in a black cloak rose from the submarine like smoke. His scent triggered the same reaction in me that it had in the museum: aggression.

My muscles tensed. I resisted the instinct to pull up into a defensive stance, but couldn’t stop the growl that rumbled deep in my throat. My gaze locked on the cloaked man as he glided into place behind Selma and Junior.

I had to force my eyes from him to the next person exiting the submarine, a dignified older gentlemen wearing a full-length gray fur coat. He had a thin face, high cheekbones, wavy gray hair neatly combed to the side, and an aristocratic air. Without question, the newest addition to the bizarre cast of characters was no other than the infamous Arthur King Sr.

“It’s him,” Moreau breathed.

“We are privileged,” agreed Visser.

“Gavin,” King greeted, his voice as refined as his appearance. His steely, calculating gray eyes regarded Mr. Phillips with the sort of excitement one might regard a winning jackpot on a slot machine. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Gavin?” Moreau repeated, dumbfounded, eyeing Mr. Phillips.

“The surprise is all mine, Arthur,” Mr. Phillips called back, grinning.

King laughed. “Indeed, my old friend. Permission to board, Mr. Visser?”

Nineteen

Wrath

Amid my primal reaction to the hooded man’s scent, a very human emotion rose to the surface: fear.

I chewed my lip as I watched the Kings and their henchmen climb the stairs that Visser’s men had lowered to the submarine. The hooded man boarded first, gliding like a phantom. The other men were visibly shaken when he appeared among them, standing before Mr. Phillips, who calmly sized him up. Selma boarded next, never allowing Emery’s father to stray from her gun’s crosshairs. Last came the Kings, strolling between the robotic henchman, who acted as armed bookends.

“Mr. Visser.” King shook his hand. “I assume my cargo is receiving your utmost attention.”

“Of course, Mr. King. Rest assured.”

Cargo?
What cargo?
I could see on Mr. Phillips’s face that he was asking himself the same question.

King released Visser’s hand and offered it to a bewildered Moreau, who grabbed it eagerly. He held the crown in his other hand.

“Julian Moreau,” said King. “How nice to meet a man with your reputed skills. May I?” He flipped his hand out for the crown.

“By all means, Mr. King.” Moreau stumbled over his words. “It would be my pleasure.” He gave King the crown.

“Unequalled,” King remarked as he examined the crown. He frowned at the amber stone that hid the microchip, and nodded to his son. “Mr. Moreau, my son, Arthur.”

Mr. Phillips’s mouth curved into a small, satisfied smile.

Moreau offered his hand to Junior.

Junior produced a cigar from inside his colorful vest. He bit off the end and spat it out on the deck, then snapped his fingers at one of his henchmen, who took a lighter from his trench coat pocket and held the flame to the cigar.

Moreau kept his hand extended during this process, all the while looking extremely uncomfortable.

Finally, puffing out smoke, Junior extracted the cigar from his mouth and looked at Moreau.

“How are ya, chief?” He ignored Moreau’s hand. “Let’s have a look-see, Pops.” He wiggled his stubby fingers at his father in a
gimme
gesture.

“The craftsmanship is as exquisite as we had anticipated,” his father remarked as he handed the crown over. I detected a hint of sarcasm in his voice, along with underlying anger.

With the cigar trapped between his small, pointy teeth, Junior admired the crown. “Yep, nifty,” he said around the cigar. With that, he flung the crown into the bay.

Moreau gasped. “Are you mad?” he exclaimed and ran to the rail.

Junior doubled over in laughter and slapped his knee. “You’re a card, Phillips,” he said between hoots, waving his cigar at Emery’s dad. “A
real
card.”

Mr. Phillips smirked, although behind his eyes, I knew the gears were spinning. My heart twisted. This very same expression appeared on Emery’s face when he was plotting an escape.

I’ll get you out of this
, I sent to him.
For Emery’s sake.

“Mr. Moreau, the crown is a fake,” King said with disgust when Moreau appeared ready to dive in after the artifact. He redirected his gaze to Mr. Phillips. “Isn’t that right, Gavin?”

Moreau whipped around from the rail. “It most certainly is not!” His pinched expression suggested he regretted the harsh tone. He had forgotten that he was speaking to a powerful man with significant clout in the underworld. “The crown has been in my possession since I acquired it,” he explained.

“You’re rather slow on the uptake, Mr. Moreau,” King chastised.

Junior snickered around the cigar. Moreau’s jaw tightened, but he kept silent.

“Allow me to clear the mud from your eyes,” King continued. “The crown you stole was a plant. The real crown and microchip are safe and sound with the United States government—
for now
. Correct me if I’m wrong, Gavin.”

“Will do.” Mr. Phillips smiled.

King smiled, too, a slithering, venomous smile. “I hope you understand that I had to follow through with this charade on the off chance you would make a mistake—”

“And that was your entire motivation,” said Mr. Phillips, his expression indicating that King was full of it.

Hatred burned deep in King’s eyes, but he kept his composure. “I learned long ago not to presume anything.”

“We all have.” Contempt flashed in Mr. Phillips’s eyes, too.

I surmised that they were making a reference to something from the past, and that Junior was savvy to their history, given the smug, careless way he blew smoke rings into the cold night air.

Moreau glared at Mr. Phillips and demanded, “Who are you,
Gavin
?”

“The very best the CIA has to offer,” King explained for him. “Put in simple terms, Gavin Phillips is a spy, an extremely skilled and dangerous operative, as I am sure you have witnessed on several occasions. He takes his assignments very seriously and is thorough when he infiltrates an organization. I believe the term used to describe his brand of expertise is ‘hard man.’ The end justifies the means, the end of this particular assignment being the apprehension of a criminal topping the world’s Ten Most Wanted list: myself. By the way, that is
top secret
. I am dead, after all.”

Junior burst into a fit of giggles.

Mr. Phillips sighed. “You’re itching to tell me, Arthur. So get on with it. Brag away. When did I tip my hand?”

“WHEN HAVE YOU
NOT
TIPPED YOUR HAND?” King raged.

My breath caught at his unbridled fury, and for a split second he looked every bit as insane as his son, who also had a tendency to explode in anger.

Summoning every ounce of control, King exhaled a slow breath that ended in a smile. “We have an interesting history, you and I. Your commanding officers’ assigning
you
to root me out was a stroke of brilliance on their part. Hatred fuels you. Look at what you have sacrificed in order to bring me to justice. Precious time that could have been spent with Serena and Em—”

“Careful,” Mr. Phillips interjected, his tone cold and lethal. The murderous look on his face caused my mouth to go dry. Without a doubt, if there hadn’t been six gun barrels pointed at him, Emery’s dad would have grabbed King by the throat and snapped his neck.

King seemed to realize this, too, and the knowledge that he had elicited this degree of malice from Emery’s father pleased him immensely. “But I digress. You asked when I became aware of your cover, Frank Meyer. Approximately one year ago. It has been truly fascinating watching you work—an education, really. Incidentally, I have helped you along the way, most recently by sending my pet to intercede with any obstacles that would have prevented you from acquiring the crown—pardon me, I mean the
plant
. And an obstacle did arise, quite literally. A mummy, of all things. A curious and unforeseeable event indeed, yet one that did not throw fate off course. For here we are, face-to-face, exactly what you have been striving for all of these years. Yes, I know, it isn’t quite what you envisioned, but alas, what is? Any other questions, my old friend?”

“Yeah.” Mr. Phillips jabbed his thumb toward the submarine, paying no mind to the gun slides pulling back in response to the abrupt movement. “When did you get the new ride? And how did you get past our radar?”

King narrowed his eyes on Mr. Phillips. Without answering, he said to his henchmen, “We’ve given him too much time to plan an escape. Gavin is very resourceful. The only thing holding him back is uncertainty about my pet.” King motioned to the cloaked man. A thin yellow tongue flickered from the hood. “Visser, lower the net.”