“Oh, gee, thanks. I feel loads better now.”
He grinned, flashing movie-star teeth, blindingly white against his swarthy skin, and she had to stop herself from doing a double take. Dear God, the man was gorgeous when he smiled. For some reason she would’ve never guessed that he had a sense of humor. He seemed so straitlaced, the type of guy who always took himself and everything around him perfectly seriously. It sent her off-balance, realizing that she might be able to connect to him. A sense of humor made him more human, more—
“Damn,” he said softly.
She looked up in time to see Baldy come running out of the gas station. The kidnapper stopped suddenly and stared at the place where his Hummer had stood. Then he began miming baffled rage, clutching his head and gesticulating wildly.
“There goes that theory,” Lips said.
“What theory?”
He sighed and eyed the traffic in front of them. “The theory that the ladies in saris taking the Hummer was some kind of planned switch-off. It was far-fetched, but a possibility.”
Zoey turned to look at Baldy, who was now jumping up and down in the gas-station parking lot. “Yeah, I think that theory might be toast.”
Baldy turned and darted around back of the gas station.
“Where’s he going?” she muttered.
“Christ, I don’t know.” Lips sounded fed up and disgusted.
A moment later, a bright red SUV ricocheted back around the gas station, with Baldy at the wheel.
Zoey leaned forward to watch as the truck careened across the lanes of traffic, drove over the concrete street divider, and roared under the overpass. “Did he steal—?”
“Looks like it,” Lips growled. “Tell 911.”
She’d forgotten the cell phone still open in her lap, but now she picked it up and relayed the kidnapper’s new vehicle information to the confused operator. “Did you see the license plates?” she asked Lips.
“Not from this angle.”
She grimaced and finally hung up on the operator.
The black SUV ahead of them suddenly surged forward, and Lips cursed under his breath. A couple of minutes later and they were speeding down the off-ramp.
“Are you going to try and follow them?” Zoey asked, though she knew it was probably hopeless.
“No, they’re long gone.”
“But—”
“Look, there’re two cars now, and the cops have to arrive soon. Better we wait so I can brief them and regroup.”
He drove the Beemer into the BP gas station and pulled in beside the little frog green Civic the sari ladies had been driving. The car looked like it had been through several Chicago winters, and the rear bumper was hanging at an angle, but there was a brand-new magnetic sign on the driver’s-side door that read, THE TAJ MAHAL RESTAURANT, with an address and prominent phone number beneath.
“How are we going to regroup?” Zoey asked.
Lips was already unclipping a little black cell phone from his belt. She caught a glimpse of the gun harness under his left arm.
He frowned at her as he punched in a number and held the cell to his ear. “
I’m
going to regroup by calling in this car’s number.
You’re
going to go home instead of regrouping. I’ll call you a cab and—”
Zoey felt her pulse speed up with alarm. She couldn’t let him dump her. He was her only hope of finding Pete. She knew it was irrational, but as long as she was with him she was
doing
something. At home, she’d be merely pacing the floor. Besides, she no longer entirely trusted the FBI to keep Pete safe once they found her again. Right now, she was the only one chasing the kidnapper who was interested purely in Pete’s safety and not some stupid mob trial.
She bit her lip and tried to think of a concrete reason for him to let her stay. “Look—”
He held up a hand, cutting her off, and spoke into the cell. “Kev? . . . Yeah, it’s—”
He made an impatient face as the person on the other end of the phone apparently started talking fast.
Zoey watched him as his beautiful lips compressed into a frustrated, thin line. “Look, calm down. I’ve got a lead on the guy who grabbed the kid . . . Yeah . . . That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Okay, look, I’m at a BP on Old Orchard Road, just west of 94. Happy?”
Zoey leaned forward urgently, catching his eye.
He held up his hand again, forestalling her. “Okay, I need you to run a license plate, give me the owner, address, everything you got.” He rattled off the numbers on the little green Civic. “No, don’t hang up.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “I need this now, Kev. These women took off in the kidnapper’s Hummer. . . . Yeah, you heard me right . . . Look, I need to talk to Headington . . . Yeah . . . Well, then where is he? . . . Okay, I’ll wait.”
“Who’s Kev?” Zoey asked in a stage whisper.
“Tech guy.”
“And Headington?”
“My boss, the SAC—Special Agent in Charge.” Lips held the phone away from his ear and turned to her. “I’ll call you a cab as soon as I get off the phone.”
Zoey pasted on a big fake smile. “That’s okay; I can hang out with you.”
She realized her mistake almost immediately.
His bitter-chocolate eyes narrowed suspiciously at her, and suddenly he looked like an Italian Clint Eastwood. “You can’t stick with me. I’m following a kidnapper. This whole thing could get violent.”
“Maybe I don’t want to just be dumped in this part of town,” Zoey shot back. “It’ll be dark soon, and—”
“Okay, okay, I’ll wait with you for the taxi.”
Panic was tightening her chest now. She couldn’t let him ditch her. “That’s not—”
“Or I’ll drive you home myself. Just—” He cut himself off as two Chicago PD cars screeched into the gas station, one on either side of the Beemer.
Zoey blinked. “Wow, that was fast.”
She watched as all four front doors on the police cars flew open, the nearest one narrowly missing banging against her door.
“Hey.”
But something was wrong. Instead of getting out, the police officers were crouching behind the car doors, and it looked like they had their guns drawn, as if they were really nervous, or as if—
“Out of the car!” one guy boomed.
“Well, shit,” Lips said softly. “This day just gets better and better.”
He raised his hands.
And the cops opened fire.
“Get down!” Dante pushed her head into her lap and jammed the Beemer into reverse. He backed swiftly out from between the cop cars, the Beemer’s engine whining. He stomped on the brake, whipping the Beemer’s front end around, and then accelerated out of the BP gas station.
It took a full second for Zoey to realize that the loud bangs coming from behind them meant that the Chicago PD were still shooting at the car. “Shit! What was that? Why are they shooting at us? I thought you were the good guy!”
Beside her, Dante’s hands had tightened into white-knuckled vices around the steering wheel. His face was hard and angry, and she was really, really glad that his expression wasn’t aimed at her.
“I
am
the good guy,” he said quietly. “And I don’t know why they were shouting at us, but you can be damned sure I’m going to find out.”
Thursday, 5:23 p.m.
W
hy
was
the Chicago PD shooting at him? That was the question that pounded through Dante’s mind as he sent the BMW careening through traffic. It sure as hell wasn’t standard operating procedure to shoot a man trying to surrender.
Unless, of course, they hadn’t wanted him alive.
Sirens were wailing somewhere, but he couldn’t see the pursuing cops. Not yet, anyway. Ahead, a cement mixer suddenly loomed, moving so slowly it was nearly at a stand-still. Dante jerked the wheel of the BMW to the right, sliding between the huge truck and a parked blue Mini with barely a hair’s breadth to spare on either side. Behind him, tires squealed ominously. He made a left, cruising across two lanes of traffic, and sped down the street. A service alley was on the right, and he stomped the brake, slowing fractionally to make the turn.
The alley had been plowed only half-heartedly. Brown snow was frozen into ruts, the black asphalt beneath broken into chunks. The BMW rattled through the narrow space, barely missing a battered green metal Dumpster. The blackened backs of buildings rose high on either side, blocking the last light of the day.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dante saw Zoey clutch the passenger door. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” She glanced at him, the whites of her eyes flashing in the car’s dim interior. “Yeah. Was that some kind of mistake? Did they get mixed up about the car the kidnapper was driving, or—?”
“I don’t think it was a mistake.” Articulating the thought made him swallow with dread.
They were coming up on the end of the alley. It spilled out on another small business street. Dante nosed the BMW forward, looking in both directions before cruising sedately into traffic. There wasn’t a cop car in sight.
He fumbled to find the BMW’s navigation system button and then turned off the GPS. “Give me my phone.”
The open cell was miraculously still in her lap. She handed it over.
“Thanks,” he muttered and glanced at the little screen. Kevin had disconnected. “I want you to watch out the back window and tell me the moment you see anyone following us.”
“Okay.” She twisted in her seat.
Dante punched buttons one-handed as he drove and put the phone to his ear.
Eight rings and then a clatter. “What?” said an adenoidal voice on the other end.
“Kev, what the
hell
is going on?”
“Dante?” Kevin asked as if he had no idea.
Kevin was some sort of certified genius when it came to computers and the Internet, but he was an idiot about people and relationships. He was a young dude, maybe midtwenties, with long reddish hair and a scraggly tuft of fuzz on his chin, which didn’t help his appearance. Just the opposite, in fact. Kevin worked in the Chicago FBI office and was one of the few people Dante trusted.
Or at least Dante
had
trusted him until today. “Yeah, it’s me. Surprised? I just got shot at by Chicago’s finest. You want to tell me why?”
“Hey, man, I don’t know. Really, I swear on my mother’s grave. I don’t know what you’re talking—”
Dante pressed the brake to the floor in a controlled movement, bringing the BMW to a halt at a stoplight. Then he said very quietly and very clearly, “Your mother isn’t dead, Kev, and I’m sick of you lying to me. Why is the Chicago PD shooting at me?”
“They think you took the baby,” Kevin said without hesitation.
Dante blew out a breath. “Why the hell would they think that? I gave you the description of the kidnapper and the vehicle he was driving.”
“Yeah, but someone from our office told them you made that up to cover.”
“Oh, come on,” Dante growled. The light turned and the traffic rolled forward. “All they have to do is ask Jill or Wettstein. They’ll tell you that—”
“They can’t.”
“Bullshit. Look—”
“They’re dead.”
“What?” he asked, even though he’d heard Kevin’s words perfectly well.
“They’re all dead.”
“Jesus,” Dante breathed.
He shot a look at Zoey. She was staring at him, her eyes wide. He’d obviously lost his poker face. But three agents killed? He’d only known Wettstein and his partner to say hello to, and Jill had been his partner for a mere three weeks. He didn’t know her well, but he’d seen the photos of her husband and two elementary-school-aged sons.
Jesus.
What the fuck was going on?
“Why would someone in the office tell the Chicago PD that I’d kidnapped a baby and killed fellow agents? Hell, why would anyone believe that?”
Kevin made a nervous humming sound. “Things are really weird here, man. People aren’t talking, and I don’t know what’s going on exactly.”
Dante stopped for a light and sat staring at the glowing red for a moment. Kevin was scared of something—or someone—in the office, that much was obvious. And considering why Dante had really been sent to the Chicago office, maybe Kev wasn’t just being paranoid. Because Dante’s true mission was to uncover an FBI agent who was in the pocket of the Chicago mob. He’d felt that he was getting close in the last week or so. Maybe someone felt he’d gotten
too
close.
The light changed. Beside him Zoey was very quiet, her eyes worried as she scanned the street behind them.
Dante swallowed and tried to focus. “Is there any word about Spinoza? Did they get him?”
“That I do know. Spinoza and his girlfriend are okay. Apparently they had a fight, Spinoza snuck out of the apartment through the bedroom window, and the girlfriend followed. They weren’t even in the apartment when the thing went down; got back and found three dead FBI agents and the baby gone. I heard the mother had to be sedated.”
“Okay. Okay.” Dante tried to think as he drove the BMW, aware that sweat was beading at the small of his back. This couldn’t be happening. How could he have been set up so neatly? How could they—whoever
they
were—have known that he’d be late to work today and unable to help his colleagues? If he’d been on time . . . He swallowed as he made the final connection. They hadn’t known he was going to be late. Had he been on time as he usually was, he’d be just as dead as the three other FBI agents. What a lovely thought.
On the other end of the phone Kevin’s breathing hitched. “Dante . . .”
“What?”
“There’s something else.”
“What? Spit it out.”
“Charlie Hessler had a stroke last night.”
“Fuck,” Dante breathed. Charlie Hessler was a friend, a mentor in the FBI, and, at the moment, his link to the outside. “Is he dead?”
“No, he’s in the ICU. They don’t know yet if he’s going to recover. He didn’t—”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Dante snapped. He braked to a stop at a red light.
On the other end, Kevin breathed nasally, not answering.
Dante blinked hard and thought. Hessler was out, maybe permanently, and it looked like someone was trying to set Dante up to take the fall for three of his colleagues dying. If he didn’t figure out what was going on
now
and how to stop it, he was going to end up in jail—or worse, on a metal shelf in the morgue. “Who did you tell where I was, Kevin? I need to know.”