Highways & Hostages (2 page)

“Hey! What’s wrong with me?” Alex asked, raising a hand to his chest. He tried to frown, but the corners of his mouth kept quirking up. “You should be worried about keeping her away from guys like Billy!”

“You know what? Screw you guys.” Billy’s brow furrowed as he lifted his chin.

“Oh, Billy, did we hurt your feelings?” Finn asked in a syrupy tone. Alex leaned over the table and pinched one of Billy’s cheeks. Billy slapped his hand away and rubbed his face. Finn placed him in a chokehold and gave him a rough noogie. Billy pushed him away and stood up. He ran his hands through his faux hawk.

“I hate you guys,” he grumbled, sitting down.

The girl passed by the table again and glanced over her shoulder to eye Alex. Stella, approaching with a tray of food, nearly barreled into her and almost lost control of the tray. Stella glared, but before she could say anything the girl flounced past.

“Sorry about that; my kid sister is kind of a brat.” Stella’s cheeks flushed. She placed the food in front of Finn and Alex.

“Younger siblings are such a pain, aren’t they?” Alex asked. He stared pointedly at Billy.

“That they are.” Stella turned to Billy. “Would you like to see a menu?”

“No, thanks. What I want isn’t on the menu,” Billy said. He made a show of assessing Stella from head to toe.

Stella quickly made an exit, and Alex glared at Billy. “Could you not be a jackass for once in your life?”

Billy shrugged and stole a fry from Finn’s plate.

Finn sighed and shook his head. It was going to be a long night with these two. “Eat up, boys, we’re gonna need our strength. We’ve got an important job ahead of us.”

Stella Carstens carried her empty tray back to the bar. She set it on the counter and wiped her perspiring forehead. Her best friend and fellow waitress, Valerie Cheng, leaned against the counter, chin in hand, admiring the guys in the back corner booth. Despite having an on-again, off-again boyfriend, Valerie was boy-crazy. She could always be found admiring (or more likely flirting with) the male gender. With her easy, natural beauty, Valerie got just as much attention as she gave. Stella envied her friend’s short, sleek bob, high cheekbones, and almond-shaped eyes. She bumped Valerie’s hip with her own to get her attention.

“God, those guys are gorgeous. Remember, I call dibs on Mr. Hot Stuff,” Valerie said.

Stella glanced over at the guys. They were huddled suspiciously over the table. “Which one’s Mr. Hot Stuff again?”

“The dark-haired one. I’m pretty sure he and Faux Hawk are brothers. But seriously, I call dibs. You can have Blondie. He’s not too hard on the eyes either.”

“They’re definitely attractive, but they look like bad news with a capital B. Every time I go near the table they hide whatever it is they’re looking at.” Stella lifted her left hand and wiggled it. “Besides, I’m engaged. And what about you? What happened to Paul? I thought you said you all made up.”

Valerie sighed with her normal theatrical flair and turned her attention back to Stella. “We broke up again last night. This time it’s for good. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with flirting.” Valerie glanced back at the booth, and Alex looked up, catching her eye. He lifted his chin in acknowledgement. “Ugh, he is
so
gorgeous.”

“Val, I swear you’re drooling.”

Bert Robinson, owner of the Leaky Stein, walked up behind the two women. He was a squat, balding man with a fuzzy caterpillar of a mustache resting above his top lip. He was cranky and known to run a tight ship, but he had a soft spot for Stella.

“This ain’t no dating service, ladies. Besides, you’ve got a fiancé now, Stella. Get out there and get those people their food,” Bert said gruffly. Before he ambled away, he caught Stella’s eye and winked.

Valerie waited until he was out of earshot before saying anything. “He’s such a slave driver.”

“Give the guy a break, Val. This place is all he has.”

“And this place is all
you
have, besides Mr. Fiancé. Maybe that’s why you’re Bert’s favorite—you’re here almost as much as he is!”

“Don’t start that tonight.” Stella wasn’t in the mood for another lecture about her workaholic tendencies. She grabbed a rag and helped Valerie wipe down the bar.

“Fine. We can talk about something else.” Valerie paused her cleaning to give Stella a sly smile. “What did Phoebe want this time? And can we talk about that outfit? Early ’90s Seattle grunge, am I right?”

Stella groaned. “Can we not talk about my bratty half sister either?”

Phoebe was a thorn in her side. Stella didn’t know why she’d agreed to let her half sister stay with her for the summer when she was already stressed enough about planning her wedding and handling Derek’s mother. Despite any attempts on Stella’s part, Phoebe didn’t show any interest in bonding; she just wanted to smoke and traipse around the city.

“One or the other. Your choice,” Valerie said.

Stella sighed and scrubbed at a particularly tough spot on the counter. “She smelled like a freaking ashtray. I bet our dad doesn’t even know she smokes.”

“So what did she want?” Valerie repeated. She stopped wiping and put a hand on her hip.

“She wanted money for some ‘show’. I’ve already told her that I barely make enough money to pay for the trailer, feed myself and her,
and
put gas in Josie. So I told her to get a job, and suggested she work here.”

“And how did
that
go over?”

“She called our uniforms stupid and said she didn’t want perverted old men slapping her ass.”

Valerie shrugged. “Can’t say I blame her about the old guys.” Valerie looked down at her dirndl and tugged at a ribbon. “But I think these outfits are pretty cute. Sometimes I wear mine and role play ‘naughty serving wench’ with Paul.”

Stella shuddered and left the bar to check on her customers. She loved Valerie like a sister, but some information was better left unshared. She made a mental note not to borrow Valerie’s uniform in the future.

Finn crouched behind a hedgerow at the bottom of a small hill. He was ready to rip off the thin sliver of fake mustache tickling his upper lip and the muttonchops adhered to the sides of his face. Alex suggested he dye his sandy-blond hair a dark brown to match the faux facial hair, but Finn had to draw the line somewhere. Nobody messed with his hair. He compromised by adopting a ridiculous shoulder-length wig, a baseball hat, and prescription-less glasses. He was pretty happy with the result: he could’ve been Mike Meyers’s stunt double in
Wayne’s World
.

Finn rose and peered over the hedgerow. From his position, his view of the mansion on the hilltop was shielded by a copse of trees. The images he and Alex found using Google Street View hadn’t shown much of the house either, but it didn’t matter. Finn studied the blueprints for hours—practically memorized them. He knew the inside of the house like he knew his own condo.

Keeping low to the ground, he crept alongside the shrubbery and up the hill. If everything was happening according to plan, Alex should have been hidden by his own set of shrubbery behind the house. Two blocks away, near the neighborhood’s entrance, Billy should be sitting in a nondescript, black sedan, ready to drive them back to Julian’s. Finn glanced at the watch on his wrist, placed a reverent hand over the dog tags beneath his shirt, and stood. He strode purposefully up the drive, stopping several feet away from the front door. Neither the low-resolution photos nor the blueprints prepared him for the sight before his eyes.

Enormous limestone columns featuring carvings of nude female figures flanked the arched doorway of the mansion. More limestone columns stood guard at the breezeways along the front of the house. Floor-to-ceiling windows dotted the first-story façade. The curtains were drawn back from the windows, spilling light out into the yard. Finn guessed curtains weren’t really necessary since the tiny forest of trees and the fence blocked the house from the street. He snorted. Being rich clearly didn’t equate with having good taste; this house had Vegas written all over it.

One of the massive double doors swung open.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” a man—Julian said it would be von Rothschild’s right-hand man, Stefan—asked gruffly. His hair was so blond it was almost white, and was closely cropped to his scalp. His steel-gray eyes regarded Finn with scorn. An ugly, puckered scar started at the bridge of his nose under his right eye and ran to his lower lip.

Finn fixed his face in what he hoped was an apologetic frown. “I came to see Mr. von Rothschild about a business matter.”

“You think I am an idiot? You do not have a car, so you must have climbed the fence. What do you really want?”

Stefan moved the left side of his jacket back slightly, exposing a revolver tucked into the waistband of his pants.

Finn risked rising on his tiptoes to glance over the man’s shoulder and through the open door. Right about now, Alex should have been climbing the trellis leaning against the back of the house. Finn needed to keep Stefan occupied for as long as possible.

Stefan took a menacing step forward. “You need to leave. Now.”

Finn swallowed and raised his hands in surrender. “Wait! Wait! You asked what I wanted! I wanted to know whether your mom charges by the act or by the hour? Do you think she’d call me Daddy if I asked?”

Stefan stared at Finn in confusion before the meaning of the words dawned on him. He let out a primal growl before lowering his head and charging. Finn feinted to the left before diving to the ground. He swung his leg around and connected with Stefan’s thick ankle, sending him tumbling. Finn dove forward and grabbed the gun. Stefan clawed at Finn, wresting the glasses from his face. Finn scrambled away, unscathed, as Stefan put out his other arm to break his fall. His wrist made a sickening crunch when it connected with the concrete, and he let out an anguished howl. Despite the injury, Stefan growled again and picked himself up. He lumbered toward Finn, his eyes broadcasting his intent to break him into pieces.

Finn felt the back of his waistband to reassure himself that his own gun was still there before he hurled Stefan’s into the trees. He bounced on the balls of his feet, trying to anticipate Stefan’s next move. Stefan ran at him and Finn lunged to the side, sending Stefan barreling into the thorny rose bushes in front of the house. Before Stefan could catch his breath, Finn ran at him and looped an arm around his neck. The large man put up a serious struggle, thrashing like a fish caught in a net. Beads of perspiration broke out on Finn’s hairline, but he managed to keep a firm grip. He only released his chokehold when he felt Stefan go limp, then disentangled himself from the unconscious man and wiped the sweat from his brow. Those sparring lessons with his roommate in juvie still came in handy sometimes.

“Jesus Christ,” Finn muttered as he got to his feet. He raced through the open door of the house and into the middle of the multi-story rotunda in the mansion’s center. With the von Rothschilds at the opera, Stefan incapacitated outside, and the housekeeper enjoying a day off, the house should have been empty—with the exception of Alex. “Got it yet?” Finn called.

“Not yet. I’m still looking,” Alex’s voice floated down from the second story.

Finn glanced back through the doorway where Stefan was still lying prone. He hesitated and then raced up the curved staircase. He ran along the polished marble hallway and into the library, where he thought he’d heard Alex call from. He found him peering up into an empty fireplace. Finn stepped toward his friend, who jumped, startled.

“What are you doing up here?” Alex hissed. “Where’s the guard?”

“I knocked him out. Use some common sense, Alex; there’s no way von Rothschild would keep the chalice in a fireplace!”

“Well, if you’re so fucking smart, where would it be?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not going to be in a fireplace!” Finn dug in his jacket pocket for the lock-picking kit he’d had since middle school. He tossed it to Alex. “Try his office. I’m going back downstairs.”

He took the stairs two at a time and breathlessly made his way back to Stefan, who was still on the ground, now groaning. A cell phone lay next to his uninjured hand. Finn took his pistol from his waistband and leveled it at Stefan.

“It seems we’re at an impasse.” Finn paused. “Actually, it’s not much of an impasse, since I have the gun and can easily shoot you any time I want. But I don’t want to have to do that, so don’t make me, okay?”

Stefan glared up at Finn and grunted as he clutched his wrist.

Without warning, the gates at the end of the drive creaked open. A black Lincoln Town Car glided up the winding path toward the two men.

“What the fuck?” Finn exclaimed. “Alex!” He walked backward into the house, his gun trained on Stefan, and one eye on the car, which came to a stop at the crest of the hill.

“I’m still looking for the chalice!”

“Forget about it; von Rothschild’s back!” Finn shouted as the rear door of the car flew open.

Christoph von Rothschild calmly stepped out in an expensive-looking tuxedo and brushed off his jacket. His driver got out of the car as well and leveled a gun at Finn from behind the driver’s side door. Von Rothschild’s much younger wife, Elizabeth, peeked out from around the rear car door. Even at age sixty, von Rothschild was an imposing figure. He stood six feet tall, the moonlight glinting off his shiny dome, and his blue eyes glittering with detached curiosity.

He puffed out his chest and lifted his chin. “What’s the meaning of this?” he asked, his Austrian accent still familiar to Finn after all these years.

Finn swallowed. None of their planning accounted for von Rothschild catching them at the house. Billy was supposed to have been watching out for von Rothschild’s car near the neighborhood’s entrance just in case he returned early. Why hadn’t he warned them?

“Well? I’m becoming impatient. Aren’t you going to give me some kind of explanation before I have you shot?”

“No one has to get hurt,” Finn said.

“No, but it might be more fun that way.” Von Rothschild smiled, showing a lot of teeth, and looking perfectly at ease despite the gun at Finn’s side.