Illusive (24 page)

“Let go,” she says.

“No,” Devon repeats. “If you’re going to do this, you’re not leaving me behind.”

No. She can’t be responsible for him anymore—not when the stakes are this high. She can’t be the reason Devon is arrested. He could have a normal life; it’s within his grasp, if only he weren’t so infatuated with the idea of being crooked. What he doesn’t get is, crookedness isn’t a lifestyle choice; it isn’t a choice at all; it’s the only way people like Ciere can survive. Devon has protection she never did: Money. Power. Connections. He can go on with his life. He doesn’t have to be here. He doesn’t have to risk his life and freedom.

“Devon, get off!” she says desperately.

“Ciere—”

He isn’t going to let go. Ciere draws in a breath, and says harshly, “You can’t come with us, okay? I don’t want you to!” Devon’s grip tightens on the open window. Ciere can read the refusal in his eyes—he’s determined to risk his life for her. Because they’re friends.

“You don’t belong with us,” she says.

The moment the words leave her lips, Ciere knows they were the worst things she could have said. Devon takes several shaky steps backward, as appalled as if she had just hit him. His face crumbles, and she sees the hurt in his eyes. The betrayal.

Kit sprints out of the trees. He shouts something, but
Ciere can’t hear it over the engine. She hits the gas, and the car springs forward. They have to get away. That’s all that matters now. She needs to get the car far away from her friends.

The car peels off the gravel road, and Ciere yanks the car onto the pavement, twisting the steering wheel until they make a sharp left. Out from under the trees, the fading sun is overly bright. Ciere squints and takes her hands off the wheel to pull down her visor. Alan grabs at his seat belt, the worried expression on his face clearly asking if he should be the one behind the wheel.

“So where are we going?” Alan asks.

Ciere responds by digging into the contents of her pocket—her disposable phone, lighter, and a business card. She tosses the latter at Alan. “Call that number.”

“And what do I say?”

“Tell him to meet us in Philadelphia at the docks off Columbus Boulevard.” She presses the gas pedal as far down as it will go, and she is slammed back into her seat. The tires squeal in protest, and then they are flying down the road, trees rushing past and the world vanishing underneath them.

When Alan hangs up the phone, he says, “Now what?”

“I have a plan,” she says. And she tells him everything.

A
risteus’s office is exactly how Daniel imagined: industrial carpet, a large desk, two walls of windows looking out over the city, and a heavy door with a dead bolt that is definitely not standard issue. There are no pictures of family, no calendar featuring cute animals, and no ritzy paperweights. The place feels sterile and soulless.

Just like its occupant
, Daniel thinks. He stole a crossword from Aristeus’s secretary the last time he was sent out for coffee. It’s easier not to think when he’s contemplating a six-letter word for “catlike.”

Gervais has taken to calling Carson from Aristeus’s office phone. He sits with the receiver pressed to his forehead, his finger hovering over the redial button.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Voice mail.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Voice mail. The process repeats itself
over and over. Worry is etched into the lines around Gervais’s mouth. His time is slipping away, and his composure goes with it. He has less than an hour before Aristeus’s deadline.

Aristeus, having been displaced from his desk chair, kneels on the floor. He has some of the files he took from Pandora Marton’s home spread out on the carpet. “You find anything yet?” Daniel asks. He’s finished with this crossword, and his brain feels too sluggish to start another.

Aristeus’s long finger passes over a sheet of paper. “Bills. Financial records. Letters.”

“But not the formula,” says Daniel.

A muscle goes in Aristeus’s cheek. “Not the formula.”

“Maybe there’s something else you’ll find that will be useful,” Daniel says in a tone that clearly states he doubts it. The formula is all that matters, and if Aristeus promised it to his superiors, then it’s his ass on the line. The thought makes Daniel smile.

“Not a thing,” Aristeus murmurs, so low that Daniel almost doesn’t catch the words. “Him.”

Before Daniel can ask, something in the room’s atmosphere shifts. His instincts whisper a warning.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

“Yeah, hello.” The voice is tinny, quiet, and it comes through the earpiece of Aristeus’s phone.

Gervais lunges for the phone, and he slams his fist down
on the button labeled
SPEAKER
. For a second, Daniel is sure he’s going to hear Carson’s gruff voice snarl something about them interfering while he’s doing all the work. But then—

“Hiya, Dad,” says an unfamiliar voice. It sounds young, male, and vaguely British. Daniel’s senses flare in a silent warning. “All right. Fine. I’ll admit it. Dad, we’re not in Norway. I’m with my mates in Philadelphia. Got that?
Phil-a-del-phi-a.
” The speaker isn’t someone Daniel recognizes, and it’s definitely not Agent Eduardo Carson.

There’s a moment of dumbfounded silence.

“Who is this?” Gervais says. “And where the hell is Carson?”

Daniel’s other sense kicks in, and he hears a soft intake of breath coming from the speaker. He just
knows
that whoever has Carson’s phone is terrified.

Gervais’s tone shifts. It’s the voice he probably uses when telling someone that he’s going to bust open their door if they don’t open it. “Whoever this is, you should know that we’re currently tracking the location of his police car. There will be a squad to your location shortly. If you have injured Agent Carson in any way—”

Another voice cuts him off. This one is high pitched, female, and chillingly familiar.

“Turn it off!” the voice cries. “Turn it off!”

The line goes dead, and Daniel feels himself slowly sinking to the floor. He is the one still point in a suddenly chaotic
world. Aristeus is moving, Gervais is shouting, someone is opening the office door, and then Gervais is on the phone again. There’s a whooshing sound, and it takes Daniel a second to realize it’s his own heartbeat in his ears.

He barely hears Gervais rattling off his instructions to the Endicott Police Department. They’re going to track Carson’s borrowed vehicle. Then the phone is being slammed into its cradle, and Gervais says, “The car is north of Philadelphia.”

Daniel jerks back to life. “Maybe I should stay here.…”

Aristeus doesn’t even look at Daniel—he just grabs Daniel’s collar and uses it like a dog’s leash. Daniel finds himself on his feet and yanked forward before he can voice a protest. His crossword falls to the floor. The three of them rush out of the office and into the hall.

“Helicopter?” Aristeus says.

“Helicopter,” Gervais confirms.

It must be the first time they’ve ever agreed on anything.

Daniel’s stomach rolls over, and he presses the back of his hand to his mouth. Throwing up feels like a distinct possibility.

He recognized that voice. He’s heard that voice laugh, whisper his name, tell jokes, grumble in anger. He knows that voice as well as his own. Ciere.

What is Ciere doing with Carson’s cell phone? If she was robbing him, she might have stolen his ride, too. But she
should have ditched the car. Any good crook would ditch the car. Why hasn’t she ditched the car? His mind fixates on this one detail, because the rest of him is frantic to avoid the obvious conclusion: they’re going after whoever has Carson’s phone. He heard Ciere’s voice. He’s part of a federal team going after Ciere.

He can only hope she knows what she’s doing.

R
unning isn’t new to Ciere. Running away from danger has always been her standby. But running
toward
danger? Now, that’s a new one.

She drives quickly, but not fast enough to draw attention. They can’t get pulled over now. Alan helps with their navigation—he has a good memory and points out exits that she would have otherwise missed. An hour later, Ciere finds herself fighting traffic back into Philadelphia. She swerves around taxis and commuters alike, trying to find the best route to the docks.

The docks near Columbus Boulevard used to house many active shipping barges. The Delaware River was used to ferry materials from the ocean upriver, the barges providing a convenient form of transportation. In recent years, the river’s use has waned, and now the docks are all but deserted. Some
old barges remain; they are weighed down with empty cargo crates and abandoned freight, and they stand as the only remnants of the river’s former life.

Ciere pulls a left turn until the car jostles, and she swerves into an area not meant for driving. There are crates stacked all over; spare boat parts litter the ground; the scent of dirty water drifts into the car.

Ciere’s parking spot is determined by the nails that puncture her tires. The car shudders to a halt.

There is no escaping now. The decision has been made. And she can only hope it was the right one.

“Now what?” Alan asks.

“We wait,” Ciere says shortly. She drums her fingers on the steering wheel and tries to pretend that each passing second doesn’t set her on edge. Evening slowly leeches the light from the sky. She looks up and squints at the horizon. She gives it half an hour until full dark.

Alan sits with his hands folded in his lap, looking alert and composed. He’s put his whole future in Ciere’s hands, and he appears to have utter confidence in her. Which freaks Ciere out. She’s never even managed to keep a goldfish alive, much less a Fiacre. Even her dog is with Lizaveta now.

Two headlights pierce the dusk. She sits up, her fingers tightening around the steering wheel. She can’t see who is in the other car.

The car parks about fifty feet from Ciere. A man pushes the passenger door open and emerges into the illumination of the headlights.

It’s Brandt Guntram.

Ciere lets out a breath that is half relief, half apprehension. Part one of the plan—get an extremely dangerous mobster to meet with her at the deserted docks—has succeeded. But, on the other hand, she’s on the deserted docks with an extremely dangerous mobster. She sways, suddenly a little dizzy. Her body has taken control of her, adrenaline and fear putting her physical reactions on autopilot.

“On second thought,” Ciere says, and her voice shakes, “this was a shitty plan.”

She grabs her backpack and shoves the gasoline canister, lighter, and balaclava inside. They’re not the best weapons, but they’re all she has. She swings the backpack onto her shoulder, and she and Alan make their way toward the waiting mobster.

Brandt Guntram leans against the side of his old Honda Pilot. He looks just the way she remembers him from the train station. Blond, medium height, with a remote expression. He’s not imposing, but he has a confidence that usually accompanies the well armed. Conrad emerges from the driver’s side and grins at Ciere like they’re old friends.

Guntram raises an eyebrow. “Who is this?” he asks, directing his attention to Alan.

“Bodyguard,” Ciere says stoutly. She makes a conscious effort not to look at Conrad, who is about two feet taller and a hundred pounds heavier than Alan.

Alan crosses his arms and does his best to look threatening.

Ciere tries to keep her face emotionless. “We need to talk payment,” she says, forcing confidence into her voice and posture.

Guntram’s gaze flicks to the tracker bracelet. “Yes, we do. So where is our money?”

Ciere lifts her arms and bows slightly, indicating herself.

Guntram and Conrad exchange a look. “I’m sorry,” Conrad says, “but did she just gesture at herself?”

“I think she did.” Guntram looks torn between horror and amusement. “Conrad, have we expanded our business to involve human trafficking?”

“Not the last time I checked,” Conrad replies, “but maybe Henry decided to branch out and didn’t tell us.”

Ciere finds it hard to maintain her confident stance with these two men talking to each other. She feels herself deflate, and her arms fall back to her sides. “I’m not selling myself.”

“Then I’m confused,” Guntram says. “What exactly are you proposing?”

“Six months,” she says. “Immune criminals have been known to work for mobs. I’ll work for the Gyr Syndicate to pay off my debt.”

“Like a customer who can’t pay at a restaurant,” Conrad says, seemingly charmed by the idea. “Washing dishes.”

Guntram snorts. “We’re a professional organization, not a fast-food joint. What makes you think we’ll take you up on your offer?”

“Because I can’t get the money right now. And I’m not in a position to get it any time soon,” Ciere replies. “So your choices are to either kill me and protect the Syndicate’s reputation as a badass mob or else use me and let me work off my debt. And I’m worth a lot more alive.”

“What’s going to stop us from just kidnapping you and using you indefinitely?” Guntram asks.

Ciere points a finger at Alan. “Hello? Bodyguard. And he has instructions to tell my handler if you mistreat me in any way.”

“Who’s your handler?”

“Kit Copperfield.”

Conrad lets out a laugh. “Wait, I heard about a Copperfield in the area—something about a stolen Thomas Cole and a forged Jacques-Louis David. He’s an art fence, right?”

Guntram frowns. “An illusionist’s handler is an art fence?” He must have thought she answered to some powerful mob
family; he obviously never considered that she would work for a freelancer. “Let me get this straight—instead of meeting with us to deliver the money, you are handing us your résumé?”

“Pretty much,” Ciere agrees.

Conrad and Guntram look at each other again, and she can almost see the silent dialogue pass between them. This is the moment that will decide everything. Her pulse quickens, and her feet and hands go icy cold. She wants to rub her hands together, to work some heat into them, but she doesn’t dare move.

“She’s a lunatic,” says Conrad.

“Absolutely insane,” says Guntram.

“Either completely fearless or utterly stupid,” says Conrad.

“She’s going to fit right in,” says Guntram.

“Henry’s going to love her,” says Conrad.

“Should we send her with Henry?” Guntram says with a frown. “I was thinking keep her in Newark with our team.”

Ciere closes her eyes for a moment. The relief is all-consuming, a sweetness like none other. She is not going to die. At least not right away. “So it’s a deal?” she says.

Guntram considers her. Then he holds out his hand. “Might help if I knew your going name,” he says.

Hesitantly, she shakes his hand. “Ciere,” she says. Guntram’s hand is surprisingly steady.

“All right, Ciere,” he says. “Welcome to the Gyr Syndicate.”

And that, of course, is the second they all hear the sound of an approaching police siren.

Guntram’s grip is suddenly crushing, his fingers tight on Ciere’s wrist.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” he says, his head darting around and searching for the source of the noise. He turns back to Ciere, his brow wrinkled in distaste. “Really?” He sounds disappointed, like this betrayal is less of a threat and more of a letdown.

Ciere grimaces. “Okay, so the deal is that I’m kind of being chased by the feds. But I’m serious about my offer. I’m willing to work off my debt, but it’s going to be pretty hard doing that if I’m dead or in jail. So if you protect me, you’re really protecting an investment.”

Ciere got the idea from Guntram himself. He’s taken down so many criminals by using the feds that turning his own trick against him seems a little… poetic. If she can use him to escape her fed problem, all the better. “You hate the feds,” she reminds him. “And you’ve told me how you love protecting investments. This should be the highlight of your day.”

Guntram regards her with new admiration. “A thief,” he says. “An illusionist thief trying to manipulate me into fighting cops on her behalf. I’ll say this for you: you’re either incredibly brave or you’ve got a death wish.”

“Semantics,” says Ciere.

Conrad is already on a phone, rattling off instructions. “Backup is on the way,” he tells Guntram. “Fifteen minutes.” He ducks down, squatting behind the Honda, and pulls Alan and Ciere with him. “Get down, kiddies. Things are about to get loud.”

Whatever Conrad was going to say is drowned in a flood of vehicles. Cop cars, black SUVs with government plates, and a silver sedan. There are more than Ciere can count, and her stomach falls. Too many. Guntram and Conrad may be good, but they’re vastly outnumbered. This raid will go exactly the way it did for TATE—everyone will either be taken into custody or gunned down.

Ciere glances at Guntram, expecting to see fear.

But he’s smiling. Guntram is
smiling.
And so is Conrad.

“If the government wants her this badly,” Conrad says gleefully, “she must be a handful. Face it, Brandt, if she was ten years older she’d be your soul mate.”

“My wife will be so glad to hear that.” Guntram turns his attention back to the cops. “Looks like they pulled out all the stops,” he says, reaching into his jacket and withdrawing a semiautomatic pistol. He weighs it in his hand, considering the gun and the oncoming cops. Without so much as blinking, he rises to his full height, squints, and then pulls the trigger, pausing a fraction of a second between each shot. The sound is deafening; Ciere feels each shot resonate in her bones.

Each round hits a tire on a separate vehicle. The cars swing out of control as metal sparks and screams, plowing into the pavement. Ciere watches in fascination as one spins around twice before slamming into a pile of crates.

Ciere gapes up at Guntram. He’s not normal. The way he acts—he’s someone who is used to power. And not just the kind of power a gun or a heavily muscled bodyguard might provide. He regards the feds with self-assured contempt.

Ciere has only seen this confidence in a few people, and they all shared one trait. “You’re immune,” she says.

A smile pulls at Guntram’s thin mouth. “Nice of you to notice.”

Possibilities flicker through Ciere’s mind:
Eludere? Dauthus?

“Admit it, you were getting bored in Newark,” Conrad says, grinning. “You missed this.”

“Sure, of course I missed nearly getting my head blown off.” Guntram fires off two shots without even looking at his target. Ciere keeps waiting for one of the cops to shoot back, but none of them do. Guntram’s just standing there, in plain view, like it doesn’t matter that he’s an obvious target. He adds to Conrad, “You’re just lucky we’ve got backup coming, or else I’d dock your pay.”

“Just hope our backup arrives soon,” Conrad says, taking Guntram’s pistol. He ejects his magazine and slams a fresh
one home, still grinning all the while. “Otherwise my pay is the last thing we’ll be worrying about.”

Guntram glances at Ciere and Alan before edging over the car and firing off several more rounds. “The kids should probably get out of here.”

“Why?” Ciere says. The last thing she wants is to be in the middle of a police raid without protection. And, to be honest, the best protection she is likely to find is these two mobsters.

Alan’s lips press together. “This car will not provide adequate cover from small handguns,” he says. “Never mind if those federal agents have rifles or armor-piercing rounds.” As if to emphasize his point, one of the car’s windows explodes and shards of safety glass skitter along the ground. Ciere ducks, covering her bare neck.

“Kid’s got a point,” Guntram says. “Conrad, cover me, please. I’ll get these two out of the way before I take care of those agents. Come on, you two,” he adds pleasantly, before yanking at Ciere’s arm and dragging her away from the car. “I’d suggest heading for a barge and using your illusions to hide yourself and your”—his eyes flick toward Alan—“
bodyguard
.”

“This the way you treat employees?” Ciere manages to say. Even in the twilight, she and Alan don’t dare to rise to their full height. The result is an awkward scurry, with both of them
staying as close to the pavement as possible. Only Guntram doesn’t seem to fear the bullets that slam into nearby crates, kicking up dust and splintering wood.

“No,” he says, without missing a beat. “If you were a real employee, I’d ask for references before shoving you out into a firefight.”

They run in the only direction possible—toward the docks. Ciere weaves to avoid tripping over a mooring line, and Alan ducks around another abandoned shipping container. Guntram moves through the chaos with more confidence, leading the way to a barge with rusted sides, its blue paint flaking off.

He comes to a halt. “Go,” he says. “Hide on that. We’ll take care of those agents and then come back for you. But if something happens to us, I suggest you hide.”

Ciere nods. “You think you can take them? There’re so many.”

Guntram grins openly, and Ciere is reminded of Devon’s crazy smirk, of the face he wears right before he does something really stupid. “Trust me,” he says, revolving on the spot. He begins jogging back down the docks. Alan and Ciere look at the boat, hesitating.

“You think we should do as he says?” Alan asks.

Guntram stops when he is about thirty feet away, spinning so that he runs backward for a few paces. He gestures at Ciere and then points at the boat. Ciere is about to follow his
instructions when she sees something flicker out of the corner of her eye.

Her mouth opens, and a yell builds in her throat.

Guntram, facing Ciere and Alan, does not see the man slip out amid the shadows. He moves with the graceful stealth of a serpent. Before Guntram can react, the man slams a fist into Guntram’s wrist. Guntram’s gun clatters to the ground. Guntram whirls, his hand raised to strike back.