going on?”
“It’s all good, boss. We have the equipment in and we’ve just finished the test run. We’ll be all cleaned up in ten.”
“What did you think of the test?”
“It’s everything they promised.”
“Good, I—” He saw Tate come out of the shop carrying two large bags. Just as she reached the center of the sidewalk, she stopped and handed the bags to Elizabeth, then she looked inside her purse. “George, she’s coming. I’ll talk—”
A movement caught his attention, someone in a hooded coat right behind her. A second later the man shoved Elizabeth into a passing group of students. Michael tossed the phone and got out his weapon as he ran. A white van drove up onto the sidewalk, the side door wide-open. The hooded man shoved Tate inside and the van took off.
He lifted his weapon to shoot out a tire, but civilians crowded in front of him and he lost the shot. Brody had covered the license plate with mud, and there was nothing else identifying about the van as it turned the corner out of his view.
He raced back to the limo, cursing Dr. Bay fifty ways to Sunday. If it was the last thing he did, he was going to find Jerry Brody and break his neck.
He picked up the cell phone he’d dropped. It still worked, and as he pulled out of the shopping mall valet parking lot, he hit *2.
“Elizabeth here.”
“I’m going after her,” he said, “but I’m dropping off the limo and taking my own vehicle. Got that?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry—”
“Just make sure Daddy doesn’t get inquisitive. If all goes well, I’ll have her back by nightfall.”
“Yes, sir.”
He clicked off the phone, tossed it on the seat and pulled out another electronic device, the one the size and shape of a BlackBerry. It was actually a GPS—a global positioning system—with only one target. The moment he saw the light on the map he relaxed. He’d find her and bring her home. There would be plenty of time to kill Brody afterward.
For now, he concentrated on not killing any pedestrians or getting arrested as he broke a great many laws. He had to get out of this limo if he wanted to have the least bit of stealth. He’d taken his motorcycle to work this morning, which was a good thing. He could move quickly and get into tight spots with that baby, and there weren’t many cars on the road that could catch him.
Michael figured the van was registered to Brody and that it was heading toward Long Island, where Brody lived. But he wasn’t a hundred percent sure and he wasn’t going to take any chances.
Tate knew about the GPS tracker—at least the one in her wristwatch. She didn’t know about the one in her purse. But that was fine. She didn’t need to know everything. Besides, if she hadn’t actually passed out from fear, she’d be too busy with her panic attacks to think about global positioning systems.
SHE WAS IN A VAN and there was a bag over her head. Tate could barely feel her hands or her feet, but she could feel the bag being sucked into her mouth as she struggled for breath. The air was foul, sick, and her heart pounded hard in her chest.
“Stop,” she said, only it was a croak, not really a word. “Stop.” It was only a tiny bit better. They wouldn’t hear her. He’d promised to stop if she asked him to, but he had to hear her.
“Stop!”
That was louder, that was more of a scream, but the van kept going, kept rocking, and no one touched her or listened. She tried to kick out, to make them listen, but her legs were tied together and she could hardly move.
“Stop! Stop!” She used all her strength to thrash, to get their attention. And her heart—it was filling her chest and squeezing her lungs so she couldn’t breathe.
“Stop, stop, stop, stop!”
No one answered. She was alone and she was going to die in the back of this van. There was no air, no escape. It was over and there was so much she hadn’t done.
The blackness came from the inside out. It was welcome.
HE MADE IT TO THE garage in Tate’s building, then jumped out of the vehicle and climbed onto his rebuilt Suzuki GSX. He docked his GPS just above the speedometer and squealed out of the garage, heading toward Long Island. He wasn’t exactly sure where Brody lived, but he thought it might be Little Neck.
Didn’t matter. He was following the purse. Brody had no reason to scan Tate for a GPS, so he had no need to get rid of her purse. Even if the pervert wanted to take her clothes, they’d still be in the van.
Trouble was, it was Friday and it was four-thirty, and the expressway was a parking lot. He could get around the cars all right, but there was a great chance he could be popped in the process. The last thing he needed now was to have to explain this to the highway patrol.
He inched the bike forward and thought again about Brody. The man wasn’t exactly living on his performance art, despite charging an arm and a leg for his kidnappings. Michael knew Tate had already given him ten grand—half the fee. But Brody himself lived off his wife’s income. She was some big cosmetic surgeon who Botoxed politicos and movie stars. She was why he could afford to play with his art.
As he put his leg down once again to wait for traffic to move, he watched the blip on the GPS moving steadily forward on the same expressway, only about ten miles ahead.
Screw it. He’d explain to the police if he had to. In the meantime, he was gonna find Tate.
Swerving the bike into the fire lane, he gunned it. He tried to keep an eye out for cops, but between looking at the signal and trying not to be killed by motorists, he had his hands full.
There was a car stuck in his way a few miles in, so he went back into traffic. Despite the laws against it in New York, he did the bob and weave, skating past SUVs and Toyotas with a couple of inches to spare.
He couldn’t understand how the van was making such good time, but as the minutes ticked by and the GPS kept purring, he closed the distance.
Just as he thought he might get a visual, he heard the dreaded sound of a police siren.
Glancing back, he saw the NYHP coming up the fire lane.
Michael slowed down and found himself a nice place to idle right in front of a grocery truck. Traffic moved at about five miles an hour, and he just stayed put, preparing his explanation.
The blip on the GPS went farther away with each painstaking inch, and so did the siren. Finally he saw the lights in his side mirror. Even the cops weren’t going very fast. When they reached his side, they didn’t stop, and he let out a held breath. They were after something else, an accident probably, but with them so close he didn’t dare pull any stunts.
He tried to be patient. He wasn’t successful.
TATE WOKE, STILL IN the darkness of the rocking vehicle. She had no moisture at all in her throat and she felt as if she would choke to death. She tried to cry out again, to tell them they had it wrong, but she couldn’t.
Her
