grimaced, dropped the pack and her purse beside the fig tree and sank into a chair. “How are you, Mom?”
“Just fine.” There was a spurt of conversation in the background that was quickly muffled. “Are you still going to come over tonight? You haven’t forgotten, have you?”
“No, of course I didn’t forget. I was late getting in because the traffic was horrible. If I hadn’t used all my shortcuts, I’d still be sitting in it.”
“Well, I hope it clears up before you set out for our place.” The sound of a doorbell came over the line.
“I’ll be over as soon as I can. Is someone at your door, Mom?”
“Oh, that’s nothing. Just your dad fidgeting with the bell again.”
“Mmm.” She was sure she heard more muffled conversation in the background. It sounded like her older sister’s voice. “Are you sure you aren’t expecting any visitors?”
“Now, why would we be expecting anyone but you, dear?”
“I don’t know. Are you making fried chicken?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. How did you guess?”
Fried chicken, potato salad, egg sandwiches without crusts, just like every year. The surprise party was on. “I could smell it from here, Mom.”
“Oh, you.” She laughed. “We’ll see you in a little while, then. Drive safely, dear.”
Abbie put the phone down and leaned her head against the back of the chair. She had to try to think positively about this birthday, she thought as she studied the ceiling. Apart from a different digit at the start of her age, it was the same as all the others.
She looked at her watch and did a quick calculation of how much time she would need to drive to her parents’ house if the traffic didn’t improve, then pushed to her feet and hurried toward the shower. She’d better get moving or she was going to be late for her own party. She just hoped she would be able to act surprised. It was going to be tough. She had never liked surprises.
“Twenty-nine years old,” Sarah said. “No, make that thirty. Birthday today. Single. Has worked at Cherry Hill School for the past seven years. Four hundred and sixty-one dollars in her savings account, seven thousand dollars in government bonds. Want her credit card balances?”
Flynn buckled on the electrician’s tool belt as he swung around another turn in the stairwell. Sarah was on the radio, feeding him information about Abigail Locke as it came in. He was thinking on his feet now, making up the action plan as he went along; so, any fact, even a date of birth might prove to be useful. “Does she have a debt problem?”
“No, she has a good credit rating. No debts apart from a car loan. She’s a nonsmoker, according to her insurance records,” Sarah continued. “No outstanding traffic fines. Three library books on loan. History texts, judging by the titles.”
Flynn wasn’t surprised at the depth of detail Sarah could obtain on such short notice—all it took was a little know-how, and nothing that had ever been entered into a computer was secret. If the public became aware of how easily the privacy of a private citizen could be breached, the conspiracy theorists would have a field day.
One detail that hadn’t shown up on the records, though, was the fact that Abigail could drive like a New York City cabbie. If Flynn hadn’t seen it for himself, he never would have believed what she could make that little beige Firefly do. She’d gotten past every one of the obstacles they’d set up. It was a good thing he’d been on his bike, or she would have lost him back at Sarah’s “stalled” van.
He clipped a fake power-company ID card to his shirt pocket. “What about boyfriends?”
“No data about that so far. I could get into her prescription records and find out if she’s gone to a doctor for birth control.”
“No,” Flynn said immediately. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t like the idea of Intelligence digging quite that deeply into Abigail’s life. “I only wanted to know whether she might have company with her at her apartment.”
“Sorry, prescription records wouldn’t help you there. She has her mother, Clara Locke, listed as her next of kin. Parents live in Maryland. One older sister named Martha, a younger one named Eleanor, both married with kids.” Sarah paused. “Abigail and her sisters are named after first ladies. Seems like she’s not the only history buff in the family.”
Flynn reached the next landing just as the lights went out. The power failure didn’t startle him—evidently Specialist Gonzalez had located the main breakers in the basement and had done his job right on schedule. This was the reason Flynn was using the stairs to get to the seventeenth floor instead of the elevator. He waited where he was until the emergency light clicked on, then continued climbing.
“Vilyas has just received word from the LLA.” Redinger’s voice replaced Sarah’s. His words were even lower and more clipped than earlier—definitely a very bad sign. “They claim they were double-crossed, that he never left the ransom as he had agreed.”
“What did he tell them?” Flynn asked.
“Vilyas said he left the money but it was picked up by a schoolteacher.”
Flynn increased his pace, taking the stairs three at a time. Great. If the terrorists hadn’t followed Abigail from the museum, they’d be able to find her for sure, anyway, now that Vilyas had told them the ransom was picked up by a schoolteacher. They wouldn’t need the resources of Delta Force to be able to trace which schools had field trips at the museum today, all they’d need would be a telephone. It was only a matter of time before they narrowed it down and decided to come after Abigail and the money themselves.
“Wasn’t anyone with him when he took the call?” Flynn muttered. “Couldn’t they have stopped him from talking?”
“He was advised not to say anything, but the LLA put his son on the line and then struck the child. When Vilyas heard his son scream, he disregarded our instructions.”
Flynn felt a surge of adrenaline. The LLA had abused a helpless child. They would stop at nothing to get what they wanted. They wouldn’t care how many innocent people were hurt or how much collateral damage they did in the process.
Miss Abigail Locke, who turned thirty today, with her three library books and her little beige car was a sitting duck. He had to get the money away from her—or get her away from the ransom—as soon as possible.
“Is the kid okay?” Flynn asked.
“We have no way of knowing,” Redinger replied. “All we know is that he was alive and conscious ten minutes ago.”
“How long do you estimate I have before the LLA gets here?”
“We’re keeping our units in place to gridlock the traffic in the immediate area, so best-case scenario, you’ll have thirty minutes.”
He didn’t need to ask what the worst-case scenario was, Flynn thought, hearing footsteps in the stairwell below him. He waited until he could be sure the footsteps were retreating—probably one of the building’s tenants, nervous about the power failure. He placed his hand on the door to the seventeenth floor. “What’s the latest from the
