Man in the Middle (44 page)

The guard took the loop and tested it. The length of the drawstring slid through the knot, making it an efficient noose. Peter half-stumbled.

“Where you going, Mr. Neil?” The guard swaggered towards him.

“Someone will find out,” Peter said.

“I might get suspended or fired for leaving you with the means to hang yourself, but I’m gonna retire anyway.”

The length of the guard’s thumb and thick forefinger encircled the soft part of Peter’s neck and drove his temple into the wall. Half his senses spilled loose as Peter tried to move, but a bulldog shoulder and hip pressed against his body, pasting him along the rough cinderblock. His throat felt as if it was about to tear apart, even as the guard removed his hand. Another tug and Peter couldn’t breathe. He collapsed to his knees while his jaw jerked up and back. The loop tightened against his vocal chords, as the guard dragged Peter across the floor.

Swirling fireworks burst behind his eyeballs in a spectacular show. Too weak to do anything but gasp for air, and only marginally conscious, Peter felt his wrists uncuffed. Under the armpits, strong hands pulled him to the chair, then up, into a dangling position. In his ear, stale breath flowed from a grunting mouth. Stupidly, he tried to guess what the guard had eaten for lunch. Something with garlic. Lasagna? Carbonara? Veal? Peter became dimly aware of his clanging shackles as he visualized the headlines in tomorrow’s paper:
MURDERER HANGS SELF IN JAIL CELL.

Darkness followed that fleeting image.

 
“T
HANK
G
OD YOU
’
RE AWAKE
.” Kate nestled her head against Peter’s chest and hugged his sides. “The guards were arrested, but they don’t know who hired them—or maybe they’re too frightened to say.”

“What hap . . .” It hurt for Peter to speak.

“You came close to becoming a jailhouse suicide.”

“Is there . . .” Peter swallowed “ . . . anyone they can’t . . . buy? Where am . . .”

“You’re at County Med. Strained vocals, rope burn, but you’re in better shape than the guy who tried to string you up. He claimed he was trying to save you.”

“Funny . . .” Peter pushed himself against the headboard.

“Shh,” Kate urged.

“How?”

“Father somehow figured out you were in trouble. Nobody else knows he tipped me off—he said not to use his name.”

“Good.” Peter’s voice sounded gravelly.

“The DA called over to the jail and they sent someone to find you. Just in time. Doctors say you’ll be fine in a day or two.”

“Need to get out . . .”

“No.” Kate shook her head.

“Got to.” Peter dragged his legs and dropped them over the edge of the bed. “Now or never.”

“Peter, you were thirty seconds from being dead.”

“Let’s go, please.” He coughed.

Kate put a hand behind his neck and massaged. He pushed himself to his feet. A nurse burst into the room. She barked several commands. Peter ignored her.

“I feel groggy.”

“Pain killers,” Kate said. “They’re designed to make you drowsy.”

“I’ll stick to . . . aspirin. Extra strength.” Peter’s voice still scratched, but he spoke more clearly. “Water?”

Kate went to a sink.

“Here,” Kate said, handing Peter a glass. Peter took a delicate sip. He squeezed his eyelids with the first swallow. “Under the circumstances, the DA has dropped the charges,” she continued. “All my brilliant persuasion proved unnecessary in the end. Getting hanged convinced the DA ofa few things.”

“Go. Let’s go.”

“I’ll be right back.” Kate left the room.

A half-minute later, she returned, pushing a wheelchair. “We’d better hit the road before they strap you down to the bed.”

Kate reached for his elbow and guided him.

“Thanks, Kate.”

“No problem. Don’t forget, I like my men beholden,” she whispered.

A moment later, she wheeled Peter from the hospital.

By Tuesday afternoon, despite a lingering neck rash and a voice an octave deeper than normal, Peter had recovered enough to move forward with his plan.

He took a room at a small hotel along Highway 101 in the beach town of Encinitas. The meeting with Stenman was set to go, and he had two hours to accomplish several things before that.

First, he phoned Oliver Dawson.

“You’ve arranged for a boat?” Peter asked.

“A boat? More like a yacht. This monster’s costing me a fortune.”

“Good,” Peter said.

“You should see this thing. Forty-something-feet long with a cabin that sleeps six, I’m told. Thing also kicks ass in the speed department. By the way, you care that every time I step on a boat I get seasick? Hell, Neil, every time I step on a dock I feel like puking.”

“I’m deeply distressed. You’ll be ready off La Jolla Shores, tomorrow, before one o’clock?”

“Yes, Massah. You interested in telling me how you intend to orchestrate this miracle?”

“No. The immunity papers for Sarah Guzman drawn up like I asked?”

“The director didn’t like it . . . me either.”

“You got them, though, exactly like I asked?”

“Yeah, yeah. Exactly, including the bit about allowing her to transfer assets without interference. If this doesn’t work, I’m screwed.”

“If this doesn’t work, I’m dead, and my death trumps your screwed. You think the director’s assistant—Ranson—bought into your story of a potential high-level informant?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dawson said. “Ranson has to assume it’s serious and report back to Stenman. I’m certain she’s aware of our conversation. When this is over, I look forward to busting that prick.”

“You ready to take care of Ayers and his wife? Kate too if necessary?”

“Roger to that, but why is Stenman’s attorney going to need to disappear?”

“Trust me, he’s not going to be a popular guy when this is over. I think we’re set, so good luck, Agent.”

“Before you go, Neil, tell me what’s going to happen to you after I get those papers? No way you’ll get out of that hotel room alive.”

“That’s my problem. You just wait for your cue, get your guy to shore, get her on board, and get your asses down to Mexico as fast as your boat or yacht or whatever it is can take you. After that, you do what you need to do.”

Once that was settled, Peter checked Dawson off his list.

At noon, right on schedule, Peter’s phone rang.

“We’re all set,” Jason Ayers said. “Morgan’s ready to meet. I get the impression she’s happy to negotiate the return of those documents. She even shows signs of liking you.”

“I’m flattered. She’s not considering setting me up, is she?”

“No. Certainly not at my office. Besides, I think the seed you planted with Ranson has her neurotic. She wants those papers.”

“My Mauritius Island bank account ready to go? The account numbers as I asked?”

“Just as you requested. And I’ve set you up with a car rental. A blue Celica, parked just where you asked.”

“Thanks. Did Morgan agree to open a joint account to escrow my payment?”

“She did. But why do you want to do that?”

“The account is technically in her . . . what did you call it? Her
empire
of funds or accounts?”

“Yes. Her various offshore funds are part of her so-called empire of funds.”

“And you have the power-of-attorney to move funds from other Stenman Partners offshore accounts, into this new escrow account? As part of your intra-empire fund transfer authority. Right?”

Ayers said nothing. Peter listened for breathing, but heard none.

“Jason. You still there?”

“You’re going to ask me to transfer funds from Morgan’s big accounts to this joint account of yours and hers. Aren’t you?”

“That’s why I needed to arrange with Dawson for you and your wife to disappear, at least until we get through the fallout.”

“Peter,” Ayers began, sounding concerned, “you’ll never be able to spend a dime of that money.”

“I don’t expect to end up with anything. My plan is more complex than you realize. It’s time I explained how all this works . . .”

When Peter finished, Ayers asked, “You think you can do all this without Guzman or Stenman catching on?”

“Not sure. A lot has to do with your acting skills. You’re the one who’s got to sell Sarah Guzman. You still game? I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“If this works, it’ll be worth it.”

“It has to work,” Peter said. “And, Jason, things are going to get hairy tomorrow, and I wanted to tell you one last thing. On a personal level . . .”

“Personal? It must have to do with Kate.”

“I know she’s engaged to be married, and I hope she’s happy. But I wanted you to know I love her. I’ll do what I can to keep an eye out for her.”

“She made me promise not to, but I think I should tell you anyway.”

“Tell me
what
?” Peter asked.

“She broke off her engagement.”

Before Ayers finished, Peter went from standing to sitting.

“Peter. Did you hear me?” Ayers asked.

“Did . . . did she say anything about her feelings for me?”

“She didn’t have to. She cares, a lot. But she’s afraid you might feel gratitude, not love, in return. You’ll have to win back her trust.”

“I will. And thanks.”