The Buried (25 page)

__________

W
ITH DANI’S TRACKING
chip as their guide, Quinn and Nate were able to stay half a mile back as they followed the ambulance.

Quinn had plugged a set of earbuds into his phone to better hear the open line coming from the other vehicle. Unfortunately, what little conversation there had been came from the back of the ambulance, and he could barely make out every third or fourth word.

He leaned forward, concentrating, as a new noise came over the line. It sounded like someone moving around. He closed his eyes and tried to picture what was happening.

Definite movement. Perhaps—

A loud beep in his ear signaled an incoming call.

It was Orlando, so he put the connection with the ambulance on hold, clicked over, and turned off
MUTE
. “Did you find Winston?”

“We did,” she said. “Did you find Dani?”

“Kind of. They had her in this building but left a little while ago. We’re following.”

“Did you know her new friends just put her on auction?”

Quinn disconnected the earbuds from his phone and switched to speaker so Nate could hear. “Say that again.”

“An auction to buy Dani went live about ten minutes ago.” She filled in what details she knew.

“Any bids yet?” Quinn asked.

“Two were just posted. One for two-point-five million, and the next for four.”

“Does it say anything about how the winner will receive her?”

“No,” she said. “Whoa. First bidder just re-bid. Five million.”

“The ambulance stopped,” Nate said.

“Stopped?” Quinn asked, surprised.

He had pulled a dedicated tracking device out of their kit and propped it in the cup holder. He looked at it. Sure enough, the chip was now stationary. But that didn’t make any sense. They were on the interstate and Quinn and Nate had encountered no sign of slowing traffic.

“I’ve got to go,” he told Orlando, and hung up.

A few seconds later, Nate said, “It’s coming up. Right…about…”

Before he could say “now,” Quinn saw them.

“They found the chip.”

Dani’s shoes were lying on the side of the road, right where the tracking dot had stopped on the display. Though the chip’s loss was unfortunate, it wasn’t the end of the world.

Nate’s phone was still in the ambulance; they could track its location. But because the dedicated tracking device was able to only recognize the signal from homing chips and not from phones, they couldn’t listen in and track the phone at the same time. Still, as long as the others continued to use the ambulance, it would be okay.

Quinn was tempted to have Nate move within visual range, but held off. It turned out to be a smart move when a minute later, the ambulance exited the interstate and randomly worked its way through the local neighborhood before rejoining the main road. Clearly the men had assumed that after ridding themselves of the chip, their pursuers would close in and therefore had attempted to lose them.

Once they were back on the interstate, Quinn had Nate close the gap.

LOS ANGELES

T
HE IMPERIAL THEATER
was
on South Spring, in an area of parking garages, recently converted lofts, and trendy restaurants. It hadn’t always been that way. For decades, most of downtown had played host to only office workers during the day while serving the homeless around the clock. The turn of the century saw the start of a gentrification movement that spit and sputtered for several years before finally beginning to take hold.

The marquee of the Imperial stuck out over the sidewalk like a giant spike. It had been refurbished not long ago but carried no message. The front entrance of the theater was hidden from the street by a wooden wall painted black. Elsewhere such a wall would be covered with posters and graffiti, but this one was not. Orlando knew this had everything to do with who owned the place. No one—not even a wannabe gang member with a spray can—wanted to mess with Thomas Rachett.

“How does one get in?” Ananke asked as they drove by.

“There’s got to be a door off the alley,” Orlando said. With the front walled off and buildings to either side, it was the only option.

“Do we just walk up and knock?”

“No, we don’t just walk up and knock,” Orlando replied, trying to contain her temper. She knew Ananke was only being funny, but Orlando’s sense of humor had a blind spot when it came to the assassin.

She had Daeng pull to the curb a few blocks away, then searched the Internet for info on the building. She turned up old plans from before Rachett had purchased the place. As she studied them, she realized what their choices were.

When she explained what they would have to do, Ananke raised an eyebrow. “So we
are
going to knock on the door.”

Orlando wanted to punch her in the face.

__________

T
WO MEN STOOD
outside the Imperial backstage door—bouncer types, one bald, the other ponytailed, both with more muscles than they would ever need.

They were chatting with each other when Orlando entered the alley, but stopped as they realized she was heading all the way down to them.

When she neared, the ponytailed guy said, “Afternoon, ma’am. Are you lost?”

She stopped and put a hand to her belly. “Whoa. I didn’t expect it to be so hot today.”

“Is there something we can help you with?” Baldy asked.

She took a few steps closer and suddenly leaned forward, panting.

The men moved toward her.

“Are you all right?” Baldy asked, concerned.

 “Give me…a second,” she said between breaths.

She stepped past them a few feet and then turned slowly around. The men naturally swiveled to face her, turning their backs to the street entrance, allowing Daeng and Ananke to slip unnoticed into the alley.

“That…was a strong…one,” she said.

“You’re not about to have a baby, are you?” Baldy asked.

“Not supposed to…but…maybe.”

“Maybe I should call nine-one-one,” Ponytail said.  

Orlando held up a hand, like she was having another contraction and needed a moment. Finally, she said, “No need to call. It’s not labor.”

Daeng and Ananke each threw an arm around their respective target’s neck and squeezed. Caught off guard, it took the men a moment to react. They twisted side to side, lifting Daeng and Ananke into the air as they attempted to pull the arms from their necks. They would have been more successful if they’d tried to help each other instead, but their instinct for self-preservation was too strong and soon both dropped to the ground, unconscious.

“Wow!” Ananke exclaimed. “That was a ride, wasn’t it? How about it, Daeng? We should wait around until they wake up and do it again.”

“I think I’ll pass,” he said.

Orlando would have liked to extend the bodyguards’ sleep with a little knockout juice, but after dumping the sedative out of two syringes so they could be used on Winston, only one was left and she’d rather keep that one intact, just in case. They settled for dragging the men to the far end of the alley and zip-tying their wrists and ankles.

“That pregnancy act is really working for you,” Ananke told Orlando as they finished up.

“It’s not an act,” Orlando said.

“That’s what so cool about it. Imagine if you get yourself a false belly in the future. It’s the ultimate distraction.”

Orlando ignored her.

The bald guy had a set of keys on him that unlocked the theater door. A series of short hallways brought them to a T-bone intersection. On the wall was a sign that read
HOUSE
with an arrow pointing to the right, and
STAGE
with
an arrow to the left. Below this was another, subtler sign that read:

RACHETT ENTERPRISES

Thru House

Orlando motioned toward the stage, hoping there was a back way to Rachett’s office. They quietly made their way into the wings. A single bulb glowed from a stand on the stage, but it was bright enough for them to get a sense that the whole stage area had been refurbished—vibrant gold curtains, freshly stained floor, and a brand new movie screen waiting to be used.

Orlando peeked around the curtain and furrowed her brow. In place of rows of seats that should have filled the space was an intricate jigsaw puzzle of custom couches and lounges and mattresses, all very high end. At the very back of the room were two sets of emerald green double doors.

Thinking they could cut across, she motioned for Daeng and Ananke to follow her.

“What in God’s name is this?” Ananke whispered as she came around the curtain.

“Quiet,” Orlando said.

Daeng helped Orlando off the stage and into the audience area. She led them around the furniture toward the back doors.

“Does anyone else feel…dirty?” Ananke asked.

Orlando shot a look back at her.

“Sorry,” the assassin said. “I’ll shut up.”

 Upon reaching the doors, they heard voices on the other side, at least three people, moving to the left. When the voices faded, Orlando cracked open one of the double doors.

A grand lobby with gold carpet that matched the stage curtains, and at the far left, at the edge of her view, the beginnings of a wide stairway. She closed the door and opened the other half so she could look in the opposite direction. A guard stood ten feet away, his back to her. She eased the door closed, motioned for Daeng and Ananke to stay where they were, and then sneaked over to the other set of double doors. She went through the same routine as with the first set. This time she was able to see that the stairs went up to a second level, where a sign on the wall read:

RACHETT ENTERPRISES

There were no more guards, however.

Daeng took care of the one guard who was present,
manhandling him back into the theater where Orlando injected him with a quarter of the remaining sedative. They then entered the lobby and moved over to the stairs. The second floor curved around the theater so they couldn’t see anything beyond the upper landing. But they could hear voices again.

“So?” Ananke whispered.

Orlando glanced around until she spotted an elevator. “You guys take the stairs. I’ll meet you at the top.”

When Ananke saw what Orlando was looking at, she said, “Unfair. I want to be lazy, too.”

Really, just one punch. Is that too much to ask?
Orlando thought as she hurried over to the elevator and climbed into the waiting car.

There was a soft
ding
before the door opened on the second level. She waited by the elevator until the others joined her, and then they headed around the corner like they were there on business.

The corridor opened up into a larger room that reflected the Hollywood grandeur of the theater’s past. Reds and golds and browns danced through metal and wood and fabric, turning the space into a showpiece that had surely impressed more than a few potential clients.

The reception desk in front was a combination of wood and glass that must have cost tens of thousands of dollars. No receptionist, though. In fact, no one was at any of the desks scattered throughout the room.

“Something’s up,” Orlando whispered. She pulled out her gun.

Seeing Orlando’s weapon, Ananke said, “Finally,” and retrieved her own.

Daeng followed suit.

Several offices were on either side of the open bullpen area. The voices seemed to be coming from an open door along the right and toward the back. Orlando and her team snuck along the wall and stopped a few feet from the open door.

“…back from her?” The voice was male, maybe fifties or sixties.

“I’m sure it won’t be long. A few hours.” Another man, younger.

“Good. I suppose you want me to take care of the disposal arrangements?”

“If it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“It won’t be as long as it gets done today. I can’t have this going any longer. I have a big event tomorrow night so I can’t keep my staff off site for another day.”

Orlando cocked her head.
My
staff? Was the speaker Rachett?

“We understand. The Wolf wanted me to express her appreciation for your help, and told me to let you know she will never forget your hospitality.”

The Wolf.  It seemed they were in the right place.

Orlando motioned for Daeng to watch their backs, then raised her gun and led Ananke inside.

The office was huge, with not one but two sitting areas, floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and a cruise ship of a desk in the middle. Behind the desk was the unmistakable figure of Thomas Rachett. A second man stood beside him while three others were in front of the desk.

The guy next to Rachett saw them first and started to pull out a gun.

Thup.

The sound had come from Ananke’s weapon, the bullet dropping the man where he stood.

One of the men in front grabbed for his weapon, but it hadn’t even cleared his jacket before Ananke dropped him with a second shot.

She smiled. “Anyone else?” When no one took her up on her offer, she said, “Well, that’s disappointing.”

Orlando looked at the duo in front of the desk. “I’m familiar with Mr. Rachett, but who might you two be?”

“People you would do better to leave alone,” one of them said.

“Oooh. Scary,” Ananke said.

The guy’s buddy, the smaller of the two, piped up. “If you have business with Mr. Rachett, there is no reason for us to stay.”

“I believe our business is with all of you,” Orlando said. “If I’m not mistaken, you represent The Wolf, correct?”

“Who are you?”

“I’ll tell you who we aren’t. We aren’t the ones who kidnapped the director of a United States intelligence organization and have been holding her against her will.”

“Are you with the Agency?” Rachett asked. “Look, we can work this out. I know people who can—”

“You want to work this out? Tell us where Helen Cho is.”

The smaller man narrowed his eyes. “You’re not Agency, are you? I bet you’re just a couple of hired…freelancers out for a quick buck. If it’s cash you want, we can accommodate.”