The Innocent: A Vanessa Michael Munroe Novel (34 page)

Munroe took a step from the window, let go, and the sheet whipped wildly. From below came first a thud, then a grunt, a pause, and then a door slam.

The cold of gun metal pressed against the back of Munroe’s head. She raised first one hand and then the other until her fingers joined behind her head.

Tires peeled, and in her mind’s eye, Munroe saw the taxi launch forward.

Hannah was away, and every moment here, every moment stalled, facilitated that escape. Munroe filled with a mix of elation and regret. The sadness wasn’t for herself but for Bradford, because no matter what happened tonight, she knew well from personal experience the torment to come: he would feel helpless to protect her, he could do nothing but watch and wait; he would curse himself for his weakness, torture himself while wondering if he had done the right thing.

The muzzle stayed pressed to Munroe’s head, and she stared forward, out the window, into the night, a sad smile on her face while the other set of hands, rough and angry, patted her down.

Eventually Bradford would realize that there was nothing he could have done differently. She’d gone into the hostel, this third-floor room,
fully aware that she was walking into a box. She had made the choice consciously, and her refusal to resist or fight was more of the same, this time to allow Bradford the opportunity to gain distance from the hostel. But in the end, no matter tonight’s outcome and no matter what her reasons, Bradford would ache, and this was the one thought that pained her.

The hands found the Bersa, found the blades. Took them. Munroe braced. Waited. And then the world went black.

B
radford fishtailed out of the alley and onto the narrow connecting street, the street that led away from the hostel, away from Munroe and toward the objective.

He was breathing hard. Too hard. He needed to slow down, he couldn’t think, couldn’t focus. She’d been clear on what she wanted.
Follow the plan
. And so he followed, driving on instinct, moving on autopilot, every muscle, every nerve screaming the contra-order.

He’d left a man behind. And not just any man; he’d left Michael.

This was not the way things were done. Not the way it should be. Wrong. He had to go back, fight, protect her the way she refused to protect herself. Michael was the important one, not this girl she was giving her life to save.

Bradford swung a left, side street to boulevard, one more taxi blending into the city’s late-night or early-morning traffic. He eased off the pedal if only slightly. Every second took him farther away from Munroe—if she was even still alive.

Reason kicked in.

Of course she was still alive. She’d walked into the big dog’s den and taken his bone, and now that dog was going to want to know where to find it and how to get it back.

The realization was a double-edged sword. There was relief in the
knowledge that Michael was alive, and would still be alive for a while; but there was torment knowing what would come when she refused to divulge any information. Not only because she wouldn’t, but because she couldn’t.

She’d foreseen this. It’s why she’d left the finer details of getting Hannah out of the country in Bradford’s hands, why even she had no idea how he was transporting the girl, or where in neighboring Montevideo he would take her.

More, she knew the way the game was played. As long as they thought she had what they wanted, they would continue to try to break her. The longer she lived, and the more they focused in the wrong direction, the safer Hannah would be.

Bradford pulled into the parking area next to the Peugeot and shut off the engine. He turned to the backseat where the little body was still bundled, and after staring at the girl for several seconds, he stepped from the cab and opened the rear door.

He sliced through the knots in the sheets and let the material fall. The girl looked so small, so fragile, sleeping as she was. She was unmistakably Logan, and the similarity brought on a surge of anger that crested above the tormenting conflict.

Bradford remained motionless, caught in the crosshairs of duty.

The child breathed a steady in-and-out, and his mind found the pattern, working through the maze. He would find a way both to fulfill his obligation and to avoid abandoning Munroe to the vises of the Cárcan family.

He lifted Hannah and transferred her from one car to the next. Left the items in the trunk where they were. Tossed the keys to the cab under the cab’s front passenger seat and climbed into the Peugeot.

He would do this.

Against his strongest instinct he would follow the plan. But he would add his own twist. This was the only way his conscience would allow him to both move forward and give Munroe what she wanted.

The time had come for Logan to pay his dues.

Bringing Logan into the mix wasn’t a decision made lightly, nor was it based on emotion, although granted, emotion ran high. These were Bradford’s terms. If he was to sacrifice Munroe to save another’s child, then everyone would pay a price. A life for a life for a life.

And that, exactly, was the risk of bringing Logan or even Gideon into the fray. Sure, they were both kickass in their own little worlds, but that wasn’t the same thing as living on the edge. Skills got rusty, muscles got weak, and for whatever else, they were still living the civilian life. Munroe had a reason for wanting to keep them out of the fight—not just so that she wouldn’t worry—but because of the higher likelihood of one of them getting killed.

Life for a life for a life
.

Bradford picked up the phone. Punched in the number.

“I’ve got Hannah,” Bradford said.

The relief on the other end was palpable. “Where are you?” Logan said.

“They’ve got Michael.”

Silence.

“I can’t go after her,” Bradford said. “Not if I’m to get Hannah safely out. The situation is volatile.”

More silence.

“You can either track Michael or I’m leaving Hannah where she is, right now, and going back myself.” Bradford stopped, waiting for the venom in his voice to fade.

“Why don’t you give me Hannah?” Logan said.

“Not an option. It’s either all or nothing. The people we just took her from are powerful, connected, and vicious. I have pieces in place to get your daughter safely out of the country, and my window of opportunity is closing. I don’t have time to dicker around with you. Either I do this or I don’t.”

Another pause, and Logan said, “Tell me where I should start.”

Bradford gave Logan the address of the hostel, provided general directions, told him how to find the taxi and what he would find in the
taxi. Explained the layout of the hostel, the patterns of security, and what Logan could expect. He told him to move fast. Munroe was there right now. There was no guarantee for how long.

“Last thing,” Bradford said. “Tell Gideon the only way he’s ever going to get the information Michael had for him is if she’s alive to give it to him herself.”

Bradford shut the phone without waiting for a response, tossed it on the seat, and pulled out of the parking area into the thin stream of traffic. Gideon might have gone along anyway, simply to watch Logan’s back, but there was no motivator like self-interest.

Logan stared at the phone in his hand, held it out as if it were toxic, his mind blank, in shock. The news that he’d waited eight years to receive brought with it an unbelievable anguish.

He stood and climbed back into the clothes he’d shed only an hour earlier. On the opposite bed, Gideon stirred and said, “Was it Michael?”

“Miles.”

Gideon tossed, turning from his back to his side. “Good news or bad?”

Logan moved steadily through the room, collecting items. Belt. Shoes. Wallet. Watch. “Both,” he said.

Gideon turned on the light. “What’s going on?”

“Miles has Hannah,” Logan said. “That’s the good news. He’s on his way to moving her out of the country as we speak.” He paused, turned to face Gideon, and, as if his mind couldn’t quite comprehend the reality of his words, said, “Michael was taken in the process of getting Hannah. Not by The Chosen but by the Sponsors they’d handed Hannah off to—a big-name local crime family.” Logan stood, momentarily blank, and then clasped his watch into place. “She’ll probably be tortured for information if they don’t kill her outright.”

“Sucks for her,” Gideon said, and then, realizing that Logan was preparing to leave the room, sat up. “Where are you going?” he said.

“To find Michael.”

Gideon lay back down and pulled the covers up to his chin. “Good luck with that.”

Logan paused and stared at Gideon the way he’d stared at the phone. “Incidentally, a little message to you from Miles,” he said.

Gideon rolled back and blinked an eye open.

Logan knelt and tied his laces. Tight. Old habits. “Michael not only had the locations of all of the
puerteño
Havens,” he said. “She had days of video and audio, a hierarchy map, and lots and lots of names. Whatever arrangement she made with you was between the two of you. Miles says the only way you’re getting anything that she had is if she’s the one to give it to you.”

Gideon swore. Flung the blankets aside and stood, muttering about blackmail. “So what are we supposed to do even if you do find her?” he said. “Just go marching in like two idiot targets, saying, ‘Here shoot at us, and let her go’?”

“Apparently, Miles left us a gift. It’s in the back of a car, and we’re going to go find it.”

Logan stopped. He stood square in front of Gideon, didn’t move, just stood until Gideon raised his head and said, “What?”

“Michael is my best friend, Gideon—more than friend—she’s the only family I have. She’s saved my neck more than once and put her life on the line to get Hannah because I asked her for help. Whether you come or not, I’m going after her. She deserves at least that from me. And you? You can either put up or shut up.”

Gideon raised a hand. “It’s cool,” he said. “Let’s go kick some ass.”

They found the taxi where Bradford said it would be, and the parking area not as empty as described. The morning was coming quickly. Logan fished the key out from under the seat, opened the trunk, and almost cautiously unzipped the long duffel bag.

There was a long moment of silence as he and Gideon stood side by side, mouths open, staring at what waited for them.

Logan took a quick look over his shoulder, checked again that they were alone in the parking area, pulled the bag to the ground, and then shut the trunk.

Gideon said, “Where the hell did he get that? And how, with all of this shit, did Michael manage to get taken?”

“Weapons are what Miles does,” Logan said. He grunted, heaved the bag onto the backseat, and closed the door. Slow and firm. “Miles has connections all over the place,” he said, and then paused, thoughtful, piecing together the unknown events of the darkened morning. Logan didn’t know much about Miles, but he knew Michael better than anyone else ever would.

“She didn’t want to go in shooting,” Logan said, “for Hannah’s sake. And Michael has always been more about stealth than bullets.” He nodded at the bag. “That was Miles’s doing—she probably didn’t even know it was back there.”

They climbed into the cab, Logan in the driver’s seat, Gideon riding shotgun. After another thoughtful moment, Logan turned the ignition key and pulled into the thickening traffic. It took several passes to find the hostel, and on the way, the boys discussed strategy. Logan outlined all he knew of the hostel and its security, a repeat of everything that Bradford had told him.

Gideon climbed from the front seat into the back. Pushed the bag to the floor and culled through it until he’d found what he wanted, then searched on Logan’s behalf. Most of the lighter pieces were Argentine made, an assortment of Bersas, reliable 9 mms, even if not well known outside of South America. There was a pair of Spanish Star Z-84 submachine guns, also 9 mm, a block of C4 with ample det cord, timers and remotes, smoke grenades, live grenades, night vision, and what had to be at least two thousand rounds of ammunition.

The sky was breaking into dawn, and day had come by the time they reached the neighborhood. Logan broke from the journey long enough to transfer the bag and its remaining contents into the trunk and then made his way to the hostel, parking the taxi just beyond the front door.

He shut off the ignition. Nodded at Gideon. “Ready?”

Gideon returned the motion. “Let’s do it,” he said.

They exited the cab, both doors slamming at the same time, walked the two steps up the hostel entrance, and once inside, separated. No point in creating a single target.

The desk clerk looked up, and his face clouded. Any idiot who’d been in the building within the last few hours would have reason to mistrust two men walking solidly through the door. The clerk’s hands fell below the counter.

Gideon drew, his weapon trained on the man’s chest. The clerk froze. And why not; all he had to do was wait for the backup that was somewhere upstairs and would soon be down.

In Spanish fluent from his years in South America, Gideon stage-whispered a demand to the man to place his hands where he could see them. When the clerk obliged, Gideon crossed the lobby, a few quick strides, and slid in behind the counter. He stood behind the man and out of reach, with the weapon still trained on him.

Gideon nodded to Logan, who had waited at the base of the stairwell.

Logan slipped behind the counter, rooted out the weapons from underneath it, and handed them to Gideon. He stepped back to cover the clerk while Gideon zip-tied the man’s hands behind his back.

With the clerk secured and still behind the counter, Logan returned to the bottom of the stairwell and, as casually as possible, weapon out of sight, waited. Disarming and securing the clerk had gone quickly—better than anticipated—almost like clockwork. This next part wouldn’t be as straightforward.

The hotel’s guests were beginning to stir, and Logan’s judgment call said that the first steps down the stairwell toward the cantina would not be those of the foot soldiers. He had little to go on in pinpointing the hotel security other than Bradford’s descriptions, which, admittedly would probably now be different, but something about the
posture of the man on the stairs was wrong. Like Munroe, Logan knew the subtleties of facial expression, knew body language, skills highly attuned after years of trying to avoid trouble in the ever-changing, arbitrary structure of The Chosen.