She beams and shifts her blonde hair from her face. “We’ll have another next week, if you’re interested? And that weekend there’s a brunch, only a few people attend but I think you’d be such a perfect fit.”
Ooh. If Neriah was planning on sticking around, she’d already be climbing the ladder to lambhood. Too bad she’s got other plans. “Definitely,” I say, shifting my bag further up my shoulder. “I have to run, but I’ll see you next week?”
“Absolutely.”
We head our separate directions, Cynthia to the reception desk and me to the door. Her bodyguard is stationed on the other side and I pass him without a direct glance, heading toward the back of the Praetorian SUV to then cross the street toward Grindstone. But not before surreptitiously sticking a GPS tracker to the bumper.
I have an hour.
I start the timer on my watch for sixty minutes and head to one of my vehicles parked around the corner from Grindstone, an Audi A6 Allroad, and I head toward 656 Toyah Avenue. I stop where I know there are no cameras and check the GPS tracker on my phone to confirm Cynthia is still at the nail salon. Forty-nine minutes.
When I’ve taken over the cameras for the parking garage of her condo building, I head inside. I park as close to her assigned spot as I can, then I gather my equipment and wait.
Forty-four minutes.
Those minutes pass agonizingly slowly. I pull on my tactical vest with my equipment and strap on my Beretta, checking my watch and the tracker repeatedly. My heart thunders. I don’t think I’ve done anything this ballsy since I set the storage barn on fire and chucked Donald Junior’s severed hand at his sham of a father. The excitement has me nearly giddy.
The alarm vibrates on my watch. Forty-four minutes are up.
I keep my eyes on the tracker. A few minutes later, it’s on the move, heading in my direction.
I open my iPad and arm the locks on the doors that access this parking lot, including the vehicle entry. The cameras I installed earlier this week show every access point and the street in both directions. When the Praetorian SUV shows up on Toyah Ave, I’m ready.
I unlock the vehicle entry door. It’s set to relock as soon as it closes.
As the door rolls open, I climb out of my car, staying low and out of sight as I lie on my back and shuffle beneath the car next to Cynthia’s assigned spot.
The engine of the SUV echoes against the concrete walls and pillars, its tires squeaking on the sealed floor. The door rumbles to a close behind it. The smell of oil and rubber assaults my senses as I wait, my limbs nearly vibrating with anticipation.
The SUV slows as it turns into the spot next to me. I’m rolling beneath it as the tires grind to a halt.
Time stretches. Every second feels like a minute. I absorb every detail. The click of the locks opening. The sound of the hinges as the driver’s door opens. The tension in my honed muscles as I roll from under the vehicle when the bodyguard’s back is turned and I fire my taser. It hits him right in the ass and thigh and he goes down with a pained groan. I’m on him before he can recover, injecting enough propofol into his neck to knock him out but not kill him.
Cynthia bolts for the door with a terrified screech but I hit her with my second taser. She screams and drops to the pavement. I inject her with propofol, again enough to keep her from moving but not enough to halt her breathing.
I take Cynthia first, dragging her to my vehicle where I manage to hoist her into the back seat. I remove her phone and purse, setting them on the front seat of the Praetorian vehicle. I pat her down but find nothing else of concern.
The bodyguard is harder. He’s probably double my weight, so I sit him up against the side of his vehicle and pull a note and a burner phone from my tactical vest, laying them on his lap. When I pull the tracker from the bumper, I’m ready to go.
Within ten minutes, the whole thing is done. I disarm the garage door, park in my spot down the street, disarm the remaining doors, and switch over the cameras. Then I’m on my way to Lake McDonald.
The cabin is not my favorite place for this kind of thing. While it’s set up for murder, it’s not as comfortable as home. Everything is still more geared to Samuel’s preferences than mine. And the deconstruction chamber is really more of a cramped utility room. It performs the same function, but it’s just not as well-appointed.
I set Cynthia up in the living room where I’ve pushed the coffee table aside and set up a chair on thick plastic. And honestly, I’m not so disappointed about the location, because this is such a huge win. I snatched her right from under Caron’s nose, and now I just have to lure him out of hiding.
I’m watching 13 Going on 30 when she finally comes around, and it’s been a painful wait. I’ve been starting to regret dosing her with another hit of propofol on the way home.
“I think I’ve lost brain cells,” I say as Cynthia groans and the cast dances to “Thriller.” “I thought this was supposed to be a romantic comedy.”
A muffled “mmmm” in the rising tone of panic comes from Cynthia’s taped mouth.
“I realized something. My uncle never taught me about love. Seduction, sure. We had conversations about that. But not love. And it’s not like I learned anything about it in the desert. Did you know we weren’t even allowed to use the word ‘love’ unless it was toward Xantheus as he was the self-proclaimed messenger of God?”
“MmmmmmMmm,” Cynthia whines.
“So I thought I should watch some rom-coms for educational purposes. This one seemed popular… Why though?” There’s a long pause as I watch the cast continue to dance. “I don’t get it.”
I sit up from where I’ve been lying on the couch and observe Cynthia’s tear-streaked face and wild eyes. A melody of wordless pleas streams from beneath the duct tape. I enjoy moments like this, trying to discern the thoughts of prey. Some individuals are desperate and narrow-minded. Some are furious and defiant. Some are creative, even hopeful. Cynthia Nordstrom has navigated the whims of a phantom cult leader for years, rising to the top of an organization whose public face hides a reclusive and duplicitous private existence. I’m so curious to see what she’ll come up with that I waste no time in ripping off the tape.
“Please, Neriah, let me go,” she begs as soon as her lips are free. “I won’t tell anyone, I swear, I swear. Please.”
“Begging will not have the intended effect,” I reply as I remove my blonde wig and the cap beneath it. I smooth my hand over my pulled-back hair and sigh with relief. “You have something I want.”
“Anything, I’ll give you anything you want, I promise. Just please, please don’t hurt me.”
I sit on the couch and lean back. Cynthia is not so well put-together as she was earlier today. Her blonde bob is knotted. Her coat is streaked with dirt and oil from where I dragged her across the parking lot. The pulse surges in her neck. Death waits in the shadows with a whisper.
“I want Caron Berger,” I say.
Cynthia’s eyes press closed and her head drops. “You’ll never make it into the compound. It’s heavily guarded.”
“I know. I want to draw him out, and you will do it.”
“He might not come for me.”
“He will. Something makes me think that Caron Berger doesn’t like being on the losing end of anything.”
I stand and approach as Cynthia trembles against her bonds. She’s crumbling apart next to me, the stress of this encounter eroding her mosaic of success. She begs me not to harm her as I tape her mouth and head to the dining room to set up my laptop. When it’s booted up, I type my message for the burner phone I left with the Praetorian guard.
I have Cynthia Nordstrom. Caron Berger will call the number I send in one hour or Cynthia dies. Confirm and the number will be provided.
