Fifth Victim by Sharp Zoë

Author:Sharp, Zoë [Sharp, Zoë]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2012-01-09T13:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

By 6.00 a.m. the following morning, after a restless and largely sleepless night, I was beginning to question the wisdom of my decision.

Parker and I were sitting in the large office suite in the basement of Brandon Eisenberg’s gothic mansion just outside Southampton, up towards the eastern end of Long Island, drinking coffee with Gleason, who turned out not simply to be Eisenberg’s bodyguard, but also his head of security.

Gleason’s attitude did not seem to have softened towards me since the night of the charity auction. I don’t think she’d forgiven her boss for offering me a job, or Parker for failing to extend the same courtesy towards her. But, she was professional and polite, dressed in a mannish dark-blue suit with wide lapels. To me, the outfit screamed authority and insecurity in equal measure.

Now, Gleason ran us through the detailed instructions the kidnappers had left, including playing the recording made of their last telephone conversation with Eisenberg.

She played the whole thing in full, including the part where they brought Torquil to the phone and persuaded him to speak. As I listened to the boy’s gargled screams, I felt Gleason’s cool gaze soaking up my reaction. I was careful to show her nothing more than a frown of concentration. It took effort to hold it in place. Parker’s expression, I noticed, was a mirror of my own.

‘We’ll call again at six-thirty tomorrow morning,’ said the mechanised voice. ‘Have the girl ready to answer. She’ll be given precise instructions on where to go first. She comes alone and I hope she’s in shape, because if she misses one single rendezvous by more than half a minute, the kid’s dead.’ Then, with a click of finality, the line followed suit.

Gleason sat back in her executive swivel chair, rocking slightly, and regarded me over the steam rising from her insulated coffee mug. ‘So, Charlie, you in good shape?’

‘I manage,’ I returned equably. ‘And besides, there’s the Buell.’

The only bit of personal information the security chief had shared with us was that she was from East Troy, Wisconsin, where Erik Buell had his motorcycle factory and, in Gleason’s voiced opinion, it was a damned shame they didn’t make them anymore.

At that moment my Buell Firebolt sat in one of the garages that lined the motor court to one side of the house, rubbing shoulders with two Lamborghinis, three Aston Martins, a Ferrari, a classic Morgan, and a Bugatti Veyron. I could see the lowly little Buell among them on one of the many monitors Gleason’s people were watching down here.

Parker wasn’t happy about me using the bike, but there were a lot of arguments in favour, not least of which was the time restriction the kidnappers had stressed. Logically, it was the only way to guarantee cutting through traffic to make what promised to be the first of many rendezvous points. Keeping me constantly on the defensive and operating at full stretch was standard procedure for these people.

The Buell’s engine was warmed through and it had a full tank of fuel.

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