There was still time to go to William, who would put a stop to this nonsense, but Tate was adamant that her father be kept out of the loop. When he’d suggested that he come along for the stunt, Tate had nearly wept insisting that he stay the hell away.
Wasn’t going to happen, of course. Although Brody had said he’d give no warning before the actual snatch, Michael was going to see him tomorrow to persuade him that it was in Brody’s best interest to take him along. Tate wouldn’t know, and that was fine, but there was no way he was going to let her get taken to some unknown location for an indeterminate period of time without him watching every goddamn second. He could just see himself trying to explain to William how Tate had been hurt—or worse—while he’d been watching basketball on ESPN.
Of course, if Brody continued to object, Michael had a plan B. He always had a plan B.
He checked his watch and figured he’d give Tate another five minutes. She was in the Prada store having a fitting. He still couldn’t figure that damn store out. There was practically nothing on display. It was all hidden in some way that clearly appealed to women.
He’d waited out enough fittings to know he couldn’t rush her, but he also didn’t like her to be out of his sight. Of course, Elizabeth was with her, and he trusted her. Even better, Tate trusted her. A former CIA case officer, Elizabeth knew her way around a weapon.
His cell phone rang. It was George, one of his tech guys who worked on the alarm system at Tate’s. They were replacing some of the equipment, and Michael had asked for regular updates. As in all things concerning Tate, he wanted the hard-core work to be done when she was sleeping or out of the penthouse. She tended to get nervous when she caught glimpses of what it really took to keep her safe.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s all good, boss. We have the equipment in and we’ve just finished the test run. We’ll be all cleaned up in ten.”
“What did you think of the test?”
“It’s everything they promised.”
“Good, I—” He saw Tate come out of the shop carrying two large bags. Just as she reached the center of the sidewalk, she stopped and handed the bags to Elizabeth, then she looked inside her purse. “George, she’s coming. I’ll talk—”
A movement caught his attention, someone in a hooded coat right behind her. A second later the man shoved Elizabeth into a passing group of students. Michael tossed the phone and got out his weapon as he ran. A white van drove up onto the sidewalk, the side door wide-open. The hooded man shoved Tate inside and the van took off.
He lifted his weapon to shoot out a tire, but civilians crowded in front of him and he lost the shot. Brody had covered the license plate with mud, and there was nothing else identifying about the van as it turned the corner out of his view.
He raced back to the limo, cursing Dr. Bay fifty ways to Sunday. If it was the last thing he did, he was going to find Jerry Brody and break his neck.
He picked up the cell phone he’d dropped. It still worked, and as he pulled out of the shopping mall valet parking lot, he hit *2.
“Elizabeth here.”
“I’m going after her,” he said, “but I’m dropping off the limo and taking my own vehicle. Got that?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry—”
“Just make sure Daddy doesn’t get inquisitive. If all goes well, I’ll have her back by nightfall.”
“Yes, sir.”
He clicked off the phone, tossed it on the seat and pulled out another electronic device, the one the size and shape of a BlackBerry. It was actually a GPS—a global positioning system—with only one target. The moment he saw the light on the map he relaxed. He’d find her and bring her home. There would be plenty of time to kill Brody afterward.
For now, he concentrated on not killing any pedestrians or getting arrested as he broke a great many laws. He had to get out of this limo if he wanted to have the least bit of stealth. He’d taken his motorcycle to work this morning, which was a good thing. He could move quickly and get into tight spots with that baby, and there weren’t many cars on the road that could catch him.
Michael figured the van was registered to Brody and that it was heading toward Long Island, where Brody lived. But he wasn’t a hundred percent sure and he wasn’t going to take any chances.
Tate knew about the GPS tracker—at least the one in her wristwatch. She didn’t know about the one in her purse. But that was fine. She didn’t need to know everything. Besides, if she hadn’t actually passed out from fear, she’d be too busy with her panic attacks to think about global positioning systems.
SHE WAS IN A VAN and there was a bag over her head. Tate could barely feel her hands or her feet, but she could feel the bag being sucked into her mouth as she struggled for breath. The air was foul, sick, and her heart pounded hard in her chest.
“Stop,” she said, only it was a croak, not really a word. “Stop.” It was only a tiny bit better. They wouldn’t hear her. He’d promised to stop if she asked him to, but he had to hear her.
“Stop!”
That was louder, that was more of a scream, but the van kept going, kept rocking, and no one touched her or listened. She tried to kick out, to make them listen, but her legs were tied together and she could hardly move.
“Stop! Stop!” She used all her strength to thrash, to get their attention. And her heart—it was filling her chest and squeezing her lungs so she couldn’t breathe.
“Stop, stop, stop, stop!”
No one answered. She was alone and she was going to die in the back of this van. There was no air, no escape. It was over and there was so much she hadn’t done.
The blackness came from the inside out. It was welcome.
HE MADE IT TO THE garage in Tate’s building, then jumped out of the vehicle and climbed onto his rebuilt Suzuki GSX. He docked his GPS just above the speedometer and squealed out of the garage, heading toward Long Island. He wasn’t exactly sure where Brody lived, but he thought it might be Little Neck.
Didn’t matter. He was following the purse. Brody had no reason to scan Tate for a GPS, so he had no need to get rid of her purse. Even if the pervert wanted to take her clothes, they’d still be in the van.
Trouble was, it was Friday and it was four-thirty, and the expressway was a parking lot. He could get around the cars all right, but there was a great chance he could be popped in the process. The last thing he needed now was to have to explain this to the highway patrol.
He inched the bike forward and thought again about Brody. The man wasn’t exactly living on his performance art, despite charging an arm and a leg for his kidnappings. Michael knew Tate had already given him ten grand—half the fee. But Brody himself lived off his wife’s income. She was some big cosmetic surgeon who Botoxed politicos and movie stars. She was why he could afford to play with his art.
As he put his leg down once again to wait for traffic to move, he watched the blip on the GPS moving steadily forward on the same expressway, only about ten miles ahead.
Screw it. He’d explain to the police if he had to. In the meantime, he was gonna find Tate.
Swerving the bike into the fire lane, he gunned it. He tried to keep an eye out for cops, but between looking at the signal and trying not to be killed by motorists, he had his hands full.
There was a car stuck in his way a few miles in, so he went back into traffic. Despite the laws against it in New York, he did the bob and weave, skating past SUVs and Toyotas with a couple of inches to spare.
He couldn’t understand how the van was making such good time, but as the minutes ticked by and the GPS kept purring, he closed the distance.
Just as he thought he