Eleven

“Dr. Larsson,” a man said as she walked into the living room less than an hour later. “Let me take those.” He pointed to the grocery bags in her hands. Before she had a chance to throw a can of chicken noodle at him, he’d taken them.

“Where’s Finn?”

“The kitchen. Your husband was telling us you were at the office all day working on a book about the United Nations. How wonderful he turned out to have the wrong schedule.”

He was a short man, stocky, and a little rough. He was in his seventies, she guessed, with dark brown hair that was clearly dyed, a tight smile, a strong Latin accent, and an air of absolute authority. But there was something off. His face was a bit puffy, a slight redness around the nose, and when he got close there was the unmistakable scent of stale whiskey.

He searched inside the bags and put them on the coffee table.

“Who are you?” She was waiting for him to say Silva, to tell her that Declan was safe but in trouble, to thank her for their help. But he didn’t answer. And the longer he didn’t answer, the more worried she got
that he was the man they were warned about, the one the note referred to as Jorge Videla.

“What happened to the chair?” He nodded toward the blood stain that had now dried to a faded reddish-brown.

“My husband cut himself shaving.”

The money she’d taken from the ATM was in her purse. She nearly offered it to him if he’d just leave them alone, but that wasn’t likely to work, she knew. She also considered using the heavy bag as a weapon. He didn’t look strong. She felt no doubt she could take him down. But that could lead to more trouble. If he’d come alone, where was Finn?

“I want to see my husband.”

He smiled. “How about we go into the kitchen?”

He directed her to go first, and when she did she saw Finn standing by the refrigerator, his arms slightly raised, anger and terror in equal measure on his face. Behind him were two unsmiling men with guns, one of which was pointed at Finn.

“You okay?” Finn mouthed.

She nodded. He smiled a tight, sad smile. So much for the plan.

The man moved past her toward the gunmen. “I wanted to do this differently, but you had visitors last night, so here we are.”

“And where is that?” Hollis asked.

“What an excellent question, Dr. Larsson. You both have a reputation for being quite intelligent. Well earned, clearly.” He nodded toward the shorter of the two men, who left the room. Hollis could hear him walking up the steps to their bedroom.

“You don’t have anything to drink in the house, do you?”

“Alcohol?” Hollis asked. “We might have some wine in the basement. If you want to send your friend downstairs …”

The man smiled. “He’ll stay here, thank you.”

He began opening the cabinets, disappointed each time. He walked out of the room and came back empty-handed. Finally he nudged Finn out of the way and opened the refrigerator. He stuck his head in for what seemed like a ridiculous amount of time but was rewarded only with a small bottle of green juice.

“What’s this?”

“A combination of kale, spinach, carrots, and beets,” Finn said. “I get it at the health food store near my gym.”

The man frowned and put the juice back in the fridge. They waited. Hollis watched the other man, the one with his gun pointed at Finn’s head. He was over six feet, and he looked strong. His hair was short, more stylish than a military cut, but still too short to grab in a fight. He was wearing a long white t-shirt and black pants. Nothing there she could use against him. And, obviously, even if she could, she’d have to get the gun away from Finn’s head. And that seemed unlikely.

The gunman kept looking over at a photo of Hollis and Finn that a neighbor had given them, framed in one of those magnetic frames meant to stick on the fridge. It was a cute photo but nothing special. They were hosting a Fourth of July party and were posed behind the barbeque, drinking beer from red cups and flipping burgers. A pretty typical summer celebration, but the gunman couldn’t take his eyes off it.

“What are we waiting for?” she asked.

“My colleague wants one more look. Just to be sure.”

As he said that, Hollis noticed the other gunman looked confused. This wasn’t what they were here to do. They weren’t supposed to be looking for something. So why were they there?

“You haven’t said your name,” she said to the older man.

“Names have little meaning. You know that better than anyone.”

He sat, as if he were too exhausted to keep standing. Hollis and Finn kept their eyes on each other. If she hadn’t gone to check on Angela, she thought. If she’d just stuck to the original plan, they’d be at the restaurant at least, maybe even at the train station. They’d be safe.

It was ten minutes before the shorter gunman returned.

“Nada,” he said.

The man nodded, but for a moment he seemed unsure, at least to Hollis. “Well, that’s it then. I suppose we’ll have to move forward anyway.” He stood up.

“Move forward how?” Hollis asked.

The shorter gunman moved toward her. Hollis took a step back toward the front door, more out of instinct than strategy. As long as there was still a gun pointed at Finn, she wasn’t going anywhere.

The gunman moved past Hollis, then turned. She could feel his breath on her throat. Hollis looked toward Finn, who managed a smile. She smiled back. Then her eyes moved to the man in charge.

“I am so sorry about this,” the older man said.

And that was the last thing she remembered.