Slumped back on the sofa, Richard spent the better part of an hour in a deep meditative state of self-torture. He was exhausted from mentally kicking himself, and the only thing that snapped him from the haze of dejection was his cell ringing. Caller ID displayed an 800 number with Long Multinational identified underneath.
They’ve got me. Which could mean anything.
The short end of a negotiation.
An exposé.
A colossal public affairs nightmare.
Fuck.
He swallowed hard and answered. “Hello?”
“Um, is this Richard? Richard Austin?” The woman’s voice was quiet and timid.
Might be a trap. A reporter. Maybe he was being recorded. He felt his heart beat a little faster, freaked out by the possibility of what might be a series of incriminating questions.
“Yes, it is,” he said cautiously. He could practically smell the deposition coming.
“This is Jean. Jean Anderson. I’m sorry to bother you. Paco Robles gave me your number.” She began rambling. “But I didn’t tell him why I was calling you. I know this will sound strange, but can you come to the office? As soon as possible. I can send a car for you.”
“Jean, can you tell me—”
“It’s important, Mr. Austin. Please. Can you come? Now?”
He didn’t know what to expect, but he never backed down from a fight. Or the firing range.
I made this bed. Might as well lie in it.
Flabbergasted, he sucked in a long breath, huffing it out as he made his decision. “I’ll be right there.”
In the Lyft over, he texted Dennis.
RICHARD:Don’t ask questions. Have Harding & Assoc. on standby.
DENNIS:Your attorney? On standby. No questions. ????????????
The text message screen changed to announce an incoming call, and Richard picked up. “What part of ‘no questions’ is vague?”
“Fine. Crystal clear. But just because you tell me not to have any questions doesn’t stop my brain from actually forming some. Like, of all the attorneys you have, why do you want the one from your bad-boy days? What precinct are we heading to? Are we talking indecent exposure, or something much lewder?”
“Don’t worry, Dennis. Just tell him if he gets a call, pick it up. I’m hanging up now—”
“Wait! One more question.”
Richard paused, frustrated. “Fine.”
“What can I do to help?”
He had known Dennis forever. Blowing him off wouldn’t be difficult—it would be impossible. Like blowing off a tornado. Dennis cared too much to let it go, and the feeling was mutual. But the last thing Richard needed was to implicate anyone else. Least of all, Dennis. In addition to being his executive assistant, Dennis was one of his best friends.
“Nothing. You can’t do a thing. But thank you. I’ve gotta go.”
“Okay. Talk soon, boss man.”
Richard ended the call as the Lyft pulled to a stop. He got out and stared up at the skyscraper, feeling every pound of the mammoth letters of the Long Multinational Systems signage practically forcing him to his knees. Shoving back the worry clawing at him, he walked in.
Jean was waiting for him at the entry and raced over to meet him, shaking his hand vigorously and much tighter than before. She dragged him to the elevator.
“Jean, what’s happening?”
What looked to be new worry lines on her face he hadn’t noticed when he first met her deepened with her frown. She shook her head. “Not now. In my office.”
The elevator ride was awkward and uncomfortable, but paled in comparison to passing Jaclyn’s office on the way to Jean’s. As soon as they entered, she shut the door. It was just the two of them, and her breakdown was imminent.
“Jean?”
She simply pressed her lips tighter together, but her troubled face betrayed her concerns.
“Have you heard from Jaclyn?”
Jean fidgeted with the hem of her blazer, hyperventilating, and finally burst into tears.
Grabbing her arms, he calmed her and sat her in a chair. “Jean, what’s wrong?”
She stumbled over her words. “I don’t know. I don’t know. But I think something’s wrong. Maybe I’m overreacting.”
“You hardly strike me as a person to panic. Tell me why you think something’s wrong.”
She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and opened the text, handing it to him to read.
JACLYN: Jeannie, I thought I could make it work, but I can’t. I’m getting married. I’ll miss you and your magazines. Jackie
Jean’s frantic rambling started back up. “She never goes by Jackie. Ever. And she’s never called me Jeannie.”
He pulled out his cell, rereading his text from her, and then held the phones side by side. “And she’s only once called me Rick.” He studied the messages. His initial smidgen of relief quickly dissipated as the severity of the situation crept through.
“I was terrified,” Jean said, her voice breaking, “but I didn’t know what to do or who to reach out to without raising a red flag.”
“You haven’t told Everett? Or the police?”
“The cops want seventy-two hours before I can report a missing adult, and I couldn’t say anything to Everett. Not without knowing for sure.” Her tone lowered to a hush. “He has a heart condition. That’s why he needs to sell. Another heart attack could be fatal. If I told him, he could end up in the hospital. Or worse.”
Now it was Richard’s racing mind that pressed the panic button. Hard. He reexamined the texts. “Jaclyn definitely sent these.”
“What? How do you know?”
“Because she’s giving us clues. Do the magazines mean anything to you?”
“Only that we had a laugh over them.”
“And #TeamJackie means something to me. Specific. Around that shady guy she pinned to the table. Dylan. That’s the only time she’s called me Rick. Is there a magazine in particular?”
Jean reached to the side of her executive sofa, counting with her fingertip down a stack of periodicals, and pulled out the one with his alter ego’s graffitied face on it. Shrugging, she said, “Jaclyn was having a day.”
Intensely relieved that Jean didn’t seem to recognize him, despite the image of his real persona staring right at her, Richard flipped through the magazine for clues, then closed it, glancing at the image of his evil twin staring back at him from the cover. To the side of the pocketed pitchfork, a headline jumped out. One of the featured articles was about Jim Baxter’s company branching off in Mexico.
Richard thought for a second. Tracking Jaclyn down would be easy enough, but he wasn’t an operative. Not knowing what he might be walking into, he wanted to be prepared, and also do everything possible to keep Jaclyn from getting hurt in a rescue attempt. His fighting skills were highly tuned, but for something like this, he’d need a team of professionals.
Scrolling through the contacts on his phone, he called the one man he figured could help.
Three rings in, and the sound of Paco’s voice filled him with relief.
“Hey, Richard. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He explained the situation, cutting to the chase of needing professionals to assist—a covert A-team that could be trusted to execute a mission this critical while keeping it under wraps.
Problem was, Paco seemed to be waist-deep in his own urgent circumstances. “Yeah, so the thing is, Alex and I are sort of tied up.”
An image came through on Richard’s cell. It was a Google map of Langley, Virginia. Between them, the message had been received. Paco was busy dancing with the devil at the CIA. But even without all the clandestine details, Richard might be on his own.
“But Mark’s got a team,” Paco said. “Spec ops backgrounds. Mostly family. And they’ve been itching for an excuse to get out and kick some ass. Hell, hijacking one of Alex’s jets will be icing on the cake for these boys, so you’re covered. Texting you the group contacts. Brian’s our point man for the planning. He’ll assemble everything you need.”
Richard let out a breath. “You’re a lifesaver.” Literally.
“Sorry, that’s the best I can do right now, but Brian will hook you up. Brian Bishop.”
Richard thanked him profusely and wished them luck.