The following morning, Taylor studied the mottled leather binding of Reichmann’s ledger, which Wells had delivered to Fischer less than an hour ago. The book was secured, and so was Dennison. In return for protection he had agreed to become a witness for the prosecution. Wells was transporting him to a safe house where, owing to the charges pending against him and the threat from both Lopez and the cabal, he would be held under armed guard for an indefinite period.
She had examined the book, reluctantly and with a sense of intrusion, because the content of the fragile faded pages was disturbing and highly personal. The reason le Clerc wanted it so badly was now evident. Reichmann’s ledger wasn’t just a careful accounting of theft, but of mass murder. For le Clerc, and the remnants of those dispossessed families, its value—aside from exposing the members of the cabal—was incalculable. The book was hard evidence admissible in a court of law, and the beginning of the quest to gain closure, dignity and retrieve what was left of the money. Perhaps most importantly, it listed the specific camp each family had been sent to, providing physical locations for grieving relatives to visit.
To compound Reichmann’s madness, after he had escaped Germany, he had continued on with the original purpose of the ledger, using it as his solution to control the members of the cabal by cataloging them in the same book that had been used to condemn thousands to death, a book that unalterably branded them all as criminals.
Fischer had looked at the ledger, as had Wells, Shaw and Tate. Their reactions had been uniform. Turning the pages had been like walking through a silent graveyard, and out of respect for the victims, they had each kept the journey short.
Placing the book back in its waterproof satchel, Taylor walked through to the bathroom and washed her hands. The impulse was knee-jerk. The book was an inanimate object, but both the Reichmanns and Lopez had handled it, and its purpose had been evil. Maybe soap and water didn’t make much difference, but washing made her feel better.
When her hands were dry she walked back out into the sitting room. The motel unit was a near carbon copy of the one she’d stayed in just days ago—same name, almost the exact same decor. The only difference was the suburb they were located in and the fact that, this time, Steve Fischer was sharing the unit with her. She had the bedroom; he was on the couch. Shaw and Tate were sharing an adjacent unit.
She saw with relief that Fischer had packed the book into the armored briefcase it had been delivered in. Maybe she was being overly sensitive, but she couldn’t wait until the book was removed. Every time she thought about it, the cold inhumanity of a man who had profited from mass murder sent cold shudders down her spine.
There was a brief tap on the door. Fischer got up from the couch where he had been making calls and working on a wireless laptop. After checking, he let Shaw and Tate in and holstered his gun. The fact that Fischer had remained armed underlined his tension.
Tate placed a grocery sack of delicatessen sandwiches and salads on the dining table. Taylor got out plates and poured glasses of water from the filter jug in the fridge. Fischer hung up on his latest call and took a place at the table.
The talk centered around le Clerc and his network, and the brushes they’d all had with the Chavez cartel in South America when they’d been with the SEALs. Fischer had been Wells, Shaw and Tate’s commanding officer. When Fischer had left, they had followed him.
Fischer’s phone buzzed while they were eating. A third wealthy businessman with a lasered off tattoo on his back, Alex Parker, had been shot to death in his car in the Appalachians. Evidently he had been driving to an isolated mountain cabin and had never made it. Apart from Helene Reichmann, there was only one upper-echelon member left. Fischer had been working to track his identity, which had been altered after the book had gone missing, but they were running out of time.
After the lunch dishes were done, Taylor tidied up the unit while Fischer showered. The enforced inactivity was grating. She had already read the newspaper that had been delivered that morning, and she could only watch so much TV.
On impulse, she picked up the shirt he’d left draped on the end of the bed and lifted it to her nose. The shirt smelled of Fischer, clean and male, and it sent unexpected emotion through her. Over the past two days, the enforced proximity had blunted the shock of what he’d done and she had gotten used to being with him. They weren’t lovers and she didn’t know if they would ever be again, but somehow that didn’t affect the way she felt.
A card slipped out of the pocket and dropped to the floor. Bending, she picked it up.
Xavier’s number.
She stared at the card then returned it to Fischer’s shirt pocket. He didn’t need the card. She had seen him enter the number into his phone.
When the sound of the shower running stopped, she left the bedroom and walked through to the sitting room. The bedroom was hers, but Fischer’s bags were in there, and he used it to get changed. The cell phone, which he’d left on the dining table, buzzed. She carried the phone down the hall and handed it to him as he emerged from the bathroom, wearing dark pants but no shirt.
Seconds later, Fischer flipped the phone closed. “I have to go. Jack Jones and your mother are en route to Jersey.”
Shock rolled through her. The one thing she had counted on was that Jack and Dana were safe.
She followed him into the bedroom. “Why Jersey?” The question was rhetorical: she already knew.
“Your father is after Rico Casale, the hit man who took the shot at you in D.C. Casale is based in L.A. but he disappeared a couple of weeks back. Jack found a guy who was willing to sell Casale out, a drug dealer working out of Jersey. Name of Aldo Fabroni.”
He pulled on a dark T-shirt, placed a gear bag on the bed, unzipped it and stowed his gun and the shoulder holster.
“You’re using them.”
Fischer’s expression was remote. “Jack had a choice. He could have handed the lead to me.”
Her jaw clenched. Of course he wouldn’t do that. He was used to working alone and the information was too important. He wouldn’t trust anyone else to deal with the underworld in which he had once operated.
She reached for her suitcase, which was still mostly packed, dropped it on the part of the bed Fischer wasn’t using and began shoving clothes and toiletries into it. “I’m going with you.”
His hand clamped her wrist. “You’re staying here. This has got as complicated as it’s going to get.”
She jerked free. “They’re my parents.”
“Shaw and Tate will look after you until I get back.”
She sucked in a deep breath. Her chest felt tight and her eyes were burning. As much as she hated it, Fischer was right. He was doing his job. She had first-hand knowledge of just how effective he was, and she was hampering him. But that didn’t make her feel any less panic or fear. She couldn’t lose Dana, and she couldn’t lose Jack, and she wasn’t used to being powerless.
Fischer’s hands closed on her upper arms. “Don’t worry about Jack and Dana. They won’t get within a mile of Casale. They’re safe, honey, believe it.”
She stared into his dark eyes. Honey. Strange how it was the little things that undid her.
His fingers tightened. “I have to go.”
Taylor spent the rest of the day watching television, rereading the newspaper and periodically running through sets of exercises. It began to rain, making the motel unit seem even more claustrophobic. By six that evening, despite the physical exertion, her nerves were shot.
She watched the news, checking for any hint that something had gone wrong. When it switched to sports, she turned the set off.
The phone buzzed, making her jump. When she picked up the receiver, it was Tate. He was ordering dinner. Did she want Italian or Chinese? She was no masochist; she chose Italian. With the wind howling, rain spattering the window and the possibility that the same guy who had shot her could put a bullet through someone she loved, it wasn’t the best night to be reminded of her own shooting.
The fifteen minutes Tate had mentioned stretched out to thirty. When the knock on the door finally came, Taylor checked through the window before opening the door. In the murky light of the porch, for a moment she saw Tate wearing a ball cap and holding a sack of takeout.
When she opened the door, Colenso smiled and aimed a large handgun at her chest.