Vortex by Catherine Coulter

Olivia

Macy’s

High Point Mall

Thursday

Olivia looked back to see Savich jogging through Macy’s front doors to find his supposedly forgotten scarf. She waited a moment, took a big breath, kept her head down even though she’d spotted them when she and Dillon had come out of the store, waiting, waiting. Of course they were watching him, too. Come on, boys, he’s out of the way, let’s get this show on the road. Her hand closed on the Honda door handle. In a matter of seconds, the van started up, reversed, and screeched to a halt behind the Honda. A man jumped out, pinned her arms to her sides, threw her into the back of the van, one fast practiced series of moves. He slammed the door shut. Olivia kicked up at him, heard a hiss of pain, but the driver grabbed her by the neck, jerked her head back, and pulled a pillowcase over her head. Still she lashed out with her feet. A fist slammed against her head and she saw white and fell back, stunned. She heard him yell, “Allez!” It was the Frenchman. He threw Olivia on her stomach against the rough carpet, came back over to her, and dug his knee into the small of her back. The van hurtled through the parking lot, tires shrieking, people yelling after them.

He shouted to the driver, “Slow down, you fool! The flics will come!”

The van slowed. Was the driver the man who’d shot at her at her Monday night?

Olivia tried to push herself up, but he pressed the muzzle of his gun into her back. “You do not want to ever walk again? Answer me!”

“I want to walk again.”

“Smart girl.” The pressure from the gun eased. He called to the driver, “Go carefully, turn left out of the mall, then straight ahead.” She felt his attention on her again. “You think the agent will follow us? Non, I broke the car. I see le bouffon—he yells on his mobile, calling for help. But it will not matter, we will be long away. And the license plate it has la boue—the mud on it. And this Chrysler van, it is everywhere.” He looked back down at her. “Now I take your guns. Non, you will not fight me again.” He drew her Glock from its clip at her waist, reached down and pulled out her ankle pistol. He patted her down, found the knife strapped at her waist, and pulled her cell from her jeans pocket. Olivia felt a gust of frigid air when he opened a window. She heard her cell phone clatter to the pavement.

She had to keep her wits, but it was hard to even breathe. “Please, take off the pillowcase, I can’t breathe.”

“You will be a good girl, oui?”

“Yes.”

He pulled the pillowcase off her head, shoved her onto her back. Olivia stared up at his swarthy face, and its two days of beard scruff. His eyes were covered with opaque sunglasses, his hair dark and curling, a few flecks of silver at the temples, so maybe in his early forties. Even with his heavy coat, she could see he was well built and very strong. He called out, “Turn left here, Claude, keep straight. They will not know where to send the flics.”

He leaned back, grinned down at her. “We were ready to take both of you, but that stupid agent made it easy. He forgot his scarf, right? And the fool left you alone to go get it.” He laughed, looked pleased with himself.

Olivia ran her tongue over her dry lips, swallowed. At least she could breathe again. “Why don’t you tell me your name?”

He grinned at her, nice teeth, but a bit yellow from smoking Gauloises. “You will call me René.”

His real name? If so, it meant he planned to kill her. “How did you find me? How did you know where the safe house was?”

René stroked his pistol over her earlobe, light as a lover’s fingers. Olivia didn’t move. He laughed quietly. “It is good for a woman to be in her place, quiet, obedient. And now you will tell our driver exactly where Mike Kingman is hiding. I know for sure you have the knowledge. You also know what I want. This time do not think to tell me the lie.” He leaned close. “I have won, accept it. The brain, the patience, I have them both. Fortune now shines on my head, that is something you say, oui?”

Olivia nodded, let acceptance and defeat bleed into her voice. “Yes, you have it exactly right.”

He patted her cheek with the muzzle of his gun. “Good girl. Now give Claude directions—oui, that is the name we give him—tell him how to get to Kingman or I shoot your kneecaps, like your old American gangsters. Do you comprehend?”

She drew in a deep breath. “If I take you to him, you’ll kill us.”

He moved the pistol to her breast, leaned close, his hot breath on her cheek. “If I get the flash drive, why waste bullets?”

She slowly nodded. “You must know he hasn’t been able to access that flash drive, it’s encrypted. He can’t even copy it without the key and you can’t either. Only certain people at the CIA have the key.”

“That is not your concern. Tell Claude the directions. Maintenant—now.” He pressed the muzzle hard against her left knee and started humming. It was scarier than anything he’d said.

“Why don’t you call Mike? Negotiate a trade?”

“So he can run again?” He laughed. “Give Claude the directions.”

Olivia looked through the windshield. “Go straight until you see Brewer Avenue, turn left.”

It was the slower way to Galesburg. After Claude turned left, she called out, “Turn right at the next street, Culver, and stay straight. We’re going to Maryland, to the Potomac.”

“How long?”

“Forty minutes.”

René forced her onto her side away from him. She heard him speaking French on his cell. Reporting in to his boss in France?

He tapped off, then said to her in English, “No one follows us. Claude, do not drive beyond their limit.”

“Who are you working with in the CIA?”

“Maybe someday you will know this.” He paused a moment, grimaced, slowly flexed his shoulder. “Maybe I hurt you to pay back for your lucky shot. Monépaule, my shoulder, Claude took care of me or it could be very bad.” The van hit a bump and René hissed out a breath. He shoved the pistol against her side, hard enough to make her suck in her breath.

“I wish I’d shot you in the head, ended you.”

“Salope! Bitch. Ferme ta gueule, I want no more from you or I strike you again.”

René didn’t speak again. The minutes passed slowly, like coarse sand sliding through the neck of an hourglass. The driver, Claude, hadn’t said a word yet. Again Olivia wondered, Was he the man who’d shot at her Monday night?

When they’d left the red lights and stop signs behind, René poked her with his pistol again. “Sit up now and look out the window. Forty minutes have passed. How close are we to Mike Kingman?”

Olivia struggled to sit up, felt a moment of dizziness, and looked out the window. “In about a mile, turn right on the unpaved road. There isn’t a sign.”

Claude slowed, turned the van onto an unpaved old potholed road that led down to the Potomac some fifty yards ahead. There were no houses nearby, only bushes, tangled vines, short stretches of broken-down fencing, groves of hemlocks and oaks crowded together. Through the trees, Olivia saw the derelict boat ramp sinking into the steel-gray water, the bitter wind whipping waves over the rotting boards.

René said, “Claude, no closer, we take no chance Kingman sees us. Stop behind these trees.”

Claude gently turned the van off the narrow road to the right and drove slowly over low-lying shrubs to stop behind a copse of hemlocks. Twenty yards ahead was a battered old wooden boathouse, weathered to a sullen gray, its windows long broken, covered with cardboard. It was like a still life painting, no sign of life.

Claude came around to the back of the van and opened the door. He held a gun on her as René pushed her out, jumped out behind her. Olivia stumbled, went down on her knees, slowly got to her feet.

“Claude, wait with her, I will see what goes on. She is trained, so keep away from her and do not let down your guard. Keep your Beretta pointed at her.”

“Believe me, René, I saw what she could do Monday night. I will not let her close to me. She won’t do anything. Don’t worry.”

Olivia said slowly, “So you were the one I heard speaking English. You were with the Iranian. But you don’t have a French accent.”

Claude took a step back, grinned at her. “Actually, I grew up in Indiana.”

René frowned at him, leaned close to Olivia, murmured in her ear, “Now we find out what this Mike Kingman thinks of you. If he does not give me the flash drive, I will make both of you dead. If he does, well then, we’ll see, won’t we? Claude, shoot her in the leg if she tries anything.” He patted her cheek with his pistol and disappeared into the hemlocks.