Don't Let Go (31 page)

Noa cocked her head. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll see.” It only took a minute to find what he was looking for: A local search quickly produced the name of the company that owned the billboard. Their home page proudly declared, “Reach over 20,000 Mass Pike drivers/day!”

Peter let out a low whistle. “Wow, that’s a lot of people.”

“Care to fill in the blind person?” she said, an edge to her voice.

“The billboard,” he explained. The website’s firewalls were pitiful, so weak that just a small nudge tipped them over; after all, who would bother hacking into a billboard company? As he sifted through code, trying to find the database where they stored images, he explained, “It faces the parking lot. I’m thinking Pike might need a little incentive to get here.”

“That’s brilliant!” Noa said with enthusiasm.

“Of course it is. It was my idea.”

Noa swatted his arm, but she was still grinning. “So what should we show our friends?”

Peter sifted through the icons on the desktop, although he already knew which one he wanted to feature. “We start with the one from Senator Braun.”

“Good choice,” she said approvingly. “Hey, can I press enter?”

“Be my guest.” He finished setting the upload, then handed her the laptop.

Her hand hovered over the keyboard for a minute, then she tapped the right key. Noa sat back, looking pleased with herself.

“Got it on the first try. Not bad,” he said.

“It’s getting better,” Noa said, sounding relieved. She leaned in until her face was inches from the screen. “The letters are fuzzy, but I can make them out. Black on white must be easier.”

“So you want to check it out?”

Her smile broadened. “Hell yeah.”

Together, they crept over to the window on their hands and knees. Peter lifted up a corner of the curtain, and they peeped out, careful to keep the tops of their heads below the ledge.

Peter had to restrain himself from crowing. The email he’d chosen blared across the billboard in enormous letters:

       
From: Sen. Greg Braun

       
Sent: Thursday, November 1, 12:10 PM

       
To: Charles Pike

       
Subject: no more screwups

              
Chuck—

              
My guy in the FBI handled it, but it wasn’t easy. That was a massive screwup—how the hell did a couple of kids stumble across one of your labs? People are starting to ask questions, and I can’t take another risk like that. So get your house in order—next time, you’re on your own.

         
Greg

Peter could see heads turning toward it, a few people pointing up. He dropped back down and pounded the floor with glee. “Yes!”

“He’s not going to like that,” Noa observed. Smiling at him, she said, “That’s just the kind of thing /ALLIANCE/ would do.”

“I know,” Peter said ruefully. “I was just thinking how much I miss it.” They were hackers, after all, and kids. They were supposed to be pulling pranks like this, not running around trying to avoid being chopped into pieces.

“Me too,” Noa said softly. “Life was a lot simpler then, huh?”

“Much,” he agreed. “But you know what? I wouldn’t trade it. If we hadn’t figured out what was happening, kids would still be dying.”

“They might still,” she said soberly. “If this doesn’t work.”

“Trust me,” he said, trying to inject certainty into his voice. “It’s all going to be fine.” He reached out and took her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You want to upload another file? We can set them to post every half hour until he shows.”

“Definitely.”

They crawled back to the laptop on the other side of the bed. Setting it back in his lap, Peter asked, “What do you think? A jpeg, maybe? Or a video? The billboard can show those, too.”

“We can’t push too hard,” she warned. “Otherwise Pike won’t have a reason to keep us alive.”

“Right. How about this one, from my dad? It’s only a little slimy.”

“Up to you.”

Peter cracked his knuckles, thinking it over. “Screw it,” he finally said. “Let’s see how Bob likes being famous.”

They sat shoulder to shoulder, sifting through files, trying to ignore the barked commands outside the window.

“My, it sounds exciting out there,” Mason said with bemusement. “I hope they don’t hit the Manet. That would be tragic.”

“What?” Daisy asked, stupefied. It sounded like World War III was happening right outside the office; she’d jumped to her feet as soon as the shooting started. The gunfire was loud, and men were yelling. She prayed that Teo was okay.

“Do you drink?” Mason asked.

“Do I what?” Even though she’d spent the past week—hell, the past few months—waiting for the hammer to drop, now that it had, she was in shock. She wondered if the end would be quick, or if Mason was the type to draw things out for his own enjoyment.

She had a bad feeling that he preferred option two.

“I asked if you’d care for a drink.” Mason had sauntered over to the bar in the corner.

Daisy stared at the crystal decanters filled with dark liquids. She swallowed hard and said, “What, no last meal?”

“I’ve always wondered about that,” Mason said conversationally. He poured whiskey into two glasses, then added a single ice cube to each with a set of silver tongs. He crossed the room and offered one to her.

It was disconcerting. After a second, Daisy took it. Her hand shook, making the ice cube jangle.

“Careful,” he warned as he settled back on the couch. “This Scotch is older than you, it would be a shame to waste it. Anyway, as I was saying. I’ve always wondered if the condemned are actually able to eat. I suspect the answer is no.”

In spite of everything, at the mention of food, her traitorous stomach emitted a loud grumble. Mason smirked and took a sip from his drink. “But you might be the exception.”

Daisy clasped the glass hard, trying to still her quivering. “I bet you’ve never missed a meal.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” A shadow crossed his features, and his mouth pinched at the corners. “I suspect we have more in common than you think.”

Daisy scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

Mason lifted an eyebrow. “You’re from Harrison, Nevada. Just outside Las Vegas.”

“So?” she said defiantly.

“I know the area.” Mason gazed around the room with a disapproving frown. “People like Charles Pike have the world handed to them, literally on a silver platter. They could never grasp how difficult it is to wrest away just a small piece of it. How tenuous it always feels, even if you succeed.”

Daisy had no idea what he was going on about, but as long as he was talking, he wasn’t hurting her. And she might as well be a little drunk for whatever terrible thing was coming. Carefully clasping the glass with both hands, she raised it to her lips. The whiskey slid down her throat, warm and harsh. “What are you going to do to me?” she demanded, trying to keep her voice steady.

Mason regarded her over the rim of his glass, and her heart recoiled even deeper into her chest. “I don’t suppose you know much about Waterloo.”

“Water what?” Daisy asked. The liquor was helping; she felt less shaky. The guard at the door had left with Pike. She surreptitiously eyed the exit. She could strike Mason with the glass, try to knock him unconscious. Then run like hell and take her chances.

Mason was regarding her with bemusement. “Plotting an escape?”

“What? No,” Daisy protested.

“Good.” Mason straightened his tie. “Because that would be inordinately foolish of you.”

“Peter beat you,” she said. “He told me all about it.”

“Did he now?” Mason flashed a sharklike grin. “Well, you have me there. I must say, he surprised me on that particular occasion. But we were discussing Waterloo.” He draped his arm across the back of the couch. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

Daisy hesitated, then carefully eased onto the couch, sitting as far away from him as possible. If he made a move, she’d fight him off.

But he kept talking, sounding for all the world like he was lecturing a class. “Waterloo was the battle where Napoleon was defeated. You have heard of Napoleon? Or are the public schools even more deplorable now?”

“Everyone knows who Napoleon is,” Daisy muttered, although in truth she only knew that he was short and French and died a long time ago.
What the hell does this have to do with me?

“Napoleon was, without question, a military mastermind.” Mason swirled his drink as he stared into it. “He really should have won that battle, but he made a few critical oversights.”

Daisy decided to humor him. Half her drink was gone, and her skin was starting to feel tingly. Maybe if she played nice, he’d give her more. “Like what?”

“Hubris,” Mason said. “Napoleon started to believe that he was a god, and could not be defeated. He stopped listening to his most astute generals. He claimed that no army of man could beat him, he was destined to win.” Finishing off his drink in a single gulp, he said, “It’s a common enough failing.”

“Whatever,” Daisy muttered. The alcohol was coursing through her system. It hit her empty stomach hard, and her eyelids started to droop. She was so damn tired. She morbidly wondered if Mason would let her take a nap before he killed her.

The door was suddenly thrown open, startling her to her feet. Mason remained where he was, as if such intrusions were the norm.

Daisy gasped as Teo was shoved into the room. She was so fixated on him that it took a second to register the other boy’s face.

“Zeke!” she exclaimed. “Oh my God!”

“Got ’em,” one of the goons grunted. He was huge and bald and had a lump the size of a robin’s egg on his forehead.

“So I see,” Mason said complacently. “Well done. Although to be honest, the fact that you needed weapons to apprehend them is not a credit to your training.”

“Hi, Daisy,” Zeke said, as if they’d just run into each other on the street, and everything was totally normal. His eyes were already scanning the room, looking for a way out.

“You want us to take them to the shed?” The guy with the lump was staring at Teo with open malevolence.

Teo was bent double. “What happened?” Daisy demanded, rushing over to him.

“That jerk hit me,” he said through gritted teeth. “I think he broke some ribs. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, running her hands over his arms. “Oh my God, I was so scared for you!”

His nose wrinkled. “You smell like whiskey.”

“Shut up,” the bald guy snarled, slamming his gun’s muzzle into Teo’s head. Teo dropped to his knees.

Daisy lunged for the bastard, but arms around her waist jerked her to a halt. She thrashed against them, but they were too strong. A voice in her ear muttered, “Calm, please. I will handle this.”

Something in Mason’s voice stopped her. She relaxed, and he lowered her to the ground. The guard was leering at her. “I’ll take this one, too,” he growled. “No problem.”

“I’ll handle it from here,” Mason said coolly. “Please close the door behind you.”

The guard’s jaw dropped. He looked to his buddy for help, but the other guy was already walking out. “Hey,” he protested. “I got knocked out by this little asshole. I’m expecting more than a slap on the wrist.”

“Mr. Pike and I have already decided on a course of action,” Mason said. When the goon still didn’t move, he fixed his dead black stare on him and added, with a note of menace, “I would hate to tell Charles that you didn’t follow orders.”

The bald guy hesitated a moment longer. Finally, he cast one last, ugly look at Teo and said, “I hope they take their time with you.”

Then he slammed the door.

Daisy helped Teo to the couch. He collapsed on it with a groan. “Man, everything hurts.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t get shot,” she said, brushing the hair out of his eyes.

Teo shook his head and said wryly, “It’s all part of our big escape plan.”

“Nice job,” Daisy said.

“Well, I never said it was perfect.” He winced and put his hand to his chest. “I think half my ribs are broken.”

Zeke was standing between the couch and the door, hands held loosely at his waist. Daisy recognized the stance: His body was coiled, prepared to strike.

Apparently Mason did, too. He said, “I’d offer you a drink, but frankly I don’t trust you with glass at the moment.”

“Where’s Pike?” Zeke snapped.

“Gone. Apparently we’ll be seeing your friend Noa soon.” Mason set his glass on the end table and continued, “Perfect timing, really, since it gives us a chance to chat.”

Teo groaned. “They found her?”

He was giving her a funny look, as if she’d done something wrong. “I didn’t say anything!” she protested hotly. “He got a phone call.”

“Chat about what?” Zeke asked. “And who the hell are you, anyway?”

The door was suddenly thrown open. The nurse who was always hovering around Ella stood there wild-eyed. Her eyes flicked across them in turn, then she frowned. “Where is Mr. Pike?”

“The question of the hour,” Mason answered. “Do you require assistance?”

The nurse’s eyes settled on Daisy, and she motioned with her hand. “Come quickly. Miss Ella is asking for you.”

Zeke had gone pale. “Is she—”

“Quickly!” the nurse said, before taking off down the hall.

Daisy turned to Mason. He raised an eyebrow at her, then said, “Interesting development, don’t you think?”

“Ella wants me.” Daisy jutted up her chin. “Pike will be pissed if he finds out you didn’t let me go.”

“Perhaps,” Mason acknowledged. “Although as far as he knows, you’re already dead. I could certainly tell him that, if he asks.”

Teo tensed. Mason was eyeing them all contemplatively, as if mulling over his options.

“She’s probably dying,” Daisy said in a hard voice. “You’d really let a kid go through that alone?”

A long moment passed. Mason’s eyes revealed nothing, but one long, tapered finger tapped his thigh. Finally, he said, “I don’t suppose it can do any harm. As long as we all go, of course.”

“Big of you,” Zeke muttered. He still looked braced to run. Teo wondered if he’d bolt at the first opportunity, leaving them behind. He still wasn’t sure whether or not to trust him.