The Innocent: A Vanessa Michael Munroe Novel (17 page)

At least, if nothing else, the property was close enough that he could get to her in an emergency.

The taxi peeled away from the curb and Bradford turned toward the desk with its myriad pieces of equipment. He keyed in an instruction that activated one of the trackers Munroe had taken. Observing progress on a screen was a poor substitute for being there in person, but under the circumstances, watching her move through traffic electronically
was the best that he could do. Astute as she was, she’d know what he’d done and why, and would probably respond with mock chiding.

The tracker came alive, and eyeing the coordinating blip, Bradford picked up the phone. He had only a few minutes before Munroe reached the target destination, but he needed to make the call now, while still certain he would be connected.

It had been three days since he’d contacted Logan, and even if Bradford hadn’t already had audible proof that Logan had returned to the hostel, it was easy to imagine that this was how he spent his evenings: sitting, anxious, hoping for the call. Had it been Bradford in Logan’s position, the waiting would have driven him to madness. Instructions or no instructions he would have been compelled to action, and he understood from personal experience the restraint it took for Logan to stand aside. But still, there was a certain vindictive sweetness in knowing Logan’s torment.

It didn’t matter that Munroe was her own person and would never have agreed to the job had she not wanted to do it. Nor did it matter that she’d taken the assignment with full disclosure, knowing well what she was getting herself into. It mattered even less that work, with its thrill of challenge and the intense focus it brought, was what kept her alive and sane. None of it negated Logan having used his friendship and history with Munroe, and then Bradford’s bond to her, to manipulate the two of them into the project as he had.

It seemed a rightful return that Logan should be left blind and forced to wade in a pool of frustration while the assignment went on without him.

Bradford dialed.

The hostel had only one main line, and there was a wait while Logan came to the phone. When Logan finally picked up and then recognized the caller, his voice filled with relief.

“I haven’t much time,” Bradford said, “but Michael asked me to update you.” He paused, and when Logan said nothing, he continued.

“So far, she’s located two of the Havens and what she believes is
the third. We’ve got visual on one, audio on the other, and trackers on four of the vehicles.”

“Is there any sign of Hannah?” Logan asked. His tone was calm, but the stress of inactive waiting was there in his voice.

“Not yet,” Bradford said, “but if your daughter is in Buenos Aires, Michael will find her.” The words seemed redundant, perhaps even patronizing, considering that it was precisely because of Logan’s awareness of Munroe’s ability that Logan had come to her for help.

There was a long pause and then Logan said, “Is there anything more?”

Bradford hesitated.

This was Logan asking. Logan. The man Munroe trusted with her life, and still he could not bring himself to divulge details that would in any way compromise the mission.

“No,” Bradford said. “That’s as far as we’ve gotten. I’ll keep you posted as we progress. In the meantime, lay low, okay?”

“It’s getting harder,” Logan said. “Not for me—although, granted, I can’t tell you how unbelievably frustrating it is not being involved—but I mean, to keep the others from taking matters into their own hands. Gideon, especially, keeps pushing for action, swearing up and down that he didn’t come all this way to take a goddamn vacation. I’m not his boss, Miles, I can’t make him do anything. The only thing I have going for me is that Charity’s put her trust in me, and Gideon does what Charity wants. I don’t know how much longer I can keep everyone here happy with promises.”

“I’ll talk to Michael,” Bradford said, “and see what she has in mind, but, Logan, this is hurry up and wait. You and Gideon, of all people, should know how it goes, so sit tight. I’ll get back to you next chance I get.”

Bradford put down the phone, eyed the tracker, and leaned the chair back on two legs. Given the very personal nature of the job, he wanted a barrier between Munroe and Logan and minded not at all being the one to put it there. What he did mind was remaining still, helpless in a hotel room, nothing but a detached voice in her ear.

Bradford traced his thumb along the scar that ran from the base of his ear across his cheek. It was old in terms of injury, but it would be a long while before the pink faded into silver, longer still for the unspoken and unseen wounds to heal. He’d lost a good man in that fight, and the shrapnel from the same IED that had taken out his best friend’s eye had narrowly missed Bradford’s own. Some would say he was the lucky one, but what did they know about war and death?

Bradford watched the tracker come to the end of its journey. Munroe was running on empty. If there was any one person capable of going into a fight and coming out alive, it was she, but no matter how able she was, she couldn’t function on nothing indefinitely—losing one’s edge was how mistakes were made. Even the fittest could fail to survive when cut down by time and chance, and the way she pushed herself made him uneasy.

Her voice came online, and Bradford broke from his thoughts. Activity replaced stillness, and after a moment, visual replaced darkness. Like the foray before, the shadows were Munroe’s friends, and she worked among them as if she were at home. She was sleek and efficient, and watching her from the vantage of the first surveillance camera brought on the exhilaration of observing a master at her art. Bradford worked with her, guiding her through the night, trusting her and fearing the vagaries of fate.

But there were no mishaps, no errors, and the hour it took to assemble and position the devices seemed to pass within minutes. Bradford called Raúl for the pickup, and figuring fifteen minutes at the extreme for Munroe to make her way back, he switched off and tossed the earpiece on the desk.

Tonight, she had to sleep—even if it meant medication—because tomorrow she would return to the Haven’s fold, and this time, in spite of his protests, she would be going without him.

After thirty minutes, Munroe had still not returned to the hotel, and Bradford began to pace. Forty, and his forehead was to the wall while he pulled back on punches in order to keep from creating visible
damage to either the wall or his hands. Fifty, and he tried to raise her on the earpiece, and when that failed, called the emergency cell phone, which went straight to voice mail.

There was a nervous edge to his movements, a disjointed lack of rationality to his thoughts. Time and chance. He cursed himself for having remained behind.

The cell phone bleeped and he lunged for it.

On the other end Raúl said, “Mister, the lady, she no come.”

Inside Bradford’s head, the fear chanted over and over: time and chance, time and chance.

He remained in front of the computer, stymied, struggling for clarity on where to go with the next step. He couldn’t trace her because she’d left the trackers stuck to the vehicles at the Haven. For the time being, the best he could do was keep trying the phone. Beside the desk, bloodying his fist against the wall, he willed her to turn it back on.

Munroe waited for the clear, and then dropped from the compound wall to the shadows along the sidewalk. She traced her way toward the back of the perimeter, where she’d reach the narrow side street and, from there, turn again to the wider way for Raúl’s approach.

This residential neighborhood was close to the liveliest areas of Palermo, and its streets, clean and small, were tinged with muted laughter and music and the scent of asado and cigarettes, which reached from indoors out into the cold late night.

Munroe drew in the evening air, and with it the satisfaction of a job gone smoothly, one step closer to bringing Hannah home. She moved steadily toward Raúl and the arranged pickup, thoughts of Bradford the worrywart on her mind, until movement along a branching side street caught her eye.

Her attention was arrested, not from the pedestrian familiarity but from the break in pattern: a parked Mercedes with two doors left open and engine idling. Beside the car were two men whose relative
positions declared that one owned the car and the other the house to the right of it. Between the men, in the awkward position of merchandise being exchanged, was a child of nine or ten.

The man from the house pulled the child closer, tore open the robe that clothed her, and, apparently satisfied, handed a wad of cash to the man beside the car.

Munroe paused.

The man by the car shut the rear door.

Inside her head, the cries of duty to Logan and Hannah rose in rebellion against any detour, but her response was only to back up a pace and there, still cloaked in shadow, turn in the direction of the men.

Like the night in New York, like the nights of many kills, she felt no surprise at having once more been drawn toward the arms of evil. She felt only a consuming rage driving from within, unadulterated anger at the violation of innocence, a rush of blood so loud that it drowned out the laughter and the music.

In place of the evening’s ambience came the internal percussion, the drumbeat pounding out the order to kill, the passion that would only be assuaged when blood was spilled and justice served.

Time slowed. Incremental slivers of understanding laid strategy across her mind: move against move, like a living chessboard. She had no fear of their weapons, though she trusted they were armed; neither had she fear of death nor fear of pain. The terror in the moment was failure, to inadvertently allow either of these men life, when they deserved none.

Speed.

She needed speed to reach both men, before either in their gradual pulling apart found safety; before the innocent disappeared forever behind locked doors.

Through the dark Munroe moved as a shadow across the pavement, first to the man with the car. The transaction finished, he’d walked to the driver’s side. He placed a foot on the floorboard, and Munroe reached for him. He leaned down to be seated. Her two hands grasped his head.

Fiercely, violently, she twisted. Internally, pressure released with the snap of his neck, satisfaction like popping her own spine. He collapsed in the space of time it would have taken to draw a breath. Munroe followed him down to the seat, felt for a weapon where instinct told her to search, and with hands still gloved from the evening’s original purpose, took the piece, checked the safety, and stashed it at the small of her back. She slipped from behind the car’s door, moved around the rear.

The second man, with his back to the car, walked toward the house, toward the few stairs that led to the front door. His hand was firmly on the child’s shoulder, guiding, if not pushing her forward, while she struggled, barefoot, almost naked, in the cold.

Munroe waited until the man unlocked the house door, then came again from behind. The child heard what the man did not, turned ever so slightly as Munroe drew close, and stared blankly into her eyes.

The man paused to follow the gaze of the child, and before he could react, Munroe placed her hands tight to his head. Again forceful, again violent, she twisted for the snap, for the euphoria, for a rush that sent the chemical cocktail coursing through her veins.

She let him drop to the ground and felt the rush, allowed the ecstasy to settle, and pushed past it for what was still to come.

The child stood frozen, face puffy from where she’d been struck, stained with old tears and grime, eyes wide, lips parted, head twitching slightly from Munroe to the man and back again, as if in her little mind she couldn’t quite decide whether to scream or run or simply submit to what new twist fate had to offer.

Munroe felt for the man’s weapon, took it.

The child began to move—a cautious step backward.

Munroe knelt and took the child’s hand, but gently, so that she couldn’t retreat farther. “I’m here to help you,” Munroe said. “This bad man will be sleeping for a long time, so don’t worry about him. Are you cold?”

The child nodded, eyes still wide, lips trembling, tugging slightly against Munroe’s hold.

“Are you hungry?”

The child nodded; stopped tugging.

“I will take you someplace warm and safe where you can eat, yes?”

The child nodded, relaxed.

Munroe leaned forward and, with hands on either side of the girl’s face, kissed her forehead. “You’ll be all right,” she whispered. “I promise you. But in order to make things all right, I need you to be very, very quiet. Can you do that for me?”

Another nod.

Munroe pressed her index finger to her lips, and certain that the child grasped her intent, she stood and with the weapon drawn opened the unlocked door.

She peered through the crack into the silent building. Pressed the door forward. Entered.

The interior was everything other than what the neighborhood promised. The foyer and the two front rooms that bordered it were bare and empty. There was no furniture, no artwork, nothing other than curtains, which shielded the windows from prying eyes. A dim-wattage bulb hung loosely from the ceiling down the hallway, casting a sick yellow hue.

Munroe motioned the child inside and again, with finger to her lips intimating silence, pointed to the tiled floor, to the corner that was least exposed to the rest of the house.

Munroe whispered, “You stay here, yes? I am coming back for you, once I know everything is safe.” Such was her explanation to the child, but not her reason for entry. It was possible that this exchange tonight, money for child, was a one-off thing, but Munroe expected it wasn’t; she needed to finish what she’d started, had to know if there were others.

The girl nodded a response to Munroe’s request, and then, inexplicably, she smiled. Hers was a beautiful smile radiating innocence and trust, an unexpected contrast to the tearstains, grime, and torn and ratty bathrobe.

In a momentary pause from the rage and the blood, Munroe’s
throat tightened and she forced back her own tears, which now threatened to surface in the wake of the child’s gift.