25 Hour Watch

Pt. 1: “Nameless”

Pt. 2: “Nightmares”

Pt. 3: “Respite”

            The risk of exposure was too great. With the police on high alert, not to mention that confounded security team, they could no longer afford to take her out. Sure, the money would have been nice, helped them grow the operation courtesy of a huge influx of capital to increase their investments. But now, any attempted hit would only draw more attention. Attention meant exposure, and the whole façade would collapse on top of them. His career would be over.

            He refused to let that happen.

            Calling off the hit was the smart decision. Jacy, damn the girl, was safe for the time being. He would find the money elsewhere, maybe even at the charity event in an hour’s time. Surely they could schluff off enough of the raised funds to make a deposit on the enterprise. Their contact in Colombia wanted the money paid out in installments anyway. While he couldn’t chance touching his own account for fear the IRS would track such a large transfer, the estimated take from this afternoon should cover a quarter of what they would need. Add to that the contents of their offshore account—the one he liked to call “petty cash,” not the one labeled “cushy retirement”—and they were halfway there.

            He’d call Krimmer. Get him to make the arrangements. Then they would need investors, or some other plan to help them appropriate the necessary millions. He wasn’t worried. He had a couple of options in mind.

***

            A huge banner spanned the entrance arch of the Marriott’s Kennedy Ballroom: “Follow the Yellow Brick Road! 5^th Annual Charity Auction in Support of Foster Kids!” The silver glittered letters dipped and swirled in an elaborate faux cursive font, surrounded by dual woven arrangements of flowers and balloons. Beneath them, rectangles of golden carpet interlocked like flat bricks in a path that meandered toward the catered buffet luncheon at the room’s center, then swept left past curved rows of white-draped tables that bore carefully coordinated assortments of objects. Small stands along the way held stories and pictures of fosterlings still in the system, and the path ended at an artful photographic display of smiling children, each having finally found their new home.

            In the two years she had been involved in the charity, this event did not look to have changed much. The same ice sculptures of children dribbling basketballs, slumped on a bed reading, racing a small, shaggy dog, had yet to alter. A quick glance at the posted menu showed the same fare as before: brazed beef or vegetable stir-fry, minced potatoes, white rice, steamed carrots and broccoli, cranberry-almond salad with vinaigrette, honey wheat rolls, an assortment of cheesecakes and pastries. And of course, a full-service bar.

            That seemed a good place to start.

            Even the crowd milling around this immense chandeliered room had the same look to it, consisting partly of those that ran the charity event circuit, attending dinners and dances, and writing huge checks, and partly of attendees just happy to brush elbows with the rich and famous in support of a great cause. A very few were directly involved in Yellow Brick Road, and these she easily picked out from the crowd.

            Jonathon Gold, better known in the music circuit as “Jonagold” or “The Apple King,” chatted easily near the bar with a couple of blatantly blonde admirers. Getting a few select celebrities to an event was a great way to draw in supporters that wouldn’t have attended otherwise. Jonny, however, was one of the organization’s founding board members and most vocal activists. He put in a lot of volunteer hours working directly with the kids, and had a real way of setting them at ease.

            Bobs was here too. He had donated a chunk of money and joined the board a year or so before Laine. In fact, Bobs was the one who’d pushed her to get involved in the first place. He and Jonny maintained an inherent dislike for each other, of course, but for the foster kids they managed a thin veneer of tolerance. Right now, he was engaged with charity VP Joseph Krimmer, a glass of his favorite rum-and-Coke in hand.

            Continuing her perusal of the room, Laine’s eyes fell upon Robin Kasey. Unfortunately, Robin smiled straight back at her. Very slowly, Laine acknowledged her with a nod, and then just as deliberately turned toward her entourage. If she left their connection at that, maybe the reporter would leave her alone.

            Wishful thinking at its best.

            Kyle and Hancock were her escorts this afternoon, although she had a feeling Kevin Briggs likely hung around nearby. She had been introduced to a new guy, Derek Porter, the previous evening, but he was searching for leads on her attacker with Rick Mercier. Though she didn’t count Mitchell as an official escort, he was present at her side. That she had deemed it necessary to take the day before off had plainly spooked him. Nevertheless, it wasn’t concern for her state of mind that kept him hovering around the perimeter—it was concern that her state of mind would cause her to do something that might negatively affect her image.

            That very same image had begun to pluck at Laine’s nerves. She was no longer quite sure that she cared. About any of it.

            One day of contemplation had proved enough to alter her game-plan. She still refused to give into the fear—that wasn’t the way she operated—but she would control more of the risk factor. Her life was plenty worth it. If she kept her head firmly atop her shoulders and her mind strong, she had the best chance of staying out of danger instead of gravitating toward it. She was her own first line of defense. Kyle and his team were only backup.

            And the police? They knew their business and would pursue any leads. No need for her to get involved there. Regardless, she couldn’t count on them to stave off harm without more useful information, most notably a motive. As things stood, she was perfectly aware of the rumors circulating around that named the entire incident a simple publicity stunt. She doubted Marshall was capable of anything that devious. She certainly wasn’t and her career hardly needed more help, though none of this would keep people from speculating.

            Even here in the ballroom, she could sense the curious thoughts of every head that turned her way. They wondered about why she was there instead of tucked securely away in the Bahamas, and who (if anyone) would want to come after her, and whether there was any possibility of her presence attracting more trouble that afternoon. The morbid appeal of this last bit lingered on the faces of more than a few. Danger held a sort of fascination, so long as it happened to someone else.

            In her case, however, the best course was to set fear aside and address the problem directly. If she approached the crowd on her own terms, she held court on the perceptions.

            “Don’t think you have to breathe down my neck,” she swept a rueful smile over the watchful threesome. Her manager held her in the grip of his intense scrutiny, while Kyle’s casual gaze lingered on a group of gawkers who had found the bar early. Hancock simply stood there and looked intimidating. “It’s a charity event. No one’s going to try anything here.”

            Marshall’s upper lip tightened in a miniscule frown. “I’m not about to leave you on your own, Jacy. And I don’t want the scavengers pelting you with questions. Not until we’ve had time to develop an official statement.”

            She fought an automatic eye-roll, settling instead on a less-than-polite snort. “I’m her in support of the kids, not to take questions. Go mingle or something; I’ve got this handled.”

            Before he could say another word, she turned and strode into the crowd. Several yards of pressed together bodies later, a quick glance revealed Hancock following half a step back. Kyle had meanwhile dissolved into the crowd, probably in hopes of finding a viable observation point. Thankfully, they all seemed willing to play this her way—mostly because this time, her way wasn’t chock full of opportunities for something to go wrong.

            Free at last, she paused at the bar for a flute of champagne mixed with sparkling green apple cider. Over a series of sips and smiled greetings, she pegged down Joseph Krimmer’s position and plotted a course that would hopefully lead her past a couple of other charity-goers she wanted a word with, while keeping her well beyond reach of Robin Kasey’s investigative claws.

            Jonny stopped her near the auction tables.

            “Hey,” he dipped his head. “Glad you could make it. Bid on anything yet?”

            “No, but I will. Not this hat, though.”

            Sharp black eyes followed her gaze toward the nearest table. His solitary dimple cued a lazy smile. “Yeah, hideous, isn’t it?”

            “Someone will bid on it,” she shrugged. When she had last checked, Joseph was headed the opposite direction and she really wanted to catch him before his speech. There wouldn’t be much opportunity to talk with him after.

            “Probably wear it too,” Jonny’s head swung mockingly sideways. His teeth flashed white. “For a good cause, though.”

            “Of course,” she agreed. Only practiced control kept anxiety from tainting her relaxed tone. “Have you seen Joe around? I’m trying to catch up to him.”

            Eyebrows drawing together, he bent toward her. There was something speculative about his expression. “Around somewhere,” he shrugged vaguely. “He seems pretty busy tonight.”

            Finally spotting Joseph at the room’s far end, she heaved a silent sigh of relief. The VP had paused to chat with a dark-haired man she didn’t know. Based on their position just outside the main flow of traffic, she hoped their conversation might take more than a few cursory sentences. “Never mind, I see him. Would you excuse me?”

            The silent Hancock at her heels, she made her way along the yellow-bricked carpet all the while praying her quarry would stay put. It did. In fact, by the time she came within hearing distance, the conversation was still going strong.

            And what she heard didn’t make any sense.

            “I like the sound of the payoff, sure. But I just don’t know. It still sounds risky,” the man was saying.

            Joe shook his salt-and-pepper head. “It’s not. We pull in a lot of money at these kinds of events, not to mention what we get on paper. Yours will blend right in—one pledge among many.”

            A pledge? Why would that pose risk to anyone? Laine looked around for Hancock to see if he’d heard, but he was several feet away talking into his cell phone.

            “You’re absolutely certain they’ve no means of tracking the deposit.”

            “Donations are entirely anonymous. We’ll need your account number for the return payments, of course, which we can deposit without alerting certain interested parties. One of the advantages of a non-profit organization, you understand.”

            The man considered this for a moment. “Give me two days to think it over.”

            “Right. I’ll be in touch.” Joe nodded and turned away, his demeanor obviously distracted. Then suddenly, his gaze locked with Laine’s. There was no mistaking it: he flinched.

            Immediately, a strong urge to back away permeated her body. Former questions no longer seemed important. If she followed the wise course of action, she would confront him here and find out if the exchange really merited her initial distress. All she had to do was ask.

            “Jacy! I was hoping we’d run into each other. Do you have a minute?” Robin Kasey appeared with predictably awful timing, her habit of crashing in unannounced the moment she sensed her target’s distraction in fine form.

            Frustrated at the interruption, Laine repelled the reporter’s verbal onslaught until Marshall materialized at her side, a step behind Hancock. There were only so many ways to imply “no comment” without speaking the actual words. When she finally had chance to turn around, Joseph Krimmer was gone.

***

            Then take care of the problem.

            Krimmer glanced at his cell phone screen and winced. He wasn’t one-hundred percent certain how much of his conversation the singer had overheard, or more importantly, how much she had understood. Regardless, they had an immediate problem that desperately needed solving. And they could not under any circumstances tolerate another screw-up.

            Means were already in place for a rejected scenario from the initial planning stages. Earlier that morning, the knowledge that a pair of trained killers still planned to circulate through the unsuspecting crowd had given him a smug sense of self-satisfaction, though he had not intended to use them. The killers had never been informed of that detail, nor did they know their original target. Regardless, the flawed plan held some potential. The problem would be taking the girl out without drawing deep inspection into the charity’s financial activities, or scaring away potential investors.

            Never mind. Another text popped up on his screen. I’ll do it myself. You provide the distraction.

            Relieved in spite of himself, Krimmer smiled. Now that he could do.

***

            From his vantage point against a wall a short ways from Laine, Merrimac commanded a solid view of almost everyone in the room. Hotel surveillance cameras tucked strategically beneath the ceiling eaves; Briggs had hacked into these and was presently relaying information. Whatever security arranged for this event wasn’t enough. He preferred to keep his own watch—in his experience, instinct rarely transcended any technological format. He wanted the detail direct observation could give.

            “Small commotion brewing by the bar.” Briggs’s voice buzzed in his ear via the tiny headset hidden beneath his carefully arranged hair.

            Ignoring the more than likely intentional pun, Merrimac focused on the indicated area. A few guests showed off raised voices and a carefree disregard helped along by large amounts of alcohol drunk too quickly, though they didn’t yet appear a serious problem. If that changed before hotel security dissipated the potential situation, or if any similar anxieties arose, he would simply have Laine leave early.

            She had been unusually cooperative since his return. That last attempted hit had shaken her; that much was clear. She hadn’t so much as hinted at her original excuse of keeping up image as a reason for sticking with her prescribed schedule. However much he wished they could fade her into the background like an ordinary Jane, it simply wasn’t possible. Unless she radically altered her appearance, she ran the risk of recognition wherever she went. Nor could she vanish from public radar without causing a stir. Deprived of desirable options, their best bet was to allow her a few public events—strictly supervised of course—and grip the reins of security tight the moment she ducked from camera view.

            A crackle of static burst in his ear. “Mer, get eyes on the main door. Some bozos are making a scene at ticketing, but I can’t get a good angle. My thoughts say trouble.”

            Merrimac hesitated, torn between leaving Hancock to briefly manage on his own and checking out the problem. It seemed unlikely that anyone would stage an assault here, but they didn’t pay him to dismiss potential danger.

            The movement casual, his right hand rose to brush against his ear. “I’ll head over. Hancock, maintain your position. Hustle her out the back route at my signal.”

            “Copy,” the big guard’s scratchy voice grunted in acknowledgment. Over near the auction tables, Merrimac saw him move two steps nearer their charge.

            One last visual sweep of the area later, he was trickling through the crowded ballroom on course for the main entrance. The crush worsened along the themed carpeting, so he stuck near the edges. Colognes and perfumes mixed and clashed against folds of exotically colored fabrics and pressed suits. He caught snatches of conversation, but these he let fade into the background. Unless he heard something out of place, he wanted his audio attention on alert for any updates from Briggs.

            After he cleared the commotion, he would also have Briggs contact Porter. With any luck, he and Mercier would have tracked down some sort of lead. As a licensed P.I., and a damn good one at that, Porter was their best bet at uncovering the information necessary to keep Laine out of harm’s way. Celebrity status may have granted her a significant amount of police resources, but investigative cops weren’t big on sharing. Their policy made sense most of the time; in this case, however, a few detailed updates on what the captured assailants had revealed would have improved their chances in a major way.

            “Mer? Anything? I’m flying blind, here. Can’t see a thing below head level with this many people packed in like sardines.”

            From where he stood, Merrimac was having trouble picking out visual detail himself. This whole affair put more distance between him and Laine than he liked. He should have called Mercier in for back-up instead of pairing him with Porter. Unfortunately, he’d had no choice. Porter didn’t know the case, didn’t know the job. He needed someone who did to help fill in the blanks and mull through theories. They’d even gotten Laine’s accountant and lawyer involved for insight into possible financial and legal entanglements. There had to be a reason someone wanted her dead. Without motive, they had nothing.

            “Give me specifics. Who am I looking for?” he brushed a finger along his jaw while activating his microphone. The thing was so sensitive, leaving it on all the time would only result in migraines for everyone wearing a headset. Plus, the added background noise would increase the likelihood of missing one of their fellows’ communications.

            Another hiss of static. “Woman in a loose navy dress, man also dressed in navy with matching fedora hat. They’ve pushed past the ticketing booth and are on their way in. Not stopping to talk with anyone though. No, they look like they’re trying to blend.”

            The described navy pulled at his eye from maybe fifteen feet away. The swarthy folds on the woman’s dress could easily hide a weapon, and the same could be said about the cut on the man’s sport coat. Briggs was correct. Nothing about the couple drew attention, except that this was a complete one-eighty from how they had acted behind the ballroom doors.

            Briggs cursed over the feed. He must have kept his hand on his headset. “The bar group’s acting up again. And they’re headed her way—a perfect screen if someone’s waiting for opportunity. I don’t like the feel of this.”

            Silently, Merrimac echoed his colleague’s choice phrase. It was time to get Laine out. Even if this was nothing, they couldn’t take the risk. One wrong move would lead to outcomes they couldn’t take back. His hand tapped down on his ear again. “Hancock, get—Shit!”

            The rest of his order disappeared behind the force of his dismay as the woman in navy pulled a gun from the elaborate knot near her waistline. All appearance of casualty cast aside, Merrimac lunged toward the couple in a diagonal move that placed him center-stage in the line of fire. At least, it would if he made it before the woman pulled the trigger.

            He didn’t. The sharp crack of a muted weapon—not near so quiet as the soft tup portrayed in movies—rang in his ears. Several people screamed, and not all of them women. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to stick to his training and fix his eyes forward. All two-hundred pounds of his body collided with the woman four and a half seconds later. As they tumbled groundward, his ears finally registered the second splintering explosion.

            And then he felt the first ghostly spark of pain.

            He was hit.

            Icy heat peaked across his side. His vision went black.

***

            She was back inside the nightmare. The sound, a brutal burst of death, resounded in her mind, joined with memories of two other bullets pointed her direction. Fear permeated her body so thickly every muscle froze in place. Laine couldn’t think what to do, couldn’t think where to run.

            That first shot—she didn’t see where it went. She was too busy getting shoved toward a back hallway. People scrambled out of the way, most of them separating from her until she stood out among the fleeing crowd. A second shot followed close behind. The screams doubled. Only one thought whirred through her head: she had read the situation wrong. No matter where she was, no matter how many eyes watched her, the danger was not going to go away. Worse, whoever wanted her dead would not balk at hurting anyone who got in the way.

            “Come on.”

            Despite the stark confusion that ruled her reactions, she spared a glance for the man with an iron grip on her elbow. He hauled her along at a good clip, shielding her body with his free arm cast around her waist. Hancock, this certainly was not. So where on earth had he gone? Where was Kyle? And when had Jonny Gold arrived on-scene? He was crazy to be anywhere near her.

            “Wait!” she pulled away, but Jonny merely adjusted his grip and continued their march.

            “You’ve got to get out of here. It’s too dangerous.”

            No one could argue with that logic, but part of her refused to bail without at least knowing that everyone back in that room was alright. If one of those stray bullets had caught a fellow auction-goer, she might never forgive herself.

            Breath escaped her mouth in uneven exhalations as her lips just managed to form the query. “Did you see? Was anyone hurt?”

            Briefly, his gaze darted to meet hers. She saw the hesitation there and knew immediately what it meant.

            “Yeah,” he admitted at last. “I didn’t get a close look, but I think…” He paused so that the sound of their footfalls echoed audibly down the wide corridor, overpowering the muffled chaos of the ballroom at their backs. “It looked like one of the guys you came in with.”

            Laine slammed to a stop, forcing Jonny to do the same. The world seemed to freeze around her, or maybe she had stopped breathing. When she finally remembered to draw in air, her constricted throat choked on nothing.

            “Hancock?” The name barely scraped free.

            He shook his head, obviously wanting to get moving again. “I don’t know. Not the big guy.”

            Laine swayed on her silver-laced heels. Jonny would have recognized her manager. That left only one other option.

            Dimly, she heard Jonny’s voice urging her on, but without comprehension. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Kyle who had been hit. Without a good view—which she doubted Jonny’d had—any conclusion was prone to error. How would he have recognized Kyle in that brief a moment? He’d only seen him once, maybe twice. In all likelihood, the bullet had hit someone else—which didn’t help her conscience any.

            Still, she had regained a bit of perspective and that helped. Now her priority was to get in touch with Mitchell and the security team, let them know where she was. Her destination was probably an important thing to note too.

            In a moment of less than brilliant deduction, Laine realized that they were no longer in the corridor. The side door of a silver Mercedes propped open in Jonny’s left hand as he ushered her within.

            “Wait,” she said for the second time. “I need to call Marshall.”

            “Call him from the car. It’s too open right here.” Firmly, he placed his free hand on her shoulder and pushed until she slid somewhat reluctantly into the backseat. Safety was the priority here. As soon as they were away, she would make the call. And also share her new concerns about Joseph Krimmer.