14 - J. T. Ellison [128]
“No, there’s been no sign of him. The house was empty except for Snow White, I mean, Fortnight, and his son. Holy crap. Charlotte was his daughter. God, that explains a lot. I knew she was batshit crazy.”
Baldwin had an unreadable mask in his eyes. “I talked with Garrett earlier. He’s been able to confirm Jane’s claims. The FBI is going through all of Charlotte’s personal effects now, combing through her computer. They were checking on the abnormalities in her protocols, but when they cracked her firewall, it seems she had a trap set on all the information. Her system wiped itself clean when they tried to access her data files. They have their work cut out for them.”
Taylor’s head was spinning with all this new information. Charlotte Douglas, the child of Snow White. That meant she was from Nashville. Taylor had never met her before. Which was strange, since her parents and Charlotte’s were friends. She must have gone away to school after her mother died. Or something like that. A moment of pity wormed its way into Taylor’s conscious. She pushed it away. The thought would take unraveling, and Taylor didn’t have the time to deal with it now.
“So do we. The copycat is still free. And we need to get to Malik. As soon as he knows that Fortnight is dead, then my father is of no use to him anymore. We have to talk to him now.”
“Let’s go.”
They ran to Baldwin’s car, and he tore out of the driveway, forcing the onlookers to scatter before him.
Forty-Nine
New York, New York
Wednesday, December 24
8:00 a.m.
Anthony Malik was torn between laughing and crying when he saw the videotape for the first time. Saraya was such a good girl. And Conrad Hawley was such a bad boy. How they had gotten so lucky was beyond him. Now he had his ticket, a piece of ingenious editing that would guarantee him safe passage forever.
The attorney general for the State of New York had paled when the news was shared of his frolics being recorded. He had begged. It was a satisfactory feeling. Malik had dangled the key to the safety deposit box in front of Hawley, guaranteed him it was the only copy, and laughed when the man got tears in his eyes.
He was just that powerful.
Malik never thought he’d actually have to use the tape. Just knowing it was out there should have been enough. And he had a backup stashed at the house in Nashville, just in case Hawley got crazy and went after him.
But now, with Win Jackson the turncoat looking for a way out of this mess, Mars dead and one of his trusted men gone, Malik needed a new plan. The time had come to start cashing in some of his insurance policies. He called Atlas, asked him to come by the apartment, and began to pack. New York was getting a bit too warm for his tastes. A trip down south would serve two purposes, getting him away until things shook out, and allowing him a personal cruise through the orphanages for some new blood.
When the doorbell to Malik’s apartment rang twenty minutes later, he didn’t think twice about answering. This was his safe house, one where he couldn’t be surprised. He had several, scattered across several countries. In Manhattan, only Atlas and the poor deceased Dusty knew the address.
It was a fatal mistake. Men in black balaclavas, armed with automatic weapons, poured through his door. They stormed the room, slapping handcuffs around his wrists and a rough sack that stank of blood and vomit over his head. He was silenced easily, forced out the door and shoved into the back of a car before he could catch his breath.
He had bigger problems now. His captors weren’t speaking English.
Baldwin answered the phone on the first ring.
“Hola, Juan.”
“Hola, amigo. We’ve got him.”
“Fantastic. Who will be extraditing him?”
“I’m not sure who is going to lay claim to him first. Several South American governments what to talk to him. But if it weren’t for your help, we would have never caught