The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [152]
“And if I don’t?”
“I spotted your grandson earlier. Timmy, isn’t it? Hiding in his tree house, adorable.”
Palmer knew what was coming next. Predictable. “You have no shame. …”
“None. We’re talking survival, Senator. As a student of history, you should take Sun Tzu’s counsel and leave a gap for your enemy to flee. A cornered foe is as formidable as its desperation.”
She’d shown her ace, and she wasn’t bluffing.
“When I get back downtown, I plan to announce the imminent recapture of the fugitives. Twenty-four hours, Palmer. That’s how long you have to hand over Russo.”
“What about the others?” he asked grimly.
“They’re irrelevant in the scheme of things. Keep your granddaughter and the young lawyer as a consolation prize. The doctor won’t ever be able to practice again, but he’s young. The turncoat can elope to Peru and sire dozens of cinnamon-skinned bastards; I couldn’t care less. Get them new identities and make sure they keep their noses clean. I’ll send photos to the press showing a few prisoners returned to justice, and that will be that.”
Palmer backed up a pace to recover his personal space. She stared—not at him, but through him.
“You can hide him in a vault, Palmer, in Switzerland or Tierra del Fuego, but I will find your Timmy. And, when I do, so help me God, you’ll never see him again. So don’t fuck with me, and don’t push me any further. I can use the full resources of the DHS to get that boy, and his mother, and his father, and his father’s father, and all of your wretched kin. You’ll get me, eventually, but it will cost you.”
“Are you done?”
She smiled. “I am, but … I would love to hear you accept my reasonable offer.”
Palmer pasted a suitably shaken grimace on his face.
“Will you deliver Russo within twenty-four hours?”
I will, indeed. Palmer stared at her, then nodded.
She swiveled toward the copse of trees and waved a hand. “Don’t be a fool, Senator. I could have snatched your grandson an hour ago.” She paused, raised an arm, and snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”
chapter 52
23:36
“What will you do after?” Floyd asked.
“After what?”
“After tomorrow.”
“What tomorrow?” Laurel reached into her trousers pocket for a nonexistent piece of gum—a shameful ruse to give her hands something to do. The house was quiet. After a marathon of brainstorming and Tyler’s continuous trips carrying his communications pad, he had laid out the plan. Some details were still hazy. He’d kept the means of transport close to his chest, as well as who would be going and where, but the gist of the plan was deceptively simple. The group would split into two. While one team would ostensibly drive toward the ABC TV studios on Rhode Island Avenue, the other, with Russo, would head for the Capitol and Congress, where Senator Palmer and his confederates would be waiting. Somewhere along the way, the first team would detour and head for Congress also.
Harebrained would be a merciful adjective to describe the ploy, but Tyler seemed very much in control and everybody agreed they were alive thanks to his, so far, passable scheming. But tomorrow held too many unknowns. Hypnos and the DHS would not stand on the sidelines while a bunch of fugitives apparently headed toward one of the most prominent TV facilities in the country. And the Capitol, after the White House, was the most secure building in the world. How the police or DHS forces would play their hand was anybody’s guess, but the consensus was they would shoot first and answer questions later. Yet Tyler had disclosed that there was another force at play—someone helping them from the shadows—and that his or her intervention could make the difference. Who? He didn’t know. The highlight came when Lukas asked directly what their chances were. Tyler had drawn from his already extinguished pipe, producing a strange