Project Northwest by C. B. Carter Page A

not to mess with
them. If he did mess with them, that mere action would bring strong
retaliation. He’d be accused, and rightfully so, of not playing
nicely. He did not want to imagine the actions that tampering with
the devices would set in motion.
    He quietly went to the kitchen and noticed
Bridget’s organizer on the counter—it always sat near the base of
the phone. He considered tearing a piece of paper from the notepad
in the organizer and writing her a note about their ordeal. In the
corner, where the counter joined the backsplash, he saw her black
felt tip pen. It was almost invisible in the shadow.
    He leaned on the counter, looked up and along
the valance. He found the camera.
    He would’ve never noticed if he had not been
looking for it. It was small, colored to blend into the wood and
placed perfectly to hide in the nook of the valance. If he took the
organizer, a quick before/after comparison on the video and they
would know he took it, maybe not immediately, but he was positive
they would see the swipe when they reviewed it. Again, he would be
accused of not playing nicely.
    In a moment of odd brilliance, he knew how to
do it, how to get a note to Bridget under the noses of those
watching. He couldn’t believe his life had come down to this, but
he could not think of another way.
    After he convinced himself they could not see
the black pen in the shadow of the backsplash, he cupped it into
his palm and dropped it into the pocket of his robe.
    He moved slowly to the couch, pulled the
cover over his head and debated how much he had to reveal to
Bridget. Did she really need to know about the cameras? And if so,
how was he going to explain them—even she, as trusting as she was,
would not believe a bank employee investigator would take it this
far.
    What if she found the cameras and he hadn’t
told her—that would be far worse. He concluded he had to tell her
what was going on, he had to trust her.
    He opened his robe under the blanket,
extended the flap as far away from his body as he could, slowly
retrieved the pen and at a deliberate slow speed as to not disturb
the blanket over him, began to write the most unfortunate letter of
his life on the inside of his white robe.
     
    ‘Bridget, do not be alarmed. Act normal, do
not show any change in emotion. We’re being watched. Mr. Wright is
blackmailing me to provide inside bank information. I’m sorry I
lied before. I thought I was protecting you. The condo is bugged,
the laptop, the car, my phone, your phone, your apartment, my
office—they are all bugged. There are cameras in the condo, they
see and hear everything.’
     
    He paused, ashamed he had done whatever he
had done to make them a target, ashamed he had to drag her into
this. What a dreadful thing he was asking her to do. He had to
trust her and continued writing.
     
    ‘I love you and I’m so sorry. If you leave,
they will hurt both of us. If you act out, they will hurt us. We
cannot discuss this. In a couple of weeks, this will all be behind
us. I’m close to learning the true identity of Mr. Wright and will
use that to get us out. You need to tell Cindy to not tell anyone
we borrowed her cell phone or she will be in danger. Please, please
understand. This is not a joke, it’s very real. I love you and am
asking you to trust me. James.’
     
    The next line was the pinnacle of requests
that test most relationships, not will you marry me, although that
is a doozy. This request was even more significant.
     
    ‘After you read this and if you still love
me, if you trust me, call my office number, let it ring
twice and hang up. I love you.’
     
    He wanted to scream. He wanted to run down to
the parking lot, run down the street until he found the Tahoe he
was sure was out there somewhere. Pull those bastards out by their
hair, put his foot on their throats and beat them senseless. He
wanted to confront them, beat his chest and shout, “ B ring
it on! ”
    Grandstanding is out the door when