twitched and Munroe drew the flat of the blade across his neck to prevent instinct from slitting his throat. “Is it worth the price of this one?” she said. “Or the destruction of the package?”
“I’ll get what I need with or without you,” the Doll Maker said.
Munroe pulled Lumani to his feet and stepped back from him.
Slid the knife along the floor in his direction. “I also have a choice, and I think we’ve both made our points,” she said. “I want to see Logan, video streamed live so I can confirm his current condition.”
“I can arrange that,” the Doll Maker said.
“By tonight?”
“It’ll be done,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
“I’m going downstairs,” she said. “You don’t need to guard me. Leave me alone and let me know when the girl is awake.”
DALLAS, TEXAS
Miles Bradford stood in the middle of the war room and dumped two Kevlar vests on the floor. Jahan and Walker stared at him, both silent and sullen. “Fight it out between you,” he said. “I’ll be in my office.”
More specifically, he’d be on the floor in his office, beneath the desk, grabbing a moment of sleep before heading out again. He turned from the room, and the heated whispered exchange started once more behind his back. Someone had to stay behind and there were no volunteers.
It was nearly one in the morning, technically into day three of the hunt for a trace on Munroe and Logan, and they were running on empty: nerves strung a little tighter, edges a little sharper. Bradford’s body couldn’t handle this lack of sleep crap the way it could eighteen years ago when he was twenty and king of the world. He needed five minutes, ten, if he was lucky.
For a full day they’d stalked information, putting aspects of running Capstone on temporary hold to pore over gigabytes of data, tracking leads and cutting off dead ends—tedious brain work, numerous phone calls, and the occasional in-person visit to pull records—until what they had now was a short list of four valid possibilities, four locations where if Logan was being kept in Texas,they might actually find him: a residential home, an office condo, a warehouse, and a transport company, all within the Dallas metro area.
Might find him
.
At this juncture, everything was a crapshoot, and this was the best they had.
Bradford threw a bedroll under the desk. Lay feet to the window, head to the darkness, and before closing his eyes, he checked his phone, the same flick of the wrist he’d been making at ten-minute intervals throughout the day, hoping against hope that either Munroe or Logan might have gained access to a phone, might have called, texted, or emailed, and somehow he’d missed the alert.
But nothing. He closed his eyes and opened them to Sam Walker’s feet.
From where she stood, he could see the bottom of the vests, one draped over each shoulder, and gripped in her right hand a backpack that held the war room’s ready stash of tracking and surveillance equipment.
The clock on his phone said fifteen minutes since he’d blinked.
“You awake?” Walker whispered.
Just enough of a hiss to ensure that even if he hadn’t been, he would be now.
“Yeah,” he said. “What’d you get?”
“Jack stays, I go.”
Bradford scooted out from under the desk. “That so?” He turned his back to roll up the bed. “How’d you manage that?”
Walker sighed. “Two on, two off, and we break after dawn.”
Bradford nodded. “Does he have a shopping list?”
“He’s good with whatever we get.”
He handed her the Explorer keys. “You drive,” he said. “I’ll sleep.”
T HE ARMORY WAS a war-room legend, on par with Bigfoot or the whispered rumors of Munroe’s ability to absorb languages. Only a handful knew of its confirmed existence, and of those only Bradford and Jahan knew where it was or how to get inside. The armory was just in case; it was hell-in-a-hand-basket, old habits die hard: a collection that had steadily grown over the
“I’ll get what I need with or without you,” the Doll Maker said.
Munroe pulled Lumani to his feet and stepped back from him.
Slid the knife along the floor in his direction. “I also have a choice, and I think we’ve both made our points,” she said. “I want to see Logan, video streamed live so I can confirm his current condition.”
“I can arrange that,” the Doll Maker said.
“By tonight?”
“It’ll be done,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
“I’m going downstairs,” she said. “You don’t need to guard me. Leave me alone and let me know when the girl is awake.”
DALLAS, TEXAS
Miles Bradford stood in the middle of the war room and dumped two Kevlar vests on the floor. Jahan and Walker stared at him, both silent and sullen. “Fight it out between you,” he said. “I’ll be in my office.”
More specifically, he’d be on the floor in his office, beneath the desk, grabbing a moment of sleep before heading out again. He turned from the room, and the heated whispered exchange started once more behind his back. Someone had to stay behind and there were no volunteers.
It was nearly one in the morning, technically into day three of the hunt for a trace on Munroe and Logan, and they were running on empty: nerves strung a little tighter, edges a little sharper. Bradford’s body couldn’t handle this lack of sleep crap the way it could eighteen years ago when he was twenty and king of the world. He needed five minutes, ten, if he was lucky.
For a full day they’d stalked information, putting aspects of running Capstone on temporary hold to pore over gigabytes of data, tracking leads and cutting off dead ends—tedious brain work, numerous phone calls, and the occasional in-person visit to pull records—until what they had now was a short list of four valid possibilities, four locations where if Logan was being kept in Texas,they might actually find him: a residential home, an office condo, a warehouse, and a transport company, all within the Dallas metro area.
Might find him
.
At this juncture, everything was a crapshoot, and this was the best they had.
Bradford threw a bedroll under the desk. Lay feet to the window, head to the darkness, and before closing his eyes, he checked his phone, the same flick of the wrist he’d been making at ten-minute intervals throughout the day, hoping against hope that either Munroe or Logan might have gained access to a phone, might have called, texted, or emailed, and somehow he’d missed the alert.
But nothing. He closed his eyes and opened them to Sam Walker’s feet.
From where she stood, he could see the bottom of the vests, one draped over each shoulder, and gripped in her right hand a backpack that held the war room’s ready stash of tracking and surveillance equipment.
The clock on his phone said fifteen minutes since he’d blinked.
“You awake?” Walker whispered.
Just enough of a hiss to ensure that even if he hadn’t been, he would be now.
“Yeah,” he said. “What’d you get?”
“Jack stays, I go.”
Bradford scooted out from under the desk. “That so?” He turned his back to roll up the bed. “How’d you manage that?”
Walker sighed. “Two on, two off, and we break after dawn.”
Bradford nodded. “Does he have a shopping list?”
“He’s good with whatever we get.”
He handed her the Explorer keys. “You drive,” he said. “I’ll sleep.”
T HE ARMORY WAS a war-room legend, on par with Bigfoot or the whispered rumors of Munroe’s ability to absorb languages. Only a handful knew of its confirmed existence, and of those only Bradford and Jahan knew where it was or how to get inside. The armory was just in case; it was hell-in-a-hand-basket, old habits die hard: a collection that had steadily grown over the
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