Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3)

Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3) Page 8

“He could have called,” I said. “I’m in the book.”

A combination of cold fear and hot anger thrilled through me as he pressed the muzzle under my ribs. It was a dangerous combination for all involved—frightened, angry men don’t always do what’s in their best interests. I carefully reviewed his words in my head. “My employer wishes to speak with you.” I took that to mean that he didn’t want me killed, whoever he was—at least not for the time being. I decided to keep it uncomplicated, give my escort no reason to make any fatal mistakes. So, a moment later when a black Park Avenue pulled up, I said, “Is this our ride?”

My escort yanked open the back door.

“Inside,” he said calmly.

“After you,” I told him.

He gave me a gentle poke with the gun.

“Well, since you asked nicely.”

A few minutes later, we were on I-94, crossing the Mississippi River into Minneapolis—“Sin City” some of us St. Paulites call it, and not always in jest. A few minutes more and we were deep inside downtown Minneapolis, pulling into the parking ramp of one of the newer glass and steel towers. It was when we were on the public elevator with three other people going up that I realized the kidnapping was all for show and that I had little to fear.

“You’re new at this kidnapping thing, aren’t you,” I told my escort.

A panicked look spread across his face as our elevator mates glanced at him while pretending not to.

“I gotta tell you, though, the trouble with shooting through your pocket? You can’t really be sure where the gun is pointing.”

My escort’s face became a shade of red that you don’t often see in nature. Yet he didn’t speak. Nor did he take his hand out of his pocket. Instead, he stood motionless, watching the floor numbers change on the electronic display. Once the doors slid shut after our final companion departed the elevator, he turned toward me with an expression of snarling anger.

“Uh-uh,” I grunted and pointed toward the upper corner of the car. My escort followed my finger to a small security camera.

“You could end up on America’s Funniest Home Videos.”

He faced the door again and said nothing.

“Seriously,” I asked him. “What did you do before you got into this line of work?”

Now Norman, my escort, was sitting in a chair against the wall, nursing his pride. The three men at the far end of the table were all leaning forward, waiting to hear what I had to say. Muehlenhaus was sitting back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest like he already knew. Donovan was pacing, his hands behind his back like he was an eighteenth-century naval commander bestriding the deck. There was a streak of vanity in the man, I decided. It was long and wide.

“If the first lady is upset, I am unaware of it,” I announced calmly.

Mahoney—he was the one wearing the politician uniform—grunted loudly and looked at me as if he didn’t believe me, as if he hadn’t believed anything anyone had told him in years.

Donovan apparently agreed with him. He said, “I think you’re lying.”

I said, “I don’t care.”

The pain in his expression was so severe, you’d think I shot him.

“Whom do you think you’re talking to?” he demanded.

“I’ll tell you when I get to know you better.”

The tension in the room was suddenly a thin wire stretched too tight. Just the slightest pressure and it would snap.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Muehlenhaus repeated in an attempt to calm us.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” I said. “Under what scenario can you imagine that I would betray the confidence of my friends to you?”

“We know how to reward our friends,” Gunhus said.

“I bet. But we’re not friends. We’re not even acquaintances, and if someone doesn’t start volunteering information in a hurry, I’m going to leave.”

Coole, Gunhus, and Mahoney looked at each other to see who would speak first. Donovan beat them all to it.

“Can we rely on your discretion?” he asked.

“Not even a little bit.”

They didn’t like my answer. I watched the five men discuss it with glances and gestures. Not a word was spoken—it was as if they communicated with ESP. I rotated in my chair and faced Muehlenhaus.

“What is it you want of me?”

He in turn made a nearly imperceptible gesture with his bloodless hand.

Donovan read it and said, “Mr. McKenzie, we have an assignment to discuss with you. One that requires fine sensibilities and good judgment, one that requires the utmost in secrecy.”

“You have already proven to us that you can keep a secret,” Muehlenhaus informed me.

I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms and ankles. And people say I watch too many movies. I half expected the theme from Mission Impossible to begin wafting through the room from hidden speakers.

“Do you know the governor?” Donovan asked.

“We’ve never met.”

“Do you like him?”

“We’ve never met,” I repeated.

“We have a great deal invested in Governor Barrett.”