I am on the land surrounding Epicurus’s property, and I am running for my life.More accurately, I am running for Grant’s life.There are pre-recorded video loops on all the surveillance cameras on the property. If Epicurus has someone watching the cameras, all they will see is a grove of orange trees and grassy fields, instead of a twenty-something chick hauling ass.Thank God I told Marcel I wanted jeans and tennis shoes. This would be a complete travesty if I were in a skirt and heels.I’m also wearing Grant’s backpack, the one we jumped out of the New York skyscraper with. Inside is my laptop, two tubes of superglue, a GPS chip, a cell phone, and Mailin’s government-issued handgun.In my hand is one of the other pistols. I don’t really know how to use it, other than point and pull the trigger, but I have it just in case.In case of what, I don’t want to consider.Dominique should be about 500 feet to my left. The McMansion abuts Epicurus’s property, and we started off at different
I switch to a view of the plastic room and wince in apprehension of seeing Grant in pain – but Epicurus seems to still be in gloat mode.I click a button on my laptop, the soundboard activates, and an audio clip of my voice plays over the loudspeaker in the plastic-wrapped room beneath me – just like Al Pacino or Arnold Schwarzenegger. I can hear it distinctly, even in the air duct.“Heeeeey Epicurus. Or should I say, ‘Dieter’?”The shock on Epicurus’s face is something to behold. I have to stifle a laugh as he whirls around like a surprised baboon.“WHAT?! NO! How did you find me?!”I muted all audio from the laptop, so I’m actually hearing him shout from right beneath me. He’s more than loud enough for his voice to carry through the reinforced metal.I click a button, and my voice speaks in the room beneath me. “It was easy. TOO easy.”While Epicurus continues to flail about like a chimp on crack, I check the surveillance feeds in the rest of the house. The audio may be silent, but
The first thing I hear after the ringing in my ears subsides a little is Grant’s frantic voice.“EVE! Eve, are you okay?!”“I’m fine, I’m fine!” I yell back at him from the ground.The FBI agents swarm in, hollering at everybody to drop their guns. Since Grant doesn’t have one – and since he’s obviously strapped down to the bed – he’s safe. As for me, I tell them right away about the pistol in the back of my jeans. I also make sure my hands are high in the air when I do it.“GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR!” they scream. “HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”I move very slowly into position, careful not to spook them. Once I’m spread-eagle facedown, they slip the gun out of my waistband, then zip-tie my wrists and hoist me roughly to my feet.I try not to look at Epicurus’s dead body. I feel bad, though God knows there’s no reason to. He was a serial killer. He was going to torture Grant to death, and he would have happily done the same to me. He was a deranged psychopath, a nightmare wrapped in huma
I sit there in shock. All I can think of is, Did he just SAY that?“‘Crucified’ is hardly the way an objective investigator would talk, Agent Duplass,” Grant says. Somehow he still manages to sound calm and composed.“Objectivity went out the window when I lost my two agents in Paris – in part because of your illegal activities, I might add.”“Epicurus had them killed!” I cry out.“I have no proof of that,” Duplass says coldly.“Then who the hell do you think killed them?!”“The same gunmen who abducted Mr. Carlson in Paris.”“Who were PAID by Epicurus!”“I have no proof of that.”“Jesus, are you trying to be obtuse?” I ask angrily. “Why the hell do you think they brought Grant to San Francisco in the first place?”“All I know is that my agents were killed by a group of unidentified gunmen. Until we find out more, I’m not going to speculate.”“You’re not going to speculate,” I repeat, half-mocking, half disbelieving.“No. I only care about the truth,” Duplass says in that self-righteo
I look at Grant in shock. “What?!”He ignores me and focuses on Duplass. “Full confession – on two conditions.”“What?” the FBI agent asks. I can see the greed in his eyes. He’s practically licking his lips.“One, you let Eve and my friends walk. No charges, no nothing. That’s non-negotiable.”“Impossible.”Grant leans back in his chair. “Okay. Never mind.”Duplass squints. “Say that I can get them off the hook. What’s the second condition?”“I’m going to give you a list of everybody I stole those paintings from. At least one of the people on the list has to admit that something was stolen, or I walk free. After all, if nothing went missing, then I didn’t commit any crimes.”Duplass grins nastily. He can’t believe his good fortune. “That’s it?”“That’s it.”Duplass mulls it over for a second. Then he slaps a pen and a piece of paper in front of Grant. “It’s a deal. Except I have a condition of my own.”“What?”Duplass points at me. “If I agree to your terms, then she stops the documen
JP, Dominique, Grant, and I are all free.The first thing we do as soon as we step out of FBI headquarters is to look at each other and cheer. Hugs, kisses, and joyous shouts all around.Second is Grant calls his company. They’re a little freaked out to hear from their on-the-lam boss, but after they check with the FBI, they send us a limo – with a laptop.Third thing on the list is I stop the document dump. And backup all the files to a half-dozen other servers… just in case.Fourth is we book the penthouse at the Fairmont Hotel on Nob Hill. Actually, Grant’s company books it; we just get smuggled in through the back door. Once we’re up there, Grant orders the entire menu from the nearest pricey restaurant, plus six bottles of Dom Perignon from room service.“To a job well done,” Grant toasts us.“To ten million dollars,” JP adds cheekily.We tell and retell our versions of the rescue over dinner. After all, Grant has no idea what happened on our end after he jumped out of the boat a
The next morning is lazy. All four of us sleep late, then have breakfast together in the penthouse. The Frenchies nurse their hangovers with Bloody Marys as we watch the FBI’s press conference on CNN. “ – a raid on a Marin County estate yesterday, whose owner was suspected of funding terrorism abroad – ”“What?!” Grant shouts at the TV.“I guess we’re not the only ones who can tell whoppers,” I remark.The FBI spokesperson never mentions serial murders, the house in Bel Air, the name ‘Dieter Lassenbach,’ or anything remotely approaching reality. And it takes a full five minutes before they state that the ‘suspected terrorist’ hired a group of mercenaries to pose as FBI agents.“It was those mercenaries who raided the Manhattan home of billionaire architect Grant Carlson almost a week ago. It also appears that the stolen works of art found in Carlson’s penthouse were planted there by the suspect, in some sort of bizarre feud between the two parties.”“About time they got around to tha
Things are mostly wonderful. But I’m starting to miss home.And every so often, I wake up screaming, afraid that someone is breaking into our bedroom, trying to kidnap and kill us.Grant holds me trembling in his arms, whispering soothing words into my ear, until I finally fall asleep again.It happens at first every night, then every other night, then every third and fourth.Part of me wonders if I will ever be rid of the memories.But as long as I can go back to sleep in Grant’s arms, I know I’ll be okay.After three weeks in Majorca, we call Mailin at the FBI.“Can we come home yet?” Grant asks over the speakerphone.“Uh… no, not yet.”“Why not?!”“We’re breaking the news that Dieter Lassenbach was a serial killer.”Grant and I stare at each other.All the fear and anxiety I had started to leave behind comes rushing up out of nowhere and threatens to overpower me again.“Why now?”“Because we’ve identified most of the victims, and we’re notifying the families. We figured they deser