Chapter 22

“So, how is Bryson doing?” Despite the phone conversation going from strained to explosive in a matter of heartbeats, Danny Giancarelli kept his voice as even and calm as a late-night radio announcer urging people to enjoy some smooth jazz as they drifted to sleep.

The HT, who wanted to be called Angel, had not liked it when he demanded to speak to Chloe Van Amee, and Danny answered instead. He’d liked the suggestion that he let Bryson talk again even less.

“He’s fine,” Angel said in thickly accented English. “But he won’t be if you keep stalling.”

“Nobody is stalling, okay? We’re working as fast as we can to raise the funds for Bryson’s release, but it is going to take some time.”

Angel swore in Spanish. “You’re lying. He’s rich. The money is already there.”

“He has money, yes,” Danny conceded. “But Chloe can’t just walk into the bank and withdraw such a large sum from his accounts. The bank has rules and regulations that need to be followed.”

“What about his insurance? The insurance company can pay.”

How could the HTs possibly know about the kidnap and ransom insurance policy? Danny gazed up at Frank Perry, who looked completely befuddled. Useless. The insurance rep wasn’t in the room at the moment, and O’Keane gave him a nudge in the side and mouthed, “I’ll find out more about it.”

Danny nodded and sidestepped the insurance question, saying instead, “We’re working as fast as we can through all the regulations, okay? But while we’re doing that, I need to know Bryson is still alive. Can I please talk to Bryson again?”

“No. I’m done with this. You will pay the ransom tomorrow at noon, or else I will kill him.”

“I understand, but tomorrow is Sunday, and it’s a holiday weekend here in the States. The banks won’t open until Tuesday.”

“It will be tomorrow or never. I have no problem killing him, Agent Giancarelli. I can find another family that is willing to pay.”

“Okay. None of us want that. How about you let me speak to Bryson? I only want to hear his voice, Angel. You can understand why I want to make sure he’s still okay, right? I simply want to ask him some questions.”

“Ask me.”

Danny snapped his fingers for the list of proof-of-life questions that O’Keane and Chloe Van Amee had spent the last hour working on. They had to be very specific, uncomplicated questions, with an easy answer that the HTs wouldn’t be able to guess. Coming up with a viable list was always a lot harder than it seemed at first, especially in today’s technological world where a quick computer search could turn up loads of personal information.

Someone slid the paper across the table, and he scanned the list. The first two questions about Bryson’s sons’ middle names and birthdays were far too easy, but the third should work. “All right. Are you still there? I need you to ask Bryson what name he wanted to use if his son Ashton had been a girl.”

Silence.

“Can you do that for me, Angel? Go ahead and ask him for me. I’ll wait.”

Dial tone.

Danny sat back and blew out a breath that puffed up his cheeks. His heart was hammering, adrenaline surging through his veins like a nitrous injection, leaving his engines revving and his hands shaking. He knew from experience it’d take hours to come down if he just sat here, so he pushed away from the table.

“I need a breather.”

O’Keane nodded. “Take it. I got this.”

“I’m going for a run. Call me if Angel gets back with the proof of life in the next hour.”

“He won’t.”

Yeah, they wouldn’t hear from Angel again until later tonight.

Danny made it about a block into his run before his phone, tucked in the zippered pocket of his running shorts, rang. Had the HTs gotten back that fast? Well, color him surprised. He skidded to a halt underneath a palm tree, dug out the phone, and lifted it to his ear.

“Giancarelli,” he answered.

“Danny. Uh, hi.”

For the space of three heartbeats, Danny struggled to make sense of the voice he knew but hadn’t heard in years.

Marcus DeAngelo.

His best friend.

The guy he’d grown up with, who used to be like a brother to him.

The guy who had convinced him to apply for the FBI after leaving the military.

And the guy who vanished off the face of the earth after a negotiation went sideways on them two years ago.

He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the number. It wasn’t a Los Angeles number, wasn’t even a U.S. number. “Marcus? Where the hell are you?”

“It’s…” Marcus trailed off and exhaled hard. “I can’t talk about it right now.”

A skitter of fear worked down Danny’s spine. “Are you in trouble?”

“I’m working a case.”

“You got a new job? For the government?” Yeah, he doubted that. Marcus and the government hadn’t parted on the best of terms.

“No, I went into the private sector,” Marcus said. “I’m working a hostage case, and I need a favor.”

Danny looked at the number on his phone’s screen again. Fifty-seven. It started with a fifty-seven, which was Colombia’s country code. The HT’s number began with the same.

And he knew.

“Jesus Christ. Don’t tell me you’re working on the Van Amee case. Who hired you?”

Marcus evaded the question beautifully. After all, the man hadn’t been one of the FBI’s top negotiators for nothing. “It’s not important. Bryson is what’s important here, and in order to help him, I need any information you can tell me about the case.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Danny shook his head. Marcus wanted him to do what? “Hold up. I haven’t heard a word from you in nearly two years. Nada. How hard is it to pick up the phone and say, ‘Yo, I’m still alive. How’s la famiglia?’ And now you want me to forget that and do you a solid by giving you information on a case I’m working? Info you know—know—I cannot divulge.”

“So you’re the negotiator?” Marcus asked, completely undaunted.

Danny shut his eyes. Fuck. “I can’t talk about this.”

But Marcus either didn’t hear him or ignored him. “Why are you going through with the ransom payment? Is Bryson’s business partner or wife pushing you to it? What happened to the whole we-don’t-negotiate-with-terrorists thing?”

“You know that’s more of a theory than practice.” Danny turned and started back up the street toward the Van Amee house. “And I’m just the mouthpiece in this. Perry the Prick’s in charge.”

“Shit.” A moment of silence. “Can you just—I’ll take whatever you can give me. You know paying the ransom will all but sign Bryson’s death certificate. If you help, we can rescue him before the exchange happens.”

Marcus had a point there. This case was bound for tragedy if they didn’t get control of the situation. And fast. “We, who?”

“You know I can’t say,” Marcus responded, his tone remaining calm, steady, persistent. Arguing with the man had always been an exercise in futility, and it didn’t seem like that had changed. “But you also know I wouldn’t be involved if I thought for a second we couldn’t pull this off. I don’t want a repeat of—” He broke off and had to clear his throat before continuing. “Like my last case.”

Silence stretched between them for several long beats.

Danny ran a hand over his hair. “Jesus.” He couldn’t quite control the frustration in his voice. Or the worry. “You can’t just sidle into a federal investigation and expect me to give you a backstage pass. Rules are rules.”

Across the line, Marcus gave a low laugh. “You always were a stickler for those, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, and you always had a penchant for bending them,” he retorted, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite the situation. He’d missed Marcus more than he wanted to admit. “But I’m not in a position to bend them. Especially not for you. Things here have been… tense… since you left.”

Up ahead, O’Keane stepped out of the house and waited there, arms crossed.

Danny slowed his pace and lowered his voice. “I’ve had to work my ass off to prove to the Bureau that I’m not—” He stopped short.

“Go ahead and say it.”

“Not you,” he finished, bitterness coating his tongue. “That I’m not you, Marcus. That I don’t dive head-first into situations without considering the fallout.”

Silence again.

When Marcus spoke, there was something different in his voice. Regret. Guilt. “I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

“No, you never mean to. You just do.”

“You’ve always been a better man than me,” Marcus said softly. “You know it. I know it. Everyone knows it.”

Danny was taken aback, the words striking him hard. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Marcus speak with such sincerity, let alone self-deprecation. The man was notorious for his confidence that bordered on cockiness.

“Marcus,” he began, unsure of how to respond.

But before he could gather his thoughts, Marcus spoke again: “Look, I didn’t call to dig at old scars. We’re on the same side here. We want the same thing: Bryson Van Amee home safe.”

Danny sighed and shrugged his shoulders as tension settled there like a heavy cloak. His gaze drifted up the long driveway to O’Keane, who was now watching him with a quizzical look. He sighed again and rubbed his temples. The last thing he needed was O’Keane questioning his loyalty to the Bureau.

He stepped under an overhanging tree at the bottom of the driveway where O’Keane wouldn’t be able to see him. “That fact was never in question.” Sure, Marcus bent rules, but he would never recklessly jeopardize a life. “But I can’t help you. My hands are tied and, honestly, I’m not willing to risk my career. Not even for you.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Marcus said after another short stretch of silence. His voice was carefully modulated and gave nothing of his feelings away. “But at least give me this—do you believe Bryson is still alive?”

He hesitated.

“C’mon, Dan. Help me out. We’re poking around in the dark down here. I wouldn’t be calling if things weren’t way south of fucked up.”

“Yeah, he’s alive.”

But Bryson wouldn’t be that way much longer without some kind of intervention, and the FBI wasn’t doing enough to save him. The realization was like a punch to the gut.

Okay, so maybe he was willing to risk his career, after all. But not for Marcus. For Bryson and his family.

“Listen, I can’t promise anything, but… I’ll call you back. Is this a good number?”

“Yeah. Just save it under ‘asshole.’”

Danny snorted a laugh. “I prefer ‘fuckhead.’”

“Ouch. But fair. I deserve it. Thanks, Danny. I’ll owe you one.”

“I’m going to cash in all of your IOUs someday soon, DeAngelo.” He ended the call and broke into a jog for the last hundred or so yards of driveway until he reached O’Keane’s side. “Sorry about that. Did the HTs call again already?”

“No.” O’Keane arched a brow and nodded toward the phone in his hand. “Is the wife still mad about you canceling the family vacation this weekend?”

For a second, Danny didn’t get it. Oh, right. Marcus’ phone call. O’Keane thought he’d been speaking to his wife.

Yeah, it was probably better the guy continued thinking that.

“No, Leah and the kids went out to the coast without me.” He looked at his phone. Goddamn Marcus. He shook his head and pocketed it. “She was… just checking in.”