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posed and frozen like wide-eyed deer caught in the oncoming headlights of a Mack truck. Jake took them down with two shots, then put a couple into the Lincoln's trunk, just so Fredo wouldn't think he got off too easy.
The Lincoln screeched around a corner and headed east. Fredo was running. Good. That had been the whole idea behind this staged event: Make him duck for cover and find out where he went. Had to be someplace he thought was safe and secure— maybe even secure enough for extended boarding of a hostage.^
Jake pounded down to the first floor, leaped off the porch, tossed the AR-15 onto the front seat of the Torino, and jumped in after it. He'd left: the motor running, so all he had to do was jump behind the wheel and throw her into gear.
As he roared past First Class he emptied the AR-15's clip into the guard car, making sure he got the two street-side tires. The remaining pair of guards returned fire but too little too late. They popped Jake's rear window, hit the body a few times, and then he was gone.
He followed Fredo's taillights up Tennessee and watched him make a right on Atlantic Avenue, AG's main drag. Falling in behind the Lincoln, he pulled to within a block and a half before easing back. He scanned the sidewalks. The plan had been to pick up Graham somewhere around here after he dumped the wagon, but it was up for grabs right now whether he'd even stop for the wimp. Ghrist, all the doc had needed to do was fire a couple of blind shots, just to maintain the illusion that there was a whole crew of gunnies after Fredo. But no. He'd crapped out. It'd serve him right now if—
The Torino coughed and slowed, then picked up speed, then coughed again . . . and died. Heart sinking, Jake checked the gas gauge. It said half ftill but he knew the sound of a thirst)' engine. He was out of gas.
And up ahead, Fredo's taillights were shrinking in the distance.
Damnit!
Jake jumped out of the car and looked around. He needed
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wheels—and fast, even if he had to hijack at gunpoint the next car that came by—
Tes — do it!
He opened the trunk, and was pulling out the duffel bag with all his weaponry when he heard a car horn toot nearby. Looking up, he saw a beat-up old station wagon.
"Need a lift.?" Graham said.
Seconds ago, he'd have been happy never to see Graham again; now he was overjoyed. Jumping into the front seat, Jake pointed down Atlantic. "Straight ahead. And step on it. We might have lost him."
"Not unless he wants to get picked up for running a red. These lights are murder."
The wagon took off with a screech.
"Breakdown?" Graham said after a couple of blocks.
"Gas gauge lied to me. What happened to you.>"
Graham stared at the street ahead as he picked up speed. "I got cold feet." He shrugged. "Then they warmed up again. But only for driving. I can't do any more shooting. Sorry."
"Forget about it. I'll take care of that from here on. Just find that car."
"I'll do my best—hey!" Graham's eyes widened and he pointed ahead as they rounded the monument at Albany Avenue. "Isn't that him? Three blocks up. Looks like a Lincoln."
Jake pulled out a nightscope, clicked it on, and focused. A black Lincoln Town Car with holes through its trunk.
"That's him." As Graham closed to within a block of the Lincoln, a vast relief shot through Jake. Fredo could have been heading inland, in which case he'd have turned at Albany, caught 40, and been gone.
Watching Fredo's car, Jake said, "Okay. He's going toward Ventnor—"
"What's that? A street? I used to own that in Monopoly."
"It's the next town south. A lot classier than AC."
The casinos and hotels and high-rises abruptly gave way to Vent-
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nor's tree-lined residential streets with their large, stately homes settied within an easy walk to the ocean. But the further they left AC behind, the more the traffic thinned, until Jake was sure Fredo would spot them.
"Turn your headlights out," he told Graham.
"What if a cop spots us.> We'll get stopped."
"Have to risk it."
They hung back as far as they dared without risking losing the Lincoln as it wound along the dark streets, turning this way and that, until Jake saw its brake lights flare in midblock as the car made a turn.
"Stop here," he said, grabbing Graham's arm. "Let's see what happens."
Graham pulled the wagon into the curb; they sat in the dark with the engine running.
"What are we waiting for.>"
"To see if he pulls out again."
"Why would he do tiiat.>"
"An old trick. Doc—part of a procedure Fredo's boys call 'dry cleaning.' You pull into a strange driveway and wait to see if anybody suspicious drives by. When you get on your way again, you've got a pretty good idea whether or not you're being followed, and what kind of car to be on the lookout for."
"You think he's coming out.>"
Jake shook his head. "Nope. I think Fredo's home for the night. Hang a U here and circle around so we can pass the place going the other way."
A few minutes later, with their headlights on and the speedometer fixed at twenty-five miles an hour, they cruised past the house—a mansion, rather. Jake squinted through the dark at the glowering conglomeration of white porticoes and stuccoed walls set on a fifteen-foot rise in the center of a thickly wooded yard. Light leaked through heavily curtained windows and French doors. He was sure he spotted at least two figures patrolling the yard. He felt a quick exhilaration. He knew where Fredo lived—officially,
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that is—and this was nowhere near it. Fredo would never stash Angel in any house known to be his, so that made this one a good candidate.
And there was something else, too.
"Built pretty high," Graham said.
Jake wondered if he was clairvoyant. "Exactly," he said. "That's a man-made mound. Water table's high here. You build your house on a mound like that for one reason: You want a basement."
Graham took a deep breath. "Angel. We've found her."
"There's a good chance. Keep moving. Two blocks, then make a left and find a dark spot to park."
By the time Graham had pulled to a stop in the shadows under a dense maple, Jake was up to his elbows in his duftel.
"What do you think you're doing.>" Graham said.
"Going in."
"No-no!" Graham said, grabbing his arm. "You'll get her killed. I won't allow it."
"You won't—.>" Jake stared at him. "You've got to be kid-ding."
"I know a better way. Listen to me: We know where he's hiding her now. We can call the police, tell them Fredo Papillardi has kidnapped a woman and is holding her hostage there. They'll—"
"Doc—Joseph, listen to me. We've been through this. How long do you think before Fredo knows about the call.^ I'd bet ten minutes, fifteen outside."
"I hope it's five minutes. The point is, as soon as he finds out, he'll have to move Angel. And we'll be waiting outside. Don't you see.> We won't have go to him, he'll bring Angel to us."
For a few seconds, Jake wondered if the doc might be onto something here, but then he saw the fatal flaw in the plan.
"Uh-uh," he said, shaking his head. "Too risky. Reporting Angel as Fredo's hostage turns her from a possible asset into a dangerous liability. And I know how Fredo handles liabilities. He'd bring Angel out, all right, but it would be her body."
Graham shuddered, saying nothing more as Jake took his Glock
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and added it to the two others he had, plus his Tokarev. The four automatics would give him about sixty rounds to work with. He began emptying the Clock clips.
Graham watched without comprehension. "You're going in without bullets.>"
Jake barked a laugh. "In Fredo's dreams, maybe. I'm just changing ammo in a couple." He pulled a box of shells out of the duffel and tossed them to Graham. "To these."
Graham studied the label. " Trefragmented'.> What does that mean.>"
"It means I don't have to hit anyone twice."
Tll[ POOL
"All right, bitch—no more Mr. Nice Guy!"
Angel cringed back against the wall as Fredo strode across the cellar with two of his men—one in a suit like his, and one in a sweatshirt. She saw the fliry^ in his eyes and knew with a rush of fear that she was going to be its target.
"What.^" she said, trying to keep her voice from scaling up.
Fredo pointed to the collar around her neck. "Unhook her from the wall, but keep the chain on her." He flashed an icy smile as the suit handed some keys to the sweatshirt. "Like a leash."
Angel struggled to her feet. So weak. They fed her only once a day—leftovers from dinner upstairs—and let her go to the bathroom when they felt like it. She looked down at her hands, her arms, her clothes—all filthy. She wondered if she'd ever feel warm again—feel clean again, inside and out. This has been the most terrifying, utterly humiliating experience in her—
"Move!"
Fredo grabbed the end of the chain and yanked it, forcing her into a stumbling walk toward the doorway as his men closed in behind.
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Were they taking her upstairs? Was she actually getting out of this basement? "Where are we going?"
"Not 'we,' " Fredo said. "T(9w. You're going for a litde swim."
"What do you mean?"
He didn't answer, but the way his two men chuckled behind her made her stomach turn.
Angel knew there was a pool somewhere on this level—she'd smelled the chlorine at times, and often heard faint splashes, as if someone were using a diving board.
They led her down a hallway, past a staircase leading up, and then the chlorine smell got stronger as they approached a doorway filled with wavering light.
Fredo led her into a warm, steamy room all tiled in white with a large aqua-bottomed pool. At first she thought the ceiling was black, then realized it was all glass—skylights, dark with the night sky. But during the day . . . she imagined how beautiful and warm it must be with the sunlight streaming through and—
She started as she felt something clasp around her wrists and dig into the skin. Wild panic raced through her as she looked down and saw handcuffs—two sets, with one bracelet of each around her wrists, and the other closed around the handle of a dumbbell. Sweatshirt let the weights down until they hung against her legs, dragging at her sockets, making her arms feel as if they weighed a ton each.
"What are you doing?"
"Doing?" Fredo gave her his sickening smile again. "I guess you could say I'm going on a fishing expedition." She heard appreciative chuckles from Fredo's two sidekicks. Her spine crawled.
"We've used this method before," Fredo said, "and found it to be real persuasive. You see, I'm gonna find out once and for all how^ much you really know about your boyfriend's whereabouts."
"But I told you—"
"I know what you told me." Now the smile was gone. "But I don't believe what you told me. So here's where you can make a
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believer out of me. This is how it's gonna go down: We dunk you a few times, then you tell us all you know about Nacht."
"But I don't know any—"
He slapped her face and Angel staggered back, her cheek stinging.
"Don't interrupt me when I'm talking!" he snapped. He turned to the suit. "Vito. Get her out of those clothes."
Horrified, Angel tried to run but couldn't—the collar, the weights— trapped! She struggled an}^way as one of them grabbed and held her while the other began cutting the back of her T-shirt.
"Easy with that razor," the one in the suit said. "Don't want to damage this fine merchandise."
"Please!" she cried. "Don't do diis!"
"Like I was saying," Fredo said, "if I don't think you're telling me everything after you been dunked, what I do is, I give you to the boys to play with. We got some very horny guys here, and since you arrived they've been buggin' the hell outta me to let them at you. But I've been a good guy up to now. I been protecting you. But like I said before, no more Mr. Nice Guy. You don't convince me, I let them have you. And after an all night session with them in which you've been had six ways from Sunday, we bring you back here and dunk you again. And if I'm still not convinced, then it's back to the boys. And so it will go, around and around, until you tell me what I want to know."
Angel cringed as the slashed remnants of her T-shirt tore away, leaving her with only a thin bra above the waist. Then they went to work on her shorts.
"But I've already told you everything I know! How can I tell you something I don't know.>"
"Good question," Fredo said. "I guess we'll find out, won't we."
Angel felt her shorts tear away then and saw Fredo's gaze wander down her body. As fingers gripped her bra strap she twisted
m
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away. The sudden move caused her feet to slip on the wet tiles and the next thing she knew she was falling.
She hit the water on her side and went under . . . and down. And kept going down. The dumbbells attached to her wrists made her arms useless, and no matter how hard she kicked, her legs couldn't overcome the extra weight.
She sank toward the bottom.
During the first few seconds she felt oddly at peace in the warm water.
I'm dead, she thought.
No matter what she told him, no way Fredo was going to let her leave this house alive. So better to die down here than be subjected to the rest of what he had planned for her.
But as her air ran out, as the bubbles leaked from her lips and raced to the surface, her peace turned to distress, then panic. Against her will, her legs began to thrash and her arms to struggle in pursuit of those bubbles as her lungs cried out for air.
The weights kept her securely trapped on the bottom. Black splotches sparkled before her eyes, swelling, exploding as she struggled more frantically.
Air! Dear God, £five me air!
And just as her limbs were giving out and her chest felt as if it were about to explode, she felt the collar dig into her chin and throat, tugging her toward the surface. But so slowly! She needed air now! The black spots invaded her brain, taking over her body. She didn't fight the collar, couldn't if she'd wanted to. Instead she allowed herself to be reeled toward the surface like some log that had fouled a fisherman's line . . . like a dead thing . . .
And then she felt something bump against her knees—
Steps! The pool steps in the shallow end! She reached out with her weighted arms and clutched them. She climbed them with her hands, and then it happened—her head broke the surface and she coughed and gagged and retched. This was a nightmare—even though she felt air all around her, she couldn't draw it past her spasming throat.
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A final cough and suddenly she was gulping air, her sharp gasps bouncing off the walls and glass above as she pulled it into her starving lungs. One, two, three breaths—was there anything in this world as sweet as air?
And then the collar tugged again, dragging her back fi-om the steps. She had no time to scream, barely enough time for a final breath before she sank beneath the surface again.
How long would they keep this up.> How long could she take it.>
Please, Jakel Where are you? Don^t let them do this to mel
Jake watched the two outside guards until he had their routine down. The one wearing the warm-up and the Jets cap patrolled the north side with a shotgun while the bareheaded other wandered the south, both taking the same route each time. They'd meet at the front porch to smoke and gab awhile, then go strolling again.
He decided to take the guy with the cap.
Jake crept up behind one of the oaks that the north-side guard passed regularly. While he waited, he noticed an illuminated expanse of glass panes toward the rear of the house. He wondered what it was. The glass was only three or four feet off the ground— too low for a greenhouse. But maybe it offered a way in. He'd have to check it out.
But first, the guards.
As they finished their cigarettes and started on their rounds, Jake pulled a twelve-ounce sap from his pocket and raised it high above his head. He tightened his grip on the leather handle as he heard the scuffing footsteps approach.
Had to do this right, put this guy down without a sound, no backswing to give warning—
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Footsteps getting louder now . . . wait . . . wait . . .
The instant tlie peak of the cap entered his line of sight, Jake brought the sap down, putting his body behind the swing, and snapping his wrist to give it a litde extra oomph.
Mr. Jets-cap dropped to his knees, where he remained upright for a few heartbeats, as if praying—long enough for Jake to grab the shotgun as it dropped from his fingers—then toppled forward face first.
Jake yanked off the Jets cap before it got too bloody, then stripped off the warm-up jacket. Slipping into it, he put on the cap and stepped into the guard's expected route, in case anyone was watching the front of the house. When he reached the porch, he crouched down with his back to it.
A few minutes crawled by and then he heard a voice behind him.
"Hey, Joey. What's doin'.>"
Without turning, Jake motioned the other guard forward with his left arm and pointed ahead into the trees.
"You spot someone:*" the guy said in a lower voice as he hurried up behind Jake.
Jake waited until the guard was crouched almost even with his left shoulder before he whirled and rammed the butt of the shotgun into the man's face, followed by a Babe Ruth swing of the barrel against the side of his head.
Guard number two dropped without a sound.
Jake dragged him into the shadows and left him next to his buddy. Keeping the shotgun, he headed for the lighted area toward the rear. The closer he got, the more it looked like some sort of low greenhouse, but when he tried to see through the panes, he found them fogged with condensation on their undersides. He noticed panes with heavier frames spaced at regular intervals. Moving to one, he found that it was hinged so it could be opened as a vent. He pried it up and peered inside.
