SIXTY-NINE

Call Wilson,” the soft voice said from behind Pierce.

Pierce blinked a few times. How had the kid learned enough about the agency to know about Wilson?

The invisible noose tightened, and the voice behind him became more insistent. “Call Wilson. He’s waiting for it.”

Pierce used his phone, knowing the call would be encrypted automatically. Wilson answered in one ring.

“It’s Pierce.” He had the phone to his ear, opting out of visual contact on the screen.

“They said you’d call,” Wilson said. “I need your help. Bad.”

“They?”

“Someone has Luke,” Wilson said. “All they ask is why NI is tracking the head of World United. I don’t have a clue because my calls to you don’t make it through. They tell me you’re going to call and I’m supposed to get the code to the op-site. I’m supposed to wipe out the site and all the intel. Or my boy comes back to me in little pieces.”

Strict NI policy meant only the op leader had full op-site authorization. Part of checks and balances. Once Pierce gave Wilson the code, both were breaking national security laws.

“There’s more,” Wilson said. “I need to deliver the girl. Not to the agency. To them. It’s my boy on the line. Anything else, I wouldn’t be asking.”

Wilson was speaking slowly. Pierce doubted anyone else knew Wilson enough to understand that’s what he did under stress.

“I’m in,” Pierce said. Pierce knew that it wasn’t T. R. Zornenbach behind him. Whatever calls Holly had made earlier had triggered something. Wouldn’t have been difficult to set this up. Take out Theo and move the glasses to a place where Pierce would believe Razor had been. Make it look like Razor was setting up a meet. Pull Pierce into it step by step, get him into a position with no backup agents and no weapons. Have someone waiting on the train from a few stops before it reached Pierce.

The garrote was classic. Few defenses against it. None, in Pierce’s situation. The fishing line was in place; the seat back was protecting his attacker. No way to get his fingers beneath the line. He didn’t have a knife to cut it—the weapon would have been detected at the body-scanning portal.

“I need the op-site access now,” Wilson said. “They said if I don’t get it, I hang up the phone and my son’s dead. No negotiations.”

The ten-digit password would give Wilson access to all the files of a specific operation, plus computer contact with all the field agents, in effect letting him run the operation. Or wipe out all intel completely.

Pierce wondered if Wilson knew that as soon as Pierce gave it, Pierce was dead. If Pierce was reading this right, once Pierce gave up op authorization, all Pierce’s leverage was gone. Wilson had been put in a position of choosing his son over his friend.

What choice was there? For either of them?

Pierce gave him the password. Twice. Speaking slowly.

“Get to my office as soon as you can,” Wilson said. “I’ve got a way we can move forward under the radar.”

Hope sprung eternal. Even an agent as experienced as Wilson wanted the illusion. That he’d get his boy back. That Pierce would return. Unless Wilson knew there was no hope and wanted to leave Pierce with some.

“Yeah,” Pierce said. “Be a couple of hours.”

Wilson hung up. Pierce didn’t. He left the phone in place against his ear.

“Got to tell you a couple more things about the operation that aren’t on file,” Pierce said into the silent phone. He kept speaking, outlining the situation.

Pierce couldn’t think of any way out. He couldn’t stand. Even if he managed to turn sideways, it wouldn’t take the pressure off his neck.

All he could hope for was that someone else would enter the compartment and he could wave for help.

“You got any guarantees you’ll get the boy back?” Pierce asked the silent phone. “Any indication where we can make a trade once we get the girl?”

This was too cute. Once he was dead, the person behind him could walk away, leave the ligature in place, holding Pierce upright by the neck, bound to the headrest, fishing line invisible in the folds of skin. It would look like Pierce was asleep. Might not be until the last stop that anyone noticed he wasn’t. By then, the assassin would be long off the train.

“Your wife know anything about this?” Pierce asked the phone.

Why was he fighting for extra time? He was going to be killed once he hung up the phone. Or he’d read it completely wrong, and he wouldn’t be killed. Either way, what did a few more seconds matter?

The compartment door opened. A woman entered. Jeans. Loose black jacket. Looked young, but hard to tell because her head was down. Dark hair covered most of her face.

Now Pierce had another decision.

Person behind him was a killer. If Pierce waved for help, just the three of them in the compartment, might also guarantee the death of the woman. The garrote would kill Pierce in a few tight twists, leaving the assassin plenty of time to deal with the witness.

Pierce kept talking into the phone, letting the woman pass.

He heard the door at the back of the compartment open and close.

“You’re done,” the whispering voice behind him said. “Drop the phone.”

Irrational as it was, Pierce began to turn. It wouldn’t help him; he had no chance. But he couldn’t just let it happen without a fight.

That’s when the noose tightened, delivering a horrible thin bracelet of liquid pain. Instinctively, Pierce brought his hands up to pull. Another futile effort. His fingers were useless claws, scrabbling against his skin.

His scream of frustration and rage came out as a gasp.

In that moment, there was a muffled thud. The noose slackened.

Pierce wedged the phone between the fishing line and his neck, used it to leverage more slack. Panting, he pulled it away. Spun to see what was happening behind him.

It was the woman. Wig askew. Rubbing her elbow.

“Don’t know if she’s okay,” the woman in the loose black jacket said, only it was a man’s voice, and the hand pointed in the seat, where another woman was slumped sideways. “I had to hit as hard as I could. Didn’t see much choice though.”

Pierce remembered the voice. From surveillance tapes yesterday.

It meant the woman in the skewed wig and the loose black jacket had been the one to set up this meet.

“Razor,” Pierce said.

“Yeah,” he answered. “Good move, wasn’t it? Walking past, opening and shutting the door and sneaking back. It’s why they call me Razor. Fast. Sharp. Dangerous.”

Razor pointed at the unconscious woman lying across the seat, blood seeping from her jaw. The barely visible fishing line in a long, loose thread. “Want to explain what’s happening?”