1
When Frank Tancredi's phone rang at four thirty in the morning, Lincoln Burrows was in his office, and neither man was sleeping.
The governor's face turned white as soap. "That's them. It's got to be them, right? Goddamn it we should have Sara by now. If your team had moved in—"
"Hey, hold your horses, governor," Lincoln said. "My brother has a plan, all right? We would have Sara by now if you'd just done what they asked you in the first place. So calm down. Pick up the phone."
He did.
Lincoln released a sigh. He thought of the woman's picture, which he'd glimpsed in her apartment. Pretty. Kind smile, and kind eyes. The sort of woman you wanted to take to a fancy restaurant, not a fast-food joint. A whole life ahead of her.
Jesus, Mike, your plan better be airtight.
"Hello?" Frank said.
"Governor," the kidnapper's voice, at the other end of the line. "Please, would you put the police on the phone?"
What felt like a ball of melted ice went down Lincoln's stomach. Frank looked just about to drop dead.
"What—what are you talking about?"
Silence.
Oh, shit.
The time for mistakes, for intervention—it had expired. Lincoln was not a patient man, and he knew when he heard someone who had reached the end of their patience.
"I'll make this very easy for you, governor. For every second of my time you waste, I'm going to hurt your daughter. Not now. It'll be a moment. But remember this, all right? Remember it's you who's doing this to her, when you hear her scream. Will you?"
Lincoln grabbed the phone from Frank's hand. "This is officer Lincoln Burrows, with the Chicago PD."
Frank gave him a look so horrified, Lincoln could have ripped off his head. The kidnapper was not bluffing. Not by a long shot.
"Officer Burrows," he said. "I'll admit, it feels nice to be taken seriously, for a change. Given the sort of profile Tancredi is, I take it I'm not speaking to an amateur."
"No."
"You know the smart thing would have been not to try and play me, yet Tancredi wouldn't hear of it."
Lincoln squeezed the phone so tight, he half expected it to burst into pieces. "Yes."
"Good. Please, from now on, only honest answers. I'll know if you're lying. You can imagine the involvement of the police is very bad news for my employer."
"He can't—" the governor stammered. "Please tell him he can't hurt my daughter. That if he does—"
"Shut up," Lincoln said. Hell, if he wasn't a cop, if he would have grabbed the man by the collar. "The police wasn't involved," Lincoln said. "I swear to you. I'm a policeman, but Tancredi didn't report this to the authorities. He hired my brother, who came to me."
The kidnapper sighed. "Now, Lincoln, you're making me play the sadist, and I don't like this role. I told Tancredi if he lied to me, I'd hurt his daughter—well. That I'd hurt her more. If you stall me, or lie to me, I'm afraid there's going to be some hurting on your account, too. Who else is involved? Just you and your brother?"
Lincoln's breath pressed solid against his teeth. "A team. They know it's a kidnapping, not who's involved. They don't know anything about the blackmail. We kept it private, I swear."
Silence. Every second brimmed with the horror of what was happening.
Lincoln saw the young woman's face, on the picture. Knew that she was likely going to die tonight, because he hadn't saved her.
"Good," the kidnapper said. "Now, you're going to do one last thing, before we move on to the next stage."
The words bristled the hairs in the back of his neck.
"Anything," Lincoln said.
"Put the delivery boy on the phone for me."
2
Mistakes were the one thing Michael could never get used to. It didn't matter what the stakes were. If he'd gotten something wrong in a test, or if he'd underperformed in any which way. It haunted him. It just did.
When his phone rang, he was studying blueprints. Based on how old a building was, what company was hired to do the pipework, you could find out a lot of things about how to make your way in through the conduits. Michael wanted to leave nothing to chance. It was possible he'd have to retrieve Sara, crawling through those pipes.
The buzz of his cell on the table speared through his chest like lightning.
It's over.
Calls at four thirty in the morning are never good news. But when you're dealing with a kidnapping, and trying to outwit the kidnapper—
Michael put a lid on his turmoil before the first ring had a chance to end. Lincoln's name on the screen.
"Linc?"
"Michael, the kidnapper wants to speak to you."
A splinter of ice went down his throat. He didn't make his brother explain. Wait, hold up, how does the kidnapper know who I am?
There was no time to ask questions, and no need to ask them.
The caution in Owen Kravecki's blue eyes, as he handed him his order. And what do you do, aside from playing the delivery boys?
Before Michael could brace himself, thoughts of Sara flashed into his head. Not her smiling face, on the photographs, but the calm in her voice, as she spoke to her father. The breadcrumbs she sowed for him to find. So he could find her. Her cleverness and bravery in the face of everything.
I failed you.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
Michael closed his eyes. "Let me speak to him."
"He's going to make a group call, in a few minutes. You, and me, and Frank." Lincoln paused. "That's not good, Mike."
"I know."
"If he wants all of us to listen—"
"I know."
Michael sprang to his feet. Sheets of papers, the blueprints he'd printed to study them, floated off his desk, and he did not bend down to pick them up.
"Mike, is there a way? Should I tell my guys to move in, before he gets the upper hand?"
"He already has it. If we try anything, if he so much as sees an unfamiliar dog cross the street, anything he doesn't like, he'll kill her."
An incoming call lit up Michael's screen. A shudder spider-crawled down his neck. He hung up on his brother, without giving an explanation, and swiped Answer on the unknown number. "Hello."
Owen Kravecki's voice, a trickle of acid into his ear. "Hello, Michael," he said. "Your name is Michael, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Yes. You're too smart to tell lies you don't need to tell. I take it you also studied engineering."
"I did."
"But you don't deliver for Freshly, do you? Except when you're following the trails of a kidnapped woman."
Michael clenched his jaw. How could he have known?
How do you know when the player at the other end of a game of poker has a good hand or not? How do you know when your partner is cheating on you, even when there's no telltale smear of lipstick on their collar, no hickeys, no perfume smell, nothing?
Some people just know.
Owen Kravecki, whatever his real name was, obviously did.
"You're right," Michael said.
The kidnapper sighed. "Let me confess something to you. I'm a professional. You're a professional. We both know there's nothing personal about what we do. Frank Tancredi decides to gamble with his daughter's life, and hires you to pull it off. Just between us? It's a big gamble. But that's not what I want to tell you about. No, the thing is, I keep thinking about it—the part where I say it's not personal." He chuckled. "Because, cards on the table? It does feel personal. Strange, I know. But you've seen my face, Michael. You've seen where I live. You and your brother have a team, right now, watching my street, correct?"
"Yes."
It'd be pointless to lie, and it might do a lot of damage.
"Just what I'm saying," the kidnapper went on. "You blew my cover. So, before I call your brother and the governor again, in a few minutes, I wanted to tell you, in private. What's going to take place? When you hear that woman scream from pain…"
Michael ground his teeth. Panic thrashed through his chest.
"I hope it feels personal, to you, as well."