The Target Read online

  When he sat down, he gave her a forgiving smile. “Should we get out of here? Have some dinner in a quiet little place?”

  She didn’t expect to learn much more and wasn’t in a mood for fighting him off. “I’m sorry. I’m meeting a friend for dinner soon. Some other time?”

  Her phone rang and she glanced at the number. It was River. Dallas picked up. “Hey, Nicole. Don’t worry, I’m on my way.” She thanked Grissom for the drinks and scooted out.

  She hurried back to the TecLife parking lot and sent the image of Grissom’s cryptic message to River, along with the phone number. With any luck, the bureau could trace it. Maybe they would put a tail on Grissom too and check out who he was meeting with cash.

  Chapter 12

  Friday, July 11, 4:40 p.m.

  Kiya rode north along the coast, loving the sensuous combination of bright sun, blue ocean, and high speed. If she had to die, this was how she wanted to go, pushing her motorcycle to its limits. But she had stopped wanting to die years ago. Coming to America—‌even if she’d had to enslave herself financially to another man to get here—‌had been the first step toward living a real life, as a full human being. As fully as she could, anyway. She would never have real friends or a life partner, or even empathize with other people, but she could feel joy now. And this was bliss. High doses of endorphins always juiced her creative thoughts, and on a recent ride, she’d figured out how she would approach her target. Today, the adrenaline would carry her through the project—‌kidnapping Dominic Prill, a lab researcher for ProtoCell.

  At home in her hillside apartment, Kiya attached a tip to the end of her nose, added cheekbone padding, and applied a heavy coat of makeup. She dressed in layers, pulled on a short blond wig, and filled a tote bag with glasses, scarves, and hats. After a job, she could duck out of sight for twenty seconds and transform herself into an entirely different person. A pocketed money belt went around her waist to hold keys, cash, and lock picks. She tucked a knife into a sheath and felt ready. She owned a Luger but rarely carried it. Too bulky and too noisy to use in most circumstances. In Southern Uzbekistan, the men were quick to draw their automatic rifles, and she didn’t want to be anything like them.

  When it was dark, she headed out on foot toward a shopping mall a mile away. She planned to borrow a car to get across town. She could have pulled off the kidnap-for-theft without a vehicle, but she liked to keep her skills sharp. The man who’d rescued her from hell—‌as a child wife/servant/punching bag—‌had a big heart for abused kids, but he wasn’t an angel. Quite the opposite. He’d run a criminal enterprise, dealing mostly in stolen goods, extortion, and bank fraud. Martel had brought her to San Diego, taken her in, and put her to work stealing cars at the age of thirteen. He’d gone to prison thirteen years later, and she’d left the organization to become a freelancer. Kiya still had acquaintances she could call on if she needed backup, but she preferred to work alone. Prison was not on her agenda. Revenue, revenge and retirement were her focus.

  Behind a movie theater, she spotted an older Buick, then used a Slim Jim to unlock it. A quick check under the passenger seat produced a purse with a set of keys. Nice. She could have hot-wired the car, but keys were much simpler and people left them lying around with complete carelessness. The research building she was headed to this evening was a different story. The security was tight, unless you were an employee. Finding a workaround would have taken too much time and required a second person. Her method was cruder, but efficient.

  Kiya slipped behind the wheel and drove off. Her next stop—‌WorkFitLife, a gym located a mile from the ProtoCell R&D building. She’d been tracking Dominic Prill for days, and he was at the fitness center every evening from eight to ten. He also stopped, filled his water bottle on the way out, and drank half as he walked to his car. She would be there tonight to intercept that ritual.

  Kiya parked the stolen car two blocks away and walked to the gym. The counter person didn’t look happy to see her ten minutes before closing. She nodded at him. “Don’t worry. Just waiting for a friend.” A hint of her Uzbek accent still came through, but most people didn’t notice. She pulled a cell phone from her bag and leaned against the wall next to the drinking faucet. Just a bored girlfriend, waiting for her muscle-pumping guy. But between keying in text messages, she was watching the door to the men’s locker room down the hall.

  A few minutes later, Dominic came out. At five-nine, he was slightly taller than her, but small-boned and narrow-shouldered. He spent his time on the elliptical machine rather than the weights, so she would be able to overpower him even without chemical help. She sent the first text: Your girlfriend is with another guy right now at the Bayside Tavern.

  After a count of ten, she sent the next message: Her tongue is down his throat. You should call her. Kiya typed in a third and had it ready to go.

  She watched Dominic walk up the hall, but he showed no sign of getting her texts. Kiya turned toward the wall and called the front desk. She heard the young man behind her answer the phone.

  “There’s a huge mess in the woman’s bathroom. You need to get in here.” She hung up and slipped her phone in her pocket before turning back. The desk clerk swore under his breath, rounded the counter, and charged down the opposite hall. Now it was just her and Dominic. Three feet away, his phone beeped in his shirt pocket. He stopped, pulled it out with his free hand, and read the text. His face crumbled in confusion and disbelief. He shook his head and stepped up to the drinking faucet. Kiya gave him a distracted smile, then looked back at her tablet.

  The phone in Dominic’s hand beeped again. He set his water bottle on the back edge of the chrome faucet and checked his message. “What the fuck?” He turned away from her and made a call.

  The scenario was working better than expected. With a thin sleeve over her hand, Kiya grabbed the half-empty metal bottle, slid open the tab, and dropped in a roofie. She closed it, set it back down, and eased toward the door. The safest move was to step outside and be gone when he turned around. But she was curious to see if his girlfriend would answer, and if so, how long they would fight on the phone before he picked up his water bottle and headed out.

  The silence told her the girlfriend wasn’t answering. Kiya slipped out and strode toward the end of the building. She rounded the corner and leaned one shoulder against the wall with one shoulder. Just someone killing time. If Dominic behaved according to pattern, he would pass by her in a moment, sucking down his water as he crossed the parking lot to his Honda Civic. After a workout, the roofie would act quickly, and he would be staggering by the time he reached his car.

  It didn’t go quite according to plan. Halfway across the nearly empty lot, his phone rang. Dominic stopped, tucked his water bottle under his arm, and answered his phone.

  “Tricia, where are you?” He sounded a little drunk.

  Not good. The last thing she needed was a freaked out girlfriend calling the police. Kiya rushed toward him, her rubber-soled shoes making no sound. He turned just as she got there. She casually reached for his phone and hung up.

  “What are you doing?” He blinked rapidly, like a man fighting exhaustion.

  “You look like you’re going to pass out.” She moved toward him. “Can I help you to your car?”

  “I do feel weird.” He touched his head.

  “Maybe you’re dehydrated. Drink some water.”

  Dominic dropped his phone and downed the rest of the bottle, liquid dribbling off his chin. Kiya slipped on latex gloves, grabbed his phone, and shut it off. She put the cell into her bag, then steered the drugged man to his car. His phone might come in handy later. Tech people kept a lot of information in their cell cards.

  “Where are your keys?” The parking lot was empty, but she kept her voice low. “I’ll drive you home.”

  He rolled his head and patted his gym bag. The keys were in an outside pocket. Some people were too easy. As a tech guy who worked with proprietary information potentially worth billions, Domin
ic Prill should have known better. Kiya helped him into the passenger’s side, where he promptly slumped over. She climbed behind the wheel, drove out of the parking lot, and headed for a storage locker about a mile from her apartment. She kept the unit under a phony name and used it to hold equipment she didn’t want her neighbors to see her carrying in and out. On the drive, Dominic mumbled a few times but stayed slumped over.

  As she passed the security camera on the gate, she averted her face out of habit. In the dark walkway, she hustled to her locker, grabbed the wheelchair, and took it back to the car. Her hostage hadn’t moved. She’d used the chair several times to gain access to a building. People had trouble saying no to the disabled, or ignored them completely. The wheelchair would come in handy this evening. Hauling Dominic’s unconscious body into the R&D building would be cumbersome, but cutting off his hand would have been too messy.

  The ProtoCell R&D building sat behind and to the left of the administrative office and had its own security gate. Lights glowed on the inside, but they were always on at night. She’d done enough surveillance to know. Kiya parked on the empty street and dug through Dominic’s gym bag, looking for his badge. It wasn’t there. Dashat! But he had to have it. He always worked late, stopped for Japanese takeout, then went to the gym. She searched the car and finally found it in a pocket under his seat. A five-minute setback.

  She drove up to the entrance. With her head back against the seat to avoid the camera, she slipped the badge under the scanner, and the gate opened. A car in the parking lot unnerved her. Was someone in the building? That might complicate things. She pulled her knife out of its sheath and shoved it in her pocket, just to be ready. This job was worth too much money to turn back, and her client wanted it done now. The little SlimPro device she was assigned to steal had to be worth millions in potential sales. Maybe she would negotiate for a bigger cut.

  Time to get it done. Kiya climbed out, grabbed the wheelchair, and brought it around to the passenger’s side. Getting Dominic into the chair would be the most challenging part of the evening. She reached in and slapped his face. He sat up and mumbled something that sounded like “I’m not late.”

  “You’re home. Get out of the car and into the chair.” Even some cooperation would help. If he woke up too much, she had a benzo handy to stick under his tongue. Kiya pulled his legs out and got him turned and ready to go. She grabbed his arms near the top. “Come on. Stand up.” She pulled hard and he gave a weak assist. A moment later, she had him buckled into the wheelchair. His head lolled to the side with eyes closed.

  Kiya pushed him up to the door, flashed his badge again, and maneuvered inside. Unfortunately, his badge wouldn’t get her into the product vault. Only a few employees had access to the high-value, pre-launch prototypes, and they needed the code. Her client apparently knew ProtoCell’s inner workings. The development on the SlimPro was done, and the company was gearing up to launch it worldwide. To Kiya, it seemed late in the game to steal it, but her client wanted to reverse-engineer the device and discover its secrets.

  The good news was that Dominic liked to test his own inventions and wore a tiny chip in his hand that acted as a password and allowed him access to the lab. Kiya suspected her client had a spy on ProtoCell’s staff who fed her information. This was a cutthroat business, and she’d done some reconnaissance work for ProtoCell earlier that day. Why should she be loyal to either one? She was in this for the money. But until recently, she hadn’t realized how valuable a weight-loss product could be. If it was effective and affordable, it could reach a billion consumers globally.

  She glanced around, noting the interior had high ceilings, but the only windows were horizontal and at the top of the walls, like in a dental office. There was plenty of space and light, but no view of the outside. Did the company mean to keep their employees on task or to prevent others from seeing inside? Kiya pushed the wheelchair down the central hall, watching for cameras, while making left turns and listening for the employee whose car was in the parking lot. She wasn’t worried about being recognized if caught on video, but she was concerned about triggering an alarm. Some companies used sophisticated software that detected unusual movements or patterns in their buildings at night.

  When they reached Dominic’s work area, he rallied and tried to resist. But the tech guy couldn’t get his buckle undone. He finally managed to say, “You can’t do this.” Or that’s how she interpreted his drugged speech. Kiya was tempted to give him the benzo to shut him up but wanted to wait until she had what she came for. She might still need more information.

  She parked him next to the door and studied the security device. It had a scanning eye, as well as a keypad for a code. She hoped it only needed one or the other. Kiya grabbed his hand and waved it in front of the little red eye. Dominic let out a squawk, so she didn’t hear a click. But she tried the handle and the door opened. They rolled into the top-secret lab space. Glancing around, she found the product vault in a corner. Almost there. She pushed past worktables covered with components and stopped in front of the heavy metal door. The security pad had a rounded vertical slot. Dashat! Her client hadn’t mentioned that the final breach required a fingerprint. She could produce Dominic’s, but which one? If she guessed wrong, would the device lock her out?

  She snapped to get his attention. “Which finger?”

  His index digit twitched involuntarily. Good enough. She grabbed his hand again, slid his finger into the slot, and heard the lock click open. Yes! She was in.

  The first drawer she opened was filled with SlimPros. Kiya grabbed three, per instructions, so it wouldn’t be obvious that some were gone. It was possible Dominic wouldn’t remember much of the evening. The roofie-benzo combination could do that. He might also choose not to report the theft because it could get him fired. She tucked the one-inch implants into the wide belt under her clothes and rolled Dominic to his computer, which she recognized by the nearby photo of him and his girlfriend.

  The password chip in his hand allowed her access, and she spent ten minutes downloading files to a thumb drive. Her client wanted both the data and the product, but had been clear that grabbing the prototype was the priority. While Kiya waited for the last file to transfer, she stuck the dissolvable benzo under Dominic’s tongue. Now all she had to do was get out of the building, drive him back to the gym, and call it a night.

  She pocketed the little USB and rolled the wheelchair out of the research area. In the hall, a voice called out, “What are you doing?”

  Chapter 13

  An older woman in sweatpants approached, her wrinkled face curious but not fearful. The dust rag she held indicated she was there to clean the building. Kiya scrambled to come up with something plausible. “I’m helping Dominic. He hurt himself at the gym and needed to come here to pick up his cell phone.” Which she still had in her pocket.

  The woman gave her a skewed stare of skepticism. “He looks passed out. Are you his girlfriend? You’re not supposed to be in here.”

  “I know. We’re leaving. He just needed his phone.” Kiya started forward. Thank Allah she looked young enough to be Dominic’s girlfriend.

  The cleaning lady’s hands were on her hips now. “I have to report this.”

  “Please don’t. He could get fired.” Kiya reached for Dominic’s pocket, hoping to find a wallet. “We’re supposed to get married. He can’t afford to lose his job.” The wallet was thin, but he had a couple of fifties. Kiya shoved the cash at the woman.

  She frowned, hesitating, then reached for it.

  Were the cameras catching this? “We’ll get out of here.” Pushing the wheelchair, she trotted down the hall. If the cleaning lady called the police, Kiya would be long gone before they arrived. But if the woman reported the incident to her boss, the ProtoCell executives would know about the theft. And her client had been adamant that they not find out. This could hurt her chances of negotiating a bigger payment.

  * * *

  Cheryl Decker woke to the soun
d of her daughter’s sobs. She threw back the sheet and glanced at the clock. She’d only been in bed for an hour. Exhausted, she trudged into the center of her house. The sobs came from the kitchen. No surprise. Her nine-year-old girl sat on the floor in front of the locked refrigerator. She had a roll of paper towels in her lap and had eaten a chunk off the end.

  Not again. “Amber, sweetie.” Cheryl knelt down and hugged the poor girl, who couldn’t help herself. The Prader-Willi Syndrome gave her a ravenous appetite she couldn’t control. “We’ve talked about this. It’s better to wake me up and let me get you some real food.”

  Amber looked up, eager. “What can I eat?”

  “We have some leftover fruit salad. I’ll get the key. Do not move.” She kept the key hidden, changing the location every couple of days. Her daughter never stopped looking. Cheryl had tried keeping the key in a locket around her neck, but Amber had woken her too many times trying to get to it. Neither of them ever got enough sleep.

  Cheryl retrieved the key from a hidden pocket in the clothes hamper and returned to the kitchen. Amber had stopped crying and was now seated at the table with a bowl and a fork. “I’m sorry, Mom. But I couldn’t sleep. My belly hurts.”

  It crushed her to witness her daughter’s psychological pain. Even worse, she hated herself for keeping all the food locked up. But she had no choice. With free access, Amber would eat nonstop and quickly become morbidly obese. Her child’s life was difficult enough without more teasing from other kids. Cheryl had tried keeping only small amounts of food locked up, but grocery shopping daily had worn her down. Her time was better spent finding a cure for the heinous disease.

  The product she’d just submitted to the FDA—‌after nearly a decade in development—‌had turned out to be an excellent weight-loss treatment for adults, but it hadn’t helped Amber’s genetic disorder-driven appetite. A devastating personal blow, but the profit would fund a lifetime of research. She would never give up. Treating Amber with unapproved therapies was illegal and could land Cheryl in serious trouble, but what else could she do? The house was leased, she had money in several bank accounts, and she was prepared to leave the country on short notice if necessary.