Chapter 2 - The Red Circle
“Claire,” Evan said.
Just my name.
Nothing else.
The gunman stood behind him, mostly hidden by Evan’s shoulder.
He wore the black shirt I had seen on the security footage.
The fake server.
Mateo moved slightly in front of me.
The gunman noticed.
“Don’t.”
Mateo stopped.
Rafael had his weapon raised.
The gunman smiled.
“I’d lower that.”
Rafael didn’t.
The gun pressed harder against Evan.
I saw my brother wince.
“Rafael,” Mateo said.
The weapon lowered.
The elevator doors tried to close.
The gunman kicked them open.
“Good.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
His eyes shifted to me.
“Eventually?”
“Yes.”
“You.”
Mateo said, “You’re not getting her.”
“I wasn’t speaking to you.”
“You are now.”
The man’s smile disappeared.
“You Reyes men always think every room belongs to you.”
A strange silence followed.
Mateo’s face changed.
Not visibly enough for most people.
Enough for me.
“You know him,” I said.
“No.”
The gunman laughed.
“Not personally.”
He looked at Mateo.
“But your father did.”
Mateo’s jaw tightened.
“My father is dead.”
“Everybody important becomes dead eventually.”
He reached into Evan’s jacket with his free hand and removed something.
A flash drive.
Black.
Small.
He tossed it onto the hallway carpet.
“There.”
Evan looked at it.
“What is that?”
The gunman backed farther inside the elevator.
“Ask your sister.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“That’s the problem.”
The doors began closing.
I moved.
Mateo caught my wrist.
“Don’t.”
“Evan!”
My brother looked at me through the shrinking gap.
“Claire, don’t give them—”
The doors closed.
I hit the call button.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
“Override,” Mateo ordered.
Rafael was already calling someone.
I rounded on Mateo.
“Do something!”
“I am.”
“He has my brother!”
“I know.”
“Then stop standing there like—”
Mateo grabbed my shoulders.
Not violently.
Firmly.
“Claire.”
I froze.
His eyes held mine.
“If you panic, you help them.”
I hated that he was right.
I hated him slightly for being right.
“Breathe.”
I did.
Once.
Twice.
Rafael said, “Elevator disabled at basement level.”
Mateo released me.
“Garage exits?”
“Locking now.”
We ran.
The service stairs were faster.
By the time we reached the garage, hotel security had blocked the vehicle ramps.
There was no Evan.
No gunman.
Only a black catering van with both back doors open.
Empty.
“How?” I demanded.
Rafael walked around the vehicle.
“Drainage tunnel.”
The hotel manager stared at him.
“There’s no drainage tunnel.”
Rafael pointed to a metal access door behind a maintenance cage.
“There is now.”
Mateo crouched.
Fresh cuts around the lock.
Prepared in advance.
This had not been spontaneous.
Someone had planned the gala.
The fake server.
The mark.
Room 814.
Evan.
And somehow my dead father.
The flash drive from the eighth floor sat in Mateo’s pocket.
I remembered it.
“Give me the drive.”
“No.”
I stared at him.
“You cannot be serious.”
“We don’t know what’s on it.”
“It was thrown at my brother’s feet.”
“Exactly.”
“Give it to me.”
Mateo turned toward Rafael.
“Get the car.”
I stepped in front of him.
“Stop deciding things for me.”
His gaze returned to mine.
“This isn’t a board meeting.”
“No. It’s my life.”
“And somebody is trying to end it.”
“My brother was just kidnapped.”
“Yes.”
“Then whatever is on that drive is mine.”
Mateo studied me for several seconds.
Then he took it out.
He didn’t hand it over.
“Not on your computer.”
“Why?”
“Because if it carries malware, they’ll own every file you have.”
“You say that like you’ve done this before.”
“I have.”
“Of course you have.”
For the first time, something close to exhaustion crossed his face.
“Claire, you can insult me when your brother is safe.”
I swallowed.
“Deal.”
We left through the private garage.
Mateo’s car was waiting.
Not a limousine.
A black sedan that looked almost ordinary except for the thickness of the windows.
I sat in the back.
Mateo beside me.
Rafael drove.
“Where are we going?”
“My apartment.”
“No.”
“You have another secure location?”
“My apartment.”
“Your building has a doorman named Harold who spends forty percent of his shift watching baseball on his phone.”
I stared at him.
“How do you know Harold?”
“I checked your building before approaching you tonight.”
The unease returned.
“You investigated me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Your father.”
There it was again.
I turned fully toward him.
“You are going to explain that now.”
Mateo looked through the window.
“Your father contacted mine twelve years ago.”
“My father hated organized crime.”
“That’s why he contacted him.”
“That makes no sense.”
“He found evidence that money was being moved through charities.”
My stomach tightened.
“The Donovan Foundation?”
“Not then.”
“What charities?”
“Seven organizations. Three in New York. Two in New Jersey. One in Connecticut. One overseas.”
“And my father?”
“He was an auditor.”
“I know what he was.”
“He discovered the pattern.”
I folded my arms.
“What does that have to do with you?”
“My father controlled some of the companies receiving that money.”
The honesty surprised me.
“You’re admitting your family laundered money.”
“I’m telling you my father discovered somebody was using his businesses without permission.”
I laughed without humor.
“Criminals offended by unauthorized crime.”
Mateo accepted the insult.
“My father had rules.”
“That’s what men like you always say.”
“Men like me?”
“Rich men who believe expensive suits turn violence into philosophy.”
His gaze met mine.
“You think you understand me.”
“I think I understand enough.”
“Then you should know I didn’t kiss you because I wanted an audience.”
The memory landed between us.
His hand on my face.
The stunned ballroom.
His mouth against mine.
I looked away first.
“That doesn’t make it acceptable.”
“No.”
I turned back.
He had said it immediately.
No defense.
No excuse.
“I won’t do it again without permission.”
For some reason, that affected me more than an apology would have.
I nodded once.
“Good.”
The car entered an underground garage.
We changed elevators twice before reaching Mateo’s residence.
Calling it an apartment was insulting to apartments.
The place occupied the entire top floor.
Glass walls.
Manhattan beneath us.
Dark wood.
Almost no personal photographs.
Security screens near every entrance.
“Romantic,” I said.
Mateo removed his jacket.
“I wasn’t expecting company.”
“You publicly announced otherwise.”
He looked at me.
I realized what I had said.
Heat reached my face.
He almost smiled.
“Guest room is down the hall.”
“Good.”
“You seem disappointed.”
“I seem armed with a lamp.”
He actually smiled that time.
Briefly.
It changed his entire face.
Then Rafael entered with a laptop.
Moment gone.
“We’re isolated from the network.”
Mateo inserted the flash drive.
One folder appeared.
DONOVAN.
I leaned closer.
Inside were dozens of financial documents.
Transfers.
Account numbers.
Donor lists.
My foundation logo.
“No.”
I clicked the first file.
A wire transfer.
$750,000.
Recipient: Meridian Holdings.
Authorized by: Claire Donovan.
My signature appeared at the bottom.
“That isn’t mine.”
Mateo looked at it.
“It looks like yours.”
“It’s forged.”
Another transfer.
$1.2 million.
Another.
$300,000.
All authorized by me.
All within the last eighteen months.
My chest tightened.
“If federal investigators see this—”
“They’ll think you moved the money.”
“I didn’t.”
“I believe you.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because whoever did this marked you for removal.”
The logic was horrifying.
Frame me.
Then kill me.
The dead executive becomes the convenient criminal.
“What is Meridian Holdings?”
Mateo’s expression hardened.
“One of my father’s old companies.”
My stomach dropped.
“You’re involved.”
“No.”
“Your company received money from my foundation.”
“A company that was dissolved nine years ago received money.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Legally.”
The next folder contained photographs.
Me entering work.
Me leaving my building.
Evan outside a restaurant.
My assistant Nora walking her dog.
My apartment windows.
Someone had been watching us for months.
Then I saw the photograph of my father again.
Different angle.
Taken seven years ago.
The week before he died.
He stood beside a car talking to Mateo’s father.
I looked at Mateo.
“When did your father die?”
“Six years ago.”
“My father died seven.”
“Yes.”
“Were their deaths connected?”
“I’ve wondered that for a long time.”
“How did my father die?”
His eyes changed.
“You know how.”
“Heart attack.”
“Yes.”
The way he said it made my blood run cold.
“You don’t believe that.”
“No.”
I stood.
“You knew this and never came to me?”
“I didn’t have proof.”
“You had photographs.”
“I had suspicions.”
“My father could have been murdered.”
Mateo stood too.
“I know.”
“And you said nothing.”
“I was trying to keep you outside it.”
“You didn’t even know me.”
“I knew your name.”
“Why?”
He looked toward the screen.
“Because your father made mine promise something.”
“What?”
Mateo said nothing.
“What did my father make him promise?”
Before he could answer, the laptop chimed.
A new file appeared by itself.
LIVE.
Rafael immediately unplugged the network cable.
The file remained.
“What the hell?” he muttered.
Mateo opened it.
Video.
A concrete room.
Evan sat tied to a chair.
Alive.
I moved closer.
“Evan.”
He lifted his head as if he could hear me.
A speaker somewhere in the room crackled.
A distorted voice said, “Claire Donovan. Bring the original ledger.”
I looked at Mateo.
“What ledger?”
He was staring at the screen.
The voice continued.
“Your father hid it before he died.”
“I don’t know anything about a ledger.”
“You have until sunrise.”
A digital clock appeared.
04:12:09.
Counting down.
The camera moved closer to Evan.
He looked terrified.
Then he said something.
Too softly.
I leaned toward the speaker.
“What?”
Evan looked straight into the camera.
“Claire, Dad hid it where Mom died.”
My breath stopped.
Our mother had died when I was sixteen.
A car accident.
At least that was what I had always been told.
May you like
Then Mateo whispered behind me.
“Your mother didn’t die in a car.”
