Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

Molly smiled, content and happy and very much in love. “Sounds very nice. Am I allowed a temper tantrum or two before we reconcile our working schedules?”

“As long,” Carey replied with a teasing light in his eyes, “as there's no wine bottle within reach.” He rose from his chair in a swift, fluid movement. Somehow in his busy schedule he found time to keep remarkably fit. Buttoning one of the buttons of his double-breasted suit jacket, he said, “Now I'm off to get briefed before the press conference. Jess is waiting outside. Some security people are scheduled to be here this afternoon to keep the photographers at bay. Allen will send a car over at ten for you.”

And in those short, terse sentences, he sounded very much like Carey Fersten, International Film Director. Despite his warm smile, Molly thought, despite the adoring look in his eyes, for a brief cold moment he seemed like a stranger.

C arey was there to greet her at the service entrance of the hotel. Taking her hand, he drew her alongside him down several corridors into an elevator, then out again and into a small room several yards from the hall scheduled for the news conference. His full entourage was assembled: attorneys; business managers; publicity people flown in the night before; assistants; gophers; and some men looking suspiciously like bodyguards. Molly's uneasiness returned; she was an outsider in a smoothly run operation familiar to all its participants, save one.

There was no opportunity to talk in the crush of people determined to ask one more question or give one more word of advice. A cup of coffee was shoved into Molly's hand, and when she shook her head, Carey looked up from the document an expensively dressed man was explaining to him and brusquely said, “Tea. I told you Ms. Darian drinks tea. Take the coffee away.” Then his eyes quickly scanned her pale face, his hand securely holding hers. “Are you all right?”

Molly nodded. In the flurry of nervous activity she couldn't tell him the truth. That she wasn't all right. She had the beginnings of a headache, and her stomach felt like a convention of butterflies.

“I'm sorry, Honeybear. This'll all be over soon.” He squeezed her hand gently and forced his attention back to the man in the Savile Row suit who was pointing out another paragraph with a briskly tapping finger.

The tea appeared within seconds. In a glass, the way she liked it, with lemon and sugar. Carey had a very good memory. She watched him calmly absorb the attorney's instructions. He asked a few brisk questions, nodded in apparent approval at the answers, and then turned to the next of several assistants who issued further instructions. The tea was warm and soothing. Molly's stomach stopped dancing, and none too soon for the door opened abruptly and a man called out, “Camera time-three minutes.”

Allen raced in. “You know what to do now,” Carey said to him. “I don't want Molly upset with personal inquiries.” He looked at Molly seriously. “If there was any way to avoid this, Honeybear,” he murmured very low so only she could hear, “I would. Lord, you're pale. If you can't get through it, let me know and we'll just end it. I'm sorry, truly sorry, Honeybear, about all this hassle.” His sincerity tugged at her heart; he seemed her young lover again, boyish, uncertain, miserable that he was hurting her.

Tears glistened in her eyes, and she saw him swallow hard when his glance met her misty blue gaze. She caught the hand he lifted to her face and said, “I understand. Don't worry about me… I'll manage.”

“Okay, Honeybear.” He smiled that heart-stopping smile. “It's you and me and twenty TV cameras.”

Tightening his grip on her hand, he turned to Allen, hovering at his shoulder, and said, “Shall we?” And the entire crowd followed them into the bright lights across the hall.

The entourage unnerved Molly; it was like a royal court. Carey seemed to take it all in stride; when you walked out in public, forty people followed in your wake. He never opened doors, he never asked twice for a drink or for food. When he wanted something, it was there. When he didn't want something, it disappeared as rapidly.

In deference to the solemn occasion, he wore a suit, a navy linen Armani, his tie perfectly knotted, his normally bare feet shod in soft black kidskin. Some attempt had been made to set his pale hair in order, but the coarse waves fell in tumbled disarray by the time they mounted the small dais at the front of the room. He had tensely run his fingers through his hair one last time before entering the room.

Molly appeared at his side, slender, white-faced, her honey-colored hair shining on her shoulders. In contrast to Carey's dark suit, the apple-blossom pink of her voile shirtwaist seemed like delicate flowers against a stormy sky. He held her close to his side, his stance almost aggressive, as if he dared the world to hurt her.

At first the questions were vague and general: Where had they met? When? How had their friendship reestablished itself? When the kid gloves were tossed aside, Allen stepped in to thwart the more blatant queries. Once or twice Carey curtly cut off discourteous questions, saying, “I won't respond to that.” But essentially his bearing was relaxed. He was at ease on the world's stage.

In twenty minutes all the necessary answers had been given, his replies couched in as general terms as possible. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Carey politely said, “for your lively interest in my affairs. Thank you and good morning.”

His dark eyes swept the crowd of reporters in dismissal, and then Molly felt his grip tighten. “Allen, the car,” he ordered, his voice cracking with authority.

“What is it?” Molly asked, disturbed by the tone of his voice.

“Stay here.” He unobtrusively motioned for his bodyguards, and three men quickly moved forward.

Oblivious to the cryptic gesture, Molly asked, “Why?”

“I'll be right back,” was all he said. “Stay put.” And he turned back to face the room. Near the rear door, not visible until the reporters had shifted positions at the end of the conference, was Rifat's ADC. Carey had seen him once at a party in Cannes. They'd exchanged banal phrases while Rifat overwhelmed the young actress in their party with his charm. Carey remembered the man's cool gaze, which didn't entirely conceal his hunter instincts. It wasn't a face one forgot. Oh fuck, oh shit. Rifat's man here in Minneapolis. His alarm set off danger signals in his brain. Molly was here, protected by his people. But Carrie was home alone, with only Lucy for company. And, spinning around, he began to run.

Glancing at his watch, Ceci walked as rapidly as possible without attracting notice, through the red-carpeted hotel lobby. In five minutes the kidnapping should be accomplished, although the sight of Fersten bolting for the back door was not reassuring. Had he spotted him? Pushing through the revolving door, faced with the possibility Carey suspected something, he sprinted for his rental car. He hesitated briefly before turning on the ignition. According to plan, after assuring himself Carey was at the press conference long enough for the men to pick up the girl, he was to proceed to the airport where Timur was waiting to fly them home. Deraille and Reha were to rendezvous there with the girl in twenty minutes. If he changed his plans now, he would miss the airport rendezvous.

Another moment of indecision, and he decided to adhere to plan. Surely Deraille and Reha would accomplish their task. She was only a young girl.

H is security men behind him, Carey ran down the corridors and burst out the side door, sprinting for his car parked at the curb. Wrenching the door open, he leaped inside. “To Molly's,” he barked, and Jess began pulling away before the men behind Carey had caught up with him. Intent on his search for a weapon, he didn't look up when two of the security men threw themselves into the accelerating limo. He kept a small Beretta in the compartment under the seat and, pushing the sliding door aside, he felt for it. The feel of the cool metal was comforting, as if he suddenly had more control of his fear or at least an even chance with the Rifats of the world. Slipping the gun into his jacket pocket, he turned to the two men breathing hard beside him and said, “I saw Rifat's man.”

Even in his worst nightmares he'd never considered having his daughter involved in Egon's asinine scheme, and he passionately hoped his emotional reaction was the overreaction of a protective father. He hoped Rifat's aide was simply out to involve him somehow in Egon's problem. They couldn't know about Carrie. Could they? The story had only hit the newsstands today; they'd have had to leave Europe yesterday to be here this morning. He hoped they didn't know of Molly and Carrie, although he wasn't naive enough to think Rifat's right-hand man was in Minneapolis to enjoy the summer lakes. At best, he was the object of their visit; and the worst, he dared not contemplate. “Go through the light,” he ordered, and Jess accelerated to avoid another car bearing down on the intersection. The one-way street had only moderate traffic at that time of the morning, and Jess wove through the three lanes at a smooth ninety. He took the left onto Helseth Memorial Highway on two tires, and pushed the speedometer into the red zone when Carey said, “Step on it.”

As they neared the Merchandise Mart, the police cars were obvious.

Four of them were parked out front as though they'd skidded on ice to stop.

And a fire truck was half visible around the south side of the building.

Please God, Carey silently prayed, his hand gripping the revolver, the safety already switched off, she doesn't belong in any of this. Shutting his eyes briefly, he drew in a deep breath and asked any god who was listening for help. When his dark eyes opened, he spoke in curt phrases to the men beside him. “They're Turks. Don't give them an edge. Shoot first. We'll work up the defense later. If they're here at Molly's,” his voice was totally without emotion, “they're after my daughter, and I want them dead.” His hand was on the door handle as Jess braked, leaving tire marks on the pavement. “If you have any problems with this, stay in the car. I won't take offense.” And he was out of the backseat before the Lincoln came to a complete stop. Up the front steps in three loping strides, he dashed through the door and took the stairs because the elevators were too slow.

When he reached the second floor, the apartment door was open, the lock plate broken from the jamb, and he could see through the foyer and hallway to the light-filled living room. The apartment was empty, deathly quiet, and when he turned back to the men who'd followed him up, his face was set in a hard brutal mask. “Check out the apartment. I'll meet you downstairs.”

His heart was pounding in his ears. Damn Rifat! Damn predators like him who took their bloody barbarian ruthlessness to peaceful people in peaceful regions of the world. If Carrie was harmed… he wouldn't allow himself to think of possibilities beyond that. But flashback images of maimed children in Vietnam filled his mind, and he swore to drive away the searing vignettes, swore his revenge on Shakin Rifat for coming within a thousand miles of his daughter.

His Beretta poised, he surveyed the second-floor corridor swiftly, and took the backstairs down. The mezzanine floor was as quiet as the second, but he was cautious when he opened the stairwell door into the corridor. Nothing… no one. And the absence of people was foreboding. Three offices on the mezzanine were normally busy with activity. A uniformed policeman stood near the main floor office when Carey eased the ground floor doorway open. One policeman and four cars outside. It wasn't reassuring. Where was Carrie?

The inside of his mouth was dry as it had been when he'd patrolled the jungles of Vietnam, never knowing if his next step was going to be his last. Taking a careful breath to calm himself, and at the same time reminding himself this was not Vietnam, death was not wholesale insanity in Minneapolis, he slipped his Beretta into his jacket pocket and stepped out into the corridor. He approached the policeman with rapid strides. “I'm looking for my daughter,” he said. In a hurry to find out from this man where his daughter was or get past him in the least possible waste of time, he kept his voice impersonal.

The man looked him over with an appraising glance. “Who're you?”

“Carey Fersten; my daughter lives here. There're four police cars outside. Why?”