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Michael’s heartbeat is thumping in his ears. He’s not transferring anything until he knows his daughter is okay.
“The accounts don’t allow electronic transfer. It has to be in-person at the bank.”
“Don’t fuck around. Just get your—”
“I’m not fucking around. You think I didn’t plan for this day? I made sure there’s no way to move the money unless I appear in person with identification and three passwords.”
It wouldn’t take more than a few internet searches to know that Michael’s bluffing. But this guy’s no graduate of Harvard Business School.
“So, let’s get going.”
“To the bank?”
“No, to the goddamn strip club. Yeah, to the bank.”
Michael offers a resigned nod. “I’ll drive.”
64
At the same moment Ali tells Ryan to run, a figure pops up from behind the counter and there’s the sound of wind cutting the air next to Ryan’s ear. He sees the gun in the man’s hand, Ali tugging on his arm, causing him to miss his mark. The gunman backhands Ali and she falls to the floor.
Ryan doesn’t think. He’s running on pure instinct now. He zigzags in a sprint at the man, much as he did on the basketball court all those years ago. More whooshing sounds as the small, menacing-looking figure gets off another two silenced shots. Ryan ducks and continues his charge. Near the counter stands a sculpture of a rhinoceros’s head on a pedestal. The long barrel of the pistol follows Ryan as he grabs the statue in both hands and thrusts it two-handed like he’s making a desperate pass in the last seconds of a game. The heavy sculpture hits the assailant square in the face, momentarily disorienting him. Enough time for Ryan to complete his charge. He leaps, Michael Jordan–style, crashes atop the man, coming down on his head with a sharp elbow.
They’re both on the floor now. The man is a coil of muscle. Ryan gets on top of him, straddles him, as the man struggles to get the muzzle of the gun straight for the shot. The man’s eyes are clear blue and determined. He manages to free his arm, pulling back the gun and hitting Ryan on the head with the butt.
It’s a blow that carries more weight than mere gunmetal. It carries the memory of a night on a knoll in the rain.
Ryan’s thoughts are hazy, he feels throbbing pain, blood dripping into his eyes. But he won’t let her down again. He brings a fist down on the man’s face. The man takes the blow, trying to angle the gun again to take Ryan out. But Ryan keeps hitting him in the face, again and again, pressing away the gun hand with his other arm. He feels bones shatter, but he keeps hitting him, even when the man stops moving. The cartilage in the man’s nose is flattened. Ryan’s fists are raw and bloody, knuckles broken or bruised to the bone. With each hit, something releases in Ryan. The fury. The years of guilt and shame. The crushing loss.
As if from far away, he hears Alison’s voice:
“Ryan.” It’s a gentle tone. Strangely not frenzied, given what’s happening. “Dodge,” she says quietly. “Please… please, stop.”
65
They park the Volkswagen in a lot about a block from the bank on the D922. Michael insisted they take his car because the bank manager knows him. It’s a small town. If he arrives with a strange man in an unfamiliar vehicle to transfer millions, well… The lot is empty and has a line of sight to the entrance.
“Okay, Michael, let’s not play any games,” Brian O’Leary says. “By the way, why’d you keep your real first name for your alias? Not the smartest thing in the world.”
“My international banking contacts all know me by only my first name. It would be hard to move the money without the passwords and an identification that has my first name on it.”
Brian shrugs. He looks out at the front of the bank. It resembles most of the other buildings in the medieval town, except it has a protective concrete barrier lining the front of it. “The bank looks closed.”
Michael shakes his head, disagreeing. “I need to see my daughter before I transfer the money,” he says.
Brian shows him those dead eyes. “I understand, I do. I’m a parent. And my kid sure as hell ain’t running a gallery in the south of France. But I’ve been straight with you. I gave you my word.”
Michael has been playing different scenarios in his head since the man told him the grim realities of the situation. Brian might stay true to his word: deliver Michael to Shane O’Leary but release his daughter. Or Brian could get the money and let his partner take his time killing Michael and his daughter. Michael would gladly sacrifice himself if he could trust this man. But Brian O’Leary’s word means nothing.
“Contact your partner,” Michael says. “Tell him to let me talk to my daughter.”
Brian hesitates, looks at his watch again. He fishes out his phone.
He keeps his expression blank when no one answers. But Michael sees it. In the forced nonchalance. In the slight clench of the jaw.
“What’s wrong? Why isn’t he answering?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” Brian’s face turns hard. “Now I’m gonna say this once: Get in there and transfer that money. If you don’t do it by the top of the hour, your daughter’s gonna be missing a finger for every minute it’s late.”