Hostage Zero

The kid took care of it. He darted the two-step distance that separated them and sat on her lap, wrapping his arms around her neck. “Don’t let him hurt me,” he said a bit too loudly, drawing attention from others in the lobby. “He hits me and kicks me. Don’t let him!”

The move startled Brandy, but nowhere near as much as it startled the cop. He seemed keenly aware that he was being watched.

“We’ll be okay,” Brandy said to the officer. Then she gave a little wave to the others in the lobby. “Really, we’re fine.”

The cop hesitated, but in the end had little choice but to slither away.

When it was just the two of them again, the boy released his death grip and eyed Brandy’s chest. “Nice boobies,” he said.

A laugh escaped her throat before she could stop it. “ What? ”

He pointed. “Boobies. A-okay.” He gave a thumbs-up and beamed a brown-eyed smile.

She laughed again. “Why, thank you.”

“Can I see them?”

“No!” Brandy felt herself blushing as she glanced around the room to make sure they weren’t still being watched. “How old are you?”

“I’m eighteen,” he said.

Uh huh. “In that case, I’m seventy-three and way too old for you.”

The boy gave a resigned shrug. “Okay. You need to follow me.”

Brandy scowled. “To where?”

He nodded to the envelope. “To where that needs to go.”

The boy stood and without looking back, started walking back toward the main door.

Brandy struggled out of her chair, bumping the table and spilling some of her drink. “Wait!” she yelled at a whisper. Who the hell was this kid? By the time they reached the door, they were walking together, and the boy seemed more than happy to be holding her hand.

Her hours in the air-conditioning had allowed her to forget just how impossibly hot it was outside. She’d worn cotton capris and a lightweight blouse, thinking that they would fit the bill for “dressing for a warm climate,” but she realized after just one block of walking that she in fact did not own a wardrobe that would make this kind of peanut butter-thick humidity anything but oppressive. She was sweating, for heaven’s sake! That’s okay when you’re in the gym, but out here on the street it was humiliating. She was soaking her blouse. And just what are you supposed to do with a sweat-soaked blouse when you’re in a foreign country?

Two blocks away from the hotel, they turned right to head farther away from the water and the breezes it provided. “Where are we going?” she asked again.

The boy shot a smile over his shoulder. “Not far. We’ll be there soon.”

“What’s your name?”

“Soon,” he said, pointing to a spot somewhere up ahead.

As the water fell farther away and the temperature rose, so did the terrain, and there was nothing subtle about the hills. To think that she’d thought Rome was exhausting! That was like a basketball court compared to these hills.

Brandy tried her best to keep up with the boy who was her guide, but he inevitably pulled away-in one case as far as a half block ahead-before turning around and waiting for her. She felt an odd urge to apologize to the kid.

Farther still, and higher still. The street started to take on that old Europe look with narrow roadways and unbroken walls of building facades. Fifteen minutes into their sojourn, Brandy began to have second thoughts. The neighborhood was not a place where she would feel comfortable walking alone, and the presence of a twelve-year-old who featured himself a real man did nothing to make her feel safer.

Come to think of it, what kind of fool follows a kid whose name she doesn’t even know? For all she knew, she was being set up for a mugging or a kidnapping. But if that had been the case, how would he have known the signs and countersigns?

No, this was the real deal. What had Jerry Sjogren called it? Tradecraft. This was real tradecraft-the life of a covert operator. And let’s be honest, it didn’t get a lot better than this.

The boy had stopped again, but this time only four or five doors ahead of her. That smile beamed again, and he pointed to a doorway. “We are here,” he announced.

He pointed at the pink facade of a row house that might once have been grand, but now sagged with age. It occurred to her that this is what San Francisco neighborhoods might look like if no one painted or did repairs for twenty years. The heavy wooden door used to be purple. It was equipped with a substantial old-style knob that looked to be made of brass. Brandy wondered if she would be able to raise a high gloss from it if she polished it aggressively.

She stood in front of the door on the crumbling brick sidewalk and shot a glance to the boy.

He smiled.

“Should I knock?”

He jabbed a finger toward the door. “Just go in,” he said.

Brandy hesitated. This didn’t feel right at all. Why was he making such a point of her going first? Was this some sort of a trap?

“It’s okay,” the boy said. “I am not allowed.”

Oh, now that made sense, didn’t it? When you’re arranging to have someone killed, you didn’t need nosy street urchins hanging around to witness the event.