Seal of Honor(61)

Someone slid the paper across the table and he scanned the list. The first two questions about Bryson’s sons’ middle names and birthdays were far too easy, but the third should work. “All right. Are you still there? I need you to ask Bryson what name he wanted to use if his son Ashton had been a girl.”

Silence.

“Can you do that for me, Angel? Go ahead and ask him for me. I’ll wait.”

Dial tone.

Danny sat back and blew out a breath that puffed up his cheeks. His heart was hammering, adrenaline surging through his veins like a nitrous injection, leaving his engines revving and his hands shaking. He knew from experience it’d take hours to come down if he just sat here, so he pushed away from the table.

“I’m going for a run. Call me if they get back in the next hour.” He doubted it, though. He wouldn’t hear from Angel again until later tonight at the earliest.

He made it about a block before his phone, tucked in the zippered pocket of his running shorts, rang. The HTs got back that fast? Well, color him surprised. He skidded to a halt underneath a palm tree, dug out the phone, and lifted it to his ear.

“Giancarelli,” he answered.

“Danny. Uh, hi.”

For the space of three heartbeats, Danny struggled to make sense of the voice he knew, but hadn’t heard in years. He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the number. It wasn’t a Los Angeles number, wasn’t even a U.S. number. “Marcus? Where the hell are you?”

“It’s…” Marcus Deangelo sighed. “I can’t talk about it right now.”

A skitter of fear worked down Danny’s spine. “Are you in trouble?”

“No. I’m working a case.”

“You got a new job? For the government?” Yeah, he doubted that. Marcus and the government hadn’t parted on the best of terms.

“No. I went into the private sector,” Marcus said. “I’m working a hostage case and I need a favor.”

Danny looked at the number on his phone’s screen again. Fifty-seven. It started with a fifty-seven, which was Colombia’s country code. The HT’s number started with the same.

And he knew.

“Jesus Christ. Don’t tell me you’re working the Van Amee case. Who hired you?”

Marcus evaded the question beautifully. After all, the man hadn’t been one of the FBI’s top negotiators for nothing. “It’s not important. Bryson is what’s important here, and in order to help him, I need any information you can tell me about the case.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Danny shook his head. Marcus wanted him to do what? “Hold up. I don’t hear a word from you in nearly two years. Nada. How hard is it to pick up the phone and say, ‘yo, I’m still alive. How’s la famiglia? By the way, I’ve found a new job’? And now you want me to forget that and do you a solid by giving information on a case I’m working? Info you know—know—I cannot divulge.”

“So you’re the negotiator?” Marcus asked, completely undaunted.

Danny shut his eyes. Dammit. “I can’t talk about this.”

But Marcus either didn’t hear him or ignored him. “Why are you going through with the ransom payment? Is Bryson’s business partner or wife pushing you to it? What happened to the whole the-U.S.-doesn’t-negotiate-with-terrorists thing?”

“You know that’s more of a theory than practice.” Danny turned and started back up the street toward the Van Amee house. “And I’m just the mouthpiece in this. Perry the Prick’s in charge.”

“Shit.” A moment of silence. “Can you just—I’ll take whatever you can give me. You know paying the ransom will all but sign Bryson’s death certificate.”

Marcus had a point there. This case was bound for tragedy if they didn’t get control of the situation. And fast.

“C’mon, Dan,” Marcus said. “Help me out. We’re poking around in the dark down here.”

Up ahead, O’Keane stepped out of the house and waited there, arms crossed. Danny slowed his pace. “Listen, Marcus. I can’t promise anything, but… I’ll call you back.” He hung up and broke into a jog for the hundred or so yards of driveway. “Did the HTs call again already?”

“No.” O’Keane arched a brow. “The wife still mad about you canceling the family vacation this weekend?”

For a second, Danny didn’t get it. Oh, right. Marcus’ phone call. O’Keane thought he’d been speaking to his wife.

“No,” he answered. “Leah and the kids went out to the coast without me.” He looked at his phone. Goddamn Marcus. He shook his head and pocketed it. “She was…just checking up.”