The second man moved quickly to Mason and slammed him in the stomach. He sank to his knees, wrists straining at the rope, gasping for breath.

Jose bent down very close to Melissa's ear and pulled the gag from her mouth. "Where does he keep his files?"

"I don't know," she whimpered. "I swear I don't."

"Why did you send me that e-mail from Los Angeles?" Gillette demanded.

Faith looked at him strangely, putting a hand on her chest. "What e-mail? What are you talking about?"

They were standing in the middle of an upstairs room at the Waldorf that Stiles had hastily arranged. "The one from the coffee shop. What did you mean I needed to be careful? And who are 'they'?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I know you sent that e-mail, Faith. We have a record of you doing it."

"You couldn't possibly have a record of it," she retorted. "They don't-"

"Don't what?" Gillette asked when she stopped short.

She said nothing.

"Faith, you have to tell me-"

"Why did you lie to me?" she demanded.

"Lie?"

"About your mother's death."

It was Gillette's turn to go silent.

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?"

"I figured you would sooner or later," he admitted. "I'm sure it wasn't hard."

"Why did you tell me she died that day?"

"She did for me. Maybe not physically, but in every other way. I'd had enough."

"You pulled her out of the pool, didn't you? You found her and you saved her life?"

Gillette stared back at Faith. "Yes."

"And you didn't tell me about your brother and sister, either. Why did you tell me you were an only child?"

"How did you-"

"I saw them mentioned in an article about your father's plane crash. Your mother was mentioned, too."

Faith glared at him for several moments, then her expression softened. Finally she smiled sadly, moved close to him, and slid her arms around his neck. "Thank you for helping me," she said softly, hugging him. "The label called this morning to tell me they were doubling my ad budget."

Gillette had called the music company's CEO yesterday and ordered the increase. "I told you I would."

"A lot of people tell me they'll help me but they don't." She gazed up at him. "Remember what you said to me at dinner? About trusting no one?"

He nodded.

"I trust you," she whispered, pulling his mouth to hers.

For a moment Gillette hesitated, then he pressed his lips against hers and kissed her deeply.

Jimmy Holt stumbled through the parking lot toward his car, drunk. It had been all he could do not to tell the other energy a.n.a.lysts from the office about the huge new oil and gas field in Canada, all he could do, as he stood at the bar and listened to them talk sports and women, not to cut in and describe the data he'd lifted from the tapes. Increasingly difficult with each beer.

So he'd left. Afraid that a seventh beer would make him spill his guts. Despite his boss's warning.

Holt fumbled through his pockets for his keys, his head spinning. Finally locating them. Pointing the car key at the door and pressing the b.u.t.ton. Vaguely aware of the car's parking lights flashing and of reaching for the door. Knowing that he shouldn't be getting behind the wheel. But he wasn't going to leave his car here and have to come get it in the morning.

Suddenly he felt himself pitching forward. Forced to trot, then run, to keep from falling face-first. So drunk he was unaware it wasn't the alcohol causing him to stagger ahead. Unaware that he'd been violently pushed.

Holt's forehead slammed into the curb as he finally tumbled forward, the cement opening a gaping wound above his left eye. As blood poured onto the cement, Holt vaguely felt the barrel of the gun pressed to his temple. Then there was a flash and everything went dark.

Mason closed his eyes tightly, his heart in his throat. He was dangling over the railing of the balcony by his wrists, forty-two stories up. He tried to yell for help, but the heavy gag m.u.f.fled his cries.

Then he felt himself dropping. He fell maybe only five feet and it lasted less than half a second, but now he was screaming like a baby as they hauled him back over the railing.

"Where are your files?" the Hispanic man hissed into Mason's ear, pulling the gag down around his neck. "Don't tell us and we'll drop your wife over."

"Wall safe in the bedroom," Mason gasped. "Let me go in there. I'll open it."

Kathy Hays sat on the porch of the cabin, listening to the sounds of the night. She pulled her sweater tightly around herself and shivered. It wasn't cold here in Mississippi, but it was eerie. She peered into the darkness, certain she'd seen something move among the Spanish moss draping the trees. She held her breath and looked harder. Nothing. Just a small tree moving in the breeze.

She let out a long breath. The time was going slowly.

"I'm sorry about what happened tonight," Gillette said quietly to Isabelle as he held her.

"Don't worry about it," she whispered. "It's incredible to me that you'd choose to be with me. I mean, Faith Ca.s.sidy is a superstar."

"Well, I-"

His cell phone rang and he pulled it hastily from his jacket pocket. "Yes," he answered, turning away from her and pressing the tiny phone tightly to his ear so she wouldn't hear.

"Christian, it's Jose."

"Yes?"

"You were right. He was keeping files on companies at Everest. We got them. All the ones in his safe at his apartment."

"Perfect. I'll see you tomorrow." Gillette closed the phone, and gazed at Isabelle. It was crazy to think she could be working with anyone who would want to kill him. Wasn't it?

Stiles smiled as he snapped pictures of Stockman coming out of the apartment building with Rita Jones on his arm at dawn. Gillette would be happy. Which made Stiles happy. He liked Gillette. Hadn't thought he would at first, but Gillette had proven to be a man of courage and compa.s.sion. A man he respected.

Stiles chuckled as he snapped a picture of Stockman and Rita Jones kissing on the street corner. People were so stupid sometimes. So incredibly stupid.

19.

Choices. Sometimes there are no good ones. Sometimes, because of our own actions, we create situations where any choice is awful. Then it comes down to making the one that's simply the least bad. Sometimes there are no good ones. Sometimes, because of our own actions, we create situations where any choice is awful. Then it comes down to making the one that's simply the least bad.

MASON SAT IN HIS s.p.a.cIOUS office at Apex, dreading the interoffice call from Vicky that would let him know Strazzi was ready to talk. He glanced nervously at his watch: 6:58. They were supposed to meet at seven, but Strazzi was usually five to ten minutes early. Maybe, by some incredible stroke of luck, Strazzi had been delayed-or wasn't coming in. Maybe he'd been- Mason's phone rang. He glanced at the screen. Vicky. He picked up the receiver slowly. "Yes?"

"Paul's ready to meet. He wants you in his office right away."

Mason swallowed hard. These were the bad times.

Three minutes later he was in Strazzi's office.

"Sit down."

"Yes, Mr. Strazzi."

"It's Paul today."

Mason sat down in the chair in front of Strazzi's desk. "Okay . . . Paul." Strazzi was one weird f.u.c.k. Maybe getting out of Apex was the best thing, which was surely how this was going to end up anyway. Thrown out Thrown out was more accurate. Or worse. was more accurate. Or worse.

"Do you have what I want?" Strazzi asked, his gaze intense.

Mason swallowed hard, felt his breath shorten. Strazzi versus the two men from last night. Neither option was much of a bargain.

But he'd lived through what the two men from last night would do-hung from his balcony forty-two stories above the street. Just before they'd left last night with his files, they'd told him if he gave Strazzi any information-even verbally-they'd kill him. Told him they'd know right away if he did because they had an inside contact, and somehow he believed them. He'd looked long and hard into the eyes of the one with the gun-dead, black, shark eyes-and seen a man who wouldn't hesitate to kill.

On the other hand, Strazzi was an unknown. His threats might be empty. There was that chance. And Strazzi's people couldn't be any worse than the two men who'd terrorized him and Melissa last night.

"Troy!"

"I don't have the files," Mason muttered, eyes down.

Strazzi banged the desk. "What!" "What!"

"I don't have the files," Mason repeated. The half million had hit his account late yesterday afternoon, as promised. "I'll give the money back right-"

"I don't give a d.a.m.n about the money." Strazzi was seething. "Where are the files?"

"I don't have them anymore."

Veins in Strazzi's forehead bulged. "Did Gillette get to you?"

As Mason was removing the files from the wall safe in the bedroom last night, listening to Melissa's m.u.f.fled sobs as she lay on the couch bound and gagged, he'd realized that only one person in the world could have been responsible for what was happening, only one person had the motive, the knowledge, and the courage. Christian Gillette.

There was no way to prove Gillette's involvement. The only way to prove it would be to locate one of the men and get him to talk, which wasn't going to happen. There were fifteen million people in the New York metropolitan area. It would be a complete waste of time to attempt to find the men. Besides, even if he could find them, they'd probably never admit to being involved with Gillette.

"No," Mason answered, glancing around the office, wondering if Gillette had bugged Strazzi's office. "He didn't." Wondering if that's what the two men meant when they'd warned him not to say anything to Strazzi about what had happened. It wouldn't surprise him if there was a bug in here. Gillette would stop at nothing. He was that driven, Mason knew. "It wasn't Gillette."

"Then what happened?" Strazzi roared. Strazzi roared.

"I destroyed the files."

"You what what?"

"Last night I reread the confidentiality agreement I signed as part of the separation agreement from Everest. It's a bear, Paul. Very tight. But what the h.e.l.l was I supposed to do? I need that million bucks." He glanced up at Strazzi. "I spoke to my lawyer. He warned me I might do jail time if I gave you those files."

"That's ridiculous. This is civil, not criminal. You would-" Strazzi interrupted himself as he stood up, towering over Mason. "Where are the files, Troy?"

"I told you. I don't have them. I destroyed them."

Gillette greeted the three Coyote Oil executives, taking their business cards without looking at them or giving them his. Cohen and Kyle Lefors had already been in here with them for fifteen minutes.

"This is Don Hansen," Cohen said as Gillette shook hands with the third man. "Don's the CEO of Coyote."

"Hi." Gillette gave Hansen a quick nod, then sat down at the head of the table. He motioned for the others to sit, too, glancing first at Cohen, then at Lefors, who had already taken extensive notes, which were now spread out on the table in front of him. "So, you have an interest in Laurel Energy?" he asked before Hansen was seated.

Hansen pulled his chair up and folded his hands together on the table. "I heard you were a d.a.m.n direct son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h," he said in a heavy Texas accent.

Hansen looked uncomfortable to Gillette, as if his suit was a size too small. As if he couldn't wait to get back to Coyote headquarters in Wyoming to put on his plaid flannel shirt, boots, Stetson, and jeans with a big silver belt buckle. "How'd you hear I was so direct, Don?"

"Your d.a.m.n partners," Hansen answered, pointing at Cohen and Lefors with a wry grin. "They've been singing your praises. Said I better hold on to my d.a.m.n wallet while I'm in here. Apparently, if I'm not careful, you'll get it from me and I won't even know you took it. They say you're one of the best d.a.m.n negotiators around."

Hansen tossed 'd.a.m.n' around as much as Faraday dropped the f-bomb, Gillette noticed. Everybody had to have their handle. "They did, huh?"

"Yup."

"Well, Don, time is money. As a CEO, I'm sure you appreciate that."

"Of course."

"So, what's your interest?" Gillette asked again.

Hansen sat up straight in his chair and forced a serious expression onto his face. "We're prepared to offer you what U.S. Petroleum did. A billion in cash for your stock, and we take over the Citibank debt."

"How exactly do you know what U.S. Petroleum offered?" Gillette asked, his eyes flashing to Cohen, who glanced guiltily away.

Hansen didn't answer for a moment. "Well, I, uh, uh . . ." he stammered.

"I told him, Christian," Cohen admitted. "I thought it would be more efficient that way. Everybody puts their cards on the table and we see what's what. No s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around."