“I didn’t even know who you were trying to hit at the rally,” I tell him.

“That’s what’s so interesting about fate, isn’t it, Dante?” Du Pont hisses. “I knew all about you in Iraq, even before I ended up in a unit with your spotter. You were a hero to those boys. To me too, when I first got there. I wanted to meet you. A couple times it almost happened. One night we were both at the al-Taji base, close enough that I could see your back, sitting in front of the fire. But something always intervened to keep us apart. And after a while, I started to think it was better that way. Because I wanted to beat your record. I thought it would be so much more fun if the first time we met, face to face, I could tell you that. Then you went home, and I thought, ‘Perfect. Now I know exactly what number I have to beat.’ ”

I’m in agony listening to this bullshit. I don’t want to hear about this ridiculous military rivalry between us that existed only in his head. I want to know where Simone is right now. I need to hear her voice to know that she’s safe. But I’m clinging to every shred of patience I can muster, so I don’t antagonize this psychopath more than I already have.

“Then they sent me back,” Du Pont says, with an edge of bitterness in his voice. “And I never hit that number.”

I already know he wasn’t “sent back.” He was discharged for being a nut job. But I doubt he’s going to acknowledge that, and I certainly don’t need to bring it up.

“I thought that was the end of our parallel paths,” he sighs. “Until Jack died.”

“You know I didn’t kill him,” I say. Not because I give a fuck what Du Pont thinks about it, but because I don’t want him taking it out on Simone.

“I know exactly what happened!” Du Pont spits. “Though it took me months to get the real story. You all covered your asses, kept your own names out of the papers. Let them write about Jack like he was a fucking criminal like the rest of you. When he WASN’T!”

“He was Callum’s bodyguard,” I say, not asserting one way or another if that likewise made Jack part of the Irish mafia, or only an employee. “They were friends.”

“Friends,” Du Pont sneers. “Do you drive your friends around like a servant? Do you open doors for them? Those Irish fucks treated him like a dog, when our family has ten times the pedigree of theirs.”

There’s no point arguing with him. I know that Cal cared about Jack. He was devastated and guilty for months after Jack’s death. It took him a long time to forgive Miko, even after Mikolaj married Cal’s sister. Callum probably wouldn’t ever have forgiven him, if Mikolaj hadn’t saved Nessa’s life.

But none of those things are going to make Du Pont any less angry at our families. We walked away from that battle with our families intact. Christian didn’t.

“What do you want?” I repeat, trying to get him back on track. I don’t give a shit about his grudge. I only care about Simone.

“It’s not what I want,” Du Pont says, in a calmer tone. “It’s what fate has decreed. It’s brought us together again, Dante. It’s making us face off against each other, just like we did in Iraq.”

Following the musings of a madman is exhausting. I never knew Du Pont in Iraq. But he thinks we had some kind of rivalry. Like Nero guessed, it appears that he wants to reignite it here and now. He wants the showdown he was denied.

“That’s what you want?” I say. “A competition?”

“It seems the most fair way to resolve our conflict,” Du Pont says, dreamily. “Tomorrow morning, at 7:00 am, I’m going to release the beautiful Simone into the wild. I’m going to hunt her like a deer. And I’m going to put a bullet in her heart. I’ve told you the time, and I’ll text you the place. You’ll have your chance to try to stop me. We’ll see whose bullet finds its mark first.”

This is not at all what I thought he was going to say. My hand trembles around the phone. I would give anything to be able to reach through the space between us, to tear out Du Pont’s throat.

“I’m not fucking playing games with you!” I shout. “If you put one fucking finger on her, I’ll eviscerate every last Du Pont on this fucking planet, starting with that old bitch Irene! I’ll track you down and rip your spine out, you—”

He’s already hung up the phone. I’m shouting at nothing.

Actually, I’m shouting at my son, who’s been watching me this whole time with his big, dark eyes, hands clenching the blanket still laying across his lap in the backseat.

I’m shaking with rage, I can’t help it.

That lunatic has Simone. He wants to shoot her right in front of me tomorrow morning.

“Is someone gonna hurt Mom?” Henry whispers.

“No!” I tell him. “No one’s going to hurt her. I’m going to get her and bring her back. I promise you, Henry.”

It’s the first promise I’ve ever made to him.

I’ll keep it, or I’ll die trying.

37

Simone

I’m lying in the back of the painter’s van, with my arms zip-tied behind me.

It’s extremely uncomfortable, because Du Pont isn’t driving carefully. Several times when he’s taken corners too fast, I’ve gone rolling over, slamming into the wheel well, or the ladders, buckets, and bags he’s keeping back here.

He’s taped my mouth, but I wouldn’t talk to him anyway. It’s irritating enough listening to him hum while he drives. His humming is atonal and repetitive. Sometimes he taps the steering wheel with his long fingers, not exactly in beat with the humming.

It stinks like paint and other chemicals back here. I’m trying to breathe slowly and not cry, because if my nose gets stuffy again, I’m afraid I’m going to suffocate with this tape over my mouth.

I heard Du Pont’s conversation with Dante. He wanted me to hear it.

It seems like some kind of sick joke. I can’t believe he actually intends to let me loose, just to shoot me.

I don’t understand why he’s doing this. I didn’t have any part in his cousin’s death. I wasn’t even in the same country at the time.

Though, of course, that’s not why he kidnapped me.

He wants to torment Dante.

And he thinks the best way to do that is through me.

He doesn’t know we just had a fight. Thank god for that. My body shakes as I realize that if he knew about the fight, if he knew what we were talking about . . . he would have kidnapped Henry instead. He doesn’t know that Henry is Dante’s son. That’s the only thing I can be grateful for right now. The only thing helping me to hang onto a semblance of calm.

I don’t actually know where Henry is . . . but I have to believe he’s safe, either with Dante, or somewhere in the hotel, in which case he’ll find his way back to my parents again. Wherever he is, it’s better than the back of this van.

God, I’ve got to get out of this. I can’t let this psychopath kill me. Henry needs me. He’s so young, still. He’s already lost Serwa, he can’t lose me, too.

I look around wildly for something I could grab. Something I could use to escape. A knife, a box cutter, anything.