The Givenchy Code Page 12

  “Sounds perfect,” I said, unreasonably depressed at the thought of him moving to Washington. What was the matter with me? I hadn’t even known the guy for a full day. And once this nightmare was over, I fully intended to return to my regularly scheduled life. So, I’m certain, did Stryker.

  “I think it is,” he said. “I was just about to accept, actually, when something else came along.”

  Something else…

  As the boat glided north along the river, Stryker led me back to the starboard side. And as we leaned against the railing, our shoulders brushed and I felt the zing of electricity shoot through my body. No doubt about it, this man had grabbed hold of my libido, and I wasn’t certain he’d ever let go. Adreneline fueled, maybe. But it felt just as real as the flashes of desire I’d felt for other hotties.

  The boat lurched, and our bodies brushed again. That’s when I suddenly realized: I was the something else.

  The realization was both startling and humbling. I’d already thanked him for sticking with me, but in doing so, I’d only considered the impact on me. I hadn’t yet grasped the impact this damn game had on lives other than mine.

  That thought triggered a new one.

  What if Stryker and I weren’t the only ones out there playing the game? After all, in the cyberspace version of PSW an infinite number of games could be going at any one time. And in the real world, I knew of at least one other player. Jamie Tate. One who hadn’t won.

  I shivered and reached out for Stryker’s hand. He looked at me, curiosity in his eyes. I just smiled and watched the skyline pass in front of me. My mind was spinning, though, as I wondered how many targets were hidden in that maze of lights. Targets who hadn’t been assigned a protector like Stryker.

  And for just a moment, despite all the horror, I actually felt lucky.

  Chapter

  29

  K athy was waiting for us by the employees’ locker room, just like Doug had promised. She’d changed out of her work clothes and was now decked out in tight black pants and a knockoff Marc Jacobs blouse. I know it was a knockoff because I’d almost bought the same top two weeks ago at Daffy’s. Her lacy bra was completely visible, and not in a cool, Sarah Jessica Parker way. I said a silent thanks to whatever little elf had talked me out of that shirt. Photo op for Vogue, yes. Daily wear for the non-celebrity crowd? A big rousing no.

  “I hope this doesn’t take too long,” she said. “I’m already late for a party.”

  “We’ll only take a minute.” Stryker was practically dripping sugar, and I wondered if it was an act, or if the sheer blouse had worked a number on him.

  Kathy flashed him a supermodel smile, and I decided I didn’t like the girl. Right after that, I decided that whatever toxin was in my blood must be making me loopy, because I shouldn’t care what or who flirted with Stryker so long as we ended up with the next clue.

  Kathy flipped her tiny little purse over her shoulder and headed back toward the rear entrance to the office. She had us wait behind a counter, then pulled out a nondescript cardboard box from a closet.

  I held my breath, thinking she’d shove the box in our direction and tell us to hurry up about it.

  No such luck. Instead, those green eyes landed on Stryker, and her eyebrows rose into the sky. “So. What exactly did you lose?”

  I cleared my throat, and she turned, the eyebrows arching even higher as she examined me, as if for the first time noticing I was there. “I misplaced it,” I said forcefully. Stupid, perhaps, but I had no more intention of turning invisible than I had of dying.

  “Whoever,” she said, appropriately bored. “But do you want to give me some clue as to what I’m looking for?”

  “Could we just take a quick look in the box?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “No, you could not take a quick look in the box,” she said in an irritatingly patronizing voice. “What kind of scam are you two running, and just how stupid do you think I am?”

  “Fine,” I said. “You’re right, of course. It’s just that I feel so silly, I hate even admitting out loud that I lost it.”

  “Oh, Lord, if you say your diaphragm,” Kathy said, “I’m just going to have to puke my guts up right here and now.”

  Nice. “My grandfather’s pocket watch,” I said, my eyes fixed on her. I knew she wasn’t the killer. I even knew (or I was pretty sure, anyway) that she wasn’t really involved in the game. But right at that moment, I think I hated her as much as I hated Lynx. Unreasonable and unfair, but I wasn’t exactly at my best, and I make no apologies.

  “Oh.” She actually looked a little mollified, and I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling smug. Which was, in fact, an utterly ridiculous reaction.

  I held my breath and hoped our interpretation of the clue was right. What if pocket wasn’t relevant at all? I could think of lots of other time-related items: stopwatch, train schedule, calendar, alarm clock. Shit.

  It wasn’t as if we could keep tossing out random options and Kathy would keep looking in the box for us.

  If we were wrong about this, we were done, unless Stryker could work some sort of macho Marine charm action on the girl. Actually, I had a feeling that would probably work. Trouble is, I hated the possibility, and I crossed my fingers behind me, silently hoping my ploy played out.

  After a second, she popped up behind the counter, her hand closed tightly around something. A bit of gold chain peeped out from the circle formed by her thumb and forefinger, and my breath hitched in my throat.

  “You found it.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Describe it for me and it’s yours.”

  “Why the twenty questions?” Stryker demanded. “She already told you it’s a pocket watch.”

  “Look,” Kathy said. “If it’s really yours, you can have it. But I’m not here to pass out free stuff to any freak who comes along with a wild guess about what’s in our Lost and Found box. I get too many assholes every day pretending they lost a camera or designer sunglasses or portable CD players. So don’t aggravate me, just tell me what the monogram says and we’ll both get on with our lives.”

  Stryker turned to me. “Mel? You want to tell her?”

  “Sure,” I said, certain my face reflected my utter cluelessness. I tried to concentrate. Monogram, she’d said. That meant initials. But what initials? Mine? Maybe. I just didn’t know…

  “Mel?”

  “PSW!” I cried, triumphant, then immediately held my breath.

  “Right you are,” Kathy said, not looking the least bit apologetic that she’d held back what was clearly (if not truly) my property. “Here you go.”

  I took the watch that she held out, cupping it gently in my hand, afraid that if I touched it wrong, or treated it too roughly, it would freeze up and refuse to share its secrets. “We’ve got you now,” I whispered to it as we stepped through the front doors and back into the night. “Tell us where to go from here.”

  Chapter

  30

  “L ucky guess,” Stryker said as we walked down 42nd Street toward Times Square. We were still blocks away and hadn’t yet encountered a mass of tourists. Instead, the pedestrians we passed were typical New Yorkers, ultrachic and in a hurry, and they flowed around us like a current. I barely noticed. I was too focused on the gold pocket watch I held in my hand.

  “Not luck,” I said, still giddy with victory. “Skill. I told you I was good at this game.”

  I met his eyes and saw that he was grinning down at me. “Touché,” he said. “As soon as you said it, the answer was obvious. Before, though…”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t know the answer.” My tone lifted in mock horror.

  “Not a clue,” he admitted.

  I gave him points. Where battles of wits are concerned, most men think they know it all, even if they don’t. And if they can fake it, they will. Stryker was different, though. He’d proven that more than once already, and that fact was finally starting to force its way into my brain.

  “Wha
t now?” Stryker said.

  All my self-congratulations faded with that one simple question. I’d found the clue, but so far I had no inkling what to do with it.

  “No idea,” I said ruefully. “I was hoping for a watch fob. Something like a pill case that we could open, and there would be a note inside with a pill for me to take, or a tiny syringe with the antitoxin. No such luck.”

  He slanted a look in my direction. “How are you feeling?”

  Not something I wanted to think about. I just shrugged. “A little tired. A little queasy now and then. But—”

  “I know. You’d feel that way even without the drug.” He sighed, and I could almost read his emotions: there was no way we could be certain I’d been poisoned. We might be running blind, but we had to run.

  After a moment, he held out a hand. “Let me see.”

  I passed him the watch, and he popped open the face cover, revealing an obviously inaccurate time of :15.

  “The hour hand is missing,” I said.

  He held it up to his ear. “Not ticking, either. I wonder if the mechanism’s intact.”

  “Does it even have all the little gears and things?”

  “Let’s take a look. Maybe someone pulled out the parts and put your antidote inside.”

  I tried not to get my hopes up as he flipped the watch over, then pulled a pocketknife out of his jeans pocket. He flipped out the blade, then slid it into a tiny groove I hadn’t previously noticed on the watch. I held my breath as he gave a tiny little twist, and then—poof! Suddenly I was staring at a tangle of gears. The watch innards were intact.

  “Well, damn,” Stryker breathed.

  I seconded the thought. We’d solved the last clue and found the watch. But it hadn’t given me an antidote. What now?

  I held out my hand to take the watch back. “There must be another clue.” With Stryker looking over my shoulder, we inspected the watch. The dial said “Hampden Watch Company” and the casing said “Oneida.” On the back we saw a faded etching with dates (1880 and 1906!) and railroad inspector marks.

  “A clue?” Stryker asked.

  “Maybe.” Or it could mean nothing. “But what does it mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Me either,” I admitted, then sighed.

  We were missing something. Something big.

  And my time was running out.

  Chapter

  31

  >http://www.playsurvivewin.com<<<

  PLAY.SURVIVE.WIN

  PLEASE LOGIN

  PLAYER USER NAME: Lynx

  PLAYER PASSWORD: ********

  …please wait

  …please wait

  …please wait

  >Password approved<<<

  >Read New Messages<<< >Read Saved Messages<<<

  …please wait

  WELCOME TO MESSAGE CENTER

  New Message:

  To: Lynx

  From: Identity Blocked

  Subject: Patience

  Your cloudy vision will become clear when the target solves the qualifying clue, only to waver from time to time. Watch. Wait. Play the game.

  >Software Attached: TRK_TGT.exe<<<

  >Click to Download<<<

  Lynx sat at the battered motel desk, his laptop open in front of him. He’d downloaded and installed the tracking software that the game had sent him hours ago. The program, called Track Target, was currently running in the background on his laptop, flashing a single pinpoint of light on a map image of Manhattan. So far, the blip hadn’t moved. From the moment he’d installed the program, it had flashed in the vicinity of42nd Street and the Hudson River. Sometimes the blip would disappear for hours at a time, then reappear in exactly the same place.

  Of course he didn’t know for certain the nature of the tracking device. But he wasn’t a stupid man, and it was easy enough to guess. A GPS tracking chip was hidden in one of the clues Melanie was hunting for. She’d locate the clue and, without suspecting a thing, would carry it away, sending a signal to Lynx’s computer as she did so.

  The stagnant blip would begin to move, and the hunt would begin in earnest.

  He could hardly wait.

  He’d played every role in PSW numerous times, and while he’d enjoyed the role of target because of the intellectual challenge of interpreting the clues and trying to outrun the killer, he had to admit that his current role of assassin was his favorite. Particularly now that the game was being played in the real world.

  Even with the aid of the tracking device, he was thrown back to a primitive state. For one thing, the device was hardly precise, narrowing the field only to an area about the size of half a city block. Moreover, as the email stated, the tracking device disengaged sporadically, leaving him blind. Nor did he have the benefit of seeing the clues when she did, of knowing where she was going or where the clues would lead. Instead, he had to use cunning and skill. He had to hunt. Possibly find the clues after the fact and try to solve them even before she did. Beat her to the punch, as it were.

  Mostly, though, he was hunting blind. Relying on the tracking device and his own abilities.

  Heady stuff. And he loved it.

  This game was worthy of his skill.

  With his eyes fixed to the computer, Lynx drew in one breath, and then another. He flexed his fingers, imagining the cold steel of gunmetal in his hand. Soon….Soon….

  And then there it was: a single beep. One tiny sound conquering the silence in the apartment. And along with the beep, a flash of eastward movement on the screen.

  She’d done it.

  With the trill of anticipation humming in his blood, he hefted his gun and checked the magazine. A full clip and one in the chamber. Always one in the chamber.

  He took his time gathering his things. There was no reason to hurry, after all. She might be on the move, but he had her in his sights. She could run, but she could never, ever hide.

  Not anymore.

  And the beautiful irony of it was that she’d brought this on herself. She’d solved the clue, after all. She’d opened up this window to her life.

  It was, he thought, absolutely fucking brilliant.

  Whoever their benefactor was…whoever the genius was who’d brought the game into the real world and had had the wherewithal to invite Lynx in…well, Lynx wanted to grab him by the cheeks and smack a big fat kiss on his forehead.

  He loved the game.

  He loved the hunt.

  Most of all, he loved to win.

  Chapter

  32

  S tryker paused at a corner to get his bearings, then noticed a subway station across the street. The sign above the entrance noted that the line was for the F train. Perfect. He grabbed Mel’s hand and tugged her in that direction.

  “Where are we going?” Mel asked, hurrying down the steps beside him.

  “Plaza,” he said. “We need to regroup. We need to eat. We need someplace quiet to sit and think.”

  “The Plaza?” Mel repeated. “Wow, I would’ve thought we could do all that at Starbucks.”

  They’d reached the platform and eased in among the throng. “Full alert,” he said. “Don’t forget. You’re the only one who knows what this asshole looks like.”

  She nodded, then turned a slow circle, scanning all the faces. “Hardly seems fair he could be out to kill me even before we’ve found the antidote.”

  “Agreed. But we solved the qualifying clue, right? That was the watch.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. I think so, anyway.” She drew in a long breath. “What a nightmare.”

  “You ever stayed at the Plaza?” he asked after a beat, wanting to lighten her mood.

  She flashed him a quick grin, clearly aware of what he was doing. “The bar, yes. A room? No way. A little too tony for my wallet.”

  “Everyone should stay there once in their life.”

  She met his eyes then. “And this is my last chance before my twenty-four hours are up?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “No,
I’m not saying that. I’m saying that you’ve had a hell of a day and we need to hole up somewhere so we can think. And you deserve a treat. Yes or no?”

  “You paying?”

  “Blood money,” he said. “Who better to spend it on than you?”

  “The Plaza it is,” she said, as the train rumbled into the station. “Hell, I might even order room service.”

  A short ride later, they emerged at57th Street, then walked the short distance to the famous hotel.

  As good as her word, as soon as they reached the room, Mel snatched up the phone and ordered pretty much everything on the room service menu. “I’m starved,” she said, by way of explanation as he took the handset from her.

  “I know,” he said to her. To the attendant, he said, “Throw in a pitcher of orange juice.”

  She raised her eyebrows. He shrugged. “I’m supposed to be protecting you. I figure that includes pumping you full of vitamin C.”

  “Vitamins and clean living aren’t going to do it for me, Stryker.” She dangled the watch. “This is the only thing that can keep me healthy now. Maybe I should just eat it.”

  “Needs sauce,” he said, taking it gently from her hand. “Besides, you’ve got quite a spread coming.”

  “I splurged a bit,” she said with a shrug. “I figure you’re probably hungry, too.”

  What she didn’t say was that this might be her last meal and that a condemned woman was entitled to go all out.

  He had a feeling, though, that they were both thinking the same thing.

  “So,” she said, a little too brightly, “this room is even more amazing than I’d imagined.”

  Stryker looked around and shrugged. Lots of muted colors, heavy fabrics and fresh flowers. The robe he’d noticed in the bathroom was a nice touch, but the bidet was just damned silly. To him, a room was a room was a room. Mel, though, was obviously enchanted. “Yeah, it is,” he said. “It’s amazing.”

  She laughed. “You’re so full of shit.”