Page 42 of Dusty
“I want to see her,” Dusty insisted, remaining standing.
“And you will. Once I have what belongs to me.” Madison set his glass down on an inlaid table. “I understand you brought the evidence she stole.”
Dusty carefully pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket—empty save for some printed pages that looked official but contained nothing of value, but Madison didn’t know that, and if things went according to plan, he never would. “First, I need to know she’s unharmed.”
“Five minutes.” Dean’s whisper sounded in his ear. He needed to stall for three more.
Madison studied him for a moment, then pressed a button on his desk. “Bring Ms. Wells to my study.”
The wait seemed interminable. Dusty could hear Dean’s occasional whispers through the earpiece—progress reports as the team disabled perimeter security and neutralized guards. Two men down. External cameras looped. Eastern access secured.
Finally, the door opened. Sharon entered, escorted by another guard. Her face was pale but unmarked, her posture rigid with tension. When she saw Dusty, her eyes widened in surprise, then unmistakable fear—not for herself, but for him.
“Dusty,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“I promised I’d always come for you.” It was impossible not to notice the joy that spread across her face, and he knew saving her, making sure she made it out of this alive, would be worth any price. “And you know I always keep my word.”
“How touching,” Madison remarked dryly. “Now, Mr. Warner, the evidence, please.”
Dusty held the envelope tightly. “My terms are simple. Sharon walks out of here, gets in a car. I have an associate waiting outside, and once I have confirmation she’s safe, you get this.”
Madison laughed, the sound devoid of humor. “You’re hardly in a position to dictate terms, Mr. Warner.”
“Maybe not,” Dusty conceded. “But you want what’s in this envelope badly enough that you had Sharon kidnapped and brought here. I’m guessing it’s worth hearing me out.”
“Seven minutes.” The words were whispered through his earpiece. Just one more. A single minute. He could do this.
Madison’s expression hardened. “What exactly do you think you have?”
“Everything,” Dusty bluffed. “Financial records. Offshore accounts. The shell companies you used to launder money for your mobster buddies. The evidence you’ve been embezzling from Kerrigan Industries. Everything Sharon discovered while working as your assistant.” He didn’t mention the murders—no sense in riling Madison up any further.
A muscle twitched in Madison’s jaw. “And you expect me to believe the original evidence is in that envelope?”
“Of course not,” Dusty replied. “Sharon took the originals to the FBI here in Chicago, who promptly tucked tail and came running to you. But she’s smart and made copies. This here,” he tapped the envelope against his hand, “Is just enough to convince you I’m telling the truth. There is another certified copy of everything I mentioned, along with a sworn deposition by Ms. Elliott in a secure location, with instructions to send them to the FBI, SEC, Chicago Tribune, and a host of other national newspapers if I don’t check in every two hours.”
Eight minutes. The team should be in position. They’d better be or everything is screwed.
Madison stared at him, calculation evident in his cold eyes. “You’re either very brave or very foolish, Mr. Warner.”
“Just a man trying to right a wrong.”
Madison stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous timbre. “Do you have any idea who I am? What I’m capable of?”
The subtle click in Dusty’s earpiece was the signal. Dean’s voice came through: “We’re in position. Distraction in three, two—”
The lights went out, plunging the room into darkness. A second later, emergency generators kicked in, casting everything in a dim red glow.
Madison turned toward his security guard, but the man was already slumping to the floor, tranquilized by a dart that had come through the now-open balcony door. Rafe stood in the opening, weapon raised.
“Sharon, run!” Dusty shouted, lunging toward her.
Madison moved with surprising speed, grabbing Sharon’s arm and pulling her back. “I don’t think so.”
The glint of metal in Madison’s hand froze Dusty in his tracks, a small knife now pressed against Sharon’s throat.
“Everyone stay exactly where they are,” Madison commanded, “or my sweet Sharon discovers firsthand how effective this knife is at close range.”
Rafe remained motionless in the doorway, his weapon still raised, but now useless with Sharon in the line of fire.
