Page 34 of Insidious Threats
Although she’d hoped this day would never come, she’d planned for it. She’d had to. She knew too many of Leith Delone’s secrets to do otherwise.
She’d socked away sizable sums of money in multiple off-shore accounts that would be difficult, although not impossible, to trace to her. She had a file full of damaging information about Leith and his various business interests. She’d had the foresight to wear sturdy, low-heeled shoes this morning rather than her sexy boots. And, most importantly, she had a head start.
She turned back toward Stasia and waved her arms. Once Amanda had the woman’s attention, she pointed toward the restroom near the entrance to the barn-turned-airport. The attendant nodded her understanding.
Amanda powered down her phone as she strolled toward the bathrooms. She casually dropped the phone into a trash bin, swung the strap of her bag across her chest diagonally, and darted past the bathrooms and out the front door. As soon as the cold air hit her face, she dropped her chin and started to sprint, making a beeline toward the cornfield.
It wouldn’t take long for Stasia to realize Amanda had done a runner. She needed to put as much distance between her and the hostess as she could. Because among the many things Amanda knew about Leith’s businesses was that Stasia was not just a former supermodel and not just Leith’s sometimes-mistress. She’d been a Mossad agent, and after she’d left the Israeli intelligence agency, she’d worked in private security until Amanda lured her away to work for Leith.
Amanda ran as fast as she could, as far as she could. When she spotted a dilapidated tool shed, she kicked at the rotting door until it splintered and then burst inside. She collapsed onto an old tarp that smelled of motor oil and mold and lay on her back, panting until she caught her breath.
When her heart rate had slowed to normal, she sat up and took stock. She’d abandoned her suitcase and laptop at the airport. She had no phone, no computer, and no clothes. What she did have was four hundred dollars in cash and her wits.
She pulled her wallet from her bag and plucked out the credit cards. She looked around the dim, musty shed and spotted an old compost bin. Holding her breath to block the smell, she opened the bin and tossed the cards into the pile of decomposing vegetables and grass, then she cranked the handle to turn the compost, shifting her cards to the bottom of the muck. She eyed her driver’s license through the plastic window. It had to go, too. She plucked it out, tossed it into the bin, and gave it another turn. Amanda Teale-Jones was now decomposing, just as surely as if her physical body had been buried beneath the earth. She thought she’d feel a certain way about her symbolic death, but she didn’t feel much of anything.
She stretched up onto her toes to peer out the small dirt-streaked window set into the shed’s back wall. She spotted a large farmhouse in the distance, with smoke curling from its chimney. The easy play would be to head for the house, present herself at the door with a story of woe, and ask to use a phone. But she wasn’t sure she’d covered enough ground. This farm might be too close to the airport. She couldn’t risk it.
She dropped her heels to the dirt floor and paced through the cramped shed slowly, studying the farm implements and assorted broken junk, looking for something that would help her. She saw nothing useful. She blew out a breath. She could make her way to the highway and stick out her thumb. Hope for the best.
She dismissed the idea. Not yet.
She oriented herself and tried to recall the location of the nearest town. Her Dryve Time driver had made an offhand remark on the way to the airport, pointing out a twenty-four-hour diner that purportedly served the best apple pie in the county. If she continued to make her way across the fields diagonally, she should hit the road into town eventually. Maybe.
Spurred on by the promise of a mug of hot coffee and a slice of warm pie, she slipped out of the shed and resumed running.
18
Sasha ended her call with Delone’s prickly attorney and wove through the concentric circle of tree-lined streets that made up the Foxwood Manor neighborhood. By the time she entered the long looping driveway that led to the Prescott family’s mansion, she was moderately dizzy. As she continued up the drive, she eyed the massive fountain in the middle of the circle. Cinco was nothing if not ostentatious.
Be fair,she chided herself. The home had been in the Prescott family for generations. Cinco hadn’t designed the landscaping. If he had, there’d certainly be a Cubist sculpture where the fountain sat.
She rounded the circle and took the dogleg that led to a drive-throughporte-cochère,then continued on to a carriage house turned detached six-car garage behind the house. She brought her none-too-clean SUV to a stop in theporte-cochère.She didn’t know why the Prescotts couldn’t just call the structure a carport like normal people, but the last time she’d been here, more than a decade ago, she’d made that mistake, and Cinco had let her know it. The termporte-cochèrehad been seared in her brain ever since, uselessly taking up space until today.
She turned the key in the ignition, killed the engine, and walked across the flagstone patio to the servants’ entrance, where she’d been told to present herself.
Eight A.M. was on the early side for a social call. But when she’d texted Cinco’s daughter, Ellie had suggested the time. It suited Sasha fine. She wanted to get this over with and get on with her day.
Connelly had once told her that Mark Twain famously said,“If it's your job to eat a frog, it's best to do it first thing in the morning. And if it's your job to eat two frogs, it's best to eat the biggest one first.”She wasn’t sure whether ATJ or the Prescotts was the bigger frog, but having them both knocked off her list would certainly improve her day.
She stared at the door. There was a doorbell, but Ellie had made it clear that it would be better if her mother didn’t know about Sasha’s visit. At least, not yet. It seemed Mrs. Prescott blamed Sasha for Cinco’s recent rash decisions.
Come on, Ellie.
As if Sasha’d summoned the younger woman, her face appeared in the pane of glass set into the door. A moment later, the door opened, and Ellie stepped outside, wriggling into a parka as she did so. She pulled up her hood and yanked the door shut behind her.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
They stood in awkward silence, eyeing one another.
“Thanks for agreeing to see me.” It was a bit cold for a standoff, so Sasha tried to put Cinco’s daughter at ease. Maybe they could go inside once she relaxed a bit.
Ellie’s eyes went huge. “Are you kidding me? Your text was a godsend. Mom and I’ve been flailing since he stopped communicating with us. We don’t know what to do. You’re a lifesaver. And, once I’ve had a chance to get Mom on board, she’ll think so, too.”
Sasha wasn’t so sure that Gillian Prescott would ever become a fan, but she let that pass without comment. She was more interested in getting an answer to a question that had been nagging her since her run-in with the P&T lawyers at the restaurant.
“You said your dad went to stay at an artists’ colony in upstate New York at the beginning of August and planned to come home for the new year.”
