Chapter 15
COLE
Jacobson insists it isn’t safe for me to drive to the Andersons. He’s not just considering Nikolai Tarasov’s threat. He’s considering the reporters, too.
A satellite truck now blocks half the street.
The scrum of reporters grows thicker by the hour.
The indictment was intriguing enough, but my clients are starting to make public statements.
Half the moguls I met in Idaho are claiming they’ve never seen me before.
Everyone from The New York Times to tech-bro podcasters wants my reaction on the record.
“I’m not asking permission,” I say to Jacobson. We’re standing beside the Camry I always drive to the Andersons. The flat of my bodyguard’s hand is planted against the driver-side door, keeping me from getting behind the wheel.
“You’re the client,” he says. “You don’t need my permission. But Sawyer Best says you’re the best hacker he’s ever met. So I’m certain you understand logic.”
There isn’t any logic to the situation. I’ve tried Linda Anderson’s cell phone three times. She isn’t answering. Mr. A either. Every minute I delay, the threat grows.
And the threat isn’t just Nikolai Tarasov. I have to believe he’ll hold onto his shiny new weapon until next Friday, the newest deadline he’s set. I want to believe that, anyway. He might decide to take out the Andersons just to prove he can.
No. The real threat is that the man and woman I’ve thought of as my parents for the past thirteen years have just learned I’ve been lying to them every single time I’ve set foot inside their home.
The indictment’s not a problem—they’ve known about every count of fraud since I went away to juvie. But it’s my billions. It’s Lone Wolf. It’s the fact that I’ve purposely disguised every single detail of my actual life. I’ve lied with every word I’ve told them since I walked out of juvie.
I’ve paused long enough that Jacobson thinks he has permission to continue. He steps close enough for me to smell his aftershave. “The boss says this operation isn’t secure.”
“It isn’t. One of your men is talking to Tarasov.”
He grimaces. “The only way to change that is to set a trap. Feed false information to the team, one by one, and see who bites. But that takes time.”
Or you can torture everyone until someone breaks--that’d be a hell of a lot faster. And I’ve got a room you can use, right downstairs.
Jesus Christ. I’ve spent too much time working for mobsters. Or supporting Kate.
“I don’t have time,” I say.
“You can’t drive out of here without a full team—advance car and a tail car at least. I’d prefer you have a decoy or two.
Call it a minimum of eight men. And the whole time we’re setting that up, we won’t know if the weak link is with you, or if we’re leaving him back here.
Wherever he is, only half my men will be around to neutralize him. Are you willing to take that risk?”
I have to get to the Andersons. I have to plead my case. “I don’t have a choice,” I say.
I step toward the Camry with the confidence of a seasoned grifter closing the deal on the long game.
But there isn’t any con here. If Jacobson doesn’t move, I’ll be forced to draw on my krav maga training, and I’m willing to bet he has his own closet full of black belts.
There’s no way we’ll both walk away unharmed.
“I’ll drive you,” Jacobson says.
I freeze.
“Just you and me. The Escalade has black-out windows. No one will know you’re inside. No one will think you’re stupid enough to go anywhere without a team.”
A thought flickers across my brain—Jacobson could be the mole. If he gets me alone he can get rid of me easily enough, krav maga black belt or not. Tarasov will be married to my widow before sunset tomorrow.
But Best said Jacobson is his top man. And the clock is ticking. I have to get to the Andersons before their hurt sets in so deep it can never be dug out.
“Let’s go,” I say.
It takes almost five minutes to clear the crowd at the gate.
But after that, with the address set in Jacobson’s GPS, his full attention is on safe transport—constant surveillance of the road in front of us, both side mirrors, the rear-view.
He changes lanes like he’s performing brain surgery.
He follows the posted speed limit as if it’s a religion.
I spend the drive watching the disintegration of my life on my phone.
Termination notices are starting to hit my inbox.
A few long-time clients take time to write apologies—they have to be accountable to their boards of directors, they truly wish me well.
Most simply say I’m fired. I’ll be lucky if I work for a single bank or Fortune 1000 by the end of the day.
The street is quiet when we pull up in front of the Andersons. Impossibly, it’s only four in the afternoon.
The July sun is bright through the leaves of the dusty trees that line the sidewalk, and the Andersons’ lawn is parched.
If this were an ordinary visit, the last Sunday of the month, I’d head straight for the garage to set out a sprinkler.
I’d use the oscillating one, the top-of-the-line model I convinced Mr. A to splurge on at the end of last season.
I picked it up for him at the hardware store, running in while he sat in the car.
I told Mr. A we were lucky to get an end-of-season discount, a steal at $9. 99. I tossed in another forty bucks.
I’m not here to help with the yard work.
“Ready?” Jacobson asks.
“You’re not coming.”
“All those arguments about your safety? They run double out here in the field.”
I turn on my phone’s video recorder, switching the camera so it captures my face.
“To whom it may concern,” I deadpan. “I assume full responsibility for any bodily harm occurring as a direct or indirect result of my ignoring the advice and recommendations of Anthony Jacobson and Sawgrass Corporation, up to and including death.”
I hand my phone to him. “Here,” I say. “Send it to yourself. I won’t be needing it inside.”
The sun bakes the back of my neck as I head up the walkway alone. I climb the three steps to the porch. I open the screen door and knock three times, the quick salute of someone used to being welcomed.
Nothing.
I press the doorbell, remembering the time the button stuck, and Mrs. A called the fire department because she was afraid a wire would overheat inside the walls.
Nothing.
Letting the screen door close, I step to the very edge of the porch. I shield my eyes from the sun and peer through the window, trying to see past the olive green curtains to the familiar living room.
I can’t see a thing.
Sighing, I backtrack down the steps. It only takes a moment to locate the fake rock under the hedge, the stone with a storage compartment that Mr. A insisted no one would ever dream of finding.
The key inside feels cool in my fingers as I return to the front door.
It slides into the lock as if it was oiled yesterday. It turns without a hitch.
The door catches on its chain.
“Mrs. A!” I call. “Mr. A!”
Linda Anderson steps into my narrow frame of view. “Go away, Cole,” she says.
“I need to talk to you.”
She starts to close the door, but I shove my foot into the gap.
“There’s nothing we need to say,” she says.
“Please, Mrs. A,” I beg.
She leans on the door, but she isn’t willing to use enough force to bruise my foot.
Taking that as a good sign, I say, “I want to explain.”
“Explain what?” she asks, her voice quivering. “Explain that you’ve lied to Evan and me for thirteen years?”
“The indictment was sealed. It was never supposed to become public.” Immediately after I say the words, I know that was the wrong place to start.
“Cole Plutus Wolf, you know Evan and I never gave a damn about that indictment.”
In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never heard Mrs. A swear. The trembling of her lower lip shreds something deep inside me.
“This isn’t about the indictment,” she says. “This is about your lying every single time you visited our home. A billionaire, Cole? With a B? How hard did you laugh at Evan and me, doing our best to get by on our school district salaries?”
I try to stay calm, but panic makes my palms clammy. “I never laughed at you.” I have to convince her. I have to make her understand. I say the words Kate taught me to say. “I love you.”
She bursts into tears. “Y— You have an awfully peculiar way of showing it.”
“Mrs. A… Please… I knew you wouldn’t approve of what I did when I first got started—hacking, breaking into places I shouldn’t have gone.”
She sobs even harder.
“And when I turned things around, when I got legitimate clients, I couldn’t explain why they would ever trust me when I was just a kid.”
She makes a sound like I’ve plunged a knife into her kidney.
“It all happened so fast, the stories I told you.”
“Not stories,” she says through her sobs. “Lies.”
“Lies.” In my eagerness to make her understand, I agree. “They got too big. I couldn’t just change course in the middle. I was trapped. There was no way out.”
She wails.
“Mrs. A!”
The pressure on my foot eases. I glimpse Mr. A hovering beside his wife, folding one arm around her shoulder. He eases her away from the door and over to a chair. Frantic, I clutch the doorknob, trying to push the door open, longing to reach them, desperate to help.
Mr. A comes back to face me. “It’s time for you to leave, son.”
“No! Not yet. Let me come in. Just five minutes.”
He shakes his head.
“Two,” I bargain. Then: “Just give me sixty seconds. Please, just let me explain.”
“You’ve already explained enough.”
“I didn’t do it right. You still don’t understand. You don’t have all the facts.”
He sighs, the deepest and heaviest sound I’ve ever heard. “Are you a billionaire, son?”
I look straight into his exhausted eyes. “Yes.”
“There,” he says. “That’s the only fact we need.”
He starts to close the door, but I stop it with my palm. “Wait!” I lower my voice because I don’t want to distress Mrs. A any more than I already have. “You aren’t safe here. There’s a…business associate of mine who’s made threats.”
Mr. A glances at his wife, then steps closer to the door. “What kind of threats?”
“Ones my security team and I take very seriously. I need you to come with me now. Take five minutes, pack a bag, but it isn’t safe for you to stay here.”
“Oh, Cole,” he sighs. “What the hell have you done?”
And that’s the first time I’ve ever heard him swear. I can’t begin to answer his question. Instead, I say, “I’ll put you up at a hotel. It’s not safe for you to be in this house.”
After a moment, he shakes his head. “Thank you for the warning. Take care, now.” He starts to close the door.
“Evan!” I beg.
“Cole,” he answers evenly. “How do I know you’re telling the truth now? This could just be one of the stories you made up—like working for a defense contractor. Like marrying that girl.”
“I did marry Kate. And I’d never lie about your safety. How can I prove that to you? What can I do to make you understand?”
He shakes his head sadly. “Nothing. Even if you’re right, and someone wants to hurt us, that’s all because we welcomed you into our home.
But you aren’t welcome here any longer. And the sooner you leave our doorstep, the sooner your business associate will figure that out.
The sooner Linda and I can get back to living our ordinary lives in our ordinary house, with our ordinary jobs that we’ve never had to lie about to anyone. ”
“I understand you’re angry. I know you’re hurt. But you can’t just—”
“Goodbye, Cole. Don’t call us again.”
He closes the door in my face.
The trip back to the SUV is the longest walk I’ve ever taken in my life. Jacobson sits behind the wheel like a crash-test dummy, staring straight ahead. “I need a full security team out here,” I say. “Now. And they need to keep the Andersons from ever suspecting they’re under my protection.”
“It’ll take—”
“Now,” I repeat. “I’ll pay whatever it costs.” If I’m going bankrupt, this is the best way I can think of to blow the last of my funds.
Jacobson places a call before we pull away from the curb.