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“Nathan Hamilton Bishop. Not Nathaniel, not Nate—Nathan. Born—Greenwich, Connecticut; age—twenty-eight; height—six-two; weight—185; hair—brown….”
Nathan Bishop was a scoundrel. A pig. A shark. A wolf. A fox. A dog. He was the entire zoo.
Her little voice scared the shit out of him, and he threw the cigar into the dirt and frantically looked around.
The list of things that had damaged him was not limited to Emily Webster.
“Ever since she interrupted that meeting—Jesus, was it two years ago? I’ve just . . . I don’t know, wanted to see her again.”
Emma Porter was a comfortably well-off, attractive college graduate, living in the big city and cutting her teeth as a reporter. Emily Webster was an American tragedy; the daughter of one of the richest families in the world, abducted as a child and never found. She was the twenty-first century Lindbergh baby.
He would sell the Japanese instrument of destruction discovered by the Manchurian workers, kill the daughter of the man who had killed his, and live out his days with a sense of completion, with some notion of solace.
“Sometimes the simplest solution is the correct one.”
“I want to go upstairs and do unspeakable things to you.”
“I guess this has to be a G-rated date. A kiss on the stoop before daddy comes out with the shotgun.”
Only her father, the FBI, Caroline’s family, and the person who’d masterminded her abduction knew she wasn’t dead or still a captive.
Her next memory was being in the back of a large SUV. Her father was holding her, and she was wrapped in a crinkly silver sheet and wearing a huge gray FBI T-shirt. She had been missing for one hundred and forty-three days.
She only heard him say one thing before the door shut behind her: copy that, standing by for Cerberus.
“And what do you do in your free time, Mr. Bishop? I like to do jigsaw puzzles and Emily Webster.”
“Somebody’s sending you on a wild goose chase, Charlotte.”
“Perhaps not. Nevertheless, your father took something from me, took everything from me, and order must be restored. I cannot go to Tala while this injustice lingers.”
“Not the final act I had envisioned for myself, but perhaps not the one you had envisioned either. Because, you see, unlike my perfect wife, I am not an altruist.”
For a guy who says nothing, he is the noisiest mofo sleeping I’ve ever heard.
