Free The Sign by Raymond Khoury Page B

work with him on that project of his, the biosensors, and—”
    “Reece?”
    “Dominic Reece. He taught him. He was his guru at MIT .” Bellinger shook his head, as if trying to block an unwelcome thought. “He was also in that chopper. With Danny.” He looked at Matt, as if to apologize for bringing it up. After a quiet beat, he added, “Anyway, it was a great project, the sensors would have saved thousands, tens of thousands of lives, and—”
    His phone beeped for the fourth time.
    Bellinger lost his train of thought and frowned. He ripped his concentration away from Matt and irritably fished out his phone. He grimaced as he fumbled to get to his inbox, and saw that three messages had come in from the same number.
    Not Jabba’s. The messages were all from a number he didn’t recognize.
    He punched up the last of the messages.
    The words on the small screen hit him like a sledgehammer.
    They simply read, “If you want to live, shut the fuck up and leave the bar now.”

Chapter 12

    Boston, Massachusetts

    “ I think Danny may have been murdered.” The penny-sized mike tucked away under the lapel of Bellinger’s coat sucked in the words and rocketed them over to the earpieces of the three operatives who sat in the van that was parked outside the bar on Emerson.
    The two other operatives—the ones inside the bar with the barely noticeable, clear earpieces—heard them too.
    In the van, the operative leading the surveillance team looked up pointedly at his auburn-haired colleague. She had done well. Her hands had been lightning quick, the move fluidly executed, the tag unnoticed. It had also helped that her beguiling eyes and teasing smile had distracted Bellinger. He hadn’t been the first to fall under her spell.
    But he now needed to be contained.
    The voice of one of the men in the bar shot through their earpieces. “He’s not going for it.”
    The lead operative scowled and brought up his wrist mike. “I’m giving him another prod. Get ready to move in if he still doesn’t take the hint.”
    The harsh voice came back with, “Standing by.”
    He hit the send button on his cell phone again.
----
    THE WORDS on the screen seared Bellinger’s eyes. He glanced up, his alarmed gaze raking the bar, a tourniquet of dread choking the life out of his heart. Everyone around him suddenly looked suspicious, threatening, dangerous.
    Matt noticed.
    “What is it?” he asked.
    Bellinger blinked repeatedly. He was having trouble focusing. For a confused moment, the faces in the bar all seemed to be staring at him with unbridled malevolence.
    Matt’s voice broke through again. “Vince. What is it?”
    Bellinger turned to him, his words catching in his throat. “This was a mistake. Forget I said anything.”
    “What?”
    Bellinger stumbled to his feet. He looked squarely at Matt, his eyes bristling with fear. “Forget I said anything, all right? I’ve got to go.”
    Matt shot up to his feet from behind the table and reached out, just managing to grab hold of Bellinger’s arm. “Cut the crap, Vince. What’s going on?”
    Bellinger spun around, yanking his arm free with rabid ferocity before pushing Matt back with both hands. His frenzied reaction surprised Matt, who fell back and landed heavily, jarring his head against the booth’s wooden edge and triggering a ripple of commotion that startled the drinkers closest to him and pushed them back a step.
    Matt straightened up, his head throbbing from the knock, and staggered to his feet in time to glimpse Bellinger disappearing into the crowd, rushing for the door.
    He bolted after him, ducking into his wake, into the clear path that snaked through the drinkers all the way to the bar’s entrance.
    He burst out onto the pavement and stopped in his tracks at the sight of Bellinger being manhandled by two bulky men and getting dragged into the back of a van.
    Matt shouted, “Hey,” and charged at them, only his feet had barely left the ground when he felt