The Nightmare Thief. Meg Gardiner

into the kidnap. Almost like they had a heads-up.”

      Coates stiffened. “From Edge? No way. We have zero motive to stall a scenario.”

      He glanced out the door at Reiniger’s team.

      “It wasn’t one of them,” Reiniger said. “They didn’t know when the kidnap was going down.”

      “So it was nobody. Like I said—chance.”

      Reiniger wasn’t convinced, but let it go. “I want to ask you something else.” He checked that Autumn was out of earshot outside. “I want to add a layer to Autumn’s birthday scenario. It needs to be more than a party.”

      “You want us to heighten the scenario’s intensity?”

      “It will do her good.”

      Coates considered it. “We can add a twist to the crime spree. Does she have an issue you want her to work on?”

      Reiniger wanted Autumn to learn the value of teamwork. And with her stubborn streak, she would need to be scared into learning it.

      “There is something,” he said.

      There was a big red button. Push it, and Edge would trigger a childhood loathing that had become a mulish dread.

      “You know how some people hate clowns?”

      “A not-uncommon childhood fear.”

      “Autumn hates cowboys.”

      “That’s a new one on me,” Coates said.

      “It goes back to when she was little. This guy scared her at a party.”

      “Luckily, a cowboy phobia is unlikely to impinge on modern life.”

      “But it’s silly, and she’s let it grow out of all proportion. She calls him the Bad Cowboy.”

      Reiniger had barely seen him: a staff member at the party venue, corpulent and sweating in his boots and Stetson. He had stopped unruly kids from running in front of vehicles in the parking area.

      That, apparently, was the origin of Autumn’s loathing. The man had scolded her. Sharply—which shamed and spooked her. And for a dozen years since, she had complained about it, usually at awkward moments. The Bad Cowboy had scared her. Naughty children got punished, he said. Careless children got hit by cars and killed, he said. He was creepy. Why wouldn’t Dad take it seriously?

      Reiniger heard the subtext: Pay attention to me, Daddy. Indulge me.

      “Guy was some ex–rodeo rider. Hefty kid with stitching on his shirt that said, 'Red Rattler.’ ”

      “And he dressed like he was still at the rodeo?”

      “Fourth of July party. The staff wore Americana outfits,” Reiniger said. “Here’s my point. If Autumn could confront the Bad Cowboy during the weekend—and defeat him—it would be the icing on her birthday cake.”

      “Red Rattler—he was a pro rodeo rider? You got a name for this guy?”

      “Doesn’t matter whether you track him down. It’s not the man; it’s the bogeyman he’s become in her imagination.”

      “It’s what the Bad Cowboy represents,” Coates said.

      “You got it.”

      “Psychodrama.”

      Which Reiniger wanted to kill, dead. “Maybe you could have one of your game runners dress like him.”

      Autumn came into the living room, chattering to her boyfriend.

      Coates nodded to Reiniger. “Leave it to me,” he said, and headed outside.

      Dustin Cameron, smooth and overeager, held out his hand. “Sir.”

      “Autumn’s told you?” Reiniger said.

      She looked giddy and calculating. “A crime spree weekend. And I’m going to play the queen of the underworld.” She grabbed Dustin around the waist. “You be the DEA agent who’s after me.”

      “I want a big gun,” Dustin said.

      Dustin lifted weights and tucked his expensive sunglasses in the open collar of his polo shirt. His aspirations were ill defined. But Dustin’s father was a Washington lobbyist. The boy came from a family with power and swagger. He would do well.

      And he could take Autumn places. Reiniger hoped she wouldn’t tire of him. Dustin needed to emerge from the crime spree weekend a hero. He would ask Coates to ensure it.

      Autumn squeezed the young man. “The game’s going to be badass. Absolutely goddamned badass.”

      “Autumn,” Reiniger said.

      She laughed. “I’m getting into character. One you designed.”

      Reiniger’s phone rang. He stepped away to take the call.

      “Dad—”

      He put up a hand to forestall her. “The Asian markets are opening soon.”

      He answered the call. After a moment Autumn pulled Dustin out the French doors onto the terrace. She looked stung. Reiniger walked from the room and closed the door behind him.

      In a copse of trees down the hill, Dane Haugen adjusted the focus on his Leica binoculars. The laser rangefinder gave the distance to Reiniger’s terrace as 122 meters. Through the hazy sunlight, Autumn Reiniger looked as bright and unaware as a piece of glass.

      “Photos,” Haugen said.

      Sabine Jurgens raised her Nikon and snapped a dozen shots of Autumn and the young man who was groping her.

      “My, my,” Sabine said. “Mr. Cameron is testosterone personified.”

      “What are they saying?”

      Beside Haugen, Von Nordlinger aimed a parabolic microphone at the terrace. He put a hand to his earphones. “They’re talking about the game. She just got the invitation.”

      “Record the conversation,” Haugen said.

      Von pressed a button and listened, his slab of a face thick with concentration. The earphones stretched over his pumpkin-size head.

      Haugen watched Autumn. “Does her description of the scenario match the specs Sabine pulled off the Edge database?”

      Von nodded. “Prison break . . . speedboat . . . six in the party. Autumn’s talking about who to invite.”

      Sabine snapped more photos. Her face was severe, her red hair cut boyishly short. Though she lacked any hint of softness, she moved with cold fluidity. Haugen found her stunning, in the way of an electric eel: smooth and cunning and purposeful.

      Her intrusion into the Edge computer system had found OUTLAW SCENARIO—Autumn Reiniger booked for mid-October. But that hack was now twenty-four hours old.

      “Get back into the Edge system tonight,” Haugen said. “I want details—the scenario’s starting point, the timing, the equipment Edge is bringing.”

      She lowered the Nikon. “Not all Coates’s notes go on the computer system.”

      Von said, “I can search their office.”

      Haugen turned, removed his sunglasses, and stared at Von without blinking. Von scratched his nose and shrank back.

      Haugen continued to glare. “We leave no footprints. We do nothing that could tip Edge to our existence.”

      Von looked at the ground. “Forget I mentioned it.”

      “Hardly,” Haugen said.

      But Sabine was correct: Terry Coates sometimes modified scenarios on the fly. That was why Haugen had shadowed the Edge team on today’s kidnap scenario—to see whether they stuck to the script. And, crucially, to see whether