From Manhattan with Revenge (The Fourth Book in the Fifth Avenue Series) (5 page)

* * *

There was only one way out and it was
through the service entrance. Would they be waiting for her there? Absolutely.
But they didn’t know when she’d come through the door, which gave her the edge.

So did the bloody chef’s jacket and hat
she was wearing. They wouldn’t be expecting her in either of them. The disguise
might buy her time, but it wouldn’t buy her much. It would take a moment for it
to register, but soon enough, they’d recognize her face. And when they did,
they’d act. She didn’t know what their orders were. Shoot her right there?
Bring her in? She had a feeling it was the latter. Katzev would want his say
for her part in killing Laurent—if that even was what this was about.

She needed something more. Something that
would shake them and distract them.

What she considered was risky, but it
might work. She pulled out her cell, which was no ordinary cell. It was a
satellite phone, which looked like a cell, only with a thick antenna on top of
it. With it, nobody could trace her. She dialed 911 knowing that.

The line rang once. When the dispatcher
came on the line, Carmen saw another opportunity. She entered the kitchen with
the phone concealing the left side of her face and walked straight across to
the double set of doors that led to the stairwell and ultimately to the service
entrance. People along the periphery. Her step was relaxed, not rushed. Nobody
stopped her. Nobody said anything.

But the dispatcher was talking.

“What’s your emergency?” the woman
repeated.

Carmen waited for the doors to swing shut
behind her before she descended the stairs and told her about the tragedy she’d
just come upon.

* * *

At the base of the stairs was the door Jon
told her about earlier. It was bolted shut, but she had his keys. After several
tries, she found the right one and then waited for the sound of sirens to
arrive outside.

It took five minutes and when they came, they
arrived in force, as she knew they would. She did, after all, call in a triple
homicide.

She told the dispatcher that there were
multiple stabbings on the sidewalk between St. Bartholomew’s Church on Park and
Fiftieth Street. “You’ll find them on Fiftieth,” she said breathlessly to the
dispatcher. “Right across the street from the Waldorf. Three people on the
sidewalk. I think they were robbed. One might still be alive. Please, hurry!”

She waited until she was sure the police
were there and then she unlocked the door and stepped out.

It was still raining.

The night sky was alive with the sound of
sirens and the rapid movement of flashing lights. People were gathering.
Some—the cops—were shouting.

Ahead of her, on the sidewalk, were two
hulking men. Both in black. She looked left and right. Saw cops checking the
street. Saw bellhops and valet drivers watching the action. Saw one of the two
brutes turn to look at her. Dismiss her. Then turn to look at her again. She
saw him nudge his partner’s arm as she walked to the street, which now was
clogged with traffic. A cop was preventing any movement from going forward.
This was a potential crime scene. Another cop was on Park, where the traffic
was moving.

She started to walk toward him.

The two men watched her. Her hand was on
her Glock. Her heart hammered in her chest, not so much out of fear but because
of the thrill of knowing that she had outwitted them.

As she walked near them, she looked at
each of them. Recognized one of them from a job she did years ago, though she
couldn’t remember his name. She saw the anger on their faces. The resentment of
what she’d created. They knew she set this up. It was as clear as the lights
strobing across their pissed-off faces.

“Tell Katzev to fuck off,” she said to the
one she recognized. “And then tell him to watch his back.”

“You’re going to die, Carmen.”

“You think so?”

“Just a matter of time.”

She walked past them. Heard the rain tap
against her hat. Wondered if they’d make a move. Wondered if this was it.
Without Alex in her life, a part of her didn’t care if her time was up. A part
of her would be happy to be nailed in the back of the head and go straight into
the darkness where Alex would greet her. She missed him that much. More than
anything, she wanted to be with him again. But because of what happened to him,
a larger part of her wanted very much to stay alive and do what she’d set out
to do. She returned to Manhattan for revenge. She planned to make them pay for
what they did to him. And to her.

“I guess that’s true for each of us,” she
said over her shoulder. “Katzev is cleaning house. You two might be next. I’d
give some thought to that if I were you.”

“You won’t make it, Carmen.”

“Knowing Katzev, you might not either. But
look at me. Keep your eyes on my ass, boys. I’m walking away from you right
now.”

CHA
PTER SIX

She awoke the next morning at a Holiday
Inn Express on Union Street in Brooklyn. It was a shithole, but it was next to
the subway and it was out of Manhattan, which was good enough for her.

When she checked in late the night before,
the woman at the reception desk said in a drowsy, monotone voice that they were
happy she chose the Holiday Inn Express and how wonderful it was to have her
there. The rest was just as canned, which Carmen sometimes liked to toy with,
especially when she was as stressed as she was then. Verbally boxing with
someone relaxed her.

She appraised the woman behind the
counter. Dry blonde hair ruined from a kitchen-sink dye job. Heavy red lipstick
that drew attention to a chipped front tooth turned yellow from smoking. Heavy
makeup that was darker than her natural skin color and that stopped at her
jawline. She hadn’t blended it down toward her neck. She looked ridiculous.
Carmen watched her go through the motions of customer service as if connecting
with a customer was the last thing she wanted to do.

Let’s see what she’s got.

“How was your day?” the woman asked.

“Murderous,” Carmen said.

“Sorry to hear that.”

“No. Literally, it was murderous.”

The woman lifted her eyes to her.

“I can’t believe I got through it. It
almost killed me.”

The woman swiped a card through a machine,
tucked it in a small, used envelope that read
Holiday Inn Express
, and
went back to the script she’d memorized from years of repeating the same rhetoric.

“We at the Holiday Inn Express want you to
know that we have complimentary coffee, juices, and breakfast items in the
morning. Our complimentary breakfasts, which are free to our valuable
customers, are available from 6 a.m. until 10 a.m. We are known for our
cinnamon rolls. You will love them.”

“I usually sleep until eleven.”

“Then you will miss breakfast.”

“You won’t hold it for me?”

“We can’t do that, ma’am.”

“Why?”

“Policy.”

“More likely, the proliferation of
bacteria.”

The woman blinked.

“About the rolls,” Carmen said. “I’m
allergic to cinnamon. Anything you can do about that?”

“There’s fruit.”

“No cinnamon-free rolls?”

“Fruit.”

“Oranges?”

“I have no idea.”

“Grapefruit?”

“I know there’s a carousel of cereal.”

“A carousel?”

“Four different kinds. You like fruit?
We’ve got Fruit Loops.”

“How’s the coffee?”

“Hot.”

“Does ‘hot’ mean ‘burned’?”

“We don’t burn our coffee.”

“Can you guarantee that?”

“No.”

“Do you have an egg selection?”

“All that’s hot is the coffee. And the
toast.”

“That sounds limited.”

“It’s complimentary.”

“At these prices, it isn’t.”

“The Holiday Inn Express offers reasonable
rates that help you stretch your dollar. Will this be on your credit card?”

“Cash.” Carmen gave her the money, took
the change, and pocketed the card the woman swiped earlier.

“That’s the key to your room.”

“I gathered that.”

“Fourth floor. Take a right at the
elevator. Have a lovely stay.”

“Will I see you at breakfast?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s on me. I’d love to sit and talk.”

“Have a lovely stay, ma’am.”

“I can’t imagine I won’t.”

She didn’t, not that that surprised her.
If she thought last night that a walk in the city would help to clear her head
because she couldn’t sleep, then what took place because of that walk made
sleep impossible.

Since at least the bath towels smelled of
bleach, she covered the top of the bed with them before lying on top it.
Spocatti encouraged her to think beyond Katzev and the syndicate. He wanted her
to consider all her hits before assuming it was them. She trusted him, so she
thought it through.

When she told the men last night to tell
Katzev to fuck off, neither looked bewildered at the use of his name. They just
fired back at her, which told her two things, neither of which provided a
concrete answer. If they were well trained, they wouldn’t have reacted at the
mention of his name. Let her believe what she wanted to believe, especially if
Katzev wasn’t involved. On the other hand, if Katzev was behind this, the same
was true. Show no knowledge of his name, which they didn’t. Doing so would only
tip her off.

Is it Katzev?

She didn’t know. Before she and Alex left
for Bora Bora, they warned the syndicate that if they came after them for
killing Laurent, they would send everything they knew about them to the press.

Admittedly, that wasn’t much of a threat
because the syndicate worked behind a cloak of privacy that was fairly
airtight. Katzev and the syndicate knew that. Still, as with any
threat—and if they were indeed behind this—they took it seriously,
tracked them down, killed Alex and nearly her.

With the syndicate, everything was handled
over secure lines. E-mail addresses were constantly changed and associated with
accounts in third-world countries. Whenever they paid her for a job, it was
from a numbered Swiss bank account with no name attached to it.

In the seven years she’d done jobs for
them, she only saw Laurent twice. First, when he courted her to work for them,
and then at the end, when she helped to kill him. She’d never seen Katzev or
any other members of the syndicate. With the exception of Katzev’s fake Russian
accent on the other end of a phone, everyone associated with the syndicate was
foreign to her.

As much as she respected Spocatti, she
knew in her gut that it was Katzev and the rest of the syndicate who were
behind this. They had a direct reason to come after both her and Alex. They
wanted their revenge for the loss of Laurent and they got it. At least partly.

But how did they learn they were there? If
Jake was legit and he was friends with Alex, it was possible that Alex told him
where they were going and that Jake sold the information to the syndicate. It
also would explain why he sold her out last night.

Start at the beginning.

Before they killed Laurent, why would the
syndicate want her and Alex dead? Alex worked with them more often than she
did. Did he stumble upon something he shouldn’t have? Something that
incriminated the syndicate? Did they think he shared the information with her?
It was possible, but how did they find out? She knew Alex kept an apartment in
the city, but the syndicate also knew that and at this point, she knew they
already had gone through it and taken any incriminating evidence. If there was
any.

She checked the time. In an hour, she’d
meet with Spocatti’s elderly, nameless contact. She needed to shower. She’d
have to wear the same clothes, but so be it. Until this was resolved, going
back to her apartment was out of the question. She needed to set up shop
somewhere else, so it might as well be there.
 

CHA
PTER
SEVEN

The address he gave her was 118 East
Sixty-First Street, which turned out to be a brick-and-limestone townhouse
protected by a black iron gate connected to four limestone columns, on top of
which were two original iron lamps.

There was a large maple tree in front,
which was a few leaves shy of being fully exposed to the waning days of fall,
and a doorbell on one of the posts, which she pressed.