Vendetta Road

by Christine Feehan

  “Nice,” Mechanic said. He pushed down the hood of the matching Mercedes Tiptree owned.

  Ice glanced at his watch. “They’ll be out in about eight more minutes.”

  “Harbin Conner will be up in his room, like every Friday night. It will take him about four minutes before he turns on his television set. The explosives are set to go off near simultaneously,” Transporter said and rolled out from under the Mercedes. He grinned at Mechanic. “Nothing fancy. We didn’t want anyone to think this took brains.”

  The men gathered tools, making certain to leave nothing behind. All four cars gleamed under the parking garage’s lights. Code had dealt with the cameras, but it didn’t matter, they stayed to the shadows. The entire team slipped back into the night and waited.

  The four poker players came out together, laughing and exchanging quick good-byes. Dr. Mills and Dr. Tiptree slid behind the wheel of their respective Mercedeses. Monroe broke off to climb into his sporty Aston Martin. Detective Danny Sullivan preferred his SUV. He couldn’t look as if he had a shit-pile of money, and the SUV was good for off-roading.

  Waving, they started out of the parking garage. Once on the street, Sullivan turned to the left while the other three turned right. A window blew out in one of the condos above the garage, a wall of flames shooting out. Monroe slammed on his brakes and looked up as a body on fire followed after shattered glass and dropped like stone toward the street. Behind him, Tiptree’s Mercedes exploded, and immediately, Mills’s vehicle in front of him did the same. In the distance, he could hear another explosion and he sat still, his heart slamming loudly, waiting. Two heartbeats later it came. The blast rocked the car, blowing up from under him, driving him right through the roof, smashing every bone in his body.

  Czar didn’t leave anything to chance. They waited, now across the street on the rooftop, watching to make certain every one of those involved in the planning of killing socialites for their money was dead. When the last body was accounted for, Ice and Storm looked at each other with satisfaction.

  “Alena’s got Overfield at the bar. She’s looking pretty hot as a redhead. She’s all spiked out, rock-and-roll style. He can’t stop looking at her legs. Savage and Absinthe are covering her,” Czar said. “Let’s get moving. We still have all the players to get to before anyone, especially Winston, gets wind that his entire ring is gone.”

  * * *

  “Come on, baby,” Alena whined, rubbing her hand up and down Simon Overfield’s thigh as if she couldn’t stop touching him.

  He owned and worked in the mortuary where all the bodies of the murdered women had been taken. He’d gone to school with both Tiptree, the medical examiner, and Mills and had remained close friends with them. His mortuary had become a very important piece of their business together.

  “Don’t you want to dance anymore?” Her fingertips came very close to his groin.

  “I worked all day, darling,” Overfield complained. “You’ve had me dancing for the last hour.”

  She would have shot herself had she danced with him that long. He couldn’t dance. Mostly he turned in circles and stepped on her feet while he rubbed his body against hers.

  “Do you want another drink?” he asked hopefully.

  Alena was dressed in high boots, a miniskirt and a camisole that pushed her generous breasts up so they were nearly falling out of her top. She wore a bright red wig that was short with spiked hair, dark brown contacts and long gloves that matched her boots.

  She leaned in close to Overfield, one hand sliding around his neck while the other slid up his thigh to his crotch. “What I really want to do is take you into the alley and fuck your brains out. I’ve been wanting to do that all night.”

  His breath hitched. His cock jumped under her hand. She squeezed it through his trousers.

  “Please, baby, you’ve been teasing me all night.” She batted her lashes and parted her lips so the tip of her tongue touched the top of her teeth.

  Overfield grabbed his drink and tossed it down his throat so fast he coughed. “Come on, Mary, I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting.” He caught her hand and tugged until she slipped from the bar stool. He grabbed his suit jacket and led the way, nearly pulling her out of the bar. He stood just outside for a moment, looking around as if he didn’t know the proper direction to go. Alena let him, wanting him to feel desperate.

  He turned to her and she smiled and took his hand again, tugging to take him around the corner of the building into the alley. She kept walking until they were all the way in the middle of the narrow lane. A homeless man sat with his back against the wall several feet from the other end, wrapped in a blanket, talking to a second homeless man who was stretched out, looking as if he was trying to sleep.

  “They can see us,” Overfield whispered.

  She laughed. “Isn’t that hot? Don’t you want to fuck me up against the wall with them watching? How hot would that be?” She put one hand on his shoulder. “I forgot to tell you something, Simon. It’s really important.”

  “You need money?” He sounded a little disappointed, but willing.

  “No, I’m not the one taking money, that would be you,” she whispered, keeping that same smile on her face. Keeping her tone the same. “You take money to keep quiet about the murders. All those women murdered. Their voices cry out to me for justice. You wouldn’t give it to them, so I have no choice.”

  He stared at her a moment, uncomprehending. Then he began to sputter, bringing up his hands to push her away. It was too late. The long, thin dagger went right into his heart. He opened his mouth to yell, and the dagger went through the jugular in the side of his neck. Alena knew enough to stay to the opposite side so the blood spray wouldn’t get on her. She waited until he slowly collapsed to the ground, and she crouched beside him, helping to lower him almost gently.

  While he bled out, she peeled off the gloves and clothes, and then pulled off the thin plastic she had covering her clean clothing. That was crumpled up and stuffed inside her tote, which she’d already turned inside out so that rather than a bright saucy red, it was a muted mushroom. She carefully inspected her body and clothing to make certain not one speck of blood was on her.

  She wore a dark dress that fell well below the knee and sandals rather than heels. She walked to the entrance of the alley where the two “homeless” men were. Absinthe and Savage had shed their disguises, fitting them into the briefcases each carried. They were now dressed in suits and they emerged together, the three walking toward the upscale hotel in the distance.

  Once they’d passed it, Alena dropped the rolled-up plastic into one of the large hotel dumpsters and continued walking without missing a beat.

  * * *

  Cooper Knight and Bob Flannigan were doing what they usually did on a Friday night when they weren’t working. Both were very good-looking, in their early fifties but could pass for late fifties or early sixties if they needed to. Some older widows refused to look at men they considered much younger. Knight enjoyed his work. He threw himself into the role of the adoring and attentive male finding an older woman who “understood” him. Often, he had money; other times, he didn’t. Once he was officially widowed, women felt sorry for him and he was fair game. In his role he cared for the woman, and when she died, however that was—he preferred an accident—he felt sorrow for her passing.

  Tonight, like most Friday nights, they sat in Bob Flannigan’s apartment, watched porn and discussed acting technique. Knight believed himself superior. Flannigan had difficulty closing a deal with a rich widow, whereas Knight could tell when he was first introduced how big of a challenge the woman was going to be. For him, the thrill was in that challenge. Flannigan felt differently. He just wanted the job over.

  “That’s why you have so much trouble, Bob,” Knight said, leaning back and taking a handful of popcorn. “You don’t appreciate the actual work. You’re an actor. You have to vie
w yourself as an actor. You take on a role. We go to these charity events in that role. We get the list of names from Harbin and then we just walk around and talk to the various women. Sooner or later you’ll feel a connection, not between you and the woman but between whatever role you’ve chosen, that person, and the woman.”

  Bob rolled his eyes. “Seriously, Knight? You think like that? No wonder it takes you so damn long to get the job done.” His gaze jumped to the screen as he watched two women working a man’s cock. He sighed. “You ever have that? Because those old ladies aren’t going to give you that.”

  “Those old ladies have experience, Bob. Some of them are very, very good at what they do. You never look at the larger picture.”

  Bob grunted but he didn’t take his gaze from the screen. “I do my job.”

  “But you don’t enjoy it.” Knight was on a roll now, completely into the argument. “I want my woman to have the best time of her life with me, for however long that lasts. I know she’s going to die, but she doesn’t. We laugh and talk together. She falls in love. She has it all. A man who adores her. Is completely attentive. When she dies, she dies happy, not alone and sad and ill. She goes out the way she should. Then I’m not up at night thinking I’m doing something wrong.”

  “You are doing something wrong, you moron. You’re murdering a woman for her money,” Bob pointed out.

  “Not really. I earned the money. And I don’t murder her. She has an accident.”

  “Don’t get offended. You always want to talk about this, but you get offended when the truth comes out. Shut up already.”

  A voice came out of the shadows. “I was very interested in his point of view. Weren’t you, Ice? Storm?”

  Another voice answered, “I’ve never met anyone who could convince themselves that murder wasn’t really murder. When I kill someone, I know I fucking murdered them.” Ice stepped out of the shadows and knocked the phone from Knight’s hand. “Don’t be stupid, you’ve got several guns pointed at you.”

  “What do you want? Money?” Knight sounded snide.

  “I don’t need money,” Ice said. “I want you dead. Those women didn’t even matter to you.”

  “They didn’t matter to anyone but me,” Knight corrected. He narrowed his eyes as the others stepped out of the shadows. “You’re the motorcycle club. The one that took in the bitch Winston was supposed to deal with.”

  Ice casually slammed his gun across Knight’s face, opening a cut that began to bleed profusely. “No one gets to call my wife a bitch. You can apologize or I can keep going. I don’t much care either way.” He sounded bored.

  “I apologize,” Knight said immediately, reaching for the roll of paper towels they kept close. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Knight,” Bob hissed. “Shut the hell up.” He turned to Ice. “Just tell us what you want.”

  “Well,” Ice said, “I want to know how a man with your background, Bob, a man who came from a good family, with decent parents and all, thinks murdering women for money is perfectly okay. I’m very interested.”

  “Just get it over with,” Bob snapped. “I don’t need the bleeding-heart lecture from a fucking biker.”

  “I’m a fucking biker assassin, Bob. I’ve been killing since I was five years old. Grew up doing this shit, and I’m still doing it. Always envied those houses with real parents and then I come across scum like you and wonder what the hell happened.”

  Bob gave him the finger, and Ice shot him between the eyes. Knight screamed, a high-pitched sound the bullet Ice fired cut off.

  They left the movie playing with the scattered popcorn soaking up the blood, disappearing into the shadows just as they’d come in.

  * * *

  Peter Daniels entered the club feeling as if he were on top of the world. It was a good night. The best. He was good-looking and knew it. Already pushing sixty, he looked like the proverbial silver fox. He was the perfect age to appeal to both young women and older women. He’d brought in forty million dollars for his group, so he was being hailed as a hero, and now he wore the coveted title of widower, the most sought after of all men.

  Those who’d thought up their scam were pure genius, and he was willing to give them their due. It hadn’t been difficult to arrange for his “sweetheart,” a really lovely woman of seventy-eight, who was still very active, to work out, drink champagne, have sex and sit in the hot tub. She’d taken some pills to energize herself for their incredibly adventurous romp. He’d left her only for a few minutes to fix them some caviar on her favorite crackers. During that time, she must have tried to exit the hot tub, slipped, hit her head and fallen underwater.

  No one had been more distraught than he had. They’d only been married three months. The detective, Danny Sullivan, had pronounced it a terrible accident. The medical examiner had confirmed it and the insurance people had made everything smooth and easy for him, feeling so sorry that he’d lost his dream wife just when he’d found her.

  He was on a high that didn’t seem to fade as he surveyed the room. So many women. So little time. He went to the nearest bar, looking down the row of bar stools to see who might catch his eye. He felt intensely powerful and wondered if it was because he had gotten away with murder. If this was how it felt every time, he was going to work overtime to find the right woman and make her fall for him. It hadn’t been that difficult.

  There was a beautiful dark-haired woman sitting alone at a small table looking sad. She was drinking what looked to be a cosmopolitan. Perfect. She had a really good body. An amazing body. He liked what she was wearing. It showed just enough, not too much. She wasn’t putting herself on display. She wore gloves, delicate little things, to go with her perfect little black dress. He had to make a move on her before any of the other men eyeing her did.

  He ordered two drinks, one for her, one for himself, and walked over with complete confidence. “Would you mind sharing your table? There’s nowhere to sit and I’m afraid I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  She glanced up, looking annoyed at first, and then when his words sank in and she checked out his gray hair, she waved him toward the seat. He put the drinks down. “I figured the least I could do was order you a drink.”

  “Thank you.”

  She sounded shy, and the smile she gave him confirmed she must be.

  “What’s your name? I’m Peter, Peter Daniels.”

  She hesitated again. “Alice, Alice Burns.” Alena gave him her sweetest smile. Her hair was a dark mane of chestnut and her eyes were that dark chocolate she’d used earlier. It was just easier to leave the contacts in.

  “What are you doing here all alone?”

  She swallowed and looked down at her hands. “I lost my husband recently—well, it still feels recent but it’s been over a year. He . . . we . . . I own a tech business and we took our first vacation in a very long time. There was an accident and he . . .” She trailed off and then looked at Peter Daniels with her tragic face that could bring a room to tears. “I just lost him. My friends told me to quit moping, that it was time I got out of the house, but I still think it’s too soon.”

  “I recently lost my wife as well,” Peter said. “You’re right, friends push and push and they don’t understand.”

  Alena reached for her drink, knocked into his and then managed to save them both, a small embarrassed smile lighting up her face. “I was going to suggest we toast to our friends, but I’m a bit of a klutz. It might not be safe.”

  He grabbed his glass as she lifted hers. “To our friends who we both let push us around.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Alena agreed, and lifted her drink toward her mouth, her eyes beginning to dance with amusement.

  Peter took a healthy drink and looked at her over the rim of his glass. “You didn’t drink.”

  “I was just thinking about what I said. About it might not be s
afe, and how I’m a klutz. There’s a half-dozen ways I could think of that I could die just because I’m drinking this drink.”

  Peter took another long drink. The alcohol went down smoothly. He liked the way it made him feel. Warm inside. Cool on the outside. Sexy. His little widow was warming up to him nicely. He began to fantasize about how he would remove her sexy dress.

  “How could you do that?” He sipped again.

  “Well, suppose we were together and had just made love. Can you imagine that?” She put her drink down and leaned her chin onto the heel of her hand, staring into his eyes.

  Peter nearly gulped down the rest of his drink, almost choking. “I’m with you,” he said, because he was. He so was. The little minx was missing sex. He could provide that for her.

  “Right? And you decided to go into the kitchen and get us something to snack on, something like caviar and crackers. Meanwhile, I’m drinking my drink, not paying attention, and slip and fall and hit my head.”

  His smiled faded. “Who are you?” he demanded. He looked around. Seated across from their table at the bar was a man watching them. He was the scariest man Peter had ever seen. He was dressed in an expensive suit, he was bald, very muscular, and Peter could see tattoos swimming up his neck.

  “Another way would be my husband, who I believed loves me, takes my head and slams it against the side of the hot tub and then drowns me. That could happen just as easily.” She leaned even closer. “Or, someone who knows what you did might bring justice for that woman by slipping a very fast-acting poison into your drink. That would work just as well.” Alena picked up her clutch, smiled at him and stood.

  Peter stood as well, nearly knocking over the table so that the drinks rattled, and heads turned.

  Alena picked up her drink and threw it in his face. “Leave me alone. And stop following me everywhere. I’ve asked you repeatedly to leave me alone.” She marched toward the door, her head high.