“As you mentioned, Louis tended to get in the way.”
“Was it just Louis’ fault?”
“I think he knows it was or he wouldn’t have requested me to finish the job without him.”
“How about—”
“It’s fifty million or I’m back on a plane, Mr. Cullen. There are many other jobs available to me. Many other swells to send to hell. I’m a man in demand.”
“Very well, then. Fifty million. But I need you to agree that you’ll pay particular attention to George and Leana when you take them down. I want a spectacle. I want something big. Louis would have demanded it. And they must die last. Do the others first. Are we clear?”
“We’re clear.”
“They die last.”
“You might be missing a leg, but I’m not missing an ear. I got it.”
“Your account number?”
Spocatti gave it to him.
Cullen’s fingers danced over the keys and the money was transferred. “There,” he said. “Your first payment.” He cocked his head to the side. “I have a gift for you.”
“A gift?”
“Jason, the gentleman who escorted you here, is an assassin. He’s been briefed on every person on Ryan’s list. Under Louis’ orders, he’s to join you on this mission. From him, I think you’ll find answers to all of your questions about why Louis wants to murder the people you’re unfamiliar with. He knows their secrets. He also knows where they eat, work and sleep. He’s been covering them for months. He might prove invaluable to you, especially if you find yourself in a pinch.”
“I assume he’s gathered information on them. Do you have access to that?”
“Of course.”
“You have access to it now?”
“Everything Jason knows, I know. He gives me daily updates. It’s all tucked away in a file. He’s very good about it. And I should mention that I’ll be needing daily updates from you, as well. Unfortunately, each of us knows that anything can happen to either of you in the field. If, God forbid, something does go wrong, I’ll at least have a record of what you know and where you left off before the unthinkable happened. Then, with that information, I’ll be able to arm the next person so they can take over from there. Make sense?”
Spocatti smiled.
* * *
In the hallway outside Cullen’s office, Jason was waiting for them with his hands behind his back. When Cullen gave him the word, he returned Spocatti’s guns, magazine loader and knife.
“Mr. Spocatti has graciously agreed to take the job. He will be leading this mission. You will take direction from him and, no doubt, learn from him. It’s no secret that he’s one of the world’s best.”
Jason nodded. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“I’m not.” In a flash, Spocatti lifted his gun and shot the man in the forehead. Blood and brain matter spattered into the room as he fell back and slammed backward onto the floor.
“Oh, dear,” Cullen said. He stooped over Jason, who was busy convulsing and bleeding out, and was absolutely cool when he spoke. “Why would you ever do a thing like that?”
Spocatti put his knife and guns back where they belonged. “I don’t work with amateurs.”
“What gave you the impression that he was an amateur?”
“The weight of the guns,” Spocatti said. “He should have removed the clips. I could have threatened you in there. He should have known that you never, ever trust someone like me with a loaded gun.”
“I think he knows that now,” Cullen said. “Or maybe not. Poor Jason. Look at him―no longer moving. Eyes wide open. He doesn’t look the same, does he? Already going pale. He seemed so shrewd for someone so young. He’s probably approaching the light as I speak. He’s likely hovering above us, watching and not fully understanding. A cherub hovering along the ceiling.” His eyes flicked up to meet Spocatti’s. “What will you do now? Certainly, you can’t do this alone.”
“I don’t intend to. I’ll be working with one of my own.”
“Who?”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I know if they’re available. Or available and willing, in this case. And I’ll need that file Jason gathered for you. The one I asked you about earlier? The one I asked you about before I killed poor Jason? I assume it’s electronic. Just send it to me through an encrypted email. And do it immediately, please.” He stepped over the body and started toward the elevator. “Sorry for the mess,” he said. “Best to use bleach and one of those little brushes Elizabeth Redman uses to scrub the shit off toilets in prison. That’ll do the job. Scrub, scrub, scrub. I’ll be in touch.”
CHAPTER TWO
In the limousine, Spocatti called Carmen Gragera, the assassin with whom he worked two years ago on a Wall Street job, and again a year ago on another job in which she sought revenge for her lover’s murder. When they finished that job, she severed ties with him because she felt he betrayed her. He hadn’t, though he could see her side of it. From her perspective, it appeared as if he came close.
She answered on the third ring. “Vincent,” she said.
“Carmen. Sorry I haven’t been in touch. How are you?”
“How I am is irrelevant. It’s been a year. You haven’t been in touch because you knew better. Good for you.”
There was a coldness in her voice that caught him off guard. He looked out the window as the limousine caught a string of green lights and sailed down Fifth. “Are you able to talk?”
“Able or interested?”
“I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“I’m certainly able. I’m just not sure whether I’m interested.”
“You know I meant you no harm, Carmen. You know it turned out well, for you and the girl.”
“She has a name. It’s Chloe.”
“Fine. Chloe. It’s time we get past this.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s time for us to work together again.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I’m positive.”
“I’m not. Look,” she said. “I’d like to get in my run before it’s too late. So, why don’t we just cut the bullshit and get to the job? What is it?”
He told her.
“And the pay?”
“Ten million. Half now, half when we’re finished.”
“What’s your take?”
“Slightly more.”
“I’ll bet. You’re in New York now?”
“I am.”
“The first time we were there, it was a disaster, Vincent.”
“It doesn’t have to be this time.”
“We blew up a city block.”
“I hear they’re rebuilding.”
“The second time you crossed a line.”
“That’s only how it appeared. You saw how it went down. You killed Katzev. You got your syndicate. They’re in prison.”
She was silent.
“Look at it this way,” he said. “Four weeks, ten million, then we’re out and you’re back on your own doing whatever it is you do. I could have called others who would have jumped at that kind of money, but I called you first.”
“So, I should be flattered?”
He held his tongue. The truth was that they worked well together. The problem was that he didn’t have anyone else to call who was as good as she was. “I need to know whether you’re in.”
“I’m not the same person, Vincent.”
“Who is?”
“You need to know that. You also need to know that I won’t take your shit this time. We’re equals.”
“We’ve never been equals, Carmen.”
“The hell we haven’t. You wouldn’t have called me otherwise. If you want me, you’ll treat me like one. Take down these numbers.”
He reached for a pen and started writing the numbers on the palm of his hand.
“You’ve got an hour to get that money into my account. If it’s there, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“What time?”
�
��Morning,” she said. “I’ll take the red eye. Meet me at La Guardia. I’ll email you my itinerary when the money’s there. And Vincent?”
“What?”
“We better not be staying at some rat-infested shithole like we did on the Wall Street job. That’s not happening again. I won’t wake up to some rat staring me in the face. If I do, I’m out.”
“What if that rat is me?”
“Then I’ll know where to aim.”
The line went dead.
CHAPTER THREE
The following morning at seven, Carmen Gragera arrived at LaGuardia airport from Los Angeles with sunglasses concealing her eyes, her dark hair pulled away from her face and a tan most would envy. She traveled lightly—just one bag—which she pulled behind her in such a way that reflected the sort of elegance that came from having money and the sort of sophistication that came from frequently traveling the world.
From across the room, Spocatti watched her cut through the crowds. Although she never once turned to look for him, he knew that behind those glasses, she was scanning the room for him. When she spotted him, she gave him an almost imperceptible nod and kept walking until each was outside and climbing into the back of the same cab.
“You look well,” he said. “Better than you sounded.”
She took off her glasses and raised her chin while she studied him. “Give the driver the address,” she said. “I need a shower, coffee and something to eat.”
“Long flight?”
“The address.”
Spocatti gave it to the driver, who nudged into traffic and sped away.
“So, we’re in Tribeca now?” she said. “Good. That’s a step up from the slum you tucked us in two years ago.”
“It’s also family-friendly,” Spocatti said. “Given how much you love children, you’ll like seeing lots of happy little tots there, all bouncing and laughing not with their parents, but with their nannies. Still, better than nothing, wouldn’t you say?”
She flushed. The first time they worked together, he killed a child. He felt it was necessary. Carmen disagreed. She hadn’t forgiven him for it and he knew it. He couldn’t understand it. For someone as cold-blooded as she could be, she was unusually soft when it came to kids, so much so that she had practically adopted a teen named Chloe, whom he helped to save last year from the syndicate Carmen dismantled.
He put his hand on her knee. “Let’s go to the apartment. You can shower and eat. Then we have the whole night ahead of us to get into all sorts of trouble.”
Carmen pushed his hand away and started to talk in code while the cab zigged though traffic. “I thought we’d relax and discuss things.”
“We’ll discuss things over lunch, then we’ll get ready for the party.”
“Whose party?”
“Anastassios Fondaras is in town with that big yacht of his. He’s having a large turnout tonight. It’s a benefit for some disease that no one will ever cure, but people will turn out anyway because of the drinks, the dancing, the good meal and obviously for a chance to be seen in the society pages. It should be a swell time, something that will warm us up for the rest of your stay. You’ll be seeing a lot of people while you’re in town.”
“So I hear.”
“So, it’s settled. We go to the party. We mix, we mingle and we start your trip off with a bang.”
* * *
In their rented Tribeca townhouse, Carmen walked through the foyer, left her bag by the staircase and went into the kitchen. She took a bottle of water from the fridge and leaned against the counter.
“This is actually bordering on nice,” she said. “While you make coffee, tell me about Fondaras, then tell me what you have in mind for tonight.”
Spocatti knew plenty about Fondaras and obliged.
Anastassios Fondaras was the Greek shipping magnate and aging playboy who knew everyone there was to know in New York and who prided himself on calling them his friends and his business partners. Often both.
He knew the new money and he knew the old money, but he paid no attention to the in-between money. Despite his meager beginnings as a boy in Greece, where he grew up on a farm with parents who thought raising goats was the key to eternal happiness, he also didn’t do poor. To him, poor meant a lack of intelligence and creativity to work your way toward what mattered to him—power and wealth.
Spocatti knew this was true because once, Fondaras himself had been poor. But now, armed with a clever mind, years of hard work and a measure of luck along the way, he had a fleet of ships that transported oil all over the world and was worth several billion dollars because of it and his countless other endeavors.
For most in his circle, his world was unobtainable and unfathomable, which is exactly as he wanted it. He was like a bright, shiny lure for those who felt that if they somehow were attached to him, they could learn from him and become as successful as he.
Greed was at the root of it. Anastassios Fondaras had long ago learned how to make money with no financial investment or risk of his own. It took tens of millions to get into bed with Fondaras, but once the money was on the table and the deal was made, he could turn their money over five fold for them and at least ten fold for himself.
Events such as tonight’s party weren’t designed for his own entertainment, though given the crowd in question, he’d likely find pockets of it as he worked his way around the yacht. Instead, they were designed to invite those people who had reached a certain critical financial tableau and would offer their money to him in exchange for a piece of the Fondaras pie.
“So,” Spocatti said, handing her a cup of coffee. “That’s Fondaras.”
“What does this party have to do with us? I assume one of the ten names is on his guest list?”
“Actually, two will be there. I saw the party as an opportunity that could lessen our load as we go forward with the other eight over the next month. We already know who the people are that Ryan wanted dead. Why wait a week to figure out how we’re going to knock them off when we simply can seek them out on that ship and take them out tonight? These will be simple hits. I already have a plan.”
“Of course, you do,” Carmen said. “But I’m assuming there will be hundreds of people on that yacht, if not more. And we’ll be in a confined space, which offers its own share of problems when it comes to little things like escape. So, what’s the plan?”
“Drink your coffee. Have something to eat. When you’re finished, I’ll brief you. Then we’ll go shopping, because you’ll need something appropriate for tonight. Something that will allow you to blend in.”
“And something I can move in.”
“I have my tux with me,” he said. “I also have enough weapons here to kill half of New York. Are you game?”
“I didn’t come here to sit on my ass, Vincent. And I certainly didn’t come here to spend time with you. Naturally, I’m game.”
“I’m sorry about Alex. And I’m sorry about how things went down last year.”
“I appreciate that, but do me a favor. Don’t ever mention Alex again. What’s done is done.”
She paused and what he saw on her face is something others likely would have missed because she was an expert when it came to concealing her emotions. Still, in the instant he mentioned Alex’s name, her eyes betrayed a profound sense of loss before she could check herself. She must have loved him deeply.
“I’ll eat later,” she said. “What are your plans and who are we targeting?”
He told her.
CHAPTER FOUR
Leana Redman burst through the door held open by the doorman at Barney’s and, with her hands heavy with bags, she went to the street corner, tossed her long dark hair over one shoulder and held up one of her hands to snag a cab.
“Come on,” she said. “Come on, come on, come on. It’s more than a few bags. It’s a hand.”
To her surprise, she scored a taxi on her second try. Nothing like holding up bags from Barney’s, she thought. She slipped into the back and
put the bags next to her.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“Fifty-Ninth and Park.”
Time was tight. For the first time since she could remember, her father, the billionaire George Redman, had called her yesterday while she was en route to her hotel to ask her to dinner.
At first, her impulse was to say that she was busy, which hardly was a lie given the next four weeks that were upon her. But she was intrigued by the offer, so she accepted it. She hadn’t spoken to him in nearly three years and had to wonder why he was reaching out to her now.
“Can it be somewhere out of the way?” she asked. “Like Alaska? My face has been on every newspaper and magazine this week. You know they’re talking about me and comparing me to you and Celina. You’ve read the headlines and the stories. So has everyone else. If we are going to have dinner together, I’d rather be left alone.”
“Then we’ll eat here,” George said. “I’ll have the cook prepare whatever you want.”
She decided to test him. “Just have him make my favorite and I’ll be happy.”
There was a silence.
“But you don’t know what that is, do you?”
“I don’t.”
Why would you? It’s only been my favorite since I was twelve. “Filet,” she said. “Rare. And I mean really rare—just have the chef walk the cow by the oven. Add some greens and I’m happy. No dessert.”
“I’ll take care of the wine.”
You do that. “What time?”
“Seven?”
“Why so early?”
“We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“I know you’re getting older, but seven might as well be lunch in my world.” And then a thought occurred to her. “This isn’t about Mom, is it? Is she all right?”
Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) Page 2
