Natalie's Dilemma: a Frank Renzi crime thriller (Frank Renzi novels Book 7)

by Susan Fleet

  Ten minutes later, he came to a street lined with gaudily painted bungalows. Black men with hostile eyes watched as he drove by, and music drifted out of open windows, loud music with trumpets and drums. The sun was shining now, but these streets would be dark and deserted at night, perfect for his plan. Tell the nanny he was taking her and the kid Christmas shopping in the French Quarter. Drive here, find a deserted street and get them out of the car.

  By the time the nanny figured out what was happening, it would be too late. Shoot them in the head and drive away.

  No witnesses. No worries.

  The cops would assume the blacks had killed them.

  CHAPTER 29

  9:40 PM

  Natalie stood in the darkness, her body rigid with tension. Over the past twenty years, she had faced many life-and-death situations.

  This rivaled any of them. If Orazio caught her sneaking out of the house, he might kill her.

  The bedroom was silent and still. Bianca was asleep, but she often woke during the night. Natalie had told her what to do if that happened and she wasn't there. Go across the hall and knock on Catarina's door, Catarina would help her. But if Bianca noticed the open window and told Catarina about it, Catarina might tell Orazio.

  She knew he was home. Earlier he had parked the SUV in the garage. She would have heard the garage door open if he left. She had decided not to put the wedge under the door. Already Orazio didn't trust her. If he came in the room and found her missing, he would be furious. When she came back, he would be waiting, with a gun.

  Orazio wasn't her only problem. At the mall on Saturday, Conti said he'd seen Orazio get into a white limousine that morning. Conti was watching the house. For all she knew Renzi might be out there, too, waiting to arrest her. Which meant she had to avoid the front of the house, climb over the fence in back and hope no one saw her.

  According to Annmarie, the security cameras were only activated when the mobster that owned the house was here. And tonight he wasn't.

  She crept to the side window, her heart racing, her palms sweaty. Unlike the casement window facing the street, the window above the garage was a horizontal slider. She wound the clothesline around the four-inch metal handle and knotted it tightly.

  If her weight pulled the window out of the frame, Orazio and the guard would hear it and come running. Game over.

  The weather hadn't cooperated either. Not a cloud in the sky. Like a round of bright yellow cheese, a full moon lit up the garage like a spotlight. She had on her black running suit, but after she climbed out the window, she had to rappel down to the two-foot-wide gutter between the house and the steep-slanted garage roof. If anyone in the house across the street looked out the window, they would see her.

  What if someone walked past the house?

  She had to stop worrying about all the things that could go wrong.

  She looped the clothesline under her crotch, wound the cord around her palm and checked her wristwatch. 9:45. Bruce was meeting her at the hair salon at ten. Even at a dead run it would take ten minutes to get there. After she picked up the items Pak Lam had sent, she had to race back to the house before the guards changed shifts at midnight. Climb up to the roof quickly and quietly, get through the window and remove any trace of her clandestine activity.

  She swung one leg over the frame of the window, then the other, sat on the frame and took a deep breath to calm herself. The gutter was ten feet below her. Gripping the frame with one hand, she pulled the cord to take up the slack. Bracing her feet against the aluminum siding, she inched her way down. Only ten feet but it seemed to take forever. Her shoulders ached with the strain.

  At last, her running shoes landed on the gutter. She unwound the rope and flexed her fingers. Her palms were slick with sweat and her heart pounded a tattoo against her ribs. She unzipped her pants pocket, touched the iPhone Pak Lam had sent her for good luck, and zipped it shut. Aware of how exposed she was in the moonlight, she crept along the gutter to the front of the house. The guard's yellow Jeep was in the driveway. No one on the sidewalk in front of the house. No one on the lawn or the cement walk to the front door.

  Her nostrils flared. She smelled smoke. Cigar smoke.

  Her heart jolted. Twelve feet below her, Orazio was outside, smoking one of his Cuban cigars. Panic-stricken, she inched backward as quietly as she could. The scent of Orazio's cigar followed her. Could he hear her?

  Breathing silently through her mouth, she crawled to the rear of the house. The full moon illuminated the lush grass twelve feet below her. Ten feet beyond the house, a six-foot-high, wood-plank fence loomed. At one of her Taekwondo lessons she had practiced jumping from high places. But this was no practice session, this was a life-or-death leap.

  She visualized what she had to do. With both hands, she pushed off from the roof. When her feet hit the ground, she tucked her legs and rolled toward the house. If Orazio or the guard heard the thump when she landed, they would come running.

  She lay still, listening.

  Thirty seconds passed. No running footsteps. No guard. No Orazio.

  She rose to her feet and gathered her strength. Three long strides and a running leap got her to the top of the fence. Lying on her belly, she flipped one leg over, then the other, landed on thick grass and lay still.

  No lights were visible in the two-story white Colonial ahead of her. She crept past the house to the street and took off running.

  Transcontinental, a four-lane thoroughfare, was one block away. Then she had to run eight blocks south to Veterans Boulevard. The hair salon was one block over.

  _____

  Seated behind the wheel of his rental car, a black Toyota Camry, Clint yawned and checked his wristwatch. 9:55. Time for his nightly patrol. Festus had an odd name and the weirdest eyes he'd ever seen, but the former PI was indispensable to his operation, sat in his shit-brown Chevy Cavalier at the far end of the block, watching the mob house.

  Two sets of eyes were better than one, and it allowed them to take breaks. At 2:00 AM Clint went to the cheap motel on Vets Boulevard where he'd rented a room, slept for three hours and relieved Festus at 5:00 AM. Festus slept at the motel until 8:00 AM, and they resumed their two-man surveillance. A grueling schedule, but he wouldn't be here long. Take out the Brixton bitch, fly back to D.C. for the holidays and celebrate with a fine meal and some expensive cognac.

  He got on his cellphone and called Festus, who said, “Yo, Boss. Wha's up?”

  “I'm gonna drive around and see if I spot anything unusual. Call me immediately if anyone leaves the mob house.” If it was the Brixton bitch, he wanted to know right away. He touched the Beretta on the passenger seat. This time of night most people were either asleep in bed or watching TV. It would be easy to jump her.

  “Anyone leaves the house,” Festus said, “I'll dial you up right away.”

  Clint shut the phone and started the Toyota, quiet, dependable and innocuous. Without turning on the headlights, he pulled away from the curb and slowly drove down the block. Christmas lights blinked on and off inside the home opposite the mob house.

  He turned left at the next intersection. A beat-up black van was parked just beyond the corner. The same van he'd seen last night.

  Red flags went off in his mind. What was a scuzzy van doing in this neighborhood two nights in a row? No one in the cab. Were there cops inside the rear compartment? After he finished his patrol, he would come back and check out the van to make sure there weren't.

  Two blocks later he hooked a right on Transcontinental and turned on his headlights. He didn't want some dick-head cop stopping him for a moving violation. The thought amused him. He intended to commit a far more serious violation at his earliest opportunity.

  A sudden flash of motion caught his eye. Ahead of him, a dark-clad figure darted around a corner and ran down Transcontinental. He slowed down, shut off the headlights and drifted closer. Jesus fucking Christ, it was the serial-killer bitch! He'd know her anywhere. For months he had studied
her photograph, bent on revenge, imagining the pain he would inflict upon her.

  Dressed in a black running suit, Natalie Brixton was racing down the sidewalk like the harpies from hell were after her. He studied her hands. She didn't appear to be armed, but he would take no chances. His trusty Beretta had never failed him yet.

  A chuckle burbled from his mouth. He could hardly believe his luck. The bitch wasn't out for her nightly run. She had a destination in mind, running hard, arms and legs pumping.

  Two minutes later she dashed across the grassy median that divided the north-and-south-bound lanes of Transcontinental and ran down a side street one block north of Veterans Boulevard.

  He accelerated to the next U-Turn, reversed direction, turned onto the side street and saw her run through a parking lot behind a one-story building. He killed the headlights and eased into the lot. An older model blue Mustang was the only car parked behind the building. A sign posted on the wall said: Parking for HIP HAIRSTYLES only.

  The bitch was meeting someone. Not for a haircut. Not at this hour.

  He grabbed his Beretta and got out of the car.

  _____

  Natalie took a moment outside the door to catch her breath. Photographs of men and women with sleek hairstyles decorated the windows on either side of the door. A sign on the door said: CLOSED. No lights in the front part of the salon, dim light in the back. She tapped on the door.

  Moments later, a young Asian man opened the door, smiled at her and said, “Hello, Natalie. I am Bruce. So happy to meet you.”

  She stepped inside and shut the door. The faint odor of chemicals filled her nostrils. “No worries,” Bruce said. “I am the only one here.”

  They were the same height, five-seven. A handsome man in his twenties with dark almond-shaped eyes, Bruce had styled his glossy black hair in one of the mod hairdos young men favored these days. The sides were trimmed short, the longer hair on top swept back from his forehead in a pompadour.

  “Thank you so much for doing this,” she said.

  “No problem. My grandfather speaks very highly of Pak Lam. It is an honor for me to help you. Come in the back. I have something for you.”

  Beyond the reception counter, stylist chairs faced mirrors along two sides of a square room. Against the back wall on the left, a black leather chair stood in front of a sink. To the right of the sink, an arched doorway opened onto to a smaller room.

  Here the chemical odor was sharper. A fluorescent ceiling light illuminated an eight-foot counter with hair-styling products in the glass case below it. Bruce gave her an envelope that lay on the counter. “Here are the items you need.”

  She opened the envelope, took out a U.S. passport and a driver's license and smiled. The woman who prepared false documents for Pak Lam had used the photograph on her Liang Lam passport, the one Conti had confiscated. The name on the documents was James Wong. She would have to cut her hair again, but this was a small sacrifice if it allowed her to escape.

  “When we spoke on the phone,” Bruce said, “Pak Lam said you should rent a car and drive to Atlanta. His contact will meet you at the airport and give you a plane ticket to Boston.”

  She heard a strange sound.

  A small round hole appeared in Bruce's forehead. Blood oozed from the wound. Horrified, she froze.

  Gazing at her with vacant eyes, Bruce sagged like a rag doll and collapsed on the floor.

  “Move and you're dead.” A snarl from behind her.

  Her heart beat her ribs like a wild thing. Filled with dread, she turned.

  A short older man with a military buzz-cut faced her, dressed in a dark suit. His hands held a Beretta with a silencer attached to the muzzle. Aimed at her heart.

  He smiled, a grotesque smile given the circumstances. “We meet at last.”

  Shaken to the core, she whispered, “Who are you?”

  His lips thinned in a grim line. “CIA Agent Clint Hammer, at your service. You killed my friend,” he said, his pale gray eyes as cold and hard as agates.

  And it all became clear. This was Oliver's CIA friend.

  Bile rose in her throat, sour as swill. She swallowed it down. Her pulse pounded in her ears and her breath came in short gasps. How did he find her? Not that it mattered. CIA Agent Clint Hammer intended to avenge his friend's murder.

  “You seduced Oliver with your sexy smile,” he snarled. “Ambushed him in his hotel room and shot him in cold blood.”

  Her mind scrabbled for a way out. The man with the cold agate-eyes had already shot Bruce. Now he would shoot her. She had no weapon. A spray bottle of water stood on the counter, useless against a Beretta.

  How ironic. That was her weapon of choice when she had avenged her mother's murder. When a man held a gun on her in a sleazy motel, she had done a sexy striptease to distract him. That wouldn't work with Hammer, but maybe she could goad him into a making a mistake.

  “For a CIA man you're not so tough. Shooting an unarmed woman?”

  “Fuck you bitch!” he said, and stepped closer.

  Close enough for her to smell his sweat. But not close enough.

  “Oliver told me about you. He said you were useless in a fight. He said you were a pussy.”

  The man's face turned crimson. He took another step closer. “Liar! He said no such thing.”

  She inhaled through her nose, deep down to her diaphragm. Offered a silent prayer to the Vietnamese spirit gods. Found her center of power.

  Exploding in a TKD spin move, she kicked his head with all her might. The Beretta flew out of his hands and skittered across the floor to the wall. But the blow failed to put him down.

  “You fucking bitch! I'll kill you with my bare hands.”

  She tried to run past him, but he lashed out, a roundhouse punch to her jaw.

  Stunned by the blow, she backed away and tried to clear her head.

  The assassin stood between her and the front door. The Beretta lay on the floor ten feet behind him. If he grabbed the gun, she was dead.

  She glanced behind her. On the wall behind the display case was another door. She darted around the display case and opened it. Inhaling the sharp odor of chemicals, she plunged inside and slammed the door. Plunged into darkness, she groped the wall and found a light switch. She flipped it and a bare bulb in the ceiling illuminated a rectangular room with cement-block walls. The door had no lock on it.

  She was trapped inside a storage room.

  Soon the CIA man would open the door and shoot her.

  A stack of boxes stood beside the door. She grabbed the top one and put it on the floor against the door. Added another, and another.

  But they wouldn't keep the assassin out for long. She needed a weapon.

  The narrow room was eight feet wide. No windows. Floor to ceiling metal shelves lined the cement-block walls. Freestanding shelves in the center held cartons labeled peroxide and bleach. Maybe she could use the chemicals to blind him.

  She opened a carton and took out a large plastic bottle of bleach.

  Blam! A shot pierced the wooden door.

  Her heart leaped into her throat. Any second now he would break down the door and shoot her.

  But not if he couldn't see her. She heaved the container of bleach at the bulb in the ceiling. The gallon jug hit the bulb and shards of broken glass clinked onto the cement floor. The jug bounced off a metal shelf and landed on the cement floor with a thump.

  Now the room was completely dark.

  But darkness was her friend. She waited.

  CHAPTER 30

  10:25 PM

  The instant he shut the door Clint knew he'd made a mistake. The room was dark as pitch and reeked of chemicals. Worse, he could feel her presence, lurking in the darkness. The Vietnamese bitch was going to ambush him like the gooks in 'Nam, hiding in the jungle, waiting for GIs to walk down a path and hit a tripwire that set off an explosion that blew off their legs.

  The room was so quiet he could hear himself breathe. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to h
is back and droplets of perspiration ran down his forehead into his eyes. Jesus Christ! Forty degrees in D.C., sixty-five in New Orleans, the city he detested and hoped never to visit again.

  His head throbbed where the bitch had kicked him, and she was going to pay for it. Holding the Beretta in his right hand, he groped the wall with his left. His fingertips found a light switch and flicked it.

  Nothing happened. What the fuck?

  Panic hit him like a fist, the nightmare that woke him night after night and sent his heart racing out of control as he lay still in the dark. The dreaded fear that had tormented him for years. Not just fear of the dark, the belief that he would die like Oliver. Alone and helpless.

  A sound.

  Terror froze him to the spot like a prisoner shackled to a stake. He gripped the Beretta in his sweaty hands. Smelled the sweat-stink of fear issuing from his armpits. He set his finger on the trigger and aimed the weapon in the direction of the sound.

  A sharp intake of breath. The sound was close. Too close.

  Terrifying.

  If she was this close, he would have only a fraction of a second to locate her and fire. Did the bitch have a gun? If he fired and missed, the muzzle blast would reveal his position. On the other hand, if he hit her, she might cry out and give her position away.

  Then he could finish her off.

  He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. If only the room wasn't so dark and claustrophobic. His chest heaved, his lungs seeking the oxygen he so desperately needed. But his shallow rapid breaths failed to slow his galloping heart. He was no longer the powerful man who tormented others, he was a pathetic piece of shit, shaking with fear, unable to defend himself from his enemy. No one would save him.

  If he didn't conquer his fear, the serial-killer bitch would kill him.

  _____

  She heard panting, the sounds dogs made after they chased each other around a field. But the sounds were only a few feet away and they didn't come from a dog. She stayed in a crouch, one knee on the cement floor, ready to leap at him if he attacked her.