Calvin slowly idled the Humvee a few car lengths down, the short trip taking forever. With anticipation gnawing at him, Domenick was more than ready, the waiting game long played out. He wanted his money back, a few deserved deaths at his hand. Small desires, and it was taking a long time to get there.
“I’ll stay here. Keep the engine running.” Rubbing his hands in front of the heater didn’t warm him much, not through his layers of gloves, but he’d learned visual cues work best on his nephew. “Take the automatic and get things done. That’s all I’ll say.”
“You mean … you’re not goin’ with me?”
Dumbfounded, Domenick glared at his nephew. “What? You some lil kid needs hand holdin’? I pay you, don’t I?” A stupid, bobble-headed nod. “I’m the boss. Do your damn job and quit bitchin’ about it.”
“Right.” Calvin grabbed the rifle from the backseat. Then he gulped, gulped for God’s sake! “Um, should I still wear my mask?” He pinched it away, letting it snap back into place.
“Think about it, dumb ass. You might need it.”
Realization appeared to slap Calvin upside the head, something Domenick considered making a physical reality. Yet he continued staring blankly at Domenick.
“Just get it done, already. Don’t come back without the money.” He gave him an imperious wave of the hand, dismissing him.
Domenick watched as Calvin hopped over a snow drift to where the sidewalk presumably lay. With ginger steps, he leaped through the snow, hopscotching toward the inn. Afraid of getting his feet wet, the world’s worst enforcer. Domenick seriously needed to think about doing some downsizing, nephew or not.
Finally, Calvin climbed the steps to the wrap-around porch, reached the door, rifle hidden behind his back, and knocked. Knocked, for God’s sake. Domenick never knocked, wouldn’t even consider it, his reputation a skeleton key to the world. He went where he wanted, took what he needed, no invitations necessary. At the doorstep, Calvin lifted his hands and shrugged.
Domenick jabbed at the window release, missing it the first few times in his fury. With a whir, the window lowered. “Idiot! Don’t fuckin’ knock! Just get in there! Whatever it takes!” Frustrated, Domenick sat back and turned up the radio. Then his nephew vanished into the dark mansion.
*
Headlights swept up behind Brad, the Humvee careening down the road. As he lowered into his seat, he watched two men drive by. Based on a quick assessment, the guys looked out of place — not the sort of yokels he’d expect to find in Hilston, Missouri — dressed in expensive outerwear.
Grand Central Station in a snow storm.
The driver got out and staggered toward the car next to him. By his unsteady gate, he looked drunk, maybe just a pussy afraid of the snow. Suddenly, he jabbed a knife into one of the tires. Then flattened another.
What the hell?
Then the Humvee moved forward a bit and stopped. The driver exited carrying what looked like a rifle. Brad thought things were about to get interesting.
Just what kind of inn is this anyway?
Maybe these guys were after Rebecca’s new boy-toy, also; one of those serial, love-‘em-and-leave-‘em assholes. At first, the idea tickled Brad. Then not so much. It had to be his kill, by his hand. Nothing less would satisfy. Probably the only thing that would make his night worse was someone wasting Rebecca and her lover before he had a chance to.
Dammit. One thing after another.
He’d been about ready to make his move, too. The inn’s lights had gone out; not much action since he saw the old couple leave and go around to the eastern side of the house. A jolt of pain reawakened his headache, a sure sign he needed to be proactive instead of waiting for shit to happen.
He popped open the gun and counted the brass casings through the clip’s holes. Loaded and ready to go, something he already knew. But it pays to be careful. Braced for the cold, and fully embracing what lay ahead, he opened the car door …
*
Almost 9:00 and Harold couldn’t stand it any longer. He’d listened carefully, waiting as impatiently as a man on death row. There were no moans of ecstasy, no beds rattling. Honestly, he had no idea how an orgy sounded, just his rich imagination at work.
But the thought of exclusion hurt. Even though he didn’t particularly care for people, he still wanted to be invited. Something. Right under his nose, people were swapping sex partners, not giving him a second thought. Well, hell, if they weren’t going to invite him, he’d just find the party himself. He’d already loaded several condoms — ambitious thinking, maybe, but he thought he might rise to the occasion, so to speak — into his jacket pocket.
And he’d been waiting for hours. Alone with only his fantasies to keep him company. No more. Time to take the bull by the horns, as his ex-wife always used to say.
He yanked off the confining power tie and tossed it to the floor, a small act of defiance. And one less article of clothing he’d have to remove later. Really, didn’t he look better, hipper, without it? Less uptight and ready to roll, his new lifestyle. At least the one he wanted to project.
Surely the hot woman had gone back to her room by now. Unless she was screwing his neighbor. The thought boiled his blood. But he hadn’t heard anything down the hall. A tigress like that wouldn’t come and go without growling.
Fortified, Harold left the room, his constant companion, the briefcase, at his side. It bothered him what to do with the briefcase while having sex. Hold onto it? Maybe the woman would see it as a kink, the sorta fetish swingers are supposed to love. Either way, it wasn’t going far. He’d clutch it between his naked knees if he had to.
The inn sat in silence, disappointingly so. The earlier carnival of lights had traded down into darkness. Very few lamps lit the lower level. Beneath the stairwell, the hall looked even blacker, the sconces (always sconces!) barely registering above a spark.
Self-doubt trailed him down the hallway. What if he was being overzealous, letting his imagination take charge as so many others tried to do with his life? Swingers during a snowstorm did seem unlikely. Even big libidos might be tamed by a storm. Still, whatever, you only live once. And he planned on living to the fullest now; unlike he had before with his sad, wasted life. Live large and take charge.
He rushed down the hall, the woman’s door dead ahead. He imagined her waiting in bed, only a thin silk sheet separating her skin from his. What about the kid? Send her to the kitchen? Surely, there was a TV somewhere in the damn place.
With his hand poised above the door, a knock at the front door stopped him. His testicles retracted along with his hand. Another round of knocking. Then someone entered. Quietly.
The police? Or maybe someone far worse?
*
Something didn’t seem right. Not that Winston knew anything specific; rather, he intuited it. Call it instinct. Survivor’s luck. He hadn’t gotten this far in the “security” business without developing a sixth sense for trouble. Minutes ago, he’d heard Carsten stomping downstairs, unusually loud. Winston considered the accountant a quivering wallflower, the sort who floats lightly in the breeze. Then his stomach pitched when he thought Carsten might be making a run for it.
Winston swiped his car keys up from the bedside table. As an afterthought, he knocked on the wood three times, never more than three. Like an echo, he heard a faint knocking at the door downstairs.
Shoeless, he scurried down the hall and knelt on the landing. The door opened, and a figure quietly stepped inside. Once the man sneezed, he may as well have announced his entry with a bullhorn.
As if on cue, Christian stepped out of the shadows as he always seemed to do, the prince host of darkness.
“Can I help you, sir?” Christian flicked on the foyer light.
Shit. Domenick’s goon, his strong-arm, Calvin.
Clearly startled, Calvin jumped, but his hands remained behind his back. He appeared jumpy, fidgety, a man peaking at caffeine’s trail. Winston had no doubt what he hid behind him.
“Ah, yeah, I’m looking for a guy. Harold Carsten.” The blue mask he wore muffled his words. But Winston filled in the blanks easily enough, as Calvin was hardly a locked diary. “Maybe another guy, too. Winston Ashford. They stayin’ here?”
Christian folded his hands. He straightened, adding a couple inches to his already formidable height. “I … see. And may I ask who you are? And what this pertains to?”
Attempting intimidation — something Calvin never could achieve — he stepped toward the host. “No. Look, just tell me what room they’re in, go hide somewhere, and maybe I’ll let you live.”
Unbelievably, Christian threw his head back and laughed. The sound echoed off the rafters, traveling into Winston’s spine. “That’s a generous offer, sir. But I think not. Now, how about you get in your car and leave?” Reaching around Calvin, Christian pulled the door open. Calvin shuddered in the draft.
“You’re not listenin’ to me, asshole! I’m the one givin’ orders here!” Calvin whipped his arm around. His gun banged into the wall, bouncing back against his leg. Christian snagged a hand around Calvin’s wrist and raised the rifle. Calvin’s eyes widened, his shock evident. With his free hand, Christian grasped Calvin’s neck, his massive fingers nearly closing around it. Steering Calvin by the neck, Christian drove him outside into the storm. The door slammed behind them.
Goddammit!
Time for emergency measures, mission aborted. Winston tore back down the hallway and flung his door open. He jammed his feet into his loafers, every second urgent. Quickly, he looked at his belongings. Toothbrush, new underwear, fresh shirt, nothing traceable. They stayed. He snatched his winter coat and left, his gaze flitting between his feet and the front door.
If Calvin’s here, Domenick’s no doubt close.
He thundered down the stairs, manipulating his arms through his coat.
Rebecca stood at the bottom of the stairwell. She gasped, then smiled, opening her mouth to say something.
Winston forced a hand over her mouth, picked her up around her waist, and pushed her through the kitchen’s swinging door. No time for explanations.
*
It’d only been minutes, but they lasted an eternity. Domenick’s neck hurt from constantly craning his head. He’d heard no gunfire, saw no flashes in the darkened windows. No screams, nothing. Not at all what he expected. Or wanted.
The front door flew open. Two men slow danced out beneath the porch light, one his nephew, his partner a large blond guy. They grappled for control of Calvin’s gun. Calvin’s mask slipped down. The blond squeezed his nephew’s neck. Calvin’s tongue lolled out.
“Jesus Christ!” Domenick reached under his seat, frantically scrambling for his pistol. Sanitizer, boxes of tissues, vitamins. His fingers grazed the gun’s grip. He cocked the hammer back and grabbed the door handle. Locked. Goddamn baby-proof doors, something he’d insisted on for safety.
Shots rang out. Domenick ducked, his head smashing onto the dashboard. Silence followed. He scooted over to the driver’s side, then peeked out the window.
The blond’s stranglehold on Calvin loosened as his nephew slumped down. The big man pinched the gun out of Calvin’s grip and tossed it into the snow. Then he took Calvin’s head beneath his armpit and gave it a sharp twist. Calvin’s last look of life was his most common — dumbfounded.
Domenick slipped out the door, his heart thudding. He ducked behind the Humvee and risked a look through the window. The blond man stood over his prey, hands clasped together in an oh-so-dainty manner.
For a moment, Domenick considered jumping back into the Humvee, getting the hell outta there. But he didn’t have his money. His money, not anyone else’s. He waited until the blond dragged Calvin back into the house, then he counted slowly. Tried to find the goddamn center his wife always rattled on about. Sweat froze across his forehead. Arthritis dulled his knees. He dropped into a squat and maneuvered around his vehicle, avoiding touching the dirty Humvee.
“Howdy.”
Domenick shot up and twisted. An old guy grinned at him, a shovel casually pitched over his shoulder. Domenick yanked his gun up, but he wasn’t fast enough. The shovel swung toward him. Metal crushed his nose. A dull sensation numbed his face, not the immense pain he expected. As he dropped to his knees, he thought about the shovel. The filthy shovel that struck his face.
Then he fell into the snow. The soiled, polluted snow …
*
Rebecca kicked her legs, Dave’s hand silencing her screams. Random, horrid thoughts zipped through her mind.
Kyra, oh my God, Kyra. Not another one. Another man, another violent bastard!
He shoved Rebecca through the kitchen door, carrying her, his grip firm and threatening. Her fingernails dug into his hand, drawing drops of blood.
“Rebecca, quiet,” he whispered. “I’m not gonna’ hurt you. I’m tryin’ to save you.”
Less than convincing. Saviors don’t abduct.
She tugged at his hand, his arm rock solid. He pushed her against the counter, pinning her with his body. A rapist. When he spun her around, he barely sidestepped Rebecca’s knee meant for his crotch.
“Rebecca, you need to be quiet.” He pressed his finger to his lips. “We’re in trouble. I’ll get us out of here. Trust me.”
Trust. An easy word to toss around, not so easily earned. The fact he asked for trust after grabbing her nearly pitched her into a laughing fit. But she saw an opportunity, a small one. Play along, get the drop on him when he least expects it. Beneath his touch, she tensed and shuddered.
“Don’t scream when I take my hand away. Okay?” She nodded. He dropped his hand down to her shoulder. Holding her captive, something she knew well. “There’re men out there. Dangerous men.”
“What? Who?” It sounded like a ploy, something to wear down her defenses. What he said made no sense, something out of a thriller. Then three rapid explosions cracked outside, gunfire.
Kyra!
Dave jolted, the fear in his eyes unsettling. “Hear that? I’m not fucking around. Go —”
“I’m not going anywhere. Not without Kyra, dammit.”
He dropped his head, sighing. “If you go after Kyra, you’re gonna get us both killed. You’re not equipped to deal with these men. I am. I’ll get her. I swear I will. But now I need you to go to my car. It’s our best chance. There’s a gun in the —”
“A gun? Why do you have a gun?”
“Protection. I travel a lot, sometimes to bad places.” His eyes shifted slightly, an obvious lie. About the only good thing her husband ever taught her. “Just … get it, okay? It’s a silver Camry, parked a block and a half down, facing this way. The gun’s in the glove box. Pull the car up, leave it running. Don’t talk to anyone, don’t stop. Have the gun ready.” He slipped the keys into her hand.
Cautiously, she worked the keys between her fingers, sharp edges sticking out. “I’m not leaving Kyra.”
“Listen. She’s still asleep. Or you’d hear her. Right now it’s the best place for her. But none of us are getting out of here alive unless you do as I say. If I meant you harm, I wouldn’t have given you my keys.”
She considered, realized he had a point. But after she pulled the car up, she was coming in, gun in hand. And she planned on keeping the weapon, too, and had no qualms about using it. God help anyone who kept her from her daughter. “Get Kyra. Don’t let anything happen to her. Then we’re having a nice, long chat.”
“Fine. Just go.”
He released her shoulder. She brought her hand up, thought about ramming the keys into his throat. But something in his manner, his resolve changed her mind.
“Go.”
At the kitchen door, she stopped. “You bring Kyra to me. Get her. I mean it. If you don’t … I’ll get you.”
He nodded, looking weary and tired. “I believe you. Take my coat.” He tossed it to her.
She locked eyes with him, demanding he understand her intent. She’d make good on her threat and he damn well
better believe it. The coat swam on her, slipping off the shoulders. Then she opened the kitchen door and stepped out into the eye of the storm.
*
Dammit. Winston should’ve just taken off. Forget the woman, forget the child. Fight the storm to reach his family. Take them away, far away. Where, exactly, he’d work out later. It seemed unavoidable that he’d have to tell Julie the truth, at least part of it. And that scared him more than angry mobsters.
But he also couldn’t leave a six-year-old girl at the mercy of blood-thirsty killers. Domenick’s crew didn’t care who stumbled into their path. Nothing mattered to them except money and vengeance. And the entire situation was partially his fault. He should’ve taken care of business upfront, damn the weather. Okay, maybe not his fault, but he had to share a little culpability.
He thought Rebecca would never leave, another obstacle he’d have to clean up. Frankly, it surprised him she did. But he knew his wife would respond the same way given the circumstances; hell, he would, too.
Winston opened the kitchen door a crack and listened. The front door squeaked, then banged back against the wall. He saw Christian stomping in backward, dragging snow along with him. Not to mention Calvin’s body. Once the host cleared the door, he dropped Calvin’s arms with twin flumps. He rubbed his chin, considering the corpse at his feet. With casual precision, Christian rolled Calvin into the Persian rug, a pig in a blanket for the murderous palate. All the while humming, just another mundane aspect of his job.
Jesus. What the hell’s going on here?
Clearly, this went beyond Christian’s usual fastidious fussiness, not just a matter of avoiding blood spilling onto the pristine hardwood floors. A murder cover-up, plain as day, no self-defense involved. What chilled Winston even more was how the host appeared to be enjoying his work.
Christian dragged the body out of Winston’s line of sight, back toward the stairwell. Right where he needed to go to save Kyra. He waited. The soft sound of the body swishing across the floor receded. A door opened, then gently closed. Then he heard nothing.
Dread and Breakfast Page 13
