From Manhattan With Revenge Boxed Set

by Christopher Smith

  “What about the other man?”

  “He was the challenge.”

  “How so?”

  “He came after me. He was younger. Faster. In fact, he was really fast. We ran several blocks before I took a chance and ran into oncoming traffic. I was lucky and made it to the other side. He was unlucky and got flattened by a truck. End of story, at least for that night. More is coming. Not just for me, but for both of us.”

  “You know I’ll be able to verify his death.”

  “I expect you to. We need to get on the same page, Carmen. I need you to trust me before they reach each of us. Or I can just leave. We can tackle this individually. It’s up to you. But there’s something to be said for joining forces and finding out why this is happening. Why do they want us dead? Why did they kill Alex? We must know something they don’t want us to know. Do you have any idea what that could be?”

  “I’ve been racking my brain since they attacked us. I have nothing.”

  “Do you have any way to reach Katzev?”

  “Encrypted emails. Satellite cell phones.”

  “Same here.”

  “We wait for them,” Carmen said. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t find out more about him, maybe even where he lives. No one is completely safe or invisible. We both know that.”

  She checked her watch, saw that it was approaching midnight and had an idea. She leaned toward the driver and raised her voice above the music. “That was great,” she said. “The city is beautiful. Would you drop us at the Waldorf?”

  “Sounds romantic.”

  “I hear the have a great bar,” Carmen said.

  CHAPTER THR

  EE

  When they arrived at the Waldorf Astoria’s Peacock Alley Bar, each ordered a martini and a glass of water, though they’d only touch the water. They bought the drink to satisfy the bartender.

  “They won’t think to look for us here,” she said. “Let me make a phone call. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be back.”

  She maneuvered her way out of the bar, took a right, walked down a corridor lined with Art Deco brass elevators on one side and restrooms on the other before she entered the massive lobby.

  It was a Thursday night and it was late. The few chairs along the periphery were empty. She chose one just beneath the grand piano, which was elevated above her on the mezzanine, and sat down.

  There was only one person she knew who might be able to help her through this—her colleague, Vincent Spocatti. He was the best in the business. He had more skills, instincts and contacts than anyone she knew. After working with him a year ago on a Wall Street job, she hoped he wouldn’t mind a call from her now.

  She found his number on her cell and dialed.

  If anyone knew anything about Katzev, how she could get close to him or find out where he lived, it was Spocatti. And if he didn’t know, he probably knew someone who would.

  “Carmen,” he said when he answered. “A midnight call from you. What am I to read into that?”

  “That I’m in trouble.”

  “I heard about Alex,” he said. “Sorry. I liked him. I also hear that you liked him.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Where are you now?”

  “At a hotel in Manhattan. You?”

  “Behind some curtains at a house in Capri.”

  “I see.”

  “What you should see are the views. Stunning.”

  “If this isn’t a good time, Vincent—”

  “The owner will be here soon, but we’re fine for now. They said he might run late. What do you need?”

  “I need you to help me find someone. If I’ve worked for him, you certainly have.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Katzev.”

  “The fake Russian?”

  “Katzev isn’t Russian?”

  “Scottish. He’s got the accent down, though. I’ll give him that, even if he is a bastard. Same goes for his former associate, Jean-Georges Laurent, who I hear is dead now. Bullets to the face at the Four Seasons in a room filled with people that included the likes of my old friend, Leana Redman.” He let a beat pass. “Firing a gun into that crowd must have been quite a sight.”

  “It was.”

  “Nice job on that, by the way.”

  “I didn’t do it alone.”

  “So, I hear.”

  “You hear a lot.”

  “I think I’m becoming something of a guru,” he said. “People tell me things. That was just one conversation out of many that day. I can’t remember who told me, so there’s no use in asking.”

  She knew better. But she appreciated his discretion even if it meant she wouldn’t learn who told him and why.

  “So, what’s going on?” he said. “How are you in trouble?”

  She told him.

  The syndicate she and Alex worked for targeted them for death. She wasn’t sure why, but Jean-Georges Laurent nearly tricked her and Alex into killing each other. Did Laurent do it because he felt she and Alex knew too much about the organization? Impossible. She only knew what he and Katzev told her, which was minimal.

  In an effort to send a message that threatening them wasn’t an option, they retaliated by killing Laurent. Then, weeks later, Alex was murdered. She herself barely escaped death.

  Now she was back in Manhattan to seek her revenge.

  “The people who killed Alex,” Spocatti said. “Why are you convinced it had anything to do with the syndicate?”

  “Because we killed Laurent.”

  “So? You and Alex have taken down dozens of people over the course of your careers. It could have been anyone. Why them?”

  “Because for whatever reason, Laurent wanted us dead. I’m sure there are others who’d like to see that happen, but I’m not directly aware of them.”

  “Just because you’re not aware of them doesn’t mean someone else isn’t targeting you.”

  “Do you know something I don’t?”

  “I usually do,” Spocatti said. “But not this time. Just keep your options open. Anyone could have it in for you. In fact, plenty do. But for now, let’s go with the obvious and say it is Katzev and the rest of the syndicate. They’re hell-bent on revenge because you killed Laurent. You’re hell-bent on revenge because they killed Alex and nearly you. How can I help?”

  “I need to know where Katzev lives.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Best guess?”

  “Probably Manhattan. Maybe Milan. Could be Paris. Hell, it could be Russia, since he obviously loves the Motherland enough to associate himself with it. Or Scotland, since he is, after all, Scottish. What I’m saying is that he could be anywhere. Whenever I’ve dealt with him, it’s been through a secure line. I was offered the job, we negotiated the price, I received half the money the next day and the rest of money was wired to me when the job was done. I assume it’s been the same for you.”

  “It has. But you have connections, Vincent. Everywhere. You must know someone who knows where he lives.”

  “I know a few people who might know, but I can’t give you their names, Carmen. That’s not how I work. You know that.”

  “Then leave it up to them,” she said. “Would you call them and give them my number? If they choose to help me, that’s their decision. This way, you haven’t compromised anyone. It’ll be on them to call and decide if they wish to get involved. You know I won’t say anything if they agree to help me. That’s not how I work.”

  “I know it isn’t.”

  “Will you make the calls?”

  “I’ll make the calls.”

  “I appreciate it, Vincent.”

  “It might not be Katzev or the syndicate, Carmen. You need to consider every job you’ve ever done. I know that’s a daunting task, but you need to do it and you need to think who else might be targeting you. You have to figure out how someone suddenly found you in Bora Bora, of all places, when you’ve had a place there for years. After all this time, how did they find you now?
This stinks of something recent. Have you looked into Alex’s life? Did he slip up and talk to someone? If he did, who did he talk to? And who did that person talk to?”

  She felt a chill and looked down the long corridor that led to the bar, where Jake was waiting for her. He mentioned that he spoke to Alex before they left for the island. Who did he speak to after that?

  “I have to go,” she said. “I’ll take everything into consideration. You’ll make the calls?”

  “I said I would.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Watch your back, Carmen. Keep an open mind. And stay in touch. I’ll do what I can from afar.”

  CHAPTER F

  OUR

  She hurried down the corridor, hoping she was wrong but knowing in her gut that she was right. She rounded the corner and looked for him at the bar. He was gone. So were their drinks. The bartender caught her eye and held up a piece of paper for her.

  She had no time for this. She had to get out of here now, while she still had a chance, but she needed to know what he wrote to her since it might inform what she did next. She walked over to the bartender, a stocky man somewhere in this thirties whose dark hair was slicked back in such a way that it revealed a handsome face.

  “My husband,” she said. “How long ago did he leave?”

  “Ten minutes? He wanted me to give you this.”

  She took the note and opened it. Five words inside: “Sorry. I had no choice.”

  She looked behind her, saw nothing out of the ordinary then turned back to the bartender. “Did you happen to see him use his phone?”

  “I did.”

  So, he called ahead. Or they called him. Either way, he told them she was here. But why? If they wanted her dead, he could have shot her an hour ago.

  Because they want to bring you in.

  It was possible, but why? She was partly responsible for Laurent’s death. Did they want to have their way with her before they killed her? Katzev might want to do the job himself. She could see that happening. Or they might think she has information she shouldn’t have access to, though she didn’t know what that could be.

  She needed to leave, but she couldn’t go out the front entrance. Not even the side. Soon, this place would be surrounded by them, if it wasn’t already.

  “Your husband said you had fifteen minutes,” the bartender said. “I’m not sure what he meant by that, but it might mean something to you.”

  “It does.” Why was he tipping her off? Was he forced into this? Or was it to make her feel a false sense of security? With five minutes on her side, she might think she could get out now and escape them, when in reality, they’d be right outside waiting for her. This could be a trap. “I didn’t see him leave. Which way did he go?”

  “He asked if he could use the service exit. Sounds strange, but I’ve had stranger requests. We accommodated him.”

  Trap. “I see.”

  He paused. She could feel him studying her. “Are you in some sort of trouble, Miss?”

  Use him.

  “I am.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I told my husband I was leaving him tonight. He told me I wasn’t and that he’d make sure of it. I know what that means. He’s abusive. He’s had me dealt with before and he’s going to do it again.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Can you get me into a room?”

  “You’d need to check in—”

  “You asked if you could help. I need to get into a room right now. He’s called people to come here and reason with me, if you get my drift.”

  “Miss—”

  “It’s important.”

  “I don’t have that authority.”

  “Then do you have some place I could hide? A storage area? A conference room I can step into?”

  “For how long?”

  “An hour? Men are going to come here. They’re going to ask if you’ve seen me. I need you to tell them that I left the moment you gave me the note. If they harass you, tell them you’ll call the police. They’ll leave if you say that. They won’t want any trouble.”

  “Why don’t we just call the police now?”

  “Because they won’t get here in time. My husband left quickly for a reason. He used the service exit for a reason. This note is a threat.”

  He looked at the note in her hand, then down the length of the bar, where another bartender was restocking glasses while glancing in their direction. “Phil, give me a minute, OK?”

  The man looked at Carmen, then back at the bartender. “We’re closing in forty-five, Jon.”

  “I said a minute. I’ll be back.”

  * * *

  He led her to an area behind the bar. They started walking down a short hallway that led to a set of swinging doors.

  “Just go with this,” he said. “Act natural.”

  They entered the kitchen, which was large and shiny due to the bright lights glinting off the stainless steel tables, racks and appliances. Carmen glanced around for cameras in the ceiling, but it was so vast and Jon was moving so quickly, she didn’t notice any. She counted six people in the kitchen. They turned a corner and she counted a seventh, all of whom were either cleaning up for the night or doing prep for the following morning’s breakfast service. Another sweep of the room. It unnerved her that she saw no cameras because she knew better.

  “Everybody,” he said. “This is my girlfriend, Lisa. She just got some bad news and needs a space where she can be alone. My shift is up in forty-five. Does anyone mind if she hangs out in the stairwell until I’m finished?”

  “I thought you were gay.”

  “Funny, Mac. Are we good, everyone?”

  Shrugs all around.

  “Thanks.”

  He took her by the hand, they cut left and pushed through another set of doors. Below her was a staircase. Is this where he brought Jake? She turned to him and asked.

  “It is, but don’t worry about it. The door below is bolted shut. No one can get in here and they won’t think you’re back here. So, stay here. I’ll work on getting you a room.”

  “Threaten them with the police when they come. Get them out.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’ll be fine. If they’re coming, they’re going to want to see me behind the bar. I’ll be back.”

  He turned to leave.

  Each door had a small square window that looked into the kitchen. As she watched him go, every set of eyes in that kitchen turned to her. Carmen stepped away from the windows, incredulous that she was in this position.

  A simple walk in Manhattan to clear her head had turned into this? She was thinking how unreal the past two hours had been when her cell phone rang. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled it out. A number she didn’t recognize. Private caller.

  She hesitated before she answered it. “Hello?”

  A man’s voice. Soft, almost fragile. “Carmen Gragera?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “It’s all right, Carmen. I’m a friend of Vincent’s. He called a moment ago and told me you are in something of a bind.”

  She closed her eyes in relief.

  “Would you like some help?” he asked.

  “I would.”

  “Are you able to come to me now?”

  “I’m in the middle of a situation.”

  “I see. Is there anything I can do?”

  “I can handle this. Would you be able to meet tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow’s fine.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “It’s my pleasure. I’m old, Carmen. You probably can hear it in my voice. I don’t leave the house much anymore, but don’t let that deceive you. I live for my calls from Vincent. He keeps me alive with them. Reminds me why I once was on top and still matter now. Name your time.”

  “Morning?”

  “Ten?”

  “Perfect.”

  He gave her his add
ress.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  The line went dead.

  * * *

  When his shift was over and the bar was closed, the bartender, Jon, returned. He looked tense and on edge, but also in control. His eyes reminded her of her Alex’s—big and blue. Intelligent and intense.

  “Did they come?” she asked.

  “They came.”

  “How many?”

  “Four.”

  “What happened?”

  “They asked for you. I told them that you left. They said that was impossible. I told them you returned five minutes before your husband left and that you probably went to find him.”

  “Did they buy it?”

  “I don’t know. But they left. And I have this for you.” He held out a card for her. It was a key to a room. “Follow me.”

  * * *

  “We’ll use the service elevators,” he said as they pushed through the swinging doors. They went to the rear of the kitchen, crossed through another set of doors and came upon a bank of elevators. “These are used for room service. We can access any room from here.”