From Manhattan With Revenge Boxed Set

by Christopher Smith

  “We need to think strategically,” she said. She motioned toward her butler, Max, who stood beside the parlor’s massive marble fireplace, where he awaited instructions from her. Carmen watched her make a circle in the air with her finger, mouth the word coffee and watched him leave the room with a promptness that suggested why they had such a long working relationship.

  “Alex must have learned something,” Carmen said. “He didn’t share it with me, but he must have found out something damaging about the syndicate and they’re assuming that because we were lovers, he told me, which isn’t true because he knew it would compromise me.”

  “Any idea what it could be about?” Babe asked.

  She shrugged. “He could have had intelligence on them. Maybe he learned who some of them were. Where they lived. I don’t know, but it’s something along those lines. Because we were intimate, they’re assuming that Alex also shared whatever he had one them with me. If he had anything. Regardless, they targeted each of us for it, but only got him. Now, they want me.”

  “How do we go forward?” Jake asked.

  “Chloe is my priority,” Carmen said. “To get her out of there and to keep her safe, I’m going in. I’m giving myself over to them.”

  Babe turned her head sharply at her. “You can’t be serious?” she said. “No matter what you do, they’ll still kill her. She’s seen his face. We know how this works. You’ll both die there, wherever ‘there’ is.”

  “If he gets lucky, he may kill me, but there’s no way he’s killing her. It won’t happen. I’ll see to it.”

  “How can you be certain? They’ll strip you of your guns and whatever the hell else you have on you when you meet them. You’ll have no way to fight back. We need to explore other options.”

  “I’m not going to just throw myself to the wolves, Babe. As you suggested, we’re going to be strategic.” She looked up as Max entered the room with a tray service of coffee. He put it down on the table between the red chairs and she nodded at him.

  “I’m going to tell you what I have in mind,” she said. “I’m open to suggestions, even from you, Jake. When we’re on the same page, I’ll call Gelling to see if it’s something he’s capable of doing and also to help him feel connected. If we all agree on what I’m about to propose, I can’t have him dropping dead on me now.”

  * * *

  When they finished talking and all agreed upon what needed to be done, Carmen stepped away from Babe and Jake, who were discussing the plan, and called Gelling.

  “It’s nice to hear your voice, Carmen,” he said. “That’s my second surprise of the day. The first was when I woke up. I’m always startled by that. It takes me a minute to believe it. The ceiling over my bed is painted bright white and sometimes, if the light hits it just right, as it did this morning, it’s blinding to the point that I think I’ve gone into the light. The second surprise is hearing from you. Do you have any news for me?”

  She told him about the video, what she’d discussed with Jake and Babe, the compromises that were made and the plan that resulted from it.

  “It can be done,” he said after a moment. “To the extent of which I’m not sure, but at least partly, which should be enough. How quickly do you need this?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “It’s always as soon as possible, just like it’s always Berlin or Beirut, Moscow or Madrid, but never Brisbane. Never Canada. Never Maine.”

  “We’re in a bind, James.”

  “Let me ask you something, Carmen. You’re willing to die for this girl?”

  “I am.”

  “But why would you do such a thing? It’s puzzling.”

  “Because I love her. Because she’s involved in this because of her association with me. Everyone has let her down in her life. I know how that feels. He told her what I do for work, so now I’m another disappointment in her life. I plan on repairing that.”

  “You’re a complicated woman, Carmen. Nuanced. You don’t think twice about taking an adult’s life, but you’ll go to great lengths to save this young woman’s life.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And that’s why I find you fascinating. I want you to listen to me for a moment. Are you in a place where people can hear you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it would look odd if you left the room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then just listen and take from this what you will.”

  “All right.”

  “I’ve done some additional digging.”

  She didn’t know what he was going to say, but the hesitant tone of his voice told her she wasn’t going to like it.

  “What I found is intriguing. Did Babe McAdoo ever tell you that she knew Katzev?”

  “Yes. Briefly.”

  “Did she tell you that once they were lovers?”

  A chill railed up Carmen’s spine.

  “It was very quick. Just an affair. Matter of weeks, happened years ago and ended badly. But before you go forward with this plan of yours, you need to know everything. It’s what I promised Spocatti I’d do. Tell you everything I know as I find out about it. Just before you called, we spoke and he was concerned about the news. Babe and Katzev were lovers and what I’ve learned during my one-hundred-and-three years of life, Carmen, is that when you’ve had sexual relations with someone, things become skewed, especially when death is at hand. If she hates him still, it could go well for you. But if some part of her doesn’t hate him, if seeing him again evokes a fond memory of a romantic dinner or a good fuck, I’m not sure that she’ll go the distance or what that will mean for you if she doesn’t. Has she ever told you that they were lovers?”

  Carmen looked over at Babe, who was sipping coffee while listening to Jake, who was gesticulating with his hands and saying something Carmen couldn’t hear because of the roaring in her ears. “No. Never.”

  “Shouldn’t she have?”

  “I would have.”

  “Be very careful, Carmen. I have to apologize. If I’d known this earlier, I never would have sent you to see Babe McAdoo.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Aberdeen, Scotland

  Liam Martin, longtime friend and colleague of Vincent Spocatti, with whom he recently joined forces in taking out the wife and family of an English banker who refused to pay the millions he owed one of Spocatti’s clients, arrived at Aberdeen Airport with only a carryon, an overcoat and a mission.

  So the information could be employed as quickly as possible, he was given just over two hours to get the photos and the footage requested of him. Then he’d wire it all to Spocatti, who would send it directly to Carmen.

  As quickly as he could, he went to the Alamo car rental agency, where he rented a Lincoln MKX, which would was large enough for his needs, not the least of which was his own size.

  Liam Martin, a former Royal Marine, was not only tall but also a former body builder, which had its curses and its blessings. At forty-two and in his line of work, it was rare that he didn’t view his size as a blessing. It was only when the situation physically became an issue, such as limiting his possibilities for concealment or fitting into tight spaces, that he wished he were smaller.

  Once inside the shiny black Lincoln with its tinted windows, he made a telephone call and simply said to the person who answered, “Fifteen minutes.”

  He severed the connection, left the airport and took a left on Dycer Drive. Fall had settled upon Scotland, which now was robbed of much of the deep greens Liam had come to love and associate with it during the several times, often in summer, that he was hired to come here to do a job.

  The earth was hardening. Few leaves were on the trees. There was a chill in the air, so he clicked on the heat as well as the heated driver’s seat and drove across the curving road until he came to an intersection. He stopped and then turned right onto A96. He drove for five kilometers before he pulled off on the side of the road, where his contact was waiting for him in a black Audi SUV.

 
The exchange was swift. Wordless. In a wide leather duffle bag put into the back of the MKX were all the rifles, guns and ammunition he’d need. In a smaller leather bag were the camera and video equipment, which were so powerful, Liam Martin could do the work he needed at a comfortable distance without drawing attention to himself until he was given the order to do so. Should, of course, that order come.

  He nodded his thanks to his contact, pressed a button that lowered and locked the hatch, and got back into the car to speed down A96. He drove until he came upon B979, slowed and took a left onto it.

  The Kesters’ farm was about sixteen kilometers away. The photos he viewed of it online suggested it was of medium size and used purely for the purpose of harvesting sheep’s milk, which they turned into some sort of popular cheese sold around the UK. It was a year-round operation and the sole way the Kester clan made its living. Though the sun was waning, it still was bright enough that he expected to see sheep on the land, and hopefully the Kesters working with them.

  Through Google Earth, he noted stands of trees surrounding the property, which would be perfect for him to hide behind to get his shots, particularly since the property they owned was large enough to require a powerful lens. Even if someone did see him, he’d either have time to get out of there or shoot them should they come after him with a gun for trespassing.

  He hoped for the latter. The latter would send the best message, even if it wasn’t what he was hired to do.

  It wasn’t long before he came upon the farm, which he passed so he could have a long look before he pulled off to the side of the road and stopped well beyond it.

  His heart hammered with excitement as he turned back. Hundreds of sheep were on the hills. Eight or nine Kesters were tending to them, mostly men. He didn’t know who the men were, but Illarion Katzev would. Likely the man’s brothers and cousins. Maybe an uncle, since an older man lifted up his hand as he drove past.

  But the one older woman he saw in the field? The one with the white hair pulled away from her face? The one who stood on the periphery, calling to the group?

  He knew who she was. He was sent her photograph when he took the job.

  That was Katzev’s mother. And she was out in full view.

  CHAPTER SEV

  ENTEEN

  In the fog that wouldn’t lift, Chloe Philips’s mind continued to drift.

  In her unconscious state, which revealed to her the blackest of blacks, she heard voices in the haze. Sounds in the darkness. Thoughts of death crept in and she reached out to them, as if the act of embracing them would make them real.

  She didn’t want to live anymore. She was tired of this life. She hated it as much as it hated her.

  As time pressed on (hours, days, weeks?), she touched down upon memories she either savored or wanted to erase forever.

  Mostly the latter.

  She tried to steer around the uglier times and linger on the few good memories her life had provided her, but wherever she landed, in this amorphous landscape from which she couldn’t wake, there was no controlling it. Her mind showed her what it wanted her to see, which ran the gamut from the good to the awful.

  She was seven. Sunday morning usually meant church, though for some reason that was declining as her mother and her boyfriend now only went when they weren’t so “tired.” Still, on that Sunday, she woke in her bedroom in Queens and looked across to the other bed, where her younger sister, Mia, was asleep.

  “Mia,” she said.

  Nothing.

  “We should get ready for church.”

  Nothing.

  She slipped out of bed and sat beside her sister. The action of the cheap mattress sinking low at its side woke her sister and she looked up at Chloe, her eyes wide and startled. “Is it him?” she asked.

  Chloe shook her head. “I told you I wouldn’t let him go near you again.”

  “But what about you?”

  “I don’t matter.”

  “Yes, you do, Chloe.”

  She shrugged. “Come on. We need to get to church.”

  “Why? We haven’t been in a long time.”

  “It was better when we went. Everything was better then.”

  Her younger sister, just six but already wiser than she should be because of everything he’d done to each of them, sat up in bed. “Who’s going to wake them up?”

  “I was thinking of making them breakfast. Maybe it’ll put them in a better mood. Especially him.”

  “You only know how to make cereal. And you know they don’t like noise on Sundays. They yell if there’s noise. He’ll smack us.”

  “Then maybe just juice and coffee. I can do that pretty quiet.”

  “Are you sure?”

  No, but she stood anyway. “Go find something nice to wear. Something for church. Wash your face and do your hair pretty. Like I taught you. Use those barrettes we bought at the dollar store last week. The yellow ones that look like bows. Mama’s not going to help you get ready for church, but she’ll expect you to look nice. ”

  “If she goes.”

  “We’re going to get them to go. Now, go on. Be quiet down the hallway. Don’t shut the bathroom door all the way because it’ll squeak if you do. You know how it squeaks. And don’t flush the toilet. We’ll do that when we wake them up, but we’ll have to do it fast so the water is clean when they go to use it. You remember what happened the last time we didn’t flush. We don’t want him angry. All right? I’m going downstairs. Wear that dress.”

  “Which dress?”

  “Mama’s favorite. The pink one Nanny gave you for Christmas.”

  “I hate that one.”

  “Mia...”

  “OK.”

  They crept out into the hallway. Mia went into the bathroom and closed the door just to the point before it started to creak. Chloe went down the hall, past the closed door to her mother and boyfriend’s bedroom, heard the faint sound of rushing water behind her and moved down the stairs as quietly as she could in a house that seemed to lend itself to noise and interruption.

  The house was a mess, but that was nothing new. What was new is that the couch wasn’t empty.

  He was sleeping there, breathing so deeply that his snoring seemed to shake the room. She stopped on the second to the last step and stared at him. Her mother gave birth to her when she was sixteen. Now, she was twenty-three and with a man twice her age. Maybe even fifty. Her mother took him in three weeks after her real father left. Not long after, she found this one at a bar and by the weekend, his bags were packed, they were hauled inside and he was a fixture.

  “We need him,” her mother told her and her sister the night he moved in. “He’s a Vet. Got a bit of money and he’s not a bad guy. Don’t none of you screw this up for us, OK? We need him right now. He gets a monthly check. Now, give Mama a kiss and remember to be nice to him.”

  That was six months ago and still, she only knew the man as Eddy. Didn’t know his last name. Didn’t care to ask for it. And if it was offered, she didn’t remember it. He was just Eddy, the old man with a violent streak that rivaled her father’s.

  On the coffee table beside him was a half-empty bottle of Moonshine Clear Corn Whiskey, which he liked to say was “cheap but it sure as shit does the job.” Cigarette butts filled the ashtray next to it, along with the stub of a lone, thin cigar, with the crinkly plastic wrap next to it.

  Did they have one of their fights last night, or did he just pass out here and she went to bed alone not wanting to drag him up with her? Chloe never knew where they stood in their volatile relationship, but right now she knew he was sleeping deeply and she might be able to pull off this juice and coffee thing if she hurried.

  The kitchen was just beyond the living room, where Eddy slept on his pleather sofa as if he was in a coma, and she crept toward it, nearly seizing up when the floor ached beneath her feet in such a way that the wood groaned. She stopped once out of fear that she’d wake him if she continued, but he was so out of it, he was unfazed and ke
pt rattling as if death had rented space in his throat.

  She wished it had.

  The juice was easy. She put out four short glasses, pulled the carton of Tropicana from the fridge and filled them. The coffee was more difficult. She’d made it a few times before for them, but right now, she forgot how many scoops he liked. Was it five? Six? How strong did he like it? She couldn’t remember. Since a safer bet was smack in the middle, she went with that and started the brew.

  The smell of coffee started to fill the humid air. It smelled deep and rish and satisfying, just how they liked it. She removed two mugs from the cupboard, the no-brand creamer her mother bought at the dollar store and some no-brand sugar, purchased at the same place where they found Mia’s yellow barrettes. She put two spoons next to the mugs and let the coffee maker do its thing.

  It gurgled. It spit. She looked down upon it as it dripped. She was thinking that she’d hit a home run, that they might actually come together and go to church today—maybe even have a normal day—when she felt a disturbance in the air behind her.

  She didn’t turn. Knew it was him. Kept her eyes on the coffee. Drip, drip, drip. She heard him say, “Wake me up for this shit,” before he slammed the side of her head with a frying pan and she fell to the floor, unconscious.

  “Chloe...”

  She heard her name being called, but she was in the in-between. Floating. Turning. Hanging on for the ride. She saw a vision of herself fall when the pan whacked the side of her head, and she wondered how she could see that since she never saw it coming.

  Mind tricks.

  She didn’t see him hit her, but the moment before she blacked out, she did see him standing above her with the frying pan held out at his side. She remembered him yelling at her for waking him up. She remembered him apologizing for striking her later, upon orders from her distraught mother, who had to rush her to the emergency room with Mia, who was in her fancy pink dress from Nanny and who wore the yellow barrettes in her hair.