by Alex Elliott
“Get out,” I order, motioning with the barrel of my gun. I snap my fingers impatiently when they sit there frozen.
I reach inside and grab the arm of one of the women. Giving me a thousand-yard stare, the girl doesn’t flinch. Shaking her out of the stupor of shock, I deliver a death glare over my aviators and in Russian order her to get out. I’m sure this isn’t the first time they’ve seen someone killed. Not hanging out with Pozniak’s soldiers.
With both of the women out of the SUV, I walk back two steps, assessing what I can do and how rapidly. These jerkoffs had brought what they commonly refer to as ‘product’ and seeing kidnapped women face-to-face… I curse under my breath.
“Well, this bites it,” Vince growls, “Doubt being tagged as a mass murderer will help the GOP.”
“Ya think?” I retort.
His gun is drawn and he fixes the women with pitiless stare. “Either way, the body count is on the rise.”
If I execute one, he’ll blast the other without comment. We’re both stone cold killers and in this universe, bodies are our stock-in-trade.
These women represent the female cargo the brotherhood uses and abuses prior to committing them to a life—worst case scenario—as slave prostitutes for the Federation. Best case in hell, they’ll work as domestics. Or they’ll join the fast-growing ranks within the revitalization of slave labor in sweat shops worldwide.
Not my problem according to the rules of engagement. I reach inside the driver’s window and retrieve what I came for: the black velvet bag. It’s filled and I bounce it once in my hand, squeezing the contents. A pouch of near flawless diamonds. The currency The Saint demands. Easy to confiscate and dispose of, without the hassle of laundering, and I force it down into the pocket of my jacket.
Removing a burner, I snap photographs of the carnage in the front seat. It’s got to be a hundred and ten in the shade, and I’m sweating bullets instead of on my game.
“Over there,” I mutter in Russian to the women, still using my gun to articulate my commands. There’s no way around that I’ve got to get my shit together and leave this place. We have a drop to make to one of Santo’s men waiting in the field, then it’s me on my way to the airport. Next stop Boston. IRT I make the call.
Without configuring how fucked up this will go, I open the back seat to the rental, and order the women with a harsh, “Get in.”
Chapter 14
Atticus Stone~ Payback
“I’m running late. Where’s— What’s the kid’s name?” I bark into my phone, chewing off my assistant’s ear, ready to can this idea of taking on an intern this late in the game. “Logan arrivals are a madhouse. I don’t see her.”
Grabbing my luggage off the conveyor belt in a cramped corner, I’m two clicks past calm and collect.
“Yeah, not surprising. A tech convention that hit Boston today,” Nora replies unfazed. “The latest iPhone just got released.”
“What does she look like—the intern?” Just what I don’t need. After dropping off the Bratva ‘baggage’ at the bus depot, and giving them cash and directions to disappear, I had to double-time it to a drop point to unload my uncle’s payment. Taxed to the limit doesn’t begin to describe my state.
“Scrap that plan,” Nora informs me in her no-nonsense voice. “You’ll connect with Miss O’Malley outside the terminal. Hold on, she just sent a text. She’s waiting for you at the curb. Look for a black Fiat 500.”
I watch a pair of legs walk by attached to the kind of shoes that whisper follow and fuck me. The woman turns as if sensing my unrelenting stare and gives me a glance over her hipster glasses, a silent promise of something dark and forbidden. Our gazes intertwine. Hers knifes my brain, spreading a pulsing fire that races across my nerves. The vixen in heels breaks eye contact abruptly and my dick twitches as I take in the rear package. Long shapely legs and a tight ass, but decisively it’s the woman’s stalking gait that has me hypnotized. Intrigued, I want her to look back—hell, come back. For a beat, I watch her, relishing the focused sway of her killer hips and legs. Then she’s gone, swallowed by the swarming throng.
“Atticus Stone, did you hear me?” Nora’s grating voice reminds me I’ve got a cell in my hand.
“Affirmative and a Fiat what?” Accustomed to schedule flip-flops, I switch gears and head toward the main exit.
“It has four doors.”
“Four small doors.”
“Would you rather call Uber? These are the choices: it’s O’Malley, Uber, or a taxi. All day.”
“Let’s just hope I don’t do a Nixon.”
“Oh brother… You’re rehashing Nixon?” Nora says. “What happened?”
“During Nixon’s campaign, he banged his knee getting out of a car and ended up bedridden for two weeks.” The revolving door comes into view and I’m back on track.
“Should I get you a pair of knee guards?”
“As long as this is the final stop, I’ll manage. Any other changes I need to know about?”
Nora laughs. “Tuck, you sound grouchy.”
“I am. That last stop in BFE ran way over our timeline and sorely taxed our budget.”
“Cheer up. After the coffee house talk, you’ll be at your hotel no later than nine. Get some rest. You’ve got a full day tomorrow and it’s jam-packed.”
“Hallelujah,” I snort, tugging on the leather strap of my carry-on and not thrilled by a stop before I hit the hotel bar. “So intel on the MIA intern? If I agreed to hire her to help you, why am I saddled?”
“Hey, you’re the one who dismissed your entire team two days early, so please, don’t go there.”
“Circle back, you’re the one who twisted my arm to take Miss O’Malley under your wing. This last GOP glad-hand didn’t require a team in full swing. God love our staff but I was ready to throttle each of them. They’re spent and needed a break.” I couldn’t tell Nora I had an impromptu meeting with The Saint and I was rambling. This shit with my uncle was interfering with my concentration and I sigh. “Nora, apparently, we both suck at stellar decisions.”
“Don’t be cute. O’Malley is your ride tonight and there are bonus points attached to her. The operative word: payback.”
A jolt of adrenaline storms my system like ripped fuel. My muscles constrict and I jerk upright as if taking a two by four to the front of my head. “Nora, that’s a word we don’t say aloud and yet you have. You’re starting to scare me.”
“Boss, no one scares you. Besides, how much trouble can one intern be? She’s a double play in accruing favors from some heavy hitters. Need I remind you, doing the O’Malley clan a solid is amassing some serious cross-party power and endorsements?”
Not another claim to be connected. “Everyone in D.C. is related to the O’Malleys. It isn’t exactly an unusual name. Is she also an FOB?”
“I doubt her family spends much time with the Winstons. They stay clear of anything smelling of a scandal. Did I mention she has ties to the Silvers of Nantucket and Midtown?”
Silvers? PanCorp? That’s hitting it too close to the bone to ignore. “Thanks for the ancestral sidelight. After this intern briefing, I’m really close to cutting her loose.”
“Tuck, please. It’s only for a month.”
“Only?” I echo, deliberating on how an intern related not only to the O’Malleys, but also the Silver older-than-dirt dirty banking family will work out. Given how our families once intersected, this intern warrants my immediate attention. She might be a plant.
“It’s a summer temp spot. Less than a month,” Nora is quick to reiterate and snaps me back to reality. “Four weeks. Twenty-eight days.”
“Twenty-eight long days.” Digging out my burner, I halt next to the wall and set my briefcase down. I type a text to my uncle: We might have a problem. Before I hit send, I consider if I’m needlessly throwing up a red flag. Why would the Silvers do something this in-my-face? They aren’t ex-cons or crude. They’re elegant, deadly, and un
derhanded.
Miss O’Malley is probably the quintessence of a dynasty princess bent on rebellion. I for one have always avoided those girls like the plague—except during an election campaign when I’m hacking off parts of me, selling my soul, piece-by-piece. And running my own game of revenge.
The Rolling Stone article hooked a large cross-section of the college demographic from all three parties. A reason why the major players bankrolling the GOP convention took notice and have thrown me a bone. Boone’s too much of a wildcard to control and he scares the hell out of those with the dirtiest secrets. He’ll end up owning the lot of them unless they steamroll his campaign into the ground.
If O’Malley shows up with her own entourage in all its giggling, glitter glory, they’ll soon figure out they’ve boarded the wrong train. Monogrammed sorority sisters who prance around campus have no business anywhere near the Hill nowadays.
It’s turned into a war zone complete with guerilla tactics. With the bombing of the underground bunker of the Secretary of Finance by way of a high class prostitute, it’s not only ISIS serving up suicide bombers. From drug mules, the heads of organized crime syndicates have moved to deprived forms of warfare. I jest you not that the new weaponry on the rise is in the form of body cavity bombs. Easily implanted and difficult to routinely detect, these surgically implanted improvised explosive devices similar to an I.U.D. explode when tripped aka coitus SIIEDs.
No matter what O’Malley’s angle is, I don’t intend to be blindsided. “What experience does our new intern have?”
Nora gives me a brief rundown and sighs, “Miss O’Malley is a help if all she does is deal with the details during this stop. It isn’t just faxes and photos. Staffers attend to things that you, boss, have no idea transpire. Behind the scenes stuff. Not an eternity.”
Unless my newest intern gets us both killed. “Once again, you’ve made your point and twisted my arm. Let’s hope she can deal with the details, for your sake. Anything else you’re trying to sneak in on me—last minute?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. You requested face time with the Boston independents at Harvard. Prepare to be impressed. Your old alma mater is hosting a campus talk for you tomorrow. Stamp that request as done.”
“Swan, are you pulling my chain?”
“Nope.” She laughs. “Believe it or not, your new intern is the one with the connections. It’s her you need to thank.”
“Yeah, right. Incoming and I’ve got to take it,” I lie about another caller. “Let me call you right back.”
“If you don’t I’ll track you down.” Nora hangs up.
For months, my office has repeatedly sought to nail down a face-to-face with the Ivy League independents in hopes of snagging some swing voters to jump ship, but they’d put me off. Or rather, Dean Nolan, my old advisor had shut the crimson doors in my face. If anyone could sniff out a misfit, chalk it up to Nolan. He’s the only person who behind closed doors, pointblank has asked about my 'Ndràngheta mob ties. He also asked for money and sex to keep quiet. Instead of paying, I found dirt on him and his extramarital preferences. His dirty little secret, except his wife recently passed away.
I switch cells then press the ‘back’ button on my burner, erasing the contents of my last text and forego acting like a loose cannon. I type a new message to my uncle.
“Tom Nolan at Harvard needs an adjustment.”
My uncle shoots back:
“type”
“Spring cleaning.”
He texts:
“when”
Should I straight up admit that Nolan tried to put the squeeze on me and I’ve bided my time? He’ll want all the details. For now, I tell him:
“I’ll be there tomorrow. He’s no longer needed.”
Santo texts:
“ah”
I can practically hear the note of satisfaction coming from the Saint. My burner buzzes again.
“cleaner will handle clockwork”
On the clock. Santo’s instruction speaks volumes. The Cleaner is entrusted to do my uncle’s dirty work. Santo has never divulged who The Cleaner is other than unavoidable, and it’s time that I uncover the facts about the nameless shadow.
I collect my briefcase and make a pit stop at the terminal bookstand. There I pick up a new burner then it’s on to the john. One jarring step and the old burner is in pieces. I deposit each at various spots in my trek out of the airport and call Nora back. “What else do I need to know?”
“No joke about O’Malley helping us with Harvard and no other major changes besides your return to D.C.”
If there’s a connection between her and Nolan, I need to figure out what it is and fast. “Out of thin air this intern just happened to offer up Harvard?” If Nolan shared the intel about my ties to The Saint, there will be more adjustments needed.
“Uh, let me think. She worked on the Gazette and we traded emails when I received her application. Hold on.” I can hear Nora typing. “Tuck, I reread our messages. I asked her about her affiliation first. Does it matter?”
I’ll have to find out. “Not really. You were right about me being a grouch.”
“One more night, boss. But it’s the same old grind for Beantown. Teachers’ union. A factory tour and lunch in Easton. Professionals talk in the afternoon at Boston General. On to Harvard for the meatspace talk with students and faculty, and it’s being recorded so don’t admit to inhaling. You’ll head back on Wednesday.” She laughs nervously.
Wednesday? I recognize a hiccup when it occurs in real time. “What happened to my Tuesday night flight?”
“Err, I made a tiny amendment. Minor.”
In the middle of the aisle, doesn’t matter that I’m jostled on all sides, my focus narrows. “Eleanor, what have you done?”
“You’re also doing a cocktail reception plus dinner at the hotel.”
“Hold on, that’s the reason for a delay in my return. I’m off a day because of a goddamn dinner?”
“Christ, Tuck. You’re blazing a circuit through the northeast like a rock star. There are scads of last minute GOP supporters with VIP ticket requests. New followers blew up our FB page not to mention continually jam the switchboard downstairs. We moved the venue to accommodate the swell to your fan club and it won’t kill you to do one tiny cocktail party.”
I start walking again, counting to five, and then reply, “Fine. What else?”
“Veep called and wants to set up a meeting. Sounds mega important.”
Marching silently through the crowded corridor, I hyper focus on the cocktail glad-hand scheduled tomorrow night. Nora has the ability to squeeze blood from a rock if she smells possible voters for our upcoming VEEP campaign. Unfortunately, she also turns a blind eye to my campaign finances. Every event upgrade costs me and means in the circle of my senate life, I’ll be signing the receipt in political promises. Or I could open a vein and bleed out—same thing. Feeling this latest squeeze on account of the GOP, I grit my teeth. “Call Ryan back and see what she wants. Everything from her office comes with a price tag.”
“No worries. I’ll field and let ya know. You fly out in the morning after a quickie breakfast press conference. Trust me, you could do this last stop in your sleep.”
“Sleep. A commodity better enjoyed back home. I’ll be in touch.” I tuck my cell into my suit pocket and envision my empty D.C. condo. Worse my empty bed—empty and zero action but it beats hotel hopping.
“Hello, Senator Stone.” The attractive and familiar woman before me smiles, holding out her hand. “I enjoyed your speech last week in Chicago. Are you just arriving?”
“Ah, Mrs. Henderson.” Nodding, I recall her and her husband. I release her hand—the one with the platinum ice rink—but she doesn’t release mine.
“Call me Abby. Please.”
“Good to see you again, Abby.”
“If you have time, I have an apartment. We could have dinner. Drinks. Get to know each other.
My place isn’t far and I have a limo.”
Direct.
Novel.
But no way.
“Unfortunately, I’m heading for a talk and have a late night meeting in the city. Driver is right outside.” Abby’s husband—a media mogul—is a new GOP supporter, yet this play is far from new. Matter of fuck, it’s getting old. But I’m in the game and it’s too late to get out in midstream. I give her a mild quirk of my lips, the kind that imbues intimacy and trust—thank you executive coaching. Holding her hand, I do the pump-n-pull. A slight tug of her to me while letting my gaze rove down her body as if I’m actually considering her offer. I’m not. Honest to God, I’m wondering if the minibar at the hotel is stocked with aged Scotch.
At this point, I’d gladly mainline a liter of Macallan to unwind. For now, I look back into this woman’s eyes. “I’ll be thinking of you. Can I drop you a line?” I bite my lip and she gasps as if on cue.
This is the kind of woman I could bang, walk away from, and not miss a step, or my next mundane thought. Abby is a drive-by screw and I’ve met my share. Smart. Beautiful. Rich. And top of the list, she doesn’t do strings. Just wants to get laid in all her vanilla, creampuff existence. I’ve crossed paths with hundreds. Thousands. Not that I fall into bed with many; well not anymore. Her story doesn’t get me hot or horny but Abby doesn’t need to know that dirty detail.
Her lips drift open, and she stares up at me. “Absolutely. Anything you want. Any time. I have a private jet.”
“Sounds good. I’ll be in touch.” Truthfully, I’ll never be in touch except in mailers, invitations to support a political function, my next PR election buzz—all via campaign volunteers. Look, I’m not cold—I’m a realist and yeah, a tad manipulative, but I’m a politician for crying out loud with a swelling fiscal budget and auditors crawling up my ass. No pretense here. Call a calculating spade a spade—I’m not arguing.
