The Man For The Job

by Marie-Nicole Ryan

  Marina sat. She glanced around the room for anything she could brain the man with, should he ever take his dead-eyed gaze off her.

  "I wouldn't advise anything rash."

  "No, I guess you wouldn't. You're not the one being held as—what did you call us—collateral for a loan being called in. And I still don't like the sound of that."

  The buzzer sounded. “I'll get it.” He moved to the security panel.

  "No, I have to. The doorman will think something's wrong if I don't answer."

  He frowned.

  "Really. I always answer."

  "Not much social life?"

  "No. Caring for my son is more important than dating,” she said in as scathing a tone as she dared. If only she hadn't made Rocky leave. All that stood between her son and the stone-cold killer standing so quietly in her living room was one under-muscled mom who hadn't worked out at the gym in six months. If she and Adam lived through this, she'd sign up for karate tomorrow.

  She stood up from the sofa and walked slowly to the security panel.

  Think. Think.

  "Just in case you're thinking about giving some kind of alarm code, I'm listening to every word. Say, ‘Yes,’ and ‘Send him up.’ That's it. Understand?"

  She nodded. She hit the intercom button. “Yes?"

  "Delivery for you, Miss Vadim."

  "Send him up."

  "Not the usual guy. Want me to check ‘im for ya?"

  Marina bit her upper lip and suppressed the urge to scream. “Just send him up."

  * * * *

  "Dammit to hell!"

  Rush hour. Rocky pounded his fist against the steering wheel. He hated New York traffic with a passion. “Guess I'm spoiled,” he admitted. Powatchee County, Virginia, was a sleepy, wide spot in the road. Millionaires, horses and retired government agents. A guy couldn't go ten feet without running into one of the three.

  Still, George Carlton paid a salary that made this poor cracker from Georgia delirious. Okay, so he had a comfortable life—maybe too comfortable. Other than his job responsibilities, he didn't have anything else.

  No long-term relationships. He'd always avoided them. Told women right up front he was out for a good time and not to depend on sharing the Sunday New York Times.

  Hell, I'm thirty-eight years old. Maybe I've got some kind of clock ticking. He chuckled at the thought. And maybe it was just one, pretty little lady and her son that had him thinking.

  The traffic in front of him came to a complete stop. Maybe he could cut over to ... Frustrated by the delay, Rocky dug into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

  Hell, still no answer. Maybe he ought to try Mike's number. And if Mike wasn't wrapped up in Gwyneth's long legs, he might actually pick up the phone.

  "Yeah,” Mike answered before Rocky heard it ring.

  "Hey, bud, what's up?"

  "We're under attack.” Mike's tone was low and hurried.

  "No shit!"

  "Two choppers of mercenaries. Adam and Marina okay? They're with you, right?"

  "Nah, Marina had a fit for me to head back and give you a hand. She was right. You need me."

  "No! Go back. Stay with them. We'll manage."

  "But—"

  "I mean it."

  Over the cell phone, Rocky heard a burst of automatic weapons fire.

  "Gotta go.” Mike disconnected.

  Mike was right. No way in hell could Rocky get there in time to make a difference. He'd trained his security force for just such a scenario. They'd do their job just fine without him.

  "Crap. Choppers and mercenaries."

  Guess he'd better follow Mike's orders. He flipped on the turn signal and made a move for the next lane.

  A horn blast warned him of the driver's displeasure. He hit the window control, stuck out his arm, jabbed a stiff, middle finger in the air, and shouted, “Up yours!"

  * * * *

  Arms folded across her chest, Gwyneth stood at the doorway of the safe room, shaking her head. “I'm not going in there while all the men are risking their lives to protect us."

  "Honestly, Gwyneth, what do you think you can do?” her aunt said, with a smug smile. “Are you Cagney—or Lacey?"

  Gwyneth ignored her aunt's expression. “I can handle a gun if I have to. Uncle Wil made me learn."

  Mrs. Carlton stepped forward. “Gwyneth, that's well and good, but Michael wouldn't want you to risk your life. We have a trained security force. They'll handle it. Just come inside."

  "Trained for something like this?"

  "Yes, dear, even this."

  Gwyneth glanced inside. “But it's crowded.” She pulled at the neck of her blouse. “I won't be able to breathe."

  Mrs. Carlton narrowed her gaze and nodded. “I see. That's how it is, is it?"

  As much as she hated to admit having claustrophobia, she nodded.

  "You must come in. My son will never forgive me if you should come to harm."

  "I'll be all right.” Maybe Mike's mother wasn't such a bitch after all, not if she cared about his feelings, as was apparent from her words and expression. “I just can't."

  The thought of being locked inside, not knowing what was happening outside ... What if there was a fire? She tried to swallow—but couldn't.

  Inside the confines of the safe room, Lilith leaned against the wall. “My, my, I had no idea my niece had such a human failing,” she drawled.

  "Yes, I'm human,” Gwyneth snapped. “Want to go into your failings, dear aunt?"

  Lilith pouted. “Some other time, perhaps. I, for one, am staying in this safe room until this horrific incident is resolved."

  "Fine,” Gwyneth said between gritted teeth, “please, do."

  Elinor Carlton sighed. “All right, Gwyneth, if you insist, but it's quite safe. Separate air supply and communication system."

  Gwyneth shook her head. “Please, shut the door and let me be."

  The armored steel door closed with a quiet whoosh.

  A hard chill shook her body. They could stay locked up like animals in a cage. She'd already been locked up enough for a lifetime. She'd just take her chances out here.

  Slipping off her spike heels, she crouched low and made her way through the hall into Mr. Carlton's study.

  In her absence, the windows had been covered with steel shutters, pierced only by observation points. Several computer screens displayed dizzying points of light—points of light that moved.

  "My people will have the situation under control within ten minutes.” Wearing a headset phone, George Carlton was calm and collected as he reported to whom?

  Ten minutes? Gwyneth wondered. Could they hold out that long?

  She eased out of the study and slipped into the next room, just in time to see Mike catapult through the French doors. As soon as he'd cleared the opening, two security men slammed the doors shut behind him. One of the men touched a nearby wall sconce, and a metal barrier slid into place.

  "Omigod. Mike, are you all right?” Gwyneth kneeled down beside him, preparing to check for wounds.

  "Dammit! Why aren't you in the panic room?” Gun in hand, he inched his way behind a sofa. “Stay down,” he ordered.

  "All right, all right. You don't have to yell."

  "And keep your head down."

  Irritated at his high-handedness, she still complied. “Give me a gun. I can shoot."

  He glared, his handsome face hardening into planes of disbelief. “This isn't the time to play cops and robbers. Stay down and—"

  "Shut up?"

  Giving her a curt nod, he turned to one of the security men. “Hicks, we need to get behind them."

  "You can't go out there. You'll get killed!” she cried before she could stop herself. Had she just squealed like some hysterical female in a B movie?

  Hicks smirked, but thankfully made no comment. Mike's gaze narrowed, and he shot her an expression that clearly told her, ‘Shut up.'

  This time, she did.

  "We'll use the tunnel,” Mike s
aid. “Exit two will position us to their rear."

  Hicks nodded. “Sounds like a plan."

  "McKenzie and Bauer, stay here. Rest of you, come with me."

  Gwyneth jumped up, ready to follow him.

  Mike grabbed her arm. “Where the hell do you think you're going? Stay here. Don't you understand plain English?"

  "You said ‘rest of you'—I thought you meant me, too."

  "Cut the crap, Gwyn.” His face softened. “Promise you won't do something stupid."

  "Technically impossible ... doing something stupid, I mean.” She lifted her chin a notch.

  "I'm not convinced. I'll tie you up if I have to."

  "All right."

  "And keep your head down!"

  "You covered that already. But the windows are covered with steel."

  "But the entire house isn't. They're using some pretty heavy firepower. Get down behind the sofa. These men don't have time to watch your butt."

  "I'll keep an eye on her,” Detective McKenzie offered from her crouched position in the far corner.

  "Thanks, Detective."

  Mike pivoted on his heel to leave, but stopped. He turned back to Gwyneth when his father bellowed, “What're you waiting for—an engraved invitation?"

  Her heart plummeted. There would be no good-bye kiss—not in front of all the men. She gave herself a mental shake. This wasn't good-bye. Mike would be right back. He'd be fine.

  Forty-two

  Marina looked down at the shredded pieces of paper in her hands; she'd tortured the tissue beyond recognition. “I want to know who sent you."

  The grim man shook his head. “You have no need for that information."

  "What should I call you? You don't have to tell me your name. I just n-need to call you something. Hey, you doesn't seem appropriate."

  His mouth twitched. Was he trying to smile? Even so, it wasn't much of an improvement.

  "Hmm.” Just how far could she go, anyway? “I believe I'll call you Henry."

  "Henry? You think I look like a Henry?"

  "Well, beggars can't be choosers ... Henry. Besides, it's a regal name. There were several British kings called that."

  "So I've heard."

  Adam walked into the living room, his eyes wide with curiosity. “My daddy's name is Mike."

  "Yes, I know."

  "You know my daddy? He used to be a p'liceman. Some people call them cops, but they don't like to be called that.” He shook his head. “Now my daddy's a private eye. You know what that is, Mr. Henry? He finds stuff for people. Sometimes he finds people who got losted, too."

  Mr. Henry's mouth twitched again. Actually, Marina thought, it was more like a spasm or seizure of his facial muscles.

  Still not a pleasant sight.

  Staring at her through narrowed lids, Henry nodded. “Cute kid."

  "Adam, go back to your room.” She asked, “That is all right, isn't it?"

  "Sure."

  His dark eyes wide, Adam glanced from Marina to Henry, then back at her again.

  "Go on."

  "Okay, but I'm hungry. I'll even eat that old soup I'm so hungry."

  "Okay, go sit down, and I'll warm it up.” She turned to Henry. “Would you like some soup? I could make a salad. And toast some French bread."

  "I'm not here for dinner."

  "But you have to eat, don't you? Or maybe you're going to leave us in peace real soon."

  "That's always an option. A final option."

  "Oh.” For a second, she thought her heart would stop. Her stomach tightened into a rigid knot, and nausea threatened to overwhelm her.

  A final option.

  * * * *

  "Unbelievable!” Rocky banged his fist against the steering wheel. “Finding a parking place in this city is impossible. Dammit.” Twice around the block of Marina's apartment building and nothing. Hell, he'd just double-park. Let ‘em tow it. He'd sort it out later.

  He pulled the SUV over beside a delivery truck, shut off the motor and jumped out.

  The doorman ran up to him. “Hey, bud, you can't leave it there."

  "I'll be right back."

  "Who're you here for?"

  "I left something in Miss Vadim's apartment."

  The doorman looked Rocky up and down. “I'll let her know you're coming."

  "Don't bother.” He dug in his pocket, pulled out a twenty and offered it to the doorman.

  The doorman shook his head. “I gotta call her. I'll lose my job."

  Rocky heaved a sigh of resignation. “All right, here.” He handed the doorman a hundred-dollar bill. “It's a surprise."

  "You're the second surprise for Miss Vadim today. What's up? Her birthday or something?"

  "Wh—uh, yeah, that's it. My sister already here?” he asked.

  "Nah, ‘nother big fellow like you."

  "Big like me?” Rocky's heart hammered in his chest. Something was definitely wrong. “Must be my brother,” he bluffed.

  "Well, have a good time then."

  "Yeah, thanks,” Rocky told the doorman, then sprinted for the elevator. Taking deep breaths, the adrenaline rush slammed him in the gut. His breathing eased, and the energy surged—enough to leap a building in a single bound.

  He jabbed the elevator button. “Come on, come on."

  * * * *

  Her head still aching from her fall, Gwyneth crept toward Detective McKenzie's corner.

  "Why didn't you go into the safe room and ride this out?” McKenzie asked from her vantage point.

  Gwyneth ignored the detective's question and asked one of her own. “You came armed to a dinner party?"

  "I'm a peace officer. I'm supposed to be armed at all times."

  "Yeah, Miss High-and-Mighty Lawyer.” The sheriff patted his gun. “That's how it is with us peace officers. We carry real guns."

  "I really appreciate your enlightening me on that aspect of your job description, Sheriff Bauer.” Honestly, did every man in the world have to treat her like a six-year-old child?

  On hands and knees, she crawled to a window and eased her head over the sill. “I want to see what's going on."

  McKenzie glanced at Gwyneth. “If you know what's good for you, you'll keep your head down like your boyfriend told you.” The detective then took a peek. “Hell!"

  The room exploded above Gwyneth's head. Chunks of plaster rained down, and a beam fell to her left, missing her by inches. Brushing the dust from her eyes, she looked around. The outer wall of the room had a large gaping hole. Licks of flame, fed by the inrush of air from outside, danced and snaked across the floor toward her.

  "Gotta get out of here,” she gasped, then looked over at McKenzie who lay immobile under one of the oaken beams.

  "McKenzie!” Gwyneth climbed over the timber and knelt beside the detective.

  "Sheriff, help me!” Gwyneth shouted.

  No response.

  Black smoke began to choke her breathing. She had to get out of there, but she couldn't leave the injured woman behind to die. Tugging on the beam, she grunted with the effort. It moved less than an inch.

  Okay, think. Lever and fulcrum? She looked around, straining to see through the dense smoke. Something. Anything.

  A groan. Gwyneth renewed her efforts. At least McKenzie wasn't dead. And no way would she leave the detective to the flames.

  "McKenzie, can you help me?"

  "Ugh..."

  Gwyneth fumbled blindly through the ever-increasing, thick smoke. Her lungs burned with each breath. “Come on. We've gotta get moving."

  Her hand fell across a thick, heavy object. She tugged it free, then wedged it under the beam. With all her might, she shoved, and it moved. Again, she put all her strength into prying the beam off McKenzie, grunting with the effort.

  Finally, the detective's body was free. “Can you move?” Gwyneth asked, gasping for air. She pulled air into her lungs and coughed. A wave of dizziness swept through her head and left her reeling.

  It was too late. They weren't going
to make it. As she fell, a pair of strong arms grabbed her.

  "Mike, thank God. Help McKenzie—"

  "Think again, Blondie."

  Gianni Damico's face swam before her smarting eyes.

  Forty-three

  Marina looked around her small, efficient kitchen. Now, where was a good poison when she needed it? Maybe she could feed Henry something that would make him sick long enough for her and Adam to get away. First, she'd have to convince him to eat something. But if she tried too hard, he'd get suspicious.

  How much time did she have, anyway? Who was he, and why was he here? It just didn't make any sense. Maybe it had to do with Mike. After all, Henry had admitted he knew Mike. Maybe from when Mike was on the force?

  She had to do something. She couldn't just sit around and wait for him to fall back on his final option.

  Spices? Was there anything besides red pepper she could use?

  Syrup of ipecac. That's it. Now if I can just get into the bathroom. Oh, how stupid. The cold-eyed man sitting in her living room wasn't going to fall for the oldest trick in the book. Or would he?

  "Adam, you sit here and eat your soup. Mommy has to talk to Henry."

  "Okay, Mommy."

  Marina slipped into the living room. “Henry, is it all right? I need to go to the restroom.” She looked down at the floor as if embarrassed.

  His eyes narrowed. “Don't try to pull anything, Miss. You have a nice, young boy. I'd hate for him to have an accident."

  His words shook her to the core—chills followed quickly by a flash of anger. How dare he threaten her son? She wished she had a gun. She'd shoot the S.O.B. without a moment's hesitation. But she didn't have one, so she'd better make do with syrup of ipecac.

  "I'll just be a minute."

  Henry frowned, but gave her a brief nod.

  Marina walked into the blue and white-tiled bathroom and locked the door behind her. She turned on the water faucet. Let him think she was modest and shy. Easing open the medicine cabinet, she grabbed the small bottle of poison antidote and secreted it in the pocket of her khakis. Remembering her cover story, she flushed the toilet, waited a second, then turned off the water faucet.

  All she had to do now was get him to eat some soup laced with ipecac, or maybe he'd prefer coffee with her special ingredient. It wouldn't take long before old Henry started tossing his cookies.