‘What?’ I ask.
‘They were taken out.’ He says it so offhandedly that it takes me a few seconds to realise he means they were killed. For a moment I struggle to breathe. Even more people to add to the tally. When is it going to stop?
‘I had surveillance running on Bezrukov too,’ my dad continues. ‘Believe me, Liva, I would never have put you in harm’s way. I had to go to Nigeria. There was no way of getting out of it.’ He seems almost more apologetic about this than he does about everything else.
‘Why, did you have a shipment of girls to pay for?’
My dad blinks at me once in surprise, flinching back, then he shakes his head, looking at me sadly. ‘Please, Liva,’ he says, reaching his hand slowly towards me.
I look down at it and know that this is my chance. I hold his gaze, letting him believe I’m considering forgiving him and then I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat, and slide my hand into his. He smiles instantly with relief, gripping me tightly, and even though I’m repulsed I grip his fingers tighter and watch as his smile starts to falter and is replaced with a look of surprise as I snap the plastic cuff I took from the bag around his wrist.
There’s a moment of pure bewilderment as he stares down at it and then up at me, not understanding, then he takes a step backwards. Straightaway though he freezes, his hands moving slowly upwards, palms facing outward.
I nod at Jay, who stands behind my dad. Though I can’t see it, I know Jay has the Glock pressed against my dad’s spine. My father could easily disarm Jay. He’s an ex-marine. He could probably fight his way through an entire battalion of soldiers single-handed, but I think he’s too shocked by my betrayal to move. And he doesn’t know who Jay is, can’t even see him. For all he knows, Jay could be an FBI agent and he could be surrounded on all sides.
Before he has time to assess the situation I snatch his hand and cuff him to the railing. Then, keeping my eyes locked on his face, I reach inside his suit jacket for the gun I know he’ll be carrying. I pull it free from its shoulder holster. It’s cocked and locked, showing me exactly how nervous he was about this meeting. I put the safety on and slip it into my bag. Behind my dad’s shoulder I can see Jay is pressing close, keeping his back to the door, trying to hide the gun from anyone who might happen to pass by.
I reach down into the bag, slide the phone free then bring it to my ear. ‘Did you get that?’ I ask.
Someone, not Kassel, tells me yes. I hang up. My dad’s expression hardens, his mouth tightening in a line. He looks like he wants to say something but is biting back the words.
When I bend to put the phone back in the bag my dad finally reacts. He kicks the bag, sending it spinning along the deck far out of reach and at the same time he throws all his weight backwards, into Jay, knocking him into the row of seats behind. Before Jay can get back on his feet, my dad spins and roundhouse kicks the gun straight out of Jay’s hand. It clips the railing and tumbles into the waves below. Jay leaps forwards and I let out a scream as my dad rams his elbow into Jay’s face. He goes sprawling backwards, blood spurting from a cut above his eye.
I know there’s only one option. I dive backwards for the bag, dragging it on to my lap and tugging frantically at the zip. A quick glance upwards reveals my father reaching into the inside of his jacket and in the next second I catch the glimmer of a blade as he starts sawing through the plastic cuff tying him to the railing. My hand closes around the butt of the gun in the same instant and I drag it free.
Hearing the hammer cock and a bullet dropping into the chamber, my dad looks up startled. Behind him I see Jay back on his feet, using his forearm to swipe at the blood pouring down his face. I stand slowly, aiming the gun straight at my dad’s chest. I see a moment’s doubt flare in his eyes, but then he looks down and keeps sawing, discounting the threat, banking on the fact I won’t shoot him.
The thing Felix taught me about poker is that your best play is when your opponent underestimates you, when they think they can read your every bluff and know exactly what cards you’re holding. My dad knew me a day ago. He doesn’t know who I am now.
I breathe out, shift the gun four inches to the left and up and I pull the trigger. The gun has a silencer which slows the bullet, but I aimed at the fleshy part of my dad’s shoulder and it goes right through, tearing a hole in suit and muscle.
My dad is blown back by the blast and the knife flies out of his hand, skidding beneath the row of seats lining the deck. I lower the gun with a shaking hand, ignoring Jay who’s standing there staring at me in total shock, arms dropped to his sides and blood coursing down the side of his face. My father is gritting his teeth, crumpling against the railing. Sweat prickles his brow. He clutches his free hand to the wound as blood starts flowing, darkening the arm of his suit.
‘Jay, hold this,’ I say, handing him my father’s gun.
Jay takes it without a word and moves to face my father, training the gun on him but careful to stand out of kicking range. With his free arm he tries to blot the blood trickling down his face.
I pull the cord out of the go-bag and start tying my dad to the railing, using the most complicated knot Felix ever taught me. My dad grunts with pain as I pull the cord tight, but I ignore him. I refuse to look at him. I can’t.
When I’m done, I realise I’m panting. I take a step back and only then do I look at my father, knowing it will be the last time that I ever do. I stare him straight in the eye, unflinching, until he understands he will never see me again. He bows his head and sinks to the deck.
41
The voice over the tannoy announces we’re approaching the Staten Island ferry terminal. Jay slips his hand into mine and pulls me gently backwards away from my father and out the door. I can’t take my eyes off him, collapsed on the ground, one arm raised perpendicular where it’s tied to the railing, but then the door clangs shut and he’s gone.
Jay makes a sudden hissing sound through his teeth and I turn to him and wince. My dad managed to open up an inch-long tear above his eye. It almost meets the other scar that dissects his eyebrow.
‘I’m sorry,’ I murmur, taking his face in my hands to inspect the damage.
Jay shrugs and offers me a weak smile. ‘You weren’t the one who elbowed me in the face.’ He shuffles us into the shadow of the stairs so no one can see us and I drop to my knees and rummage through the bag, hiding away the gun and pulling out the balled-up NYPD sweater. I use the sleeve doused in some water from the bottle to mop up the blood. Jay hisses through his teeth and curses as I staunch the flow as best I can.
The boat’s engines cut out. A hydraulic shunt signals our arrival. The tannoy warns all passengers to disembark. Jay and I stay huddled in the shadows and I feel time slipping away, pouring through my hands like quicksand.
I take a deep breath and look into his eyes, still holding the sweater against his forehead even though it’s stopped bleeding. ‘Are you ready?’ I ask. As soon as the FBI board the ferry we know that Jay is going to be arrested. Knowing it doesn’t make it any easier to face.
Jay stares at me and nods. My stomach plummets and I feel all of a sudden like I’m going to cry. He catches my arm as it drops to my side and pulls me against his body. His hand curls around my neck and he gazes at me fiercely, possessively, his lips pursed. It’s like he’s trying to tell me a thousand things but can’t find the words. But it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to say them. He doesn’t need to say anything. I get it.
‘It’s gonna be OK,’ he tells me. He presses his forehead against mine. ‘It’s gonna be OK,’ he says again. And then he kisses me – one hard, firm kiss that I know I’ll remember forever – before he lets me go.
‘I’m going to get you help,’ I say.
He nods, but I can tell he’s not putting much hope in that. And maybe he’s right not to. Why would anyone help me, knowing who my father is? That route is lost to me now. Hopelessness and despair batter me, making me want to sink to my knees. I’ve had enough. I can’t go on a
ny more.
A final call for passengers to disembark drowns out the sound of a phone ringing. Finally we hear it and both of us frown, looking around for the source. Eventually Jay realises it’s his phone ringing and he pulls it out of his back pocket, staring at it like it’s a foreign object.
He puts it to his ear. ‘Hello?’ He listens for a beat. ‘Yeah, I’m with her now,’ Jay says, glancing at me. I frown at him. Who’s he talking to? Jay suddenly tenses, the blood draining from his face. ‘What?’ he says. ‘When?’
Fear rakes talon claws through my insides.
Jay closes his eyes and sways slightly.
‘What?’ I ask him.
Jay has the phone still stuck to his ear. He looks at me as though seeing a ghost. ‘They took Risa,’ he says.
‘Who?’ I ask. But I already know. The only person I can think that Jay would have given this number to would be Yoyo or Risa.
‘Teo told the Blades about you and me. They told the Russians. And they came for Risa. This morning. Told Yoyo to give me the message.’
The breath is sucked clean out of my body. ‘What message?’ I ask. I know already what it is, but I need to hear it.
On the other end of the phone Yoyo is still yelling, screaming something into Jay’s ear. Jay drops the phone to his side and stares vacantly at me. ‘They want to exchange her for you.’
I take that in without really feeling anything. My body’s gone cold. Then I reach out and take the phone from Jay’s limp hand. Yoyo is still screaming hysterically on the other end.
‘Yoyo, it’s me. It’s Liva,’ I say.
He starts crying hysterically, his words a stream I can barely keep up with.
‘OK, calm down. Say that again. Where and when?’ I ask, already kneeling and rummaging in the go-bag for the notepad and marker.
I write down what he tells me and then I hang up the phone and hand it back to Jay. I’m aware of every single movement I make. Hyper-aware. My body has slipped into autopilot. I feel numb but my mind is surprisingly clear.
‘We need to tell the FBI,’ Jay says, glancing over my shoulder. ‘We need to get help.’
‘No,’ I say, zipping up the bag and throwing it on to my back.
‘What do you mean?’ Jay asks.
‘They said we had to come alone. That they’d be checking. Any sign we were being followed and they’ll kill her.’
‘But—’
I shake my head and grab his hand. We need to hide. The thunder of dozens of footsteps storming up a metal staircase deafens us suddenly. Shit. I spin on the spot. We need to move, but Jay is still digging his heels in.
‘Jay,’ I growl at him, ‘trust me.’
He opens his mouth to say something but then just nods and we run, flying around the corner just as a wave of blue-coated FBI agents washes over the lip of the stairs and storms out on to the deck. The door clanks against metal, sounding like a death knell, and we hear someone yelling that they’ve found him and then someone else shouting for a paramedic. Jay and I jog to the far end of the ferry and take the stairs down to the disembarkation point.
We make it off the ferry, throwing our arms around each other and acting like a loved-up couple of teens to make it past the FBI agents stationed at the exit. Jay pokes his finger into my side, making me yelp, and he hisses at me to laugh as he ducks his head against mine to hide his bloodied face.
On the street I come to a halt. What’s the quickest way to 125th Street from here? I don’t have a map of Manhattan in my head. I can’t think. Jay suddenly moves in front of me, blocking my path.
‘Liva, you can’t do this,’ he says.
‘Yes I can,’ I say. ‘Jay, you’re the one told me life isn’t fair and I couldn’t stop shit happening to other people. I buy that. But I don’t buy this. I can stop this from happening. So I’m going to.’
I march off. I need to find a cab.
Jay keeps pace with me. ‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Just wait. Let’s figure something out.’
I don’t stop. He grabs me by the shoulder, forcing me to slow. ‘Where are we meeting them?’
‘125th Street. Uptown platform.’
‘And they’re expecting me to be taking you there against your will?’
I shrug. ‘I guess so.’
Jay grimaces; his hands are fisted, his body vibrating with energy. He glances around. There’s a queue of taxis snaking past the entrance. I head to the front of the taxi queue. I have an hour to get all the way uptown. I’m never going to make it.
‘What if they find out your father just got arrested?’ Jay says, seeing where I’m going and trying to head me off.
I sidestep around him. ‘Then I’m no use to them and neither is Marisa. So let’s hope they haven’t and that they don’t. Not until you get Marisa back.’
Jay stands in front of the taxi door, blocking me. ‘I’m not letting you go with them,’ he says.
‘It’s not your choice to make,’ I say.
He can’t argue with that. I reach past him for the door handle, but he grabs my hand.
‘Get off!’ I yell.
‘No,’ he says, pulling me away. ‘We have an hour to get there. You need someone who knows how to drive.’
Before I can say a word he starts jogging in the other direction, dragging me with him. I open my mouth to ask what he’s thinking of doing because I really don’t like the sound of whatever it is, and then I see the four blacked-out sedan cars that have been abandoned by the entrance with their doors flung open. FBI cars. And I know exactly what Jay is thinking.
I dig in my heels and come to a halt. Jay stares at me impatiently. ‘Clock’s ticking,’ he says.
I glance over his shoulder. ‘You can’t steal an FBI car!’ I hiss. ‘And there are two agents standing twenty metres away to your right,’ I add, praying they don’t look this way.
‘Got it handled,’ Jay says, moving instantly towards them, leaving me standing there open-mouthed. He turns to face me, even as he keeps walking towards the agents, and indicates the closest car with an inclination of his head.
Oh God. I watch him turn back to the agents and run over to them. He is pointing at his bloody face and saying something. Then he points back towards the ferry terminal. The two agents exchange a look and then go running past Jay and up the stairs. Jay watches them go and then speeds over to the car which I am standing beside.
‘Get in!’ he yells at me, as he dives behind the wheel.
When Jay told me driving was like an escape for him, I didn’t quite appreciate the truth in his words. He drives like a man trying to outrun death itself. His foot is flat to the floor, and it’s all I can do to clutch hold of the sides of the car and pray.
Even when we hit a line of traffic Jay doesn’t let up, he rides one side of the car up on to the sidewalk and overtakes on the inside, ignoring the fanfare of honks that blasts in our wake.
‘We’re going to get pulled over,’ I yell at him over the noise.
‘Only if they can catch us,’ he answers through gritted teeth. His face is a mask of perfect concentration as he jolts us down the kerb and across an intersection.
Once on the expressway he weaves in and out of traffic, careful to keep his eyes on the mirror. He switches on the police scanner on the dash and, though it all sounds like gibberish to me, Jay manages to make sense of it, swinging us off at one exit, down a ramp and through some backstreets before rejoining the expressway in time to take the Brooklyn Bridge.
I glance up at the pedestrian walkway above us, filled with people, and at the strung cables of the bridge set against the stubborn blue sky. Then it’s gone and we’re on to the Manhattan side.
Jay takes us a block before we slam into traffic. Nothing’s moving in any direction. Jay tries to manoeuvre us left then right, but there’s no room, no way of cutting through Manhattan’s gridlock. Jay slaps the wheel with the heel of his hand and swears loudly. He glances in the rear-view mirror and makes a quick calculation. Instinctively I brace my
self as he jerks the wheel hard. We fly up on to the sidewalk, almost ploughing into the front window of a bagel store. Jay rams on the handbrake and throws open his door.
‘Come on,’ he shouts, beckoning to me.
My hands fumble for the seatbelt. I throw open my door, grab the go-bag and jump out the car, running around to join him. The owner of the bagel store has burst out the door and has started remonstrating, but Jay just tosses him the keys to the car, grabs my hand, and starts pulling me down the street.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask, out of breath already, a pain lodged in my chest making it hard to run.
‘Subway,’ he says, eyes straight ahead.
This time both of us hop the turnstile, not even a word passing between us. Jay doesn’t let go of my hand once we’re through, pulling me down on to the uptown platform. We jump on the next train. It’s an express and it’s heaving. There are no seats. Jay takes hold of the metal rail that runs down the centre of the train with one hand and pulls me to him with his other. I press my head under his chin and close my eyes, breathing him in, trying not to let my thoughts stray, trying just to focus on breathing in and breathing out.
I count down the stations in my head. At 116th I stretch on to tiptoe and, holding on to Jay’s shoulders, I lean in close and whisper in his ear. ‘Just take Marisa, OK? Just take her and go.’
Jay doesn’t answer. He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me back against his chest, holding me so tightly it’s as if he doesn’t ever want to let me go.
125th Street isn’t a busy station. We get off the train. Jay takes hold of my arm. He’s playing along. Acting as if he’s bringing me against my will. He has the go-bag on his back.
We spot them straightaway. They’re standing twenty metres ahead of us with Marisa sandwiched between them. She’s wide-eyed with terror, her whole body trembling, and looks like she’s barely holding it together, but when she sees us she gives an audible gasp that cuts out and becomes a whimper when Bezrukov prods her. Behind me I feel Jay tense and exhale sharply.
She doesn’t look like she’s been hurt though, thankfully; there are no scratches or bruises visible. I catch a glint of metal. Bezrukov is holding a gun to the small of her back. He moved it briefly so we could see it; a brazen warning. He isn’t wearing the cop uniform, but I would have recognised him anywhere. Even from this distance I can make out the arctic blue of his eyes. The other guy is shorter, squatter, with thick brown hair, a nose that looks like it’s been moulded out of dough and pitted skin.
Out of Control Page 24
