Edge of Sight

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Yeah. ’Sup?” Of course there was nothing but silence, because the phone hadn’t rung or vibrated. “Oh, hey, how ya doin’?”

  A quick glance at the bench and his contact slid over a foot, making room, but leaving the pack where it was. The Czar nodded thanks, then listened to dead air as he took the space, sliding his own pack off.

  “Get out! You got tickets?” He held his pack right above the other one and looked again at his contact, who mumbled, “Sorry,” and reached for his pack. As he did, lightning fast, the man’s hands closed over the other straps and he switched the bags. Smooth as silk.

  Levon gave him another nod, laid a casual, but possessive hand over the new bag, crossing his long legs, leaning back, and chuckling into the phone. “Hell, yeah, I want to go. Count me in.” With his other hand, he pulled out a pack of Marlboros and put one in his mouth, then reached for a lighter.

  The man next to him glared hard.

  “What time you goin’?” he asked no one.

  Next to him, his contact seized his bag. “Jesus, do you have to smoke out here?”

  Levon ignored him, tucking the phone deeper into his neck and exhaling a cloud of gray. “Hell, yeah, man. I’ll meet you there.”

  The contact shot to his feet, slung the backpack full of damning evidence on his shoulder, and marched off, practically knocking over a little girl clinging to her mother’s hand.

  What an asshole. No finesse.

  He flicked the cigarette, ground it with a boot heel, and watched the man who’d taken his bag head across the open market toward the cluster of carts and vendors. Out of habit, he kept his eyes on the baseball cap. Out of caution, he kept the phone to his ear. Out of curiosity, he fingered the zipper on the bag, plucking it over the teeth a half inch. The backpack didn’t feel that full, but then two thousand hundred-dollar bills really wasn’t that much bulk.

  Just as the zipper clicked over five teeth, enough for him to casually slip a finger inside, the baseball cap reached the other side of the market.

  His fingers touched the spine of a book. A book? In his other hand, the phone vibrated. The cap got blocked by a crowd around a juggler and… someone was calling him. Something wasn’t right.

  He thumbed the Talk button, but didn’t say a word.

  “We’re not paying you a dime until you finish the job.”

  “It’s finished.” Jesus, Sterling was dead. What the hell did they want, his heart on a platter? Shoulda asked for that.

  “There was a witness. There was someone in the cellar watching you.”

  His blood simmered. “Get rid of him,” he said. “I didn’t get paid for two hits.”

  “I tried to arrange that, but it didn’t work. And it’s not a him. You’d know that if you watched the tape.”

  The tape? He had never even looked at it. He just took the prehistoric camera because they told him it had a tape in it, and brought it today because they wanted to destroy the evidence themselves. He pulled the backpack zipper further and glanced inside. Paperbacks. No money. Not a fucking dime.

  Fury catapulted him to his feet.

  “Shit,” he said sharply, his gaze darting over the crowd. He caught a glimpse of the man carrying his black pack, just as he rounded the back of a candy store, headed across the back street toward the parking garage.

  “Now you no longer have the tape; am I correct?”

  He managed not to grunt in self-disgust. Was it possible he’d left a witness in the wine cellar? Fuck, anything was possible.

  “Yeah.” His strides were long and purposeful, using the phone as an excuse to look like a man who needed to get somewhere. Because he did.

  Levon knew exactly what was coming next. You no longer have the tape; you don’t have the witness; you can’t get your money.

  “You didn’t do the job until you get rid of the witness. You should have watched that tape, Levon.”

  “Just gimme the name, I’ll do the rest.”

  All he got was a snort of laughter. “For your prices, you can find out the same way I did and take care of it on your own. Get it done, and get paid. If not, you can go fuck yourself.”

  Rage rolled through him like licking flames. “No problem.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Not if he got that camera back. “None at all.” He tore through the crowd now, slipping past the candy store, jumping in front of a car, getting a blared horn in response.

  “You there?” the voice on the other end asked.

  “Of course.”

  He yanked open the door to the parking garage pedestrian entrance, coming face-to-face with a young couple who stopped, apologized, and backed off as he careened past.

  “So when can we expect to hear some news from you?”

  Levon didn’t answer, taking the steps up to the next level two at a time, silently, listening. A door slammed, probably on the top level, based on the sound. Without missing a beat or a breath, he ran up the stairs, the phone still smashed to his ear.

  “How long will it take?” There was impatience in the voice on the other end now.

  About a minute. “Not too long.” He closed his fingers over the rusted door handle and pulled it open without making a sound. Listened. Footsteps tapped around the other side, near an elevator.

  He darted forward, moving the phone to his left ear so he could use his right hand to draw his S&W. Against the wall at the corner, he stopped, inching out to see his target pausing at a little Camry, pulling keys out of his pocket.

  Jesus, couldn’t they have sent a challenge?

  He waited until the man clicked the lock and reached for the back door to throw the pack in; then he lunged, reaching his target before the man took his next breath, stabbing the silenced gun into the base of his skull and firing.

  “How long will it take to get rid of the witness, Levon? Can you be specific?”

  The man collapsed, his head thudding against the car on the way down.

  Levon reholstered his weapon. “You want specific?” He grabbed the other bag, ripped open the back zipper, and pulled out the Ruger MKII he’d used to kill Sterling. That was the deal—turn over the tape, turn over the murder weapon, and get the money.

  Fuck with the Czar and he’ll fuck you right back. Aiming carefully, he pulled the trigger of the Ruger, firing into the hole he’d made with his own weapon. That oughta screw up ballistics.

  “Yes. I want her dead.”

  He wiped every possible print from the handle of the Ruger and dropped it on the cement. Then he took both bags, but before he walked away, he reached into his pocket using the handkerchief to cover his fingers and found the business card. He tucked it right under the man’s collar near the bullet hole. “Of course you want her dead,” he said. Her. “That ought to be easy.”

  “Ought to be. For a professional like you.”

  He really didn’t like that sarcasm.

  “Oh, and you better come and get your man in the garage,” he said quietly. “Because if someone else finds his body first, they’ll also find Sterling’s murder weapon, and your business card.”

  He pressed End and slipped into the shadows, taking the stairwell on the opposite side of the garage, down one level to the used SUV he’d bought for cash that morning. He threw both bags on the floor and rolled in with them, flattening his body on the floorboards while he waited.

  In less than five minutes, tires squealed and an engine screamed up over the concrete, the rumble of a truck on a mission shaking the whole structure. They probably wouldn’t take the time to search the place, but just in case, he stayed hidden for a long time, ignoring the vibration of his phone.

  When it was dark, he took out a shaggy wig and fake beard, stuffed some filler into his cheeks to change the way he looked, and finally drove out of the garage, his plan formulating.

  He’d find somewhere to rent an old-school VCR, then get a look at his next victim. A woman. As he knew so well, every woman had a weakness. He just had to find hers.

/>   The biggest challenge of the day would be getting Sam safely out of Brookline. No, Zach corrected as he pulled his pristine 1968 Mercedes-Benz from its parking slot, the biggest challenge would be dealing with JP and not giving in to the urge to have knuckles meet face. But his immediate task was Sam.

  Driving the tank out of the private spot he paid damn near half his combat pay to own in Brookline, he cruised down to Beacon Street, glancing at Vivi’s building on the right and the supermarket and tree-lined hillside on the left.

  Once more, he wondered exactly what would have happened to Sammi if he hadn’t followed his gut—and her—out to the street. He almost hadn’t. He almost let his stupid self-pity along with the constant threat of the boner he got around her stop him from following her outside.

  Then she’d be dead right now. He was not the man for this job.

  He whipped around and headed back up Tappan. Vivi’s heart was in the right place, and it was a hell of a shame that Sam obviously believed he didn’t want to breathe down her back day and night. Like he could even think of a place he’d rather breathe, but who wanted a one-eyed bodyguard with the scars to prove just how fallible he was?

  And in this situation, fallible would be deadly.

  He was only going to Sudbury today for one reason, but he wasn’t about to tell Vivi and get her all worked up about her ridiculously named company. All he wanted to do was convince his cousin to take this gig for him. Marc Rossi was a master marksman, a former FBI agent, and, most important, impartial about Samantha Fairchild. He’d never make an impulsive move. He’d never make a stupid mistake. He’d never have his brain on the body he was supposed to guard.

  Or maybe he would.

  The thought lit a fire through him. Not that he was jealous of any of his cousins; he just didn’t like the idea of another man near Sam.

  If that was the case, then he should take the job.

  Swearing out loud, he let the mental debate continue as he circled the block, checking out the two exits from the alley behind the building. Was that safer, or should he bring her right out front?

  A man crossed the street, hood up, headphones hanging, looking at the building. Was he looking for Sam? A couple of joggers ran by, two men deep in conversation, glancing at the apartments. Were they trying to find her? A red SUV with tinted windows rolled past in the other direction, so slow he could easily be checking out the neighborhood.

  Jesus, how the hell could he know? He picked up his phone and pressed the speed dial for Vivi. “Bring her down now, back exit, Beacon side.”

  Less than five minutes later, Sam was in the car and they were shooting off to the Mass Pike. She shifted in her seat, looking out the window, silent. This was gonna be a long ride if somebody didn’t break down and talk.

  “I remember this car,” she finally said. “Didn’t you rebuild this with your uncle?”

  “Yeah. I bought it for two grand in high school, and my uncle thought it was maybe the only really smart thing I ever did. He helped me restore it.” Which would be the one and only project he and his uncle Jim had undertaken completely without the help of JP, Marc, or Gabriel Rossi. Of course, of the four boys raised together, Zach was the only one who needed to be under the watchful eye of his uncle, the lawyer-turned-judge. So it might have been teenage prison in the garage with Uncle Jim, but the result was a beautiful twenty-five-year-old 300E in prime condition, and autobahn ready.

  “And of course your uncle will be there today.”

  “Of course. And JP, my oldest cousin.” He waited a beat, then, “He’s a cop.”

  “Oh, it just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?” She crossed her legs. She was still wearing the jeans she’d come over in but had added a loose cable knit sweater he assumed belonged to Vivi. “What does JP stand for?”

  “Just Perfect.” At her soft laugh, he added, “Don’t believe me? Ask him. He’ll tell you. Have you met him?”

  “Yes, when I visited the Rossis with Vivi once. You were overseas, and it was a birthday party for your uncle.”

  Zach changed lanes, and five cars back, so did a dark red Expedition. Was that the same SUV he’d seen on Vivi’s street? His gut tightened as he divided his gaze from the road ahead to the one behind.

  Oh, yeah. A very long ride.

  “And who else is there in that giant family of yours?” Sam asked. “You better refresh my memory.”

  It wasn’t technically his family, but he opted not to correct her. “JP’s the oldest at thirty-eight, then Marc, then Gabe, who won’t be there today.” Because God only knew where Gabe was. Wherever, he was kicking ass and taking names, which was a shame because Gabe was the only one of his male cousins Zach truly trusted. Marc was okay in a pinch; JP was just a dickhead.

  “Then the girls,” she prompted.

  “Yeah, agewise, Vivi and I are next in order, then Nicki and Chessie, the baby at twenty-five. Plus Aunt Fran, Uncle Jim, and, of course, my great-uncle Nino, who is Jim’s dad and the Rossi kids’ grandfather.”

  “But everyone calls him Uncle Nino, as I recall.”

  “Exac… shit.” The Expedition was gaining a little.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, turning to look toward traffic. “Is someone following us?”

  “I’m just making sure no one is.”

  She let out a soft sigh, more of a shudder, really. “Listen, Zach, I don’t like this any more than you do, you know.”

  “Don’t worry, it’ll all be over by this afternoon.”

  “It will?”

  “This part of it.” He made a gesture, indicating him and her.

  “How?”

  He’d made the decision while he waited for her to come down, and he stuck with it. Sam should be in on the plan. There was no need to spring any more surprises on her, and it was obvious from her reaction in the kitchen that she wouldn’t mind a staffing change.

  “My cousin Marc is former FBI, a weapons expert, and since he owns his own gun shop, he has a couple of managers to cover for him, so he’ll have time. I’ve decided he’s tailor-made for the job of keeping an eye on you.”

  He felt her gaze hot on him, but didn’t turn. “You decided that.”

  “Yes, I did.” He watched the Expedition get behind a truck, and he used the opportunity to gun the glorious German-built engine of the 300 and put ten car lengths between them; then he flew through the first toll with his pass and lost him. For now, anyway.

  “Is he in this security company, too?”

  “The one that exists solely in my sister’s imagination?”

  “Didn’t sound that way to me.”

  He shot her a look. “Not everything sounds the way it is, especially when Vivi’s putting spin on it. It’s a stupid idea.”

  “Actually, it’s a good idea,” she countered. “But a stupid name.”

  He laughed. “So we agree on one thing.”

  “Okay, I’m fine with Marc if he wants to do it. I’ve met him. I remember he was really…” She searched for a word.

  “Yeah, that’s what all the ladies say.”

  “I thought he was married?”

  “Was,” Zach corrected. “Is now divorced. Which is why he’s no longer in the FBI.”

  “Really? How are the two related?”

  He just shook his head a little. “Long story, and he can tell you if he wants, but, trust me, he’ll be a better match for you.”

  “I don’t need a match,” she said softly. “I need to make sure I don’t get killed.”

  There was the fucking Expedition again. He gunned it, and cut off another car, maneuvering to the exit.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, tightening her grip on the armrest.

  “My job. We’re taking side roads.” He completely lost the SUV, cutting down to Route 9 and meandering through Newton, then Wellesley.

  As they traveled deeper into the suburbs of Boston, he relaxed, and Sam seemed to, as well. Or maybe she was just so relieved that he wasn’t going to be her bo
dyguard that she seemed a little more at ease.

  “You probably don’t remember that I was at your house in Sudbury with you,” she said.

  Jesus. “I lost my eye, not my memory, Sam. Of course I remember that. Uncle Nino was the only person home and he made you pick basil from his herb garden and help him make his Genovese pesto.”

  “I’ve made it many times since then. He was very sweet to me.”

  “And old as the hills now. Over eighty. He’ll be glad to see you again.” Oh, hell, why had he just admitted that?

  “I guess they’re all going to wonder why I’m here. Including your cousin, the cop.”

  “They’ll assume we’re dating, except for Marc, because I’m going to bring him up to speed.”

  “Dating?”

  “You have a better idea?”

  “You want to lie?”

  “You want all those people asking you about Joshua Sterling’s murder, then casually mentioning to a friend that they met the witness—the witness only the murderer knows was in the room? Let them assume what they’ll assume and I’ll work out the details with Marc. He might even be able to score a safe house through the FBI.”

  She sighed. “How long will I have to live this way?”

  The note in her voice made him want to reach out to comfort her, so he just grasped the wheel tighter. “Until they catch the son of a bitch. You said you’re going to do lineups. Maybe you’ll just see him and wham, it’ll be over.”

  “I wish it were that easy,” she said as he slowed at the Wedgewood blue colonial manor perched on a hill overlooking a mile-wide lake.

  Instantly, his stomach matched his grip. “Home sweet home.”

  “I forgot how beautiful it is out here,” she said. “So much space and a great yard for a family.”

  He rarely saw the Rossi house as beautiful. As a child, he had thought of it as just a place to live, far, far away from what he considered “home.” Their house, not his. As an adult, it was still a place he didn’t quite belong.

  As he climbed out of the car, he checked out JP’s oversized F150 that matched his ego and Marc’s silver Corvette. Did he really want Sam cruising around with Marc in that piece of American-made crap? His Mercedes was a beast, and so much safer.