He tried to struggle to his feet, but he was too weak. He heard the distant shrill of police sirens, the sudden opening of car doors, the controlled voice of a man saying, “Put him in the back.”
At the same moment Michael recognized the man’s accent as French, strong hands lifted him from the pavement and shoved him into the back of the cab. Michael knew it was over when his eyes met Ethan Cain’s.
* * *
They drove back to Michael’s apartment.
The city sped by, flashing vignettes were briefly framed by the window, but Michael didn’t notice. He was sitting between two men in the back of the cab who looked like twins with their slick jet ponytails and oversized bodies. The other man, the older and seemingly wiser of the three, sat in front, smiling over his shoulder at Michael, pressing a gun against the cabbie’s side.
Michael was paralyzed by fear. There was a roaring in his ears that had nothing to do with the sound of the cab’s engines. If they’re not going to kill me, then they’re going to hurt me. Badly.
He closed his eyes. His head and shoulder ached from the fall. There seemed to be no strength left in his body. He wondered how much more of this he could take. What was his limit? Whatever it was, Michael knew he was approaching it.
The cab driver, an Iranian, was whispering something in a language Michael didn’t recognize or understand. He listened. The man was repeating the same phrase over and over. It was a form of chant. And then Michael knew. The man had been confronted with death several times today and he was praying. Michael wondered what God could save them from this.
A window was open and he could hear the fading shrill of the police sirens. The cabbie was losing them. Michael wondered where Spocatti went. They slowed to a stop outside his apartment building. Cain said something in French to his men and looked at Michael. “Understand this,” he said. “We will kill you if you try to escape again. Do you understand me? I’ll put a bullet through your head myself.”
“I doubt that,” Michael said. “I have a week to come up with the money. If Santiago wanted me dead, you would have killed me when I fell out of the—”
His words were cut short by a crushing blow to the stomach. Michael doubled over in pain and two fists slammed hard against the small of his back.
For a moment, he couldn’t move or breathe—then Cain grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked him into an upright position.
“Listen to me,” he said, his accent stronger than before. “It would be very easy for me to tell Santiago that you pulled a gun on me and I had to shoot you in self-defense. Don’t for one minute think I won’t do it.”
Michael spat in his face.
Cain pulled back a hand and was about to strike when the cabbie’s voice suddenly rose and his praying became hysterical. Cain looked at the man, grimaced and reached into his jacket pocket. He removed a silencer, attached it to his gun and glanced out the windows. No one on the street was looking in their direction.
Like a flash, he covered the driver’s mouth with one hand, jammed the gun into the man’s stomach with the other and fired four shots in rapid succession. The cabbie’s eyes grew huge with sorrow and disbelief, a wet, clotted gasp escaped his lips, and he slumped forward, dead.
Cain turned to Michael.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said. “We’re going to cross this street and enter your apartment and you’re going to act like we’re friends. Because if you don’t, if you make even one false move, I’m blowing your fucking head off. Got it?”
Michael was pale with fear. He nodded.
Satisfied, Cain turned to the man seated at Michael’s right. “You’re coming with me,” he said. “And if you even sense he’s about to try something, I want you to shoot him. Understand?”
The man smiled. He understood.
“And you,” Cain said to the other man. “I want you to get rid of the driver and the cab. Dump them both someplace close and hurry back.” He opened the door and stepped into the morning sun. “I might need you to dispose of another body.”
* * *
They entered Michael’s apartment.
“Sit down,” Cain said. “We’ll talk in a minute.”
While Cain went to the window to see if the cab had left, Michael glanced around the small room, looked at his unmade bed and went to it. His legs were trembling as he sat—both from exhaustion and a sudden surge of hope.
Beneath the mattress would be the loaded gun he purchased a week ago for protection. He could almost feel its steely hardness pressing against his thigh. Earlier, there was no time to grab the gun before he fled his apartment. Now, if he could somehow slide a hand under the mattress without being seen, he could kill these men and leave before the other returned.
He looked over at the man blocking the doorway, saw the hard, probing eyes taking in every inch of him and turned away, afraid that his secret would be revealed on his face. There was no question this man would kill him if he went for the gun. If I don’t get him first.
He glanced across the room at Cain, who was leaning out the open window, his jacket slightly parted. Between the shimmering folds of black leather, Michael could see the man’s shoulder holster and gun. There’s no way I’ll be able to shoot them both, he thought. No matter how quick I am, it won’t happen.
Still, he knew if the opportunity presented itself, he would take the chance.
“You know,” Cain said as he turned away from the window and leaned against the sill, “I’m a big fan of yours. I’ve seen your films, read your books. You’re quite big in Europe.”
Michael had to turn slightly to look at him. He used the motion as an opportunity to lift himself and position his hand closer to the gun.
“Yesterday, when I got the call from Santiago, I have to tell you I was disappointed. Not because I was being given the opportunity to kill you—that has been surprisingly challenging—but because someone I respected so much had allowed themselves to get caught up in something so stupid. With all of your novels and films, with all of your financial success—how could you possibly have run out of money? Unless you were so careless as to have spent it all—which the fan in me seriously wants to doubt—then where did it all go?”
Although that very question had troubled Michael for weeks, he remained silent, watchful, wondering where Cain was taking this.
Cain shrugged. He stepped away from the window and started pacing the room. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe you did spend it all. Maybe you became so comfortable with your success, that you took all the books and all the films and all the money for granted. If that’s the case, Mr. Archer, then someone should teach you a lesson in handling money.”
There was a silence. Cain stopped pacing and removed from his jacket pocket a small box of matches and a pack of Gitanes cigarettes. He struck a match, lit the cigarette and shook out the flame. It wasn’t until he turned to look for a place to put the match that he stopped to look at the desk beside Michael’s bed. On it were several empty cans of Diet Coke, innumerable magazine and newspaper clippings, a typewriter and a small stack of neatly typed pages that resembled a manuscript.
Cain tossed the match to the floor, stepped on it. He picked up the stack of papers, thumbed through them and looked sideways at Michael. “This your new book?”
Michael didn’t answer. When he first learned what his father wanted in return for paying off Santiago, he started writing the book, knowing that if he gave his agent several chapters and a proposal, she would be able to sell it—and he himself could pay off Santiago.
Ninety pages were written. Before today’s event, he planned on finishing the proposal tomorrow morning, knowing that if his agent could sell it before week’s end, he would be rid of his father forever. And now this man held it in his hands—the only existing result of his hard work. As Cain began reading the novel’s first chapter out loud, Michael lowered his hand to his side. The gun was inches away.
FIFTH AVENUE
A novel by:
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Michael Archer
BOOK ONE
FIRST WEEK
CHAPTER ONE
July
New York City
The bombs, placed high above Fifth Avenue on the roof of The Redman International Building, would explode in five minutes.
Now, with its mirrored walls of glass reflecting Fifth Avenue’s thick, late-morning traffic, the building itself seemed alive with movement.
On scaffolding at the building’s middle, men and women were hanging the enormous red velvet ribbon that would soon cover sixteen of Redman International’s seventy-nine stories. High above on the roof, a lighting crew was moving ten spotlights into position. And inside, fifty skilled decorators were turning the lobby into a festive ballroom.
Celina Redman, who was in charge of organizing the event, stood before the building with her arms folded. Streams of people were brushing past her on the sidewalk, some glancing up at the red ribbon, others stopping to glance in surprise at her. She tried to ignore them, tried to focus on her work and become one with the crowd, but it was difficult. Just that morning, her face and this building had been on the cover of every major paper in New York.
* * *
While Cain read, Michael glanced at the man standing in the doorway, saw that his attention was on Cain, and started to slide a hand under the mattress.
But it wouldn’t fit. The weight of his body was pressing the mattress and box spring together. He turned slightly, carefully, and shifted his weight onto one thigh. The mattress lifted an inch and he was able to force a hand inside. He could feel the cool butt of the revolver. His fingertips pressed against it. He looked up at Cain, saw that his concentration was still focused on the manuscript and knew that if he was going to do this, the time was now. At the same moment he wrapped his fingers around the gun, Cain finished reading the first chapter.
He looked at him. “What is this?” he asked. “Nonfiction?”
For a moment, Michael couldn’t move or speak. Cain was standing diagonally across from him, no more than ten feet away. Neither he nor the man in the doorway could see where his hand was. He leaned forward, using the action to pull out the gun. The bed creaked. Michael began to sweat.
“That’s debatable,” he said.
“It says here that it’s a novel. If that’s so, then how can you use these names? These events and these places?”
Michael shrugged. The gun was now pressed against his thigh, hidden from sight. “That’s a problem for my lawyers to figure out. If things get out of hand, maybe I’ll use a pseudonym for protection.”
“It’s a shame,” Cain said. “I bet this would have been a good read.”
Michael tightened his grip on the gun. Would have been?
“And I bet you would have made a bundle—probably even enough money to pay off Santiago.” He looked at Michael. “Isn’t that what this is for? These chapters, this letter of proposal? A last ditch effort to pay off Santiago? I’m not a stupid man, Mr. Archer. I can see right through you. The fear in your eyes is only slightly masked by your hatred of me. But I can understand that. I hold in my hand hours upon hours of your hard work. If I destroyed this, and if you were unable to pay off Santiago, he would rehire me and I would come back in a week to finish a job that I should have been allowed to finish today.”
He looked thoughtfully at the manuscript.
“Actually, I could use the extra money. There’s a little villa in Nice that I’d love to spend my winters at.”
Motionless, Michael watched Cain hold the manuscript over the metal waste basket at his feet. And then the man dropped the pages into the basket. The sound they made was like the rapid beating of wings.
Before Michael could react, Cain reached into his jacket pocket, removed the box of matches, struck one against the side of the box and dropped it into the can. There was a moment when Michael thought the match had gone out, but then a flickering yellow flower began to bloom.
And he knew it was time.
He leapt to his feet, revealed the gun and aimed it at a surprised Ethan Cain. He glanced over at the man standing at the door and saw that his gun was drawn and pointed directly at him. “You shoot, and so do I,” Michael said. He turned back to Cain. “Put out the fire. Now.”
Cain backed away from the basket, his hands at his sides, the fire reflected in the glass of his spectacles. “No,” he said.
“Do it!” Michael shouted.
“No.”
The fire grew in intensity. He didn’t have much time. He kicked the metal basket in an attempt to tip it over and knock out the fire, but the basket spun across the hardwood floor like a fiery comet, stopping with a metallic clank beneath the open window, where the curtains moved in the air.
There was a sudden burst of orange as the curtains ignited. With fresh air coming into the room, the fire had its fuel and it used it to roar and churn. It tasted the dry, cheap fabric and it twisted with surprising speed toward the stained ceiling, not stopping until that, too, was alight with fire.
And still the fire grew, creeping along the walls and ceiling, destroying everything it touched. Michael turned to Cain, who was staring at him, his gaze unwavering, daring. There was a bitter smile on his lips. Bits of fire and sparks were falling all around him from the ceiling. The heat and smoke were becoming unbearable.
Michael lifted the gun to the man’s head, cocked the trigger and heard a similar sound from across the room. He knew that if he pulled the trigger, his life also would end. After all he had been through, he wondered if that was such a bad thing.
“You don’t have the guts to do it, do you?” Cain said.
Michael’s eyes began to water. He wasn’t sure if it was from the smoke filling the room, or from the fact that he was facing certain death. He wondered if his father ever really loved him. And then he realized it didn’t matter.
He pulled the trigger.
There were two explosions.
Cain’s face erupted in a cloud of blood and he went down like a tenpin. Michael collapsed to his knees and fell to one side. As he lay there, his breathing slowing, the heat from the fire warming his already paling face, he knew he was dying. As bright as the room was, Michael was losing sight of it.
Breathing wasn’t an option.
He choked on his last few breaths and swore his father to hell.
He was floating now, lifting, no longer a part of his body. He saw his mother’s face but couldn’t hear her voice.
And then there was a flash of bright light and a sudden, terrible darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“There’s this little party tonight,” Celina said, steeling herself while she leaned through the doorway of Jack Douglas’ office at Redman International. “It’s in honor of two events—the work Countess Castellani has done for HIV research, and the recent discovery of twelve Monet paintings in the attic of a famous Parisian brothel. Now, look. I know you dislike these types of events, but it’s being held on Anastassios Fondaras’ yacht, which is the largest private yacht in the world, so that alone should be interesting. I was wondering if you’d like to join me.”
Jack grinned. “Did you just say, Countess Castellani?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Is she a real person or a reality star?”
“I don’t know how to answer that—parts of her are real. And she’s very nice in a complicated way.”
He groaned.
“It’s for a good cause.”
“Agreed.”
“And you’ll like Anastassios.”
“What is it with these names?”
“They’re the international set.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, I’m the American set.”
“They’re good people. They just have titles.”
“How much did they pay for those titles.”
“Depends on the method of payment. Are we talking cash or something else?”
“Let’s not go there.”
She cr
acked a smile. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but it is what it is. I don’t want to go either, but I have no choice.”
He was seated at the desk that used to belong to Eric Parker, feet up and crossed on the shiny wood surface. Empty coffee cups and paperwork concerning the takeover of WestTex surrounded him. “If I go, can I borrow your father’s dinner jacket again?”
“Only if your car breaks down and it rains.”
“Then I’d better start praying for both,” he said. “Everything I own is at the cleaner’s.” He lifted his feet from the desk and stood. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“If you hate these events so much, why do you go to them?”
“Because it makes my father happy,” she said, stepping into the room. “And it’s smart business. He always said you never know when or where you’ll strike a deal. And these are the sorts of events where deals are made.”
“All right,” Jack said. “I can see that. But something tells me you want more out of life than just striking a deal.” There was a silence while he glanced out the windows before him. Even at this height, the buzz and activity of midtown was noticeable.
“Have you ever been bungee jumping?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Bungee jumping. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of it. You strap a heavy elastic cord around your ankles, dive off a cliff or a bridge, and plummet to a body of water, usually a river or stream. It’s fun. Just when you think you’re about to hit the water, the bungee slows your fall and you snap away from it, bouncing back into mid-air, where you start to fall again.”
Celina looked at him. “You do this?”
“I sky dive too.”
The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set Page 20
