She was hit all at once with a memory of her father. It was something she remembered from when she was a girl, eight or so, and she hadn’t thought of it in many years. She was awoken late at night by the sounds of shouting, her parents clearly having a fight. She could see the light streaming in beneath her door, and she was frightened by the loud sounds. She opened the door, saw her mother and father in their room across the hall, and said, “Why are you yelling?” They stopped abruptly and stared at her. Her mother started to apologize, but her father continued yelling, this time at her. He was shouting that she should go back to sleep and that it was none of her business. She went back to her room and began to cry, quite loudly, hoping to get the attention she desired, until there was a long silence, and her father entered.
He sat down to comfort her, and she said, “You only yelled at me because you were angry at Mommy.”
He looked startled for a moment, then said, “You’re right, Susie honey, you’re right. I’m so sorry I did that. How did you know that was the reason? That’s very smart for such a young girl.”
She thought for a moment as she bit her lower lip. “I dunno. It just felt like it, is all.”
He stared down at her, smoothing her hair. “That’s called your gut, your instinct. Sometimes in this world, it’s all you’ve got. Trust that, and you’ll never go wrong.”
She thought of that now as she walked to the entrance of Heavenly Balls and knocked on the door. Something in her gut was telling her to run away, to hand this over to FTP or the police, but she knew she couldn’t turn back now. It was the only chance she’d have to make things right. And she’d be okay, right? She was hopeful that all would be well. Before she could think any further about turning back, a slender young Italian man opened the door, and eyed her up and down. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Hello,” she said, batting her lashes, “I’m a huge fan of your restaurant. I wonder if I could talk to you about some franchising ideas I have? I think this is the kind of place that could be marketed all over the country and would have huge success. Do you mind if I talk to your boss? Is he around?”
“Oh,” said the young man, hesitating a bit. “Yeah. I guess you could come in. Here, just have a seat while I talk to the owner.” He vanished through a door in the back, and Susannah was left alone to wait.
‡‡‡
JOHNNY WALKED DOWN the steps to the cavernous basement. Though the restaurant was small, the basement ran the entire block, and the entirety of it belonged to the Italian. He had offices just underneath Heavenly Balls, and an entertainment center that sprawled out over the entire middle of the space. Johnny had never been past that. He was told in no uncertain terms that if he walked farther than the office, he’d never live to see another day.
The Italian was sitting in his leather chair looking over the books when Johnny walked in. “Um, excuse me, signore . . . ?” Johnny said hesitantly.
The Italian looked at the young man scornfully. “Didn’t I tell you not to bother me this morning?”
Johnny gulped. At this rate it looked like he might not live till the afternoon. “Yes, signore. I’m so sorry. It’s just that there’s a woman upstairs to see you, about the business. I thought it might be important. And, er, she’s very pretty. . . .”
The Italian sighed and turned on the surveillance. He had cameras focused on every part of the restaurant, and every part of the basement—except the “panic room.” That was off-limits to anyone but him and whomever he chose to bring there.
When he saw Susannah, he zeroed in on her face, then chuckled. “Well, well, if it isn’t Ms. Carter. It seems I don’t have to look far to find the bait I need.” Then he looked at the boy. “For once, you have done well. Show her downstairs, then leave us. And make sure, once she is here, to lock the door.”
Johnny breathed a sigh of relief, then got chills. The sinister smile on his boss’s face was enough to curdle milk. He didn’t want anything to happen to the pretty lady, but he wanted to keep his throat intact. And, frankly, he needed the job. Running up the stairs as fast as he could, he followed his boss’s orders.
‡‡‡
AJ GOT TO THE New Yorker Hotel in Midtown in record time. She had hightailed it out of Denver, speeding to make the first plane out. She wasn’t scared of speeding, since she was sleeping with one of the higher-ups in the Denver police force. If she saw a policeman trying to pull her over, she simply texted the word “Fuckball” to her lover, and he saw that they got off her back. Fuckball was a game they played often. It was the nickname they’d given to their repeated bouts of “strip pool.” AJ was an excellent billiards player and seldom wound up naked first. Regardless, she always felt like she won.
She had left in such a rush not because of business, which was the lie she told Susannah, but because she was worried. She had a bad feeling in her gut, and she was scared Susannah would get hurt, or worse, that she’d wind up as a casualty in a game played to the death.
She got the package from the front desk, noting that the flash drive looked like something from the Dark Ages, and made her way to her New York apartment to see what she could uncover. Her apartment was located in Harlem, above a jazz club owned by a man named George Robinson. George Robinson didn’t exist. AJ had fabricated him so that she could masquerade as his niece. Her pad was the perfect place to regroup. She wanted to be able to settle in, figure out the next step, and get back downtown as soon as possible. She felt in her soul that her friend’s life might depend on it.
‡‡‡
PIERRE DESCARTES WAS in his Paris apartment enjoying his favorite French jazz station and drinking cheap wine. He had finished one bottle, and was about to open a second, when the doorbell rang. It was five in the afternoon, and he wasn’t expecting anyone, but he went to the door. A uniformed courier was holding a package and clipboard, looking bored. Pierre didn’t think twice when he took the envelope and the pen to sign his name. He had just touched the pen to paper when the man pulled a dagger from his jacket and slit Pierre’s throat.
Mahmoud Assouline wiped his knife off on his trousers and retrieved his cell phone from his pocket. Leaving Pierre lying in the hallway, he sent a quick text to his old friend Jackson as he removed his uniform and stuffed it in a garbage bin under the stairs. Underneath it was a $3,000 bespoke Gieves and Hawkes suit hand-tailored on Savile Row. He removed his cap, his toupee, his moustache, and his messenger bag, and wrapped them all in a black plastic garbage bag he’d brought inside the messenger. He carried it out with him, threw it in the trunk of his rental car, and made his way to the airport. He would dispose of it in a gas station along the way.
He checked his watch and smiled. He had a lady friend to meet at a hotel in Khartoum late this evening. It looked like he would be right on time.
‡‡‡
CHAS PALMER ENTERED his town house at eleven a.m. He hadn’t slept, he was no closer than he had been to accomplishing his life’s goals, and he was racked with guilt about Susannah. Was there any way for him to make this right? He didn’t know. He only knew that he had to try.
He walked into his entryway and closed the door. An ominous silence descended. It felt to him, for the first time, that his space was too large. Why was that? That was the problem with possibility: it opened doors, and then sometimes, it left you feeling like the life you previously had was worth shit.
Chas sighed and juggled a huge pile of mail, depositing it on the oak table in the entryway. He threw his bags down, removed his coat and his suit jacket, and dragged his feet upstairs. Beginning at square one. That’s what it felt like. He had a clue about his father’s death from Tyka, that was a good thing, but damn if he could make heads or tails of it. He’d appeased Pierre and the Italian for the moment, so he could continue to hunt for answers. But he felt world-weary, soul tired. He was wondering if he’d be condemned to this life forever, chasing answers that could never be fou
nd.
He walked into his office and sat down at his desk, letting out another long sigh. Susannah. How could he possibly contact her again? After all, he had ruined her life. Those tabloids were vile . . . and they were wrong. That’s what he couldn’t understand. They painted her as a call girl, as some sort of international sex vixen. That was a good thing, he guessed. It was actually a good cover, and public too. Agents paid for that sort of press sometimes. So maybe it could all work out okay? He shook his head from side to side, trying to shake his thoughts away, but they were back instantly. As for them being a couple, that was a fantasy, and nothing more. Why would she believe anything he said in the future? Better yet, why should he believe her? She had lied to him, drugged him, stolen from him. The whole thing was simply hopeless.
Just then his eye caught something glinting on the floor. It was a Swiss Army knife. Turning it over, he saw the insignia: the silver engraved word “Legs.”
“What the—?”
Then his eye caught the picture hanging over the credenza. Just as he was about to put two and two together, his cell rang. It was Susannah. And she was using FaceTime from her iPhone to his. He smiled. This was the chance he had been hoping for. Perhaps she called to apologize. Or explain why she’d ransacked his office. Or scream at him, even. Hell, he’d take a rant or two if it got him closer to being able to see her again, to apologize for what he’d done, to beg her forgiveness. Taking a breath, he answered the phone. . . .
And was shocked to see an enormous Italian man with a pug nose and two chins taking up the frame. “Signore Palmer. I don’t believe we have ever met face-to-face; or even FaceTime-to-FaceTime.” He laughed a big, blustery laugh. “I think I have something you want.” Turning the phone, he showed Susannah, bound and gagged to a chair in a padded room, her eyes wild with terror. “We are in my panic room. It’s my favorite place to take people, because it is soundproofed. So when they panic, no one else is disturbed.”
Chas felt the bile rising in his throat. Somehow Susannah had tracked down the Italian and found him before Chas had. And for doing so, she very well might pay with her life. But where on earth was she? Italy? France? Morocco?
“What do you want, Bruni?”
“Don’t you mean ‘signore’? After all, I am your boss—or was the last time I checked.”
Chas swallowed. “My apologies, signore. I’m just confused, that’s all. Is there something wrong? I can guarantee that Susannah had nothing to do with it.”
“Oh well,” the Italian grunted, “I must have made a mistake. How about an exchange? I will let her go if you will pay me a visit.”
“Of course. Where are you?”
The Italian rattled off an address on the Lower East Side, and Chas was out the door before he even finished, thanking his lucky stars that they were stateside so that he could get to her as quickly as possible. Just before he hung up, the Italian stopped him. “Make sure you come alone, Palmer. One wrong move, and your girlfriend gets it. And she’s so very bella! Maybe she’ll get it in more than one way.” Then he disconnected, leaving Chas both terrified and furious.
Just before Chas hailed a cab, he remembered the lighter Tyka had given him. Pulling it out of his pocket, he ran his tongue over the imprint of the lips and prayed that she was nearby and could call for backup. Then he realized he was being ridiculous. It was a joke. There was a button on the lighter that he could depress; Tyka had simply been facetious with him. Pressing the button, he hoped for her rapid response.
‡‡‡
TYKA WAS FINISHING a job in New Jersey when she heard her lighter vibrate. She had had a GPS put into Chas’s device so that she could track him. She liked trying to find different ways to enable tracking on a device and had hoped to create something that involved a person’s DNA, but she hadn’t quite figured it out. Yet she was full of ideas and was constantly experimenting. Her favorite idea was that of traceable boxers, activated by the cloth rubbing against the user’s crotch. That was labor-intensive, however, and involved the making of a plaster cast of the man’s nether regions. Waiting for the plaster to dry was an exercise in the kind of patience she rarely had.
She dismounted the Asian businessman she’d been screwing and made a hasty exit, leaving him high and dry. She had already gotten the information she needed, so she threw her clothes on, grabbed her bag, and went to her lighter. Syncing it to her phone, she was able to track Chas’s route across lower Manhattan as she rode the elevator down to the lobby of the apartment building, a luxury building that rented furnished suites for business clients. The building was all glass, and as she rode the elevator she had the perfect view of the city, the breathtaking glimpse of the shining lights across the way. Just before she got in a cab, she took off her wig and her fake wedding ring and tossed them in a trash bin. She had a feeling this was the moment she had been waiting for, and she needed to find Chas as quickly as possible. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she was his only hope.
‡‡‡
CHAS WAS ALMOST there when his cell rang again, this time from a restricted number. “Yes?” he answered, a slight roughness in his voice.
“Calm down, Chas,” said a smooth, low female voice. “And get the fuck out of the cab.”
“Who is this?” he asked.
“I’m known as Fingers to my nearest and dearest, one of whom happens to be Susannah. I was the one who got her into your fancy town house and helped her break into a safe you don’t even know about; now I’m here to help you save her. So I’m only gonna say this one more time: get the fuck out of the cab before you blow it.”
He stopped the cab, paid the driver, and made his way down a random New York street.
“Good boy,” AJ said throatily. “I have to say, your security is top-notch. And ‘BOOBLESS’ on the downstairs alarm really did delight me.”
“Thank you,” Chas said, clearing his throat. “It was the funniest thing I had ever heard when I was twelve. And clearly my security is not top-notch enough. Now what are we going to do? And how the fuck did Susannah get caught up in all this anyway?”
“Whoa whoa whoa, cowboy. Hold your horses. First off, I have to put you on hold while I make an important call. Just stand there and wait. It’ll be two minutes at most.”
“Hold on a sec, dammit!” he said, clearly losing his cool now. “Why should I trust you?”
“Chas darling, I’m gonna try to make this quick because we don’t have too much time to spare. Susannah used your Celtic family tree to unlock the hidden safe. She figured it out because we put two and two together about what your father said and it led us to the painting that hangs in your office. And she was there in the first place because I told her it wasn’t over yet. So this was her way of clearing her name—that was an idiotic move, by the way, blowing her cover, you fucking fuckwad—and showing you what she’s really made of. She loves you, Chas honey. I’ve been watching you for some time. I think you love her too. Am I right?”
There was a long silence. Then he exhaled deeply. “You are right. She’s it for me.”
“So why would we ruin the chance for a perfectly good romance to succeed? It’s not like they happen every day.”
Chas let out a breath. “Well that’s a lovely sentiment. But, er, Fingers, this man who has her—”
“Believe me, Chas, I know. Now wait there. Don’t move. You’ll be on hold for two minutes.” The phone clicked, and he could hear—was that “Cry Me a River”?—this chick had a phone with jazz as the hold music? Good lord, even Susannah’s friends were exceptional. The beginnings of a smile tickled the corner of his lips. But it didn’t do much to change the fact that he was left in the middle of a New York City street, feeling like he might die inside before he could save the woman he loved.
‡‡‡
SUSANNAH WAS IN the panic room at Heavenly Balls trying to escape. She’d been tied to the chair, bound and gag
ged, and left there to wait. She was relieved to be left there after having been taunted and harassed by the Italian. She knew FTP was tangling with some rough customers, but nowhere in her mind could she have conceived of someone as warped and sadistic as this guy was. He had shown her videos he kept of some of the tortures he had enacted in this room, laughing as he downed a large plate of spaghetti and meatballs. She had nearly thrown up watching the footage, and the Italian’s enjoyment of it, but thoughts of clearing her name had helped her to keep it together.
Now she was alone, and she feared what came next. Surely they’d hurt her in some way, right? That was a logical development. Or would she be okay until Chas showed up? She wasn’t going to wait to find out. When they were tying her hands together, she had held her wrists slightly apart, using techniques she had learned from seminars the Boss had made mandatory. Fisting her hands and pumping her muscles gave her a bit more room as she was being restrained, enough to allow herself the potential space to escape. Now she painfully worked the thumb of one hand out first, then the wrist, and threw off the ropes. Next she untied the gag, quietly cleared her throat, and used her teeth and hands to untie the ropes around her ankles. She was grateful that since she was a woman, they had allowed themselves to be a little messy, that their underestimation of her had worked in her favor.
She was also grateful to have thought to wear her TWAW Concealment Tank into which she had tucked a small pistol. Lisa Bee had given it to her as a challenge one year—they loved to give each other inventive “concealment wear” and would force each other to use it, no matter what—but it had turned out to be the perfect thing. Again, the fact that her captors hadn’t bothered to search her made her chuckle. Idiots! She had just pulled the pistol from where it was hidden under her arm when one of the Italian’s bodyguards walked in. He was heavy on the muscle and low on the brain waves. Susannah kicked him in the balls, then used the pistol to coldcock him. Then she closed the door and heightened her awareness, ready and waiting, plotting her next move.
Game On (The Bod Squad Series Book 1) Page 13
