“Danny, wait! What are you doing? Bring her back! Please!”
I placed my feet on the plush area rug and tried to stand, but my head began to spin, and I collapsed back down onto the bed. When the dizziness ebbed, I stood again, slowly this time, keeping my knees bent as I leaned over with my hands clamped onto the mattress. I edged toward the nightstand, grabbing the wood top and propelling myself closer to the wall. The wainscoting had a chunky chair rail which I used as a crutch to skirt the room.
Halfway to the door, another wave of vertigo hit me, and I had to bend over to get the blood to rush back into my head before I passed out. When I glimpsed the wood floor between my bare feet, I saw a trail of fat drops of blood appear one after another. I peered back toward the bed and spied a bright red trail. Oh God, I was still bleeding. Unable to stand, I slid to my knees as my vision tunneled and nausea tightened my stomach.
“Please, someone, help me,” I whimpered, but no one came.
I crawled toward the door, my knees smearing the blood as it continued to drip along the pristine wood beneath me. When I finally reached the door, I collapsed into a heap while I waited to regain some small measure of strength. I listened with my ear near the bottom of the door. I swore I could still hear Nicole crying in the distance. Reaching for the doorknob, I pulled myself to my knees, then to my feet, where I wobbled unsteadily. I tried to turn the knob, but it wouldn’t budge. I pulled as hard as I could with no success. The door was locked from the outside. I slammed my fist against the wood, again and again.
“Unlock this door! Give me my child. She needs me. Please. Danny…please…”
It didn’t matter how many times I pleaded or banged on the door. No one heard me. Or maybe they just didn’t care. After ten minutes, I collapsed back down onto the floor. But even then, I didn’t stop. I continued to call out for Nicole, until my voice grew hoarse and I felt too weak to even remain conscious. The last thing I remember was glancing up at the door and seeing my bloody handprint streaked across the glossy white finish.
***
I don’t know how long I was out, but slowly, I was drawn from the recess of unconsciousness by the sound of a woman’s voice, singing quietly not far away. Though I still felt weak, I pushed myself up and looked around for the source of the singing. It was definitely coming from inside my bedroom cell, but I didn’t see anyone else. I rolled onto my knees then tucked my feet underneath me, using the door handle to pull myself upright.
The smeared blood on the door had dried, while the small patch beneath me was still sticky. I turned from the mess and looked about the room in the direction of the muted voice. It was coming from the TV sitting on the low dresser opposite the foot of the bed. I recognized the tune as “Itsy Bitsy Spider” before it gave way to “You Are My Sunshine.”
I took a tentative step toward the television, testing my strength and balance as my toes gripped the rug. I paused when the woman changed tunes to “Rock-a-bye Baby.” Was she singing to a baby? To my baby? It couldn’t be; Greg could not be that heartless.
As I got closer and stood in front of the monitor, the picture became clearer, and I saw the woman swaying back and forth in a rocking chair with a small bundle wrapped up in a blanket and held tenderly in her arms. A chirp-like squawk erupted from the blanket as tiny arms flailed in the air. Even though I had but a few moments with my child right after her birth, I knew, in the deepest part of me, that it was Nicole. In an instant, my breasts, which had swelled while I was unconscious, began to ache, and the front of my cotton gown grew damp over each nipple. My body was responding in the most primal of ways, expressing milk in reaction to my child’s plaintive cries.
A moan escaped my lips, and I cried out my daughter’s name as I stumbled closer to the TV. Reaching the dresser, I leaned against its edge and stared, transfixed, at the image. My mouth moved, but no sound came out. I just stood there, motionless, as tears streamed down my face, and my newborn baby cried in the arms of a woman who was not her mother.
She lifted Nicole to her shoulder and patted her back as she spoke soothingly to my daughter, who squealed again before quieting down. Even though she was a stranger and held my child when I could not, I felt relieved that the woman could comfort Nicole. But then a cell phone rang, and Nicole began to squirm, and my body tensed all over again.
The woman hurriedly snatched the phone from her side pocket and answered with a soft hello. From there, she held silent as she listened to the voice on the other end. She stood with Nicole still on her shoulder and the phone at her opposite ear. I could tell by the stunned look on her face that she wasn’t too pleased.
“What?” she hissed, then, “Are you out oov your mind? I can’t do that. She might—” She silenced herself abruptly as her lips set into a grim line. She shook her head and said, “Yes, if that’s what you want. Oov course. Fine.” Then a pause as the woman’s shoulders slumped. “I remember. You never let me forget,” she finished then slid the phone back into her pocket.
Her hand returned to Nicole’s tiny back, swirling in small circles as the woman cuddled my baby closer into her neck, her cheek resting atop Nicole’s downy head. Then, with a sniffle, the woman walked up to the changing table where she laid Nicole down and removed her clothing and diaper. Nicole, who had strenuously objected at simply being set down, screamed so hard, she could barely catch her breath, and her little face turned a bright, scalding red.
My hands rose instinctively to my mouth. “Pick her up,” I urged in a whisper. “Please, please pick her back up.”
But she did not. The woman’s shoulders began to quake as she took a step back from the baby. Her hands mirrored mine, her fingers trembling at her lips. With a quick shake of her head in protest, the woman turned and quickly fled the room, crying, “I’m sorry,” as she swept through the nursery door.
I gasped, choking on what little air I managed to suck into my lungs. “No!” I screamed as I grasped both sides of the TV. “Don’t leave! You can’t leave her all alone like that. She’ll fall! Please!” I wailed uselessly at the television. “For God’s sake, come back!”
I fell to my knees in front of the dresser, my hands pressed together as I prayed and begged while Nicole continued to shriek and tremble from atop the changing table, easily three-and-a-half feet above the floor. As her arms flailed wildly, her tiny body shook and rocked from side to side as she protested being left naked, cold, and alone.
I cried just as loud, willing her to settle down and remain still, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. And just when her squirming body seemed to teeter on the very edge of the thin pad, the TV went blank, and I screamed even louder.
CHAPTER 46
Tyler
Again, I was left dumbfounded, unable to put two words together. All this talk of ducks and taking men out… Greg couldn’t possibly expect me to commit murder, could he? Was he actually asking me to shoot the men in the photos, men I didn’t know, who likely had family and friends, wives and children? There was no way I could do that. No fucking way. And yet, with Hannah in his possession, and Conner under his control, it seemed I had little choice.
My heart hammered hard in my chest, and an intense panic began to overtake me. I couldn’t breathe. All I could think about was getting out of that room. Without considering the consequences, I pushed my chair back and tried to stand, but the bull behind me shoved me forward into the edge of the table. Sprawling across it, my feet kicked the underside of my chair and sent it into the bull’s knees, further enraging him. He hurled the chair over the side of the table like it was a child’s toy, then grabbed my ankles and yanked me toward him. In an instant, the entire room erupted into shouts as two more of Greg’s men joined in the fray.
Conner jumped up and hurled his body onto the mountain of men above me, trying to pull them off. I stopped fighting. I didn’t want Conner to get hurt even more defending me. But he jerked on one of the goon’s hair and received an elbow to the face for his eff
orts, sending him back against the wall with his hand pressed to his temple. Behind me, Greg pulled a gun from beneath his jacket and poked the barrel into the top of my head, dead center.
“All right, that’s enough!” he roared.
Conner raised his hands while two of Greg’s guards settled back to attention along the wall. The third man pulled me up by my collar and drove me into a chair.
After a withering glance at me, Greg looked over at his man near the door. “Get him a towel. I don’t want his blood all over the furniture. And bring me the Grey.”
I ran the back of my hand across my mouth and nose. It came away smeared with blood. A moment later, the guard threw a small towel in my face then placed a narrow tray with a frosted bottle of vodka and three lowball glasses with ice in them in front of Greg, who waved his gun at Conner, pointing it at his chair.
“Sit down, Mr. Maguire,” he ordered then slipped his gun back beneath his jacket after Conner took his seat again. Greg regained his own chair, adjusting his collar and smoothing out his lapels then laying his hands flat on the table next to the tray. “Everyone needs to calm down. I think a drink will help.” He poured a four-finger shot into one glass and slid it across the glossy table toward Conner. It stopped several inches short of the edge. “Drink up,” Greg said as he motioned for Conner to pick it up.
Conner looked down at the glass then back up at Greg and said, “I’m in recovery.”
Greg laughed. “Yes, well, I’ve seen you in recovery, and you can out-drink half my men who are twice your size. Now, be a fucking man and drink.”
Conner raised the glass and took a sip then placed it back on the table.
Greg pressed his lips and tilted his head. “Really? That’s how it’s going to be?”
When Conner offered nothing but a hard glare, Greg locked eyes with his man along the wall. The guy slammed Conner from behind, crushing his chest into the table’s edge.
His eyes clenched tight, Conner slammed his palm on the table. “All right, all right,” he grunted then gasped for air when the goon stepped back. He snatched the glass and, with a hateful scowl, tossed its contents down his throat, slamming it on the table once empty.
Greg grinned. “Excellent,” he offered then poured a similar heavy shot into a second glass. He slid that one across the table to me.
I caught it, looked down into its depths, then slid it back with a grimace. But, in my anger, I hurled it too hard, and it slipped off the edge of table, right into the wall behind Greg, breaking the crystal tumbler and spilling the expensive Russian vodka onto the carpet.
Unfazed, Greg grabbed the last glass, dumped the ice onto the floor with the rest of the mess, and filled the lowball glass with the silvery elixir just shy of the rim. Holding the glass carefully, he stood, leaned over the table, and placed it deliberately under my nose. I locked eyes with his as he slithered back into his seat.
“Drink up, my good man, but know this. If you spill, even one drop, I will be forced to shed an equal amount of your dear stepson’s blood.”
I turned to look at Conner. His face paled considerably, and his brow slanted in unease.
I dropped his gaze and looked back at Greg. “You do realize I’m not a nice drunk.”
He winked. “Yes, I remember. Now, finish your drink so we can get on with business.”
With a weighty sigh, I peered back down into the clear liquid. It reflected back every reprehensible memory I had of those days following Jillian’s funeral, like the night Nick had found me on the floor amidst the devastation I’d wreaked upon my home when I couldn’t accept my role in Jill’s death. Unable to console me, Nick had turned to the one thing that had eased his own guilt after our parents and sister died in the accident he’d caused.
Booze.
He bought two bags full of it, and we spent that entire night working our way through. Then we repeated it, day after day, until I was a full-fledged alcoholic, dependent on liquor to ease my grief. Under its influence, that grief had turned into bitterness and rage, fueling the fantasies that got me through each day. But before I knew it, even those were not enough, and together with Nick, we planned the destruction of the woman we felt responsible for the death of my pregnant wife. That had been the beginning of my nightmare, a chain of events that left an unspeakable wake of destruction, including Nick’s death and Hannah’s brutal assault.
And at its root was alcohol.
“Recalling the good ole’ days?” Greg’s voice ripped me from my morose daydream. “I seem to recall a confession Nick made to you over the phone, about how he’d manipulated you into drinking. Said he’d proven you a drunken loser, just like he was. Made me laugh. What a gullible fuck you are, Karras.”
My fingers tightened around the glass, and a few drops spilled onto the table. Greg pouted as he tipped his head to the side and, with a nod, gave his enforcer permission to extract due punishment. The same goon who’d crushed Conner’s chest into the table whipped out a butterfly knife and, after a rocking flash of his hand, slashed the blade near Conner’s face. A minutely thin ribbon of red, two inches long, slowly materialized across his left cheek.
It happened so fast and the blade was so finely-honed, I don’t think Conner even realized what had happened. But then he sucked a sharp breath between his teeth as he reached for his injured face. By that time, Greg’s man had already twisted the knife back into its safe handle, slid it into his breast pocket, and placed his hands forcefully atop Conner’s shoulders to keep him in his seat. When Conner pulled his hand away, only two small drops of blood dotted his face below the narrow incision.
Greg craned his neck to marvel his man’s handiwork. “Yegor always was good with a knife. Let’s just hope Ty here doesn’t force him to further prove his expertise.” He turned from Conner and raised a single brow at me in challenge.
With my mouth pressed tight, I lifted the glass to my lips and sighed before the familiar liquor slid a blazing trail down my throat. My hands began to tremble, causing some of the vodka to dribble down my chin.
“Take care not to spill again, my friend,” Greg reminded me.
I closed my eyes, tipped my head back, and gulped the remaining alcohol as I felt a single tear escape the corner of my eye. I eased the glass back down to the table, but kept my head back and eyes shut as heat filled my stomach. Finally, I dropped my chin to my chest and took a ragged breath.
Greg’s voice pierced my already fogged brain. “That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”
I opened my eyes without raising my chin, dispatching a menacing glare that surely expressed the savage hatred I held for Greg. I shot the empty glass back across the table. It came to a halt at the very edge, right beneath his chin. Greg eyed me with cool diffidence.
“Stop playing games and tell me what the fuck you want,” I said. “Then let me do it so I can get my family back.” My voice was calm, quiet, and deadly serious.
Greg smiled. “See…I knew the liquor would help. Okay then,” he said with a sharp clap, “let’s get down to business.” With that, he grabbed a briefcase from under the table and opened it, rifling through and pulling out a thick folder which he threw onto the table. He then opened it up, turned it around, and slid it closer to me. “These are for you. Pay attention and follow along,” he ordered with his finger pressed against the top page.
From that point on, Greg proceeded to introduce each member of the Vory he wanted eliminated. Using the white board, he explained where each man lived, the schedules they kept, and the haunts they frequented. He even outlined specific details on how and when he wanted each man executed.
I leaned back in my seat. “How the hell am I supposed to do that?”
Greg held up a finger then hitched his thumb at the man near the door who stepped out briefly, returning thirty seconds later with a long, narrow, metal case. After laying it on the table, Greg fiddled with the combination lock then popped the lid open. He reached in and removed a very
expensive-looking sniper-style rifle. Topped with a long, laser-guided scope, the weapon sported a muzzle with what looked like some kind of flash-suppressor, and a long ammunitions magazine projected from the underside just behind a short bipod for balance.
I stared at it for a long minute then, with my mouth hanging open, I raised my eyes to Greg. “You’re fucking mad. I can barely shoot the shagging ducks from fifteen feet away. How the bloody hell can you expect me to shoot a man from fifty meters? Why don’t you just do it yourself, or one of your…your…Byki or whatever the fuck they’re called?”
“Because neither I, nor my men, anyone formally admitted or made, can touch any other Vory, and even if we could, I wouldn’t risk it legally. I can’t be linked to the crimes in any way, which is why the gun is registered in your name. And rest assured, you will be instructed on how to properly use the weapon, and you’ll undoubtedly be a pro in no time.”
I cracked a contentious smile. “Perhaps using you as target practice.”
Greg’s grin was equally malicious. “You know I have the means to make sure you perform exactly as instructed. Please, don’t make me utilize it.”
“Surely you wouldn’t hurt a pregnant woman. I don’t even think your father was that heartless.”
“Thus far, I’ve treated Hannah with the utmost respect and care. She’s even under the watchful eye of my father’s long-time physician.”
“What? Why? Is something wrong? Is it the baby? If so, she should be in hospital.”
Greg waved his hand. “Not to worry. The baby is doing fine,” he replied as he pressed a few keys on the tablet, bringing up the video feed, a recording of what I’d witnessed earlier.
This time, sound accompanied the video, and Hannah’s piercing scream sliced through the air. Equally shocked and distressed, Conner and I both sprang from our seats, calling out as Greg’s men wrestled to keep us from jumping over the table.
Leverage (The Mistaken Series) Page 30
