by Linda Ladd
“I guess so."
Booker did, gratefully, but he watched her where she sat on the edge of the bed, looking very small and vulnerable in the light flickering off the television. There was silence now except for the low sounds of explosions and gunfire from the movie and the occasional roar of jet engines going overhead.
“I don't want to be alone tonight. Not tonight."
“You're not. I'm right here."
“I want more than that."
Booker knew what she meant but couldn't believe she really meant it. “You're upset. You don't owe me anything."
“I need your arms around me. I need you to hold me, I really do."
Booker still hesitated but she moved first, came to him, crawled across the bed and snuggled in close beside him. She took his arm and pulled it around her. He shut his eyes at the feel of her body pressed full-length against his, pulling her closer and sighing when she lodged a silky thigh between his legs.
“You know,” she whispered, her lips moving against the side of his throat. “I feel so close to you. I feel closer to you, I feel more for you now, I think, than I ever felt for Michael, even in the beginning when things were good between us. I loved him, I did, but then he got into trouble in his work, he changed, and everything started going wrong. He betrayed me when he lied about Joey, betrayed my love, our life together, but I trust you, Booker. I know you'd never do that to us. I'd trust you with anything, my life, Joey's life. I already have. I'd do anything for you, anything at all."
Booker felt a little thrill inside, but when she started unbuttoning the front of his shirt, he put his hand over hers and stilled it against his chest. His heart was beating hard, too fast; they both could feel it. “Look, Kate, I haven't been with a woman in a long time. I don't think this is the right thing to do now when you're so upset. Not for either one of us."
“It is right, it's the only thing that is. I want you. I want you to want me."
“I can't offer you anything. I'll be looking over my shoulder for a long time to come, you know that."
“I'm used to running now."
As she whispered that, she worked on the buttons, and as soon as she had his shirt open, she pressed her lips upon his chest. He felt a shudder rise from somewhere deep inside and a shiver coursed over his flesh. She slid her arms around his waist under the shirt and pressed herself tightly against him.
“Make love to me, Booker, make me forget tomorrow."
Booker didn't need more encouragement and didn't have it in him to resist the woman he wanted, admired, respected, desperately craved. He found her mouth with a greedy hunger he could barely control, buried his hands in her damp hair as he turned over with her. He was tentative at first, exploring her slender body, giving her time to change her mind, but the point came when he could hold back no longer, his feelings for her running wild, his blood rampant with need, and Kate accepted all he offered, clung to him, responded to his touch, gave herself freely, eagerly, without hesitation.
Maybe it was the moment, maybe it wouldn't last but it felt so good, sliding his hands over her satiny skin, her body soft and small and warm in his arms. He made love to her for a long time but not long enough, never long enough, and it was so good between them, they cried out together, bodies left quivering and spent, sated in a way neither had ever experienced before.
When they finally lay entwined, comfortable in their intimacy, able to breathe normally again, her back cupped against his chest, his arms tight around her, Kate sighed, then asked him a question he didn't want to hear.
“Tell me why you helped me out there in the woods. I need to know. Even if you knew Pop, you didn't have to get as involved as you did. You were safe in your woods but you put yourself in danger for me. You didn't even know if I was innocent or guilty. You didn't know me at all."
Booker heaved out a deep breath as she twined her fingers through his. She was hard to resist, this woman he'd gotten caught up with. She wanted to know all his secrets, and he wasn't sure he was ready to give them up. He'd been a loner too long.
“I have a son,” he admitted finally and felt her start with surprise. “He was about Joey's age the last time I saw him. Just before my last mission with the Contras."
Kate squeezed his hand, her voice gentle. “Where is he now?"
“His mother divorced me when I went to prison, and I haven't seen either one of them since. Last I heard, she'd remarried and moved to Rome. I guess seeing those guys trying to get you and Joey made me think of Billy."
Kate turned in his arms until their faces nearly touched. She put her hands up and tenderly cupped his chin. “You know how I feel about losing Joey, don't you, Booker?"
“Yeah, I know."
Kate kissed him then, a sweet, loving kiss, and they settled into silence. She cried softly for awhile, and he held her against him until he heard her breathing even out and soften as she found solace in sleep. A long time later, he fell asleep, too, one arm around Kate, the other on the .45 under his pillow.
Thirty-One
AT HALF PAST SIX the following afternoon Booker sat in Mac's field box seats at Busch Stadium, four rows up from the home dugout. The Cardinals were warming up, stretching out, working out nerves before they met the Braves. The stadium was full, a sellout of fifty thousand yelling, screaming, fanatical Redbird fans. The perfect place to hide.
Kate was beside him in Mac's other box seat, holding Joey on her lap. It was a promotional night, the first five hundred people to arrive presented with a small Busch Beer cooler free at the gate. Kate had removed the lid and laid Joey inside, hoping the baby wouldn't be as noticeable as he would in his baby seat. She was right. Few people paid attention to them.
In front of them the St. Louis Cardinals’ mascot, a big goofy-looking, red-feathered cardinal in a white St. Louis uniform jersey known by the initiated as Fredbird, was cavorting for all he was worth. He stood seven feet tall with yellow hands and skinny yellow legs ending in big clawlike feet. He was atop the dugout at the moment, dancing around, flapping his wings and making an idiot out of himself. The crowd loved it.
Kate realized that Booker was looking at her and put on a tentative smile, but her brown eyes were shadowed with sorrow. He had a feeling she was secretly hoping she wouldn't have to go through with it. When she laid her hand on his thigh, he entwined her fingers and squeezed reassuringly. He thought about how they'd made love, how good it had been, how easy the intimacy had come. It felt right and natural between them, without guilt or regret or embarrassment. He'd made love to her again when he'd awakened and found her in his arms, slowly and tenderly, and although Booker feared that Kate's vulnerability, her need for comfort, might have brought her to his bed, he was only too glad it had happened.
He jumped and let go of Kate's hand when the cell phone in his breast pocket activated. The well-groomed woman with tortuously teased, ash-blond hair sitting on his right glared at him as if the phone had committed a felony. Unlike Booker and Kate, who wore red satin Cardinals’ warm-up jackets over T-shirts with St. Louis logos, cut-off jeans, and tennis shoes in order to blend in with the other fans, she wore a black silk blouse and matching slacks with stiletto heels. She looked hot, overdressed and pretentious. He ignored her outrage and flipped open the phone before it could ring again. Mac's voice came through the wire, as clear as if he were sitting beside them.
“I'm in place. Got me?"
“Just a sec.” Booker picked up the small military binoculars hanging around his neck and peered through them at the bleachers over center field. Busch Stadium had recently replaced eleven sections of the upper deck in center field with a giant manually operated scoreboard that could track every major league game in progress with a full line score. At the very center of it, underneath a huge neon sign sporting two red cardinals perched on a bat, he zeroed in on Mac standing at the mouth of an exit tunnel, looking nervous as hell. Mac had insisted Dave Saracino could be trusted, but in Booker's mind, the man was still Vince Saracino's first cousin. Book
er damn well didn't trust him.
“Okay, I see you.” He watched Mac cup his hand over the receiver to shield his conversation from the people milling around in the nearby tunnel.
“I just hung up with Dave, caught him at home in Florissant. I figure it'll take him thirty or forty minutes to make it downtown and find a parking place. You're on the lookout for Vince's goons, right?"
“If I see anybody suspicious, I'll ring the phone once and hang up. You got the plan down?"
“Yeah. God, I hope Dave doesn't bring Vince in on this."
“You warned him not to, didn't you?"
“You bet I did, first thing. Told him all bets were off if he told a soul. He liked the idea of being the one to get the kid back. Thinks it'll put him in real tight with the boss man."
“When you see Dave come out of the tunnel, let me know, take off your cap or something."
“Okay. Jesus. I wish this was over."
“Yeah."
Booker closed the phone but not before taking a second to poke in Mac's cell phone number so that if he had to get hold of him in a hurry, all he had to do was punch the send button. Then he focused on Mac's position with the field glasses and stayed there. He was on edge, jumpy as a mosquito, feeling as if he had a bull's-eye plastered to his head, despite the hundreds of people surrounding him. He didn't know this Dave guy at all, had never laid eyes on the man, but his familial blood ties with a homicidal maniac didn't particularly recommend him as trustworthy. He hoped to God Mac was right about him.
“Is he going to do it?"
Kate had leaned close to whisper in his ear, and he caught the sweet fragrance of baby powder. He doubted he'd ever get a whiff of the stuff again without thinking about last night and the way she'd felt against his chest, her skin as soft and warm as velvet, her lips opening underneath his mouth. He met her gaze, saw how worried she was. He hoped his eyes didn't reflect his own foreboding. “He's on the way now. Be ready to go whenever I tell you."
Booker winced at the look of despair that crept over her face. She stared down at Joey, both arms wrapped tightly around the cooler. “You sure this man can be trusted with Joey? He won't take off with him, or do anything stupid, will he?"
“Not if he knows Vince as well as Mac says he does,” he answered, but the truth was he didn't have a clue what the guy might do. “All he has to do is take Joey and drive him up to his parents’ house in Ladue."
The plan for the transfer was fairly simple. Once Mac was sure Dave was alone, he would direct him to drive his car around the stadium. He was to pull to the curb at every stoplight and wait several minutes. Eventually someone would run to the car and place the baby on the backseat floor. Dave was to take off without looking back and drive Joey straight to Vince Saracino's estate. It wasn't the most brilliant plan in the world but it made it hard for Dave to double-cross them or follow them once they gave the baby back. But that only held if things went according to schedule.
Over the loudspeaker a man was announcing the Cardinals’ lineup. Mark McGwire, the St. Louis home-run icon, got an ovation that wouldn't quit. Booker glanced at him, never having seen the powerful hitter before, but mainly watched Mac, who still waited under the scoreboard. Mac's arms had been folded across his chest but he couldn't resist applauding his homer-hitting hero. Mac was completely fanatical when it came to the Cards and thought McGwire the greatest thing alive; Booker just hoped he didn't forget what he was doing. The game got under way with the singing of the National Anthem. Booker and Kate stood up with everyone else, and Booker glanced incredulously at the blonde next to him when she started belting out the Star Spangled Banner as if she thought she was Whitney Houston or somebody. He wished she'd go get a hot dog.
Dave took his time getting there, so much time that Booker became extremely nervous. It was well past dark, the game moving fast, well into the eighth inning, 2-1 Cards, before Mac took off his hat and fanned his face with it. Booker scanned the guys loitering around the tunnel, searching for Dave Saracino. Mac had described him in detail—tall, skinny, always dressed to the nines in fancy Italian-made suits. He had long black hair usually full of gel and slicked straight back off his forehead. He was supposed to be a part-time boxer, wiry with a quick, light step that'd probably be the best way to pick him out of a crowd. It didn't take Booker long to spot him. He moved like a dancer.
Dave came quickly across to Mac, and the two old friends met, clasped hands and began to talk, their heads close together. Booker played the binoculars down the walkway around the exit tunnels, searching for anyone who looked out of place, or was paying undue attention to Mac. He didn't notice anything unusual. He began to feel relieved, was about to tell Kate it was time to head outside when he spotted a vendor moving toward Mac. The guy had his cap pulled down but there was something about him. When Booker saw the man's goatee, his heart took a nosedive. Shit, it was Dmitri. He'd made it out of the crash alive and deadly.
He hit the send key, cursing inside, still watching Mac and Dave. It was a setup, goddamn it. Mac was in big, big trouble. The minute the phone rang at the other end, Mac tried to take off but didn't have a chance. Dave Saracino stepped back as Dmitri grabbed Mac and shoved him face-first against the wall. Another man, a stranger, suddenly showed up and crowded in on the other side of Mac. Then Vince Saracino himself stepped into view. Booker would have recognized him anywhere, if only by his silver hair and dark tan.
Heart vaulting into his throat, Booker scanned the other tunnels, focusing in at the top of each ramp. He hoped to God they didn't have the exits covered, but that hope died a quick death when he saw a beefy, heavyset guy loitering at the top of the next section. He was searching the crowd with his own set of binoculars. Every exit Booker went to had similar lookouts on guard. Cautiously he turned around and peered up through the rows behind him, spotting the man posted at the exit ramp he and Kate had to use to get out of the stadium. He was dark and burly, too, and had his right hand hidden inside a black nylon jacket. They were trapped like rats.
His phone buzzed, and the woman beside him said, “I do wish you would attend to your business calls elsewhere. I'm trying to enjoy the game."
Booker ignored her as Mac's voice came from the other end, breathless and scared.
“They got me. Sorry, man."
Booker saw they had Mac sandwiched between them, one in a sideways stance indicative of a gun pressed into Mac's ribcage. “Let me speak to the guy with the goatee,” he said to Mac and watched him hand over the phone to Dmitri.
“You made a very big mistake killing Misha and Yuri. Get ready to die, you bastard. I'm going to enjoy killing you and Kate both, as slowly and painfully as possible."
He'd spoken in Russian, his words iced with rage, and Booker answered in the same language. “Listen up, Dmitri, and listen good. Don't hurt Mac. He's not involved in this. He's just doing me a favor."
“That's his bad luck, Booker. Mr. Saracino's had a gutful of you. You want your friend back alive? You do exactly what we say."
Booker still watched them through the binoculars. “I want a trade. Mac for the baby. On our terms, but only if Mac's still alive..."
Before he finished, Vince Saracino grabbed the telephone. “You're a dead man, you hear me, you fuck? You're dead and so is anyone else who had anything to do with taking my boy."
“If you want to see your son again, you better make sure Mac stays alive and well, got it, Saracino?"
Beside him Kate was alarmed. She was looking all around, craning her eyes toward the scoreboard. She twisted in her seat and grabbed Booker's arm. “Oh, my God, Booker, they've got him, don't they?"
Mark McGwire chose that moment to hit his first home run of the evening, one with a couple of men on, and the crowd around Booker stood up and went absolutely bonkers.
“You're right. He's somewhere in the stadium,” he heard Vince say to Dmitri.
Booker cursed and hung up. He glanced behind him and found the guy guarding the tunnel talking on a
walkie-talkie. While Booker watched he began to move down the steps among fans still on their feet and jumping around in celebration. It was only a matter of time before he spotted them. Booker turned around and tried to think. He looked to his right and gauged the distance to the next exit ramp. It was too far and was probably covered anyway. The stadium was crawling with Saracino's men. They'd made a major miscalculation contacting Dave Saracino.
He watched McGwire round third and head for home plate where a bunch of his teammates were waiting to congratulate him. The crowd was still on their feet, pandemonium prevailing. This was their chance to get out. He looked at McGwire as the grinning player came toward the dugout, met there, too, with plenty of high fives and back slapping. He looked at the roof of the dugout directly in front of them and searched out the nearest security guard who was paying more attention to the celebration on the infield than to what the fans were doing.
“C'mon, Kate, we gotta get out of here. Follow my lead, and do what I say."
Kate looked scared but she stood up, clutching Joey's cooler as Booker pulled her out into the aisle among cheering, excited fans and down the steps to where the roof of the dugout met the seats. Fredbird was still hopping around on top, bending over and shaking his tail feathers to the delighted crowd. Booker boosted Kate up on the roof where the big mascot was gyrating, then jumped up himself. He glanced at the thug searching for them, and their eyes met. The guy started down the steps toward them.
Booker grabbed Fredbird's wing and yelled in his ear, his voice barely audible over the roaring crowd. “I got a gun under my coat, you hear me? Do what I say or you're dead, got it?"
“Huh, man? Whassa matter with you, you crazy?” Fredbird's voice was muffled by the big, beaked Cardinal head and he kept trying to pull his wing free.
“Act like you want us up here. Dance around like you were, ham it up."
Fredbird awkwardly raised his wings and flapped some more, and the crowd roared with laughter. Booker glimpsed at least three security guards coming down the steps to arrest them. “Jump down, Kate, hurry up.” Under his shirt he kept the gun pressed against Fredbird's feathers, grimacing when he realized they were being featured on the huge video screen in left field. As Kate hit the ground with Joey, Fredbird broke Booker's grip, lunged away and dove headfirst off the dugout roof into a knot of players congratulating McGwire.