“Ignore him.” Josiah was still peering out the window, moving from one side to the other, looking down. “It’s just nerve death. He’d be suffocating on his own blood if I hadn’t broken his neck as well. Son of a bitch.” He turned on his heel, sharply, away from the window, and strode across the room.
Anna flinched as he bore down on her. He merely yanked the gun out of her hand and checked its clip, sliding it back in with a click. “Are you going to throw up? Or scream?” Businesslike, as if he were inquiring whether she wanted fries and a Coke with that.
Both. Neither. Jesus Christ. She steadied herself on her throbbing knee and glared at him. “Neither.” It took everything she had to lift her chin and push her aching shoulders back. “What’s next?”
It was almost worth it, to see him nod. “Good girl.” Nothing in the words but that awful, inhuman calm. “Now we move. Can you run?”
Oh, let’s see. I think I’ve pulled most of the muscles I own and you hit me in the head with a dead body and I am going to have more nightmares than I ever thought possible, if I ever sleep again. “If they’re shooting at me, I’ll find out, won’t I?” She didn’t mean to sound so flippant, but there was only so much a woman could take.
The world still didn’t look quite right, every surface oddly luminous. Even the couch looked more graceful and serene. The only things that didn’t match were the two…bodies. Even drawing in charcoal wouldn’t capture their slack wrongness.
Two breathing human beings, vanished, now. Gone.
Just like her brother.
She couldn’t tell if that made it better…or worse.
Chapter Seventeen
She was too pale, feverish spots of crimson bloomed high on her cheeks, and her eyes looked a little glassy. Worst of all, she flinched when he got too close, a betraying little movement that might have made his heart crack clean through if he hadn’t been too busy to worry about little things like how he felt.
There wasn’t any time; he hurried her down the stairs in front of him and cursed inwardly, a steady, comforting, monotonous cavalcade of obscenities in every language he knew and a few that he only knew the purple words in. He knew bodyguard protocol, but it wasn’t his favorite, too many variables.
Ironic, that now when it counted he was using the one skill-set he felt least confident about.
Anna’s hair glowed under the fluorescents as she reached the bottom of the staircase and bolted through the entryway. She was rabbiting blindly, only moving because he was behind her. He reached up, couldn’t catch her shoulder; his fingers sank into her hair and he yanked, sharply.
Her head snapped back. “Ow!”
That stopped her, but it wasn’t the way he’d wanted to. He pushed her aside, into the scant cover of a laundry room doorway; a dryer was running and the smell of fabric softener filled the air. His hand closed over her mouth; she swallowed a second cry and a shiver went through her, one he would have loved to soothe her out of.
No time.
“Stop.” He wasn’t gasping from adrenaline and motion, but his lungs burned. Back in the zone again, every nerve raw and his brain clicking through trained-in codes and percentages. It was familiar, and how he hated it. “Wait a second.”
He eased forward, cautiously, checked this side of the building. Thin golden light blanketed the alley that cut through to Eighteenth Street on one side and the parking lot on the other. Good cover, but if he was them he’d have snipers on the roof.
Of course, he wasn’t them, and they were worried about exposure, or needed Anna at least conscious for questioning. He didn’t have to be worried about anything other than saving his miserable hide—and her infinitely more fragile one.
There was a strange sliding sensation inside him when he realized this was Anna’s first brush with serious violence.
Josiah didn’t feel like telling her they might be surrounded. He especially didn’t feel like telling her the parking lot was crawling with plainclothes cops, most likely alerted by the gorilla with the machine gun. Or even by Giuseppe himself when Hassan phoned Vanczny to set up the meet.
Well, now at least he knew the Mob was involved. He’d dangled both himself and her as bait, and some very interesting fish were rising.
Now he just had to get them both out of here.
He shut his eyes for a moment, filled his lungs. Anna’s breathing came harsh and hard; he suspected she was crying but when he glanced back over his shoulder she slumped against the side of the door, rubbing at her neck as if it pained her, fiercely dry-eyed. The bruise on her cheek glared in the harsh light, and her throat worked as she swallowed, still staring wide-eyed at him as if he was the enemy.
He’d half-expected her to be a sobbing heap by now. His mind kept ticking through percentages, standard operating procedures, and the layout of the terrain. “All right. They won’t put snipers on the roof and they can’t afford choppers at this point; both would alert the press. You go out this door and to your left. When you get to the street, make a right, walk until I pull up behind you, and you get in the car. Simple.”
“What are you going to do?”
Maybe she was in shock. Paper-pale, shaking visibly, and bruised, she stared at him with a wide, haunted look that would get her marked as prey in any neighborhood, even a nice one.
“I’m going to go get the car.” He stroked a strand of her beautiful gold-threaded hair back, tucked it behind her ear, and flattened his palm against the curve of her bruised cheek. Her skin was hot, feverish, and his instincts screamed at him to get going come on for Christ’s sake get out of here time is running out! “All you’ve got to do is trust me, Anna. Okay?” If you can. You have to. Please let her trust me.
“What if you don’t make it?”
Shit. Had she guessed there was someone out in the parking lot? Of course, the way he was acting it was a fair assumption. If he showed any sign of uncertainty now, she would be in an even worse position. “That’s not an option, Anna.” He let his tone carry confidence he didn’t particularly feel at this point. Everything depended on his enemies being unwilling to make much of a fuss. Between the police and the Mob, you could never tell when they would decide it was acceptable to have some sort of public spectacle that could be misinterpreted rather than let a loose end dangle any longer.
It reminded him of Eastern Europe, of Krakow in spring and the rifle in his hands, knowing they were on his tail, cat-and-mousing with remnants of Soviet secret police. Instability made for a lot of work in the private sector, and he’d been contemplating retirement even then.
He’d been young, but not stupid, and knew he wasn’t invulnerable. But the money was so good, and—useless to deny it—he knew what he was good at.
The same bitter taste of copper, and the same frantic, trained calm behind his thoughts. He had to get her out of the critical zone. “Not an option,” he repeated. “You just go. Walk like you’re heading somewhere, and I’ll bring the car around.”
“Okay,” she whispered, and it hurt to see her straighten just a little bit more. He was trained for this; she wasn’t.
It wasn’t hard to figure out who was the braver one here.
His heart gave an amazing, painful leap. “Get going.” He took his hand away, gently, and led her to the door. Opened it, checked the alley, checked the slice of roofline he could see. “All right. Go. Walk like you’re headed somewhere, and don’t look back.”
She did. He wanted to go with her, but he had a little business first. To see her stepping slowly away down that alley in Willie’s sweater, her hair a little mussed and an obvious limp dragging down her right leg, made his heart hurt even more.
He was about to duck back into the building and cut through to the other fire exit, where he could slide across the street and retrieve the car, when he heard what he’d been hoping for all along.
The rat-a-tat-tat of submachine fire. He could guess what had happened, see it in his mind’s eye—Guiseppe’s meathead flunky slinking out to pl
ace a call to Guiseppe’s higher-up, then stationing himself in some unobtrusive corner and waiting for the single shot that should have meant Josiah’s death.
That shot was instead thrown wide because of the knife in Giuseppe’s shoulder. One shot was the signal, and the gorilla had probably been coming up the stairs on one end of the hallway to check back in with his patrone just as Josiah and Anna vanished down the other end. Seeing both his patrone and the slimy little Pole dead, the assumption of a deal gone horribly wrong would wend its way through even a mind unaccustomed to working for itself.
Cops in plainclothes would only add to the confusion. In the best of all worlds, Giuseppe Torrafazione’s idiot flunky would mistake the men in plainclothes for another Family or faction, and Josiah a double-crosser luring a Family man to his death.
Let me be lucky, huh? In situations like this, though, a man often made his own luck.
Josiah bolted. Everything now depended on speed, and how stupid the made man with the submachine gun was.
Giuseppe Torrafazione was not known to pick his muscle with an eye to their brains. It was why he was a bottom-feeder, and one of the lightning calculations flashing through Josiah’s brain when he stepped into the apartment and smelled hair oil and cigarette smoke had taken that into account.
Josiah ran smoothly, orienting himself from the steps he’d counted since they walked into this place. The fire door finally loomed in front of him, submachine gun chatter interspersed with the reports of police-issue Glocks sounding thin and tinny. The cops thought they’d been double-crossed, the Mob gorilla probably thought he had been, and in the confusion Josiah could slip away nicely.
He was four steps away and slowing down a little when the fire door opened and two men charged in, guns drawn.
No time, too close. He took the first one with a fast strike to the throat, cartilage making a strange wet popping noise as knuckles met larynx. The man folded, and the second one—blond crew cut, hazel eyes, a scar on his chin—almost had time to get the gun up before Josiah half-spun on the ball of his left foot, his other boot striking with unerring precision at the knee. That put him in a perfect position to knock the gun away, metal skittering along the cheap, harsh carpet of the hall, and then he had the man’s head in his hands.
Can’t leave any witnesses. For a moment he was glad she wasn’t here to see this, then training took over and he made the short sharp movement. The crack sounded like a good hard axe strike against seasoned wood in just the right place. The choking of the first man had turned frantic; Josiah scooped the Glock from nerveless fingers. This man was dark-haired and handsome, a wedding ring glinting on his left hand as he clawed at his throat. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. They’ll pension your wife, at least.
The sound of the shot was lost in the chaos happening two floors up. Or at least, so Josiah hoped. Quick, clean—or mostly clean; blood spattered against the wall and more matter and blood fouled the carpet. He gave the gun a quick, efficient wipe with a handkerchief rescued from his coat pocket, folded the blond man’s fingers around it again, and stepped out into winter sunshine on the quiet side of the building, far away from the pitched battle.
Three and a half precious minutes later he was in the car, driving sedately away as sirens brayed nearer and nearer. Sixty seconds afterward he spotted Anna, who glanced nervously over her shoulder when he pulled up alongside, pushing the button that lowered the passenger-side window. Eighteenth was a street of small shops and gas stations, and if the approaching sirens were any indication, it would soon be crawling with attention from both the cops and the media. He checked the rearview mirror. Clear for now.
He leaned over. “Get in.”
She did, dropping down with a small wounded sound and yanking the door shut. Paper crackled in her black canvas purse. She locked the door and stared straight ahead as the window slid back up, closing out the world.
“Put your seat belt on.” His heart was suddenly pounding. Or maybe it had been pounding all this time, and he’d just noticed it. There was blood on the back of his hand, a small splatter, and he still felt short blond stubble under his fingers for a dizzying moment before the wall fell inside his head, cutting him off from the chill efficiency of combat-brain with a sound he was often surprised nobody else heard. He was himself again, his hands cold and his mouth full of sour copper, death cheated once more. “Are you hurt?”
She said nothing, looking out through the windshield as he pulled away from the curb, checking the street over his shoulder.
“Anna. Are you hurt?”
She stirred finally, folding her hands in her lap. “Not much.” It was a pale, soft voice, one he’d never heard from her before. “I just had a dead body tossed on top of me and half my hair pulled out. Other than that, I’m kosher.”
“I wanted you to have some cover if the bastard started firing.” It was useless to explain more.
“That was nice of you.” She sounded almost prim.
“You’re in shock.” You still think you want to kill someone, Anna? Do me a favor, leave it to the professionals. She should never have had to see something like this. He’d wanted to insulate her from it. Just this one little piece of the world untouched by bloodshed and darkness, that was all he’d ever asked for. One single, simple little space inside the circle of her arms, where he could feel warm.
Where he could feel human. He still didn’t know how she did it. He hadn’t even known he was capable of it until she came along.
If he was normal, maybe he could have had the last three years with her, instead of—but that was an idiotic thing to think, because if he’d been a nine-to-five Wal-Mart shopper, she would be helpless right now. Already captured, or dead, or God alone knew.
“You think?” She reached slowly for her seat belt, buckled herself in. “Josiah?”
“What?” The next stage of the game unfolded in front of him. Still too many variables—Eric’s fucking fingerless contact, the post office box, the attackers turning into dust, not like the four respectable corpses he’d just left behind.
He still didn’t like those goddamn variables.
“The knives.”
When you want it quiet, it’s a knife or a garrote, and I didn’t have time to strangle Giuseppe. Much as I would have liked to. “Necessary, Anna. Or you’d be at their tender mercies right this moment.”
“Jesus.” She shook her head, slightly, her hair falling forward over her shoulder. He had to do something about that soon; she was just too distinctive with a long mane. But God, he loved her hair. He even loved the way her lower lip trembled and she bit it a little, her eyelashes sweeping down as she looked at her hands in her lap.
It wasn’t just the adrenaline rush of escaping the trap making his heart pound. It was the light falling over her profile and the vulnerability of her slender shoulders. It was the fact that she was sitting next to him, safely buckled in and still breathing.
Not thinking straight, Josiah.
“Not Jesus,” he said before he could stop himself. “He’s got other things to worry about. All you’ve got is me, baby doll. And you should be goddamn glad, too.”
She stared at her hands in her lap, her hair falling forward, shielding her expression. “I guess so.” Three tiny words, very soft.
Christ, you’re not convinced yet? “We’ve got to get you some clothes that fit. And something to eat.”
“Why are you always bugging me to eat?” The faint note of annoyance was very welcome. Even more welcome was the slight movement, as if she wanted to look at him.
“I can’t have you fainting on me. Or getting weak.” He checked the rearview again. They were clear. Slipped through the net. Vanished, like two good little fishies.
“I won’t get weak. Can I ask you something?”
As long as you’re talking, I’m sure you’re all right. Or reasonably all right. I thought you’d be screaming by now. Or unconscious. “Shoot.” As soon as it left his mouth, he regretted the word choice.
She shifted in the seat, as if she regretted it, too. “How many times did you kill someone while you were with me?”
Oh, Christ. “Now is not the time, Anna.”
“How many times, Josiah?”
He gave up. “You mean, how many jobs? Six. And two more after you. Then I retired. What else? Do you want to know how, with what, the body count? You’re taking this really well, I might add.”
Anna said nothing. When he glanced over, wishing they didn’t have to move so he could stop, pull over, and try to explain, he saw she had leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.
Whatever reaction he’d expected, it wasn’t this. He settled for forging ahead. “There’s been a slight change of plans. We’re not going to see Willie and Hassan today. We’ve got a meet at sixteen hundred.”
“Another one?” That got her attention. She wasn’t as blasé as she wanted him to think, thank God. He’d underestimated her, and even though that was a cheerful surprise, it also gave him a nagging sense of…well, his life depended on making precise estimations of everyone.
Anna, however, defied them every single time.
“Relax.” He took a left on Henry Street, falling in behind a plumber’s truck, its bumper sticker asking HOW AM I DRIVING and giving an 800 number, as if anyone would bother. Sirens began to recede, and now he could admit it had been a close call. Far, far closer than he’d liked. “This one’s not a trap. Let’s go get you some clothes.”
* * *
Her sizes hadn’t changed much, and she just nodded when he suggested various articles of clothing in a big-box store off Hanon Way. Jeans, a nice dark blue merino sweater over a black T-shirt, a pair of boots that wouldn’t give her another blister—she was stepping with the exaggerated care of a footsore soldier by now. He also bought more bandaging as well as more ibuprofen and a few toiletries. He was a little more sanguine about their chances now; she had clothes that fit, a few pairs of shoes, and two dark coats. They had a clean car, and he had managed to tangle up both the cops and the Mob.
Blood Call Page 14