Dead to You

by Heather Wynter

  To Sean, it seemed like most big cities—a lot of grit behind the façade.

  It took half a day to buy a gun and sufficient ammo, one weapon being sufficient for the job. He knew he’d never be able to take a gun with him out of the country anyway. The back-alley deal was like many he’d been through, some of them potentially quite dangerous. But most often they were more dangerous for the gun dealers than for him.

  Armed with a Colt handgun and a stack of clips, Sean hunted down and then scoured the bars popular with the expatriates, called expats online. Retirement forums and other sites provided plenty of information on where to go.

  At the third stop on the second day, a place called Joe’s American Bar, which was festooned with pictures of Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, and other icons of the previous century, there was a strong crowd of white men and women. Their hippie clothes and manbuns gave them away as backpackers, or as people the backpacker he was looking for would know.

  Sean approached a table. “Hi, how’re you doin’ today?” Without waiting for an answer, he looked over at the bartender and circled his finger over the table. “’Nother round.” The bartender nodded, and Sean returned his attention to the five backpackers at the little round table in front of him.

  One of them, with a frizzy and bushy long beard, nodded. “Thanks, dude. S’up?”

  Sean sat down and shared pleasant smiles with the others. Like most travelers, they were welcoming and easy to talk to, especially after a few free drinks.

  “Here on business, actually.” He pulled a picture of his target out of his pocket and showed it to them. “Chris Norman, seen him?”

  One of the girls took the picture and gave it a closer look. “That’s Parker.” She showed it to her friend. “See the scar?”

  The other girl nodded, but the bearded guy next to Sean said, “Girls, chill!” A tense mood came over the table. Sean knew what that meant.

  “Okay, you’ve clearly come across the man, and he’s using an alias. Why? Because he skipped out on his family, took the money her father had left them, and poof, off he went. So, if you thought of this guy as a friend, as somebody worth knowing or liking or protecting, maybe you should think again.”

  They shared a nervous glance around the table as the bartender brought a fresh pitcher of draft beer and set it in the center of the table.

  “Maybe some of you cut on your own responsibilities too.”

  One of the girls leaned her head forward. “Excuse me?”

  Sean shrugged. “It’s insulting, right? Because who would rob his family of every penny and then run off to South America? Well, this guy did, and if you didn’t know before, then you know now. So all of you’ve got this one chance to do the right thing. Or you can choose to do the wrong thing and protect a thief, a man on the run, a man who would betray his own small child.”

  The hipsters shared a nervous glance, some consideration seeming to be brewing among them.

  Then the guy with the beard said, “Look, dude, we don’t want any trouble, so if you’re a cop or whatever, I think you’re way out of your lane. So y’know, thanks for the beer, but … just move on, okay?”

  Sean smiled and nodded, shrugging as if having little to offer in the way of an alternative, but of course that wasn’t so.

  “Well,” he said, “I tried.”

  Sean moved fast, grabbing the guy’s head from behind, fist clenched around his manbun, yanking it back while sticking a gun into the side of his neck. One of the other guys stood too, the third guy and the two girls remaining seated.

  “Dude,” the other guy said through his handlebar mustache, “what the fuck, bro?”

  “I bought this man a beer,” Sean said, sliding his gun under Manbun’s beard to keep it out of sight. “Help him out.”

  The fellow looked at his other three friends, then back at Sean. He reached over slowly and picked up the pitcher, reading a pour into Manbun’s glass. Sean shook his head.

  “All of it,” Sean said. Mustache looked at the others, then back at Sean. “He’s getting thirsty.”

  Mustache shrugged and raised the beer to Manbun’s face. “Sorry, dude.”

  Sean said, “Don’t spill a drop.”

  Mustache started pouring, and Manbun started drinking, already choking and flailing.

  Sean looked around at the room, his gun concealed, but his position of power obvious to anyone. “It’s the beer pitcher challenge, all over the internet,” he said. Satisfied, just about everyone turned away.

  But Manbun, head tilted back, was coughing up the beer. Mustache said, “Dude, he’s gonna drown!”

  “Where is he?” Sean asked, looking at the others as Manbun sat struggling in his chair, hands out and splayed, arms trembling. The gun under his beard was doing all the heavy lifting. For Sean, it was just a matter of time … and beer.

  The girl finally said, “Jesus! Quito, okay? Up in Ecuador.”

  “Ecuador? What’s in Ecuador?”

  “Legal weed,” she said, “up to ten grams. Coke too.”

  Sean jutted his chin at Mustache, who stepped back and put the half-emptied pitcher back on the table. He let go of the bun, and Manbun lurched forward, coughing and spitting up beer and bile. Sean looked around at the crowd. “Only have a pitcher … couldn’t quite do it.”

  He dropped a few bills on the table and turned to the girl. “I’d better not find out you’re yanking my chain. Ecuador’s not so far off. And if I can’t find him, I may just have to come looking for you.”

  He stood there, staring into their wide eyes, shifting from one person to the next. He gave them a moment to reconsider their answer before knocking twice on the table and saying, “Enjoy your beer.”

  Sean walked out of the bar and back into the streets. It was a good lead. He hadn’t meant to be so intimidating, but it was the easiest and least damaging way to get the information he needed. He wasn’t about to come back and hunt anybody down, of course, and waterboarding some douchebag hipster was not his idea of a good career move. But he knew the tools of the trade, and he knew how to use them. What remained was to find some ground transport to Quito so he could bring the gun with him and not have to bother finding another. But what stuck in the back of his mind was that he needed to find a new trade and travel among better people, classier people, who didn’t trudge through the bowels of society.

  People like Greer Lange. Sean sighed and tried to put her out of his mind.

  Maybe I can’t have her or someone like her or live a life like the one I might have had with her. But who knows, maybe if I wrap this up soon enough, I can get back to Colorado before somebody else moves in on her. Still, I don’t want to stalk the poor girl, especially so soon after such a traumatic experience. She needs to heal. She needs to be away from the case of her ex and all the baggage that goes along with it. And I’m part of that baggage, like it or not.

  Not.

  Whatever comes next, this is my last case, I swear it.

  Chapter Six

  Talking to Spencer’s parents put Greer in mind of her own folks, Hal and Nancy Barns. They’d worked hard, and she had been happy to make them among the first beneficiaries of her success. Spencer hadn’t objected, and they certainly hadn’t either.

  They peered into the screen of the FaceTime app, waving at her as they crowded into the camera’s line of sight. Because they looked at the screen instead of into the camera on their laptop, she could never make eye contact. But it was nice enough just to see their faces and hear their voices.

  “So nice to hear from you,” her mother Nancy enthused, looking like an older version of herself with graying red hair, fading green eyes, and wrinkles on her freckled face. With his furrowed brow and olive complexion, her father still had the swarthy good looks of his Mediterranean heritage.

  “So sad to hear about New York,” Hal said with a loving smile. “But at least now you can put that all behind you.”

  “I’m sure that’s what your Spencer would
have wanted,” Nancy said.

  “Why not come down here?” Hal asked from that flat computer screen. “Plenty of room here … Boca’s nice this time of year.”

  “Gee, I dunno,” Greer said. “Florida?”

  “Just a visit,” Margaret said. “I’m sure all your friends will be able to get along without you for a few weeks.”

  Greer smiled. The idea actually sounded appealing for the first time in a long time. But there was a certain hollowness ringing in her bones and in her belly that she hadn’t expected, something calling her to somewhere she hadn’t been in years, or perhaps to a place she’d never been.

  The only problem was that she didn’t know quite where that was.

  Greer took a jog through Cheesman Park, a wooded paradise in the otherwise metropolitan city. It was a tiny taste of the splendorous Rocky Mountain range that ran through the state. Skylarks sang in the sycamore trees, and a spring sun broke through the canopy above the jogging trail. No other joggers occupied the trail, and she enjoyed the serenity and the isolation, only one of which she only then realized she’d been sorely lacking.

  But as the days went on and she got further and further from New York, from the end of her search for Spencer’s killer, Greer found it easier and easier to accept. She’d done her best, and it was time to let go and turn toward the future, which was wide open to a single woman with few social ties and considerable wealth.

  It was a beautiful day in Colorado, one that reminded her why she’d moved there. The city was big enough to give her all the nightlife and cultural integration she wanted without being oppressive like Los Angeles or having sacrificed its natural beauty like New York. Greer could afford to live in either place, but more importantly, she could afford not to live in either place. That left a lot to choose from.

  She’d been so wrapped up in establishing Spencer’s foundation and finding his killer that she had never thought of leaving. It was a thought she’d never bothered or even thought to entertain. But she was thinking about it now, and it was front and center in her mind as she ran up that trail.

  The world’s a big place, she thought, and I really haven’t seen that much of it.

  Greer’s legs pedaled under her, heart beating strong, blood pumping. She felt good, capable of moving forward to new possibilities. But the further she got along the trail, the more she thought about where it might take her next.

  Gary Aires leaned back in the plush leather chair behind his shiny mahogany desk. He wore a simple smile on his handsome face, his milk-chocolate complexion revealing his mixed heritage, which Greer had often imagined might include some Caribbean background.

  “Well, first of all, welcome home, and I’m glad you’re ready to put all that behind you.” Greer nodded with a smile, and Gary went on, “And I’m interested in this … this new perspective you’re adapting.”

  She shrugged. “I’m just … looking around, seeing what’s there.”

  “And good for you.” He smiled. “So, what are you seeing … when you look around?”

  Greer wasn’t sure how to answer. There’d always been a sexual tension between them, one she’d never been interested in succumbing to. She wasn’t sure if it was just something that was symptomatic of being an available young woman, or if he’d presumed some kind of protective alpha male feelings for her after her husband’s death. But it could also have been that he had always been waiting for his shot. Greer could never be sure, and in a lot of ways, she didn’t want to know. He was the best personal attorney in the state, and he’d turned hundreds of thousands of dollars that would have been eaten up by bureaucrats into new lives for hundreds of families. Greer was willing to be coveted a bit. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Finally, she answered simply, “I’m not sure. I thought I might visit my folks for a week or so, maybe do the Keys after that, or … I’m not sure.”

  Gary nodded and shrugged. “The world’s your oyster.” Seeming to read her reaction, he was quick to say, “Not … not like oyster. I mean …” They shared a little chuckle. “You know what I mean.” Then he said, “Not really,” and they both laughed again.

  It felt good to Greer, just to feel good, have a simple laugh to ease the pressures of her life. She knew her life was a thing of great luxury, and she faced nothing like the pressures of everyday people, those who worked hard all day at two jobs and still struggled to make their poor children happy.

  “Anyway,” Gary went on, “whatever you’re interested in, I’d say go for it. I’ve got things here under control.”

  “Always reassuring.”

  He chuckled. “You wanna make a move, I’d say … make a move. All quiet on the western front.”

  Greer wasn’t sure how to take that odd reference, but she knew there were too many things on her mind to give anything so frivolous any serious consideration. “Well, I’m … I’m glad things at the end of World War One are … are keeping up. I’ll give you a call from Boca.”

  Her smartphone purred in her purse, where it was easy to retrieve for a glance at the screen. The name of Sean Callahan brought a bolt of concern through her that she didn’t expect, and some bolts that had nothing to do with concern.

  “Would you excuse me?”

  He smiled and nodded. “Of course.”

  She swiped the screen and brought the phone to her ear. “Hello, Sean?”

  “Yeah, Greer. How are you?”

  “I’m … I’m fine. Everything okay?”

  “Depends on how you look at it.” Though his voice sounded small and metallic through the phone’s tiny speaker, she could still hear the tension in it, a tension that ran down the center of her spine. “I’m calling from Quito, Ecuador. You know it?”

  “Not really,” Greer was quick to say. “Why?”

  “Just … just get a plane out as soon as you can. I’ve already got a room at the Radisson.”

  “Sean, I … I’m trying to get my head together. The last thing I need is another wild tryst.”

  “It’s not that. I just … you’ll need protection when you get here.” Greer’s blood ran cold, and she couldn’t find an answer. “But get here, and as soon as possible.”

  “What are you—”

  “Not over the phone,” Sean said, his voice strong and determined, authoritative. Greer had little choice but to comply. “Just get here … as soon as you can!”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll let you know when I’m coming in.”

  “Good,” Sean said, “good.” And he ended the conversation.

  Greer looked at Carl, who was watching her with a pitched interest. But as soon as he noticed her attention, he cracked a smile.

  “Everything okay?”

  She wasn’t sure how to answer, but she knew that she had to get out of that office fast, for any number of reasons, none of which Gary Aires needed to know, and all of which he needed not to know.

  Chapter Seven

  The flight to Quito, Ecuador was long. There were no direct flights, and even in first class the two legs of the journey were long and unpleasant. She arrived at night, and a driver from the hotel waited outside the airport with a sign bearing her name. He took her bags to a black Town Car waiting outside the terminal, loaded them up, and saw her into the back seat.

  It was only after the car drove off that it struck Greer as odd that it was a plain black car and not a well-marked hotel shuttle van. But it was too late because the car bolted from the terminal. Greer looked from the back seat to the front, not seeing any professional license or radio.

  Greer had heard the stories of abductions and other crimes against tourists in places like Ecuador. But once again, she’d charged in fast without thinking first, as in the alley back in New York. But she couldn’t help it. Time was short, Sean sounded urgent, and all she could do was wonder what he needed to see her so desperately about. It had something more to do with Spencer’s death, she felt certain, and that was all she needed to know.

  But she was also a single woman an
d attractive, and that made her especially vulnerable. That was a factor she often failed to consider, but it couldn’t be overlooked. In addition to organ harvesting and general kidnapping for ransom, women disappeared all over the world to become white sex slaves, kept docile with heroine and raped until their bodies finally give out or their will to live abandons them.

  The car sped down the winding streets, and there was very little on the streets around them.

  This guy could be driving me anywhere, she realized, straight to some safe house where they’ll parcel out my stuff, tie me up … oh shit!

  Twenty minutes went by, and Greer saw no indication of the big city of Quito through the windshield or windows. Her mouth was dry, her heart beating a bit faster, her palms clammy as she thought through her options—all severely limited.

  Thirty minutes went by, with Greer reviewing possible scenarios. She had come without any kind of weapon, which meant she had virtually no defense. And she knew her captors would know it too.

  But she did have a pen in her purse that could be used to stab one of them in the neck, and then perhaps he’d have a weapon she could grab, a knife or a gun. Her martial arts training would be helpful, though she’d have to be measured and cautious in her approach.

  Then a city did begin to take shape outside the Town Car, patches of lighted streets and buildings in that dark South American night. The buildings became more densely placed, the traffic more congested even at that late hour. They drove through one area with a cluster of young people, a plaza filled with men and women holding drinks in plastic cups like some public fraternity party.

  The car finally pulled up to the Radisson, well-lit and welcoming. Greer had to shake her head and chastise herself for being so paranoid.