Dead to You

by Heather Wynter

  “You fell in love with a pipe dream, but don’t feel bad. You’re not the first, and you sure won’t be the last. And I’m sorry for any pain you had to go through after I ... y’know, died. But it was necessary.”

  Greer shrugged. “I guess. It wasn’t easy.”

  “No, I’m sure none of this has been easy.”

  After a long, tense pause, she said, “I don’t suppose it’s going to get any easier.”

  “No,” Spencer said flatly, “it won’t.”

  “Look, I can pay you. I still have a lot of money from that app. Whatever they’re paying you, I can pay you more. I’ll turn all the royalties over to you. That’ll keep you comfortable for the rest of your life!”

  “Which won’t be long if I take your little deal,” Spencer said. “Yours wouldn’t be either … or that of your new companion.”

  “What about Sean? What have you done with him?”

  Spencer said, “Nothing. I’ve got my two guys after him, but he’s a slippery bastard, I’ll tell you that.”

  “He’s a better man than you’ll ever be, and a better lover than you ever were.”

  “Sweet burn,” Spencer said, obviously disinterested. “Anyway, I figure that if I can survive long enough, he’ll come around for you.”

  “So you’re using me as bait so you can kill him too … then me, of course.”

  Spencer touched the back of his fingers to Greer’s right cheek, her head turning away in disgust. “Sweet, pretty Greer. What a woman you’ve become. I … it would break my heart to hurt you, even in the slightest.”

  “Then let Sean go. You don’t need him to die. He doesn’t even know about this Murder, Incorporated thing you’re doing.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You didn’t give up on me, and my bet is that he won’t give up on you. Anyway, that’s not really the reason you’re here.” Greer tilted her head, confused. Reading her expression, Spencer explained, “The main thing is, I need a patsy, somebody I can leave behind as the assassin to cover my tracks.”

  “No,” Greer said, then screamed, “No!”

  Spencer planted the pillow hard and fast over her face, muffling her objections. Her body bucked, and her arms reached out to push him away, trying to pull his hands free.

  “Just take it easy, Greer, take it easy! There’s still a way out of this for you, but you have to be calm and listen to me!” Greer calmed again, body relaxing before he pulled the pillow away. Another round of strained gasps and coughing followed, her throat parched and burning. “Okay, better?” She lay there panting, waiting for Spencer to explain himself.

  “They won’t believe it was me,” Greer said, already knowing that the police would have little problem pinning the job on her or Sean or both. “All this tape on my wrists, the adhesive.”

  “They’re not going to care about that! You’ve already been arrested. The cops think you’re terrorists! They’ll believe it.”

  “You … you set us up.”

  “I knew you’d bring the cops back. But really, this is on you. You could have just stayed home. Either way, it’ll be you or the guy, and that works for me.”

  Greer opened her mouth to scream, and Spencer slammed his hand over her lips to quiet her.

  “But I’m also thinking I may need a hostage, okay? That means you’re worth more to me alive than dead, right? Right?” He gave her a moment to think about it as she wheezed under his palm. “So let’s see how things play out. You’re alive, and that’s going to have to be enough for now. Understand?” He raised the pillow, threatening her with silent death. “Understand?”

  Greer nodded, and he slowly removed his hand from her mouth. He turned and tore another strip of duct tape from the roll.

  “No, Spencer, please—”

  But he pressed it against her mouth, gagging her again. He pulled another stretch even as she tried to pull the tape from her mouth. But he was quick to tear the tape off and grab her hands, pulling them back behind her to lash the other piece of tape around them and bind them together.

  “All right,” Spencer said, “now you just sit there like a good little hostage.”

  Fuck you, Greer thought but couldn’t say. I’m no damsel in distress to be kidnapped and tied up. I’ve killed two people, and if I have my way, I’m going to make you the third!

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Sean set out for the speech in the historic Old Town area of Quito. The streets were long and narrow and crowded, cars crawling between the densely packed sidewalks. They provided him cover, and he was glad for that. But he also knew that it gave his enemies cover too—at least one remaining shooter, Spencer Lange’s operative, and of course every cop in Quito.

  Sean also knew that his enemies would expect him to be nearby, and being compressed into a small area like that made a clash almost certain. He was also unarmed, meaning he’d have his bare fists and anything he could grab and use as a weapon, but nothing more.

  The crowd grew even thicker as he approached the plaza. Cops sat on horseback, standing three in a group, scanning the crowd from an elevated perspective. If they’re looking for me, Sean thought, I’ve had it.

  He turned to walk around another block, and a quick glance at his watch told him that time was running out.

  11:35.

  Sean looked down one street to see another pack of protesters marching toward the plaza, chanting, “No más años! No más años!” But there was no time to enjoy the Spanish-language play on the American chant, “Four more years.” The protesters were closing in on the plaza, removing one of Sean’s options.

  He turned to the right and pushed through the crowd down another block, turning the corner to find himself face to face with another cluster of policemen on horseback. Sean felt like his freshly shaved head, just a coat of thick stubble, was making him stick out, but he wasn’t attracting the kind of attention he was worried about. Every minute, though, brought him closer to a disastrous turn. His luck was ready to run out with every step.

  “Hey,” one man shouted, “there he is!”

  Sean’s instinct was to turn and fight, but he was too close to the cops on horseback. Attracting any extra attention at all would be suicide, and he didn’t want to do that, so he slipped into the crowd, weaving through the other pedestrians, unsure of where his pursuers were behind him. But he knew that there was more than just one, and that meant they could split up and triangulate, a distinct advantage that could easily be his undoing.

  11:42.

  Sean moved fast and tried to stay low, but his six-foot-plus height made him stand out among the shorter populace. He glanced down the street and caught a glimpse of the Plaza Grande, only a few blocks away if he could manage to get there.

  One of his pursuers rushed him from behind, just a split-second too slow. He spun and grabbed the man’s wrist. A sharp twist and the knife dropped out and to the ground. He stepped on the blade to secure it, then brought his forehead smashing down onto the man’s face. The man grunted, and his head snapped back. But he was still alive, and that was something Sean knew he couldn’t afford. The man had tried to kill him, so there could be no further doubt about his innocence.

  He let go of the man’s hand, grabbed his head with both hands, and gave it a sharp twist. After a loud bony crack, the man dropped to the ground. Sean bent down to pick up the knife and then pulled back, fading back into the crowd even as people started to scream and gasp in shock at the dead, bloodied body suddenly lying in their midst.

  Sean looked at his watch again, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

  11:48.

  The crowd gave him cover to move down the street and toward the plaza. He kept his eye out for another attacker, one he knew was still very close. Maybe he’s found his partner, he mused, and he’ll just give up and leave me alone.

  Not likely.

  He weaved through the crowd even as it pushed to the side. People jammed against the storefronts as three horsebound cops rode directly at them. He was
pinned by the density of the crowd as the three cops, armed to the teeth, rode up on thousand-pound horses.

  Sean prepared for the worst, wondering how he’d manage to fight his way through three armed cops. His muscles tightened, and his jaws clenched, but the cops rode past and to the area behind him, where his latest adversary lay dead. The poor bastard was giving him a distraction, making it just a little easier for him to push onward toward the plaza.

  11:52.

  Once in the plaza, the crowd was pushed in on all sides. Cops on horseback were scattered around, and armed guards stood at the front of the Presidential Palace. The president hadn’t yet appeared. Sean had made it just in time. It only struck him just then that the president could still cancel his appearance, which would seal his fate eventually and Greer’s fate right there and then.

  He was certain that Greer’s ex-husband had her—if she was still alive. But she wouldn’t stay that way for long. Another significant worry was that, wherever Spencer Lange was, he could fire upon the president as soon as he made his appearance, and he probably would. That meant Sean might only have a few minutes—or less—to find Lange, prevent the assassination, and rescue Greer.

  “No más años! No más años!” Groups of protesters were joined by the others who’d blocked Sean off earlier. They formed two massive pockets of protest in two corners of the plaza, at four o’clock and eight o’clock to the position the president would be in his palace at noon. They had him triangulated, and Sean knew that Spencer Lange, hair likely dyed now, could be in the middle of one of those crowds with a perfect shot at the president.

  But then … where was Greer? Sean didn’t have to ponder the question long to come up with the most reasonable and likely answer. Dead.

  The crowd shared a collective hush as a man in a military uniform stepped out onto the balcony of the Presidential Palace, the protesters continuing with their chant.

  11:59.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “No más años! No más años!” The protesters chanted outside, muffled but still loud, impressive, a rolling protest that threatened to end the reign of corrupt government. The rising up of the common man against the corruption of the powerful and abusive.

  Greer sat on the bed, her eyes on Spencer. He’d taped her hands behind her back a bit looser than before, which gave her the chance to slowly work it, stretching the tape little by little. It bit into her wrists at some points but became slack in other places, and that would be enough to pull her hands free if she had enough time.

  Spencer sat on a chair by the window, his sniper’s rifle set up on a tripod. But it remained fully inside the room, the barrel not aimed out the window at his potential target. Instead, Spencer searched the crowd, shaking his head.

  “No más años! No más años!”

  “Thank God for those protesters keeping the heat off me. Every cop in Quito must be down there, and they’re scanning the buildings. They know, don’t they? But how? You didn’t know I was here to kill this political pig until I told you. How much did they already know?”

  But Greer couldn’t answer because of the piece of tape over her mouth. The question was rhetorical anyway.

  “I’m not going to be able to line up the shot ahead of time,” Spencer said. “It’s gonna have to be point-and-shoot.”

  A male voice from the plaza echoed over the loudspeakers outside. “Damas y caballeros, estimados visitantes, ciudadanos de todo el Ecuador, denle la bienvenida a su presidente, Lenín Boltaire Moreno Garcés.”

  The massive crowd threw out a loud cheer, but just as many others booed, setting up a real tension audible even from several flights up.

  “No más años! No más años!”

  Greer couldn’t see the man from her perspective—she could hardly get a glimpse outside the window—but it was easy to imagine the wheelchair-bound president on the balcony of his palace, the center of government in Ecuador, seated in front of a column of microphones, distinguished as he looked out over the crowd. It was easy to imagine the center of the plaza packed with an adoring throng, and pockets of the plaza filled with chanting protesters.

  “No más años! No más años!”

  “Mis amigos y conciudadanos,” the president began. “Nuestro glorioso país se enfrenta una vez más a los crecientes dolores de la modernidad. El descontento está empañando nuestro nuevo impulso económico.”

  A second man said in English, “My friends and fellow citizens. Our glorious country is once again facing the growing pains of modernity. Discontent is tarnishing our new economic boom.”

  Spencer turned from the window and crossed to his kit. “All right, well, time to get you ready.” He reached into a black satchel and pulled out a brown bottle and a familiar white handkerchief. Greer shook her head and mumbled her protests under her tape gag as he soaked the rag and crossed back to her.

  “Sorry,” Spencer went on, “but I need to untie you. Can’t leave you looking like a hostage, and I won’t have time to do it after I pop the old man. But I can’t have you giving me any trouble afterward.” She shook her head and took a deep breath just before he forced the rag over her face. Greer bucked and grinded and struggled. She pretended to choke and gag, her chest rising and falling in a spasm, though she wasn’t breathing in any of the fumes. She writhed and spewed and then went limp. Spencer removed the rag and pulled the tape from her mouth. Greer remained still and silent, trying to recreate the very real effects she’d suffered from the same treatment the day before.

  This time she’d known not to breathe in those toxic, paralyzing fumes. This time she was faking it.

  Spencer flipped her around, pulled out his knife, and cut the tape from her wrists and ankles. He balled up the tape and tossed it into his satchel, returning the chloroform and handkerchief as well.

  Outside in the plaza, the interpreter went on, “But our unity as Ecuadorians is greater than our divisions. Our discontent does not compare to our national pride and our dedication to making Ecuador and the entire world a better place.”

  Greer lay motionless, eyes closed. But it was easy to imagine what was going on around her, exactly where Spencer was by the sound of his footsteps. And she knew where he’d be when he finally tried to take that shot. The only question would be whether she could stop him before he pulled the trigger.

  “But we must all make sacrifices. We must face the dangers of a new and changing world, and we must be prepared to fight if we are going to make that world safe for ourselves and for our children.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “We are facing a time when democracy itself is under threat,” said the interpreter. “In Europe, in North America, here at home, we are facing the rise of dictatorship, of oligarchy. Instead of the rule of law, we are seeing the law of rule! But here in Ecuador, we will continue to be a shining example to the rest of the world, an example of a free and true democracy!”

  The crowd cheered, and the protesters jeered.

  Sean was torn. His instinct was to stay low, to avoid being seen by any of the police or even the remaining gunman on foot. He had the other man’s knife in his pocket, glad for some measure of protection, though it wouldn’t be much and would be worthless in anything but close combat.

  Still, it was better than nothing and might mean the difference between life and death if it came to that. More and more, Sean was certain that it would.

  He hoped it would. In fact, he dreaded the alternatives.

  Sean scanned the windows, squinting in the bright Quito sunshine, the glare bouncing off the glass panes.

  “But we must all remember the dangers we will face along the way,” the president’s interpreter went on. “Some of us may have to fight, and in fighting, some of us may have to die. But a person does not fight merely to win or to survive, but to stand up for what they know is right even when they know they cannot win. But this is not our fate. This is not our future. Our future is to fight and to win and to thrive as one of the greatest countries of the
ancient and modern worlds!”

  More clapping was a distraction as Sean scanned the windows of the buildings facing the Presidential Palace.

  Two mounted police rode toward Sean from up ahead, and he turned, hoping they would pass him as they had before. Sliding deeper into the crowd and moving away from them, he breathed a sigh of relief. But with time running out, every word out of the president’s mouth taking them all closer to disaster, he was beginning to lose hope.

  The president paused, and his interpreter went on, “So though we are asked to make some small sacrifices, we know it is for the common good, for the good of our children and our grandchildren! It is our duty to sacrifice for those we love.”

  Sean caught a glimpse of something promising in a third-floor window, what looked like a man standing behind the drapes. The man sat and peered out over the crowd, his face instantly recognizable to Sean even if it wouldn’t be to almost anyone else there—except Greer, of course.

  Spencer Lange was surveying the crowd from above, and Sean knew he was getting ready to make his move. Sean would have to be faster, faster even than a speeding bullet. He pushed through the crowd, every step seeming to push him further away from his goal.

  “Get outta the way,” he said, pushing somebody aside. “Excuse me, move it please.” It struck him then that his move might have been caught by Spencer Lange himself. Because though Sean knew what Spencer looked like, Spencer also knew what Sean looked like. They’d met face to face, and Spencer would not only remember his face, despite his shaved head, but he’d be on the lookout, prepared.

  Is that why he has Greer, Sean wondered, to use as a human shield against me? Or is he planning on killing her too and leaving her body there as the assassin? In that case, he’s probably already killed her.