The Betrayer

by Daniel Judson

  Twelve minutes.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The woman in the black field jacket was making her way through the thick woods surrounding the house. The jacket, aside from concealing the Czech-made CZ 75 in her shoulder holster of ballistic nylon, was also protecting her from the branches that clawed at her as she strove steadily toward the open yard ahead.

  She had purchased the jacket, as well as the jeans and boots, back in Detroit, where she worked for a Serbian crime boss to whom she was greatly indebted, and had been since she was a child. She had not worn these clothes on the flight in, but had instead shipped them directly to the hotel she was to stay for the duration of this job. Upon her arrival this morning she had changed into them, so no one but the Russian boy, a handful of workers and guests at the hotel, and now that woman at the coffee shop had seen her in this particular get-up.

  When this job was done, she would change into yet another set of new clothes — with a completely different look — and leave these items in the rental car she had acquired at the Newark Airport with a fake driver’s license and stolen credit card. After that she would abandon the vehicle and set it ablaze. Whether the dead body of the Russian boy would be inside the vehicle at that time had yet to be determined. That decision, she’d been told, would be made later. She was, if anything, adaptable, so not knowing whether or not she needed to kill the boy wasn’t a problem.

  Regardless of the fate of that obviously troubled Russian, as the rental vehicle burned, any evidence linking her to this place and these events — trace fibers from the jacket or jeans, impressions the treads of her boots were now making in the soft dirt — would be destroyed as well. She had learned long ago the importance of knowing all the steps of any operation — the ways in and ways out, even if the way out was days or even weeks away. And she kept in her mind always, day and night, the details of all that was to occur between her arrival and departure. Her employer had never “leased” her out before and if this went well, there might be other jobs like this one in the future.

  Jobs that would take her out of Detroit.

  Jobs that might even allow her to see the world and get paid for it.

  Not bad for the daughter of a mobster’s mistress.

  So while she was eager to impress tonight, she made a point of keeping herself aware of the precautions that needed to be observed.

  The steps from here to there, the countless things that needed to be done.

  As she ran through the barrier woods — a difficult and dangerous thing in the darkness when one couldn’t use a flashlight — she didn’t let her adrenaline get the better of her. She could feel it pumping wildly through her blood, but she was good at containing and channeling the resulting energy. She was getting better at it, in fact, with each job.

  Still, she had left the train station parking lot just moments ahead of her target, at best, and had managed to find the house and then a suitable place to park the rental car — not too close, but also not so far away that she couldn’t make it to the house on foot before her target had the chance to arrive.

  A lot of running, then a lot of feeling “under the gun,” but pressure as such was the nature of the job.

  The sensation she always felt prior to a killing was here now in full force. A cold tingling that started between her legs and rose up through her chest and into her throat. Her mouth was dry, her heart throbbing like a wound. Despite the mild June night, the air she drew into her lungs felt ice cold. And she was already sweating, the cotton T-shirt under her jacket growing damp and chill.

  These were, she knew, the symptoms anyone would — should — feel in the minutes leading up to calculated murder.

  Few things in life, after all, were as thrilling.

  As she reached the edge of the dark woods, she paused to study the house. It was a modern design — well, modern back in the sixties, maybe. Narrow, vertical planks painted gray, lots of tall windows, only two stories but a sprawling plan.

  The best thing about this location was that the house was set on two acres that were all but completely enclosed by thick woods. The only opening through them was the entrance to the driveway, a good hundred yards from the house itself.

  She’d have, then, all the privacy she would need to extract the information she had come here for.

  Privacy made all the difference.

  Some lights were on inside the house, and a Volvo station wagon was parked on the gravel driveway not far from the front door, but this was as it should be.

  She didn’t dare pause for much longer than a few seconds; she needed to get inside before the woman returned. Whatever head start she may have had was certainly gone by now.

  As she thought this, she heard in the distance the sound of an approaching car on the road beyond. She knew that it was now or never.

  Slipping out of the woods, she crossed the open yard swiftly and approached the front door. Of course, she would get inside easily. That was the advantage she had over the men who did the same kind of work — doors that wouldn’t be opened for a strange man were opened for her. And she was almost always invited inside without hesitation.

  My car broke down and my cell phone is dead. Or, I can’t get any reception here. What man, or woman, would say no? The fact that she was a little out of breath from her run — and from the adrenaline — only helped to sell her story.

  She rang the doorbell. The car was close now, the hiss of its tires on the pavement getting louder, the pitch growing higher and higher.

  The husband finally answered. Handsome, with dark hair and eyes. The build of a man who worked out. She could smell scotch. It was a matter of seconds before he was stepping aside and letting her into the foyer.

  And it was as he was closing the door with his back to her that she quietly but quickly removed her CZ 75, fitted with a suppressor, and put two rounds between his shoulder blades and a third into the back of his head.

  As he hit the floor she was already crouched and picking up the ejected casings with her gloved hand.

  And she was pulling his lifeless body into the living room when she heard from outside the sound of gravel shifting beneath slowly rolling tires.

  The sound got louder and louder, and then finally ceased.

  Chapter Twenty

  The first thing Jeremy did before leaving the Sprint store with his replacement cell phone was to pause long enough to send a quick text to Elizabeth, letting her know that he was okay and apologizing for his delay.

  He waited for her reply, phone in hand, as he walked back toward the Gershwin Hotel. Just as he had done earlier, he watched the faces of the people around him — in front, behind, to his left and right. He felt exposed — nighttime in the Flatiron District was just as good as daytime — so after one block he headed up to Twenty-Sixth Street, which was quieter than Twenty-Seventh, less traveled and darker, if only slightly.

  He moved at a steady pace for the remaining two blocks. Once inside the lobby, he didn’t wait for the elevator, but instead took the stairs. When he reached his floor, he paused before exiting the stairwell. Opening the door slightly, he looked down the hallway, sensed it was clear, then hurried to the door to his room and slipped quickly inside.

  Not an easy way to live, this moving carefully, always being aware, but he would endure it for as long as he needed.

  He would get good at it.

  He looked out his window, still waiting for Elizabeth’s reply. Finally, he sent another text, asking that she please answer, then waited again. Minutes passed, and still nothing. He knew that valuable time was slipping away, but it killed him to think that she was worried about him. More than that, it killed him to think that she could be angry with him — and why else would she be ignoring him? Well, there were other possible explanations for her silence, but he didn’t want to go there. And doesn’t the mind always go first to what it fears most?

  He decided to risk it and call her cell, but after four rings he got her voice mail. He ended the call
without leaving a message, was considering trying her landline — he would block his number this time — but in the end didn’t dare.

  He had to trust that she would get back to him when she could. He had to trust that if she were angry, it would pass when she learned about what he had done.

  Just as Johnny and Cat’s anger would pass, too.

  It was time now to get some answers.

  He closed his eyes, took in a breath, then punched Morris’s cell number into his phone. He wasn’t sure what to do if he got the detective’s voice mail, but that didn’t turn out to be a problem; his call was answered before the end of the second ring.

  Morris was full of questions — was Jeremy okay, where had he been, why was his phone off, why hadn’t he called? Jeremy wanted, however, to keep this as brief as possible.

  Still, there were things he needed to know.

  Jeremy said in an even voice, “What happened to you last night?”

  “I told you I was on duty. I got called to a crime scene right as I was leaving to meet you. I tried your cell but I kept getting your voice mail. I’ve been calling all day.”

  “Someone else showed up.”

  “I know.”

  Jeremy was curious exactly how Morris knew that — which precaution of his led them to the preschool’s surveillance camera — but he couldn’t afford to get distracted.

  He went straight to the only question that mattered.

  “Any idea how he knew I was going to be there?”

  “No, none,” Morris said. He sounded frazzled, and there was a lot of commotion in the background. Phones ringing, the murmur of voices. “My first guess would be someone was watching your place and followed you.”

  “Why would someone be watching my place?”

  “Yeah, that’s the question, isn’t it?”

  Jeremy said nothing.

  “Listen,” Morris said, “this isn’t really a good time for me, but I can maybe get away for a half hour or so. Our mutual friend wants to talk to you.”

  It was obvious that Morris didn’t want to say the man’s name over the phone. Jeremy understood why.

  “We’d need to meet somewhere out of the way, for obvious reasons. He’s out in Brooklyn. Would you be able to go out there?”

  Jeremy was aware that he had erred by letting Morris pick the location of last night’s meeting. As a means of preparing himself for what he would need to do, Jeremy had read Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. It was Johnny’s copy, a birthday present from their father when Johnny was a teenager. By the condition the book was in, it was obvious that Johnny had read it over and over again. Jeremy, true to his obsessive nature, had read it three times through in one night and twice again the next morning.

  The passages that had been highlighted were like glimpses into Johnny’s mind.

  It was an intimacy the brothers hadn’t shared since they were children.

  Before the differences between Johnny and Jeremy emerged and solidified.

  Johnny was their father’s son; Jeremy belonged to their mother.

  Jeremy had trusted Morris — had no choice but to trust him — so he hadn’t considered him an enemy. Because of this he had ignored what Sun Tzu had written about always being the one to choose the location.

  That trust, while not completely broken, was now in question. There was, Jeremy knew, nothing to be gained by letting Morris know about his doubts. There was, in fact, everything to gain from hiding them.

  War, after all, was deception.

  “What did you have in mind?” Jeremy said.

  “There’s a place down by the waterfront. Our friend could probably make it there easily enough.”

  Jeremy didn’t like it simply because he had never been there before and would therefore be at a disadvantage.

  He thought of a place he did know. A place with a few ways in and a few ways out. A place where there would be people at this time of night.

  “How about McCarren Park?”

  “Williamsburg?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a safe enough place for our friend to meet us.”

  Jeremy held firm. “It’ll take me a half hour to get there. I’ll wait for one hour.”

  “I’m trying to help you, kid.”

  “Then be there. You and your friend.”

  Jeremy pressed End and closed his cell phone. He felt adrenaline bolting through his blood. The room was suddenly very cold. Though he was on the verge of shivering, he noted as he slipped the phone into his pocket that his hands were steady.

  On his way through the lobby he checked his backpack with the front desk clerk, using a fake name and room number. The computer it contained was inoperable, but that didn’t necessarily mean that the information stored on its hard drive was completely lost.

  A fail-safe, in case Elizabeth hadn’t come through.

  Which itself was a fail-safe.

  Thinking like a Coyle.

  He walked south a few blocks to the subway entrance just east of the Flatiron Building. He paused at the top of the stairs to check his cell phone. Still no text from Elizabeth.

  He was growing concerned that her lack of response might be due to something other than anger. Something worse than her being with her husband at this moment, maybe even sleeping with him. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since he last spoke with her. A lot could happen in that time.

  Her home, though secluded, was equipped with a security system. He remembered the two of them talking for hours on the phone those nights her husband was away on business, the comfort he’d felt in knowing that she was safe and sound. He remembered, too, them joking that even if he did make his way up there and knock on her door, at least the armed system would act as the final safeguard that kept them from giving in.

  And anyway, the only person who might know about Elizabeth was Cat.

  And he trusted Cat, trusted that she would do, as she always did, the right thing.

  More than that, he trusted in her abilities.

  Johnny may have been his father’s son, the soldier in the family, but Cat was her father’s daughter.

  As much of a Coyle as Johnny, as much bound to the Coyle tradition of service and sacrifice as he — and in some ways, in her own way, more so.

  Jeremy pocketed his cell phone and hurried down the stairs. Once through the turnstile, he moved to the edge of the platform and waited.

  Cat glanced at her watch.

  The fifteen minutes Elizabeth Hall and she had agreed upon had elapsed. The coffee shop across from the Chappaqua train station had closed, so Cat was standing out front and looking steadily into the direction Elizabeth Hall had driven her Volvo after exiting the parking lot.

  Cat decided to give her another five minutes, but after only three she couldn’t stand it any longer. She broke into a fast walk toward her Mustang. The growing sense of helplessness was simply too much for her to bear. She called Fiermonte’s cell as she walked.

  “What’s going on?” he answered. He sounded hushed but hurried, his tone abrupt.

  A man interrupted.

  Cat immediately wondered if he was with his wife — or someone else, for that matter. But she pushed that from her mind.

  “I’m heading to Elizabeth Hall’s house right now,” Cat said.

  “She didn’t meet you?”

  “No, she did. But she went home to get something and should have been back by now.”

  “She could have gotten hung up. Maybe give her a few more minutes.”

  “I’m done waiting.”

  “Could she have ditched you?”

  “I don’t think so. She seemed to want to help.”

  “I’ll come up, Cat, we’ll go to her house together. I’m uptown, just a block from the West Side Highway; it wouldn’t take me long to get there.”

  “No, I’m going now.”

  “At least tell me what she told you.”

  “Jeremy went for hypnosis to beat his addiction and recovered some r
epressed memories.”

  “Memories of what?”

  “The night he was used to bait our father. The sessions were recorded onto CD, and a few days ago Jeremy sent the CD to a post office box he rented in the city. Elizabeth Hall went to get the name of the store and key to the box.”

  “Jesus,” Fiermonte said. “I don’t understand. Why did he go to all that trouble? Why didn’t he just come to us?”

  Cat was just a few more strides from her Mustang, so she didn’t really have time to answer that question. She said instead, “I’ll call you in fifteen minutes, Donnie.”

  “I’m notifying the Chappaqua police, Cat. If there is trouble, I’d rather you not walk into it alone.”

  “I don’t want to fuck up her life if I don’t have to. If there’s a problem, I’ll handle it.”

  “Are you even armed, Cat? You took a leave of absence, which means technically you shouldn’t be carrying your service weapon.”

  Cat didn’t have time for this, either. “I’ll call you in fifteen, Donnie.”

  “Just wait for me, Cat. I’m leaving now. Tell me where you are and I’ll meet you. I’ll be there in a half hour, tops. All right? Cat, are you there? Cat, are you—”

  Cat closed and pocketed her cell phone.

  Once she was behind the wheel of the Mustang, she entered Hall’s home address into her GPS navigation system and took off.

  ETA, three minutes and forty seconds.

  The road leading from the train station was poorly lit. Cat nonetheless gunned the engine and barreled into the long stretch of darkness.

  In ancient times skillful warriors first made themselves invincible, then watched for vulnerability in their opponents.

  — Sun Tzu

  EPISODE THREE

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Johnny emerged from the subway and took a quick look around North Seventh Street. Williamsburg was busy — small restaurants, bars, coffee shops, and an independent bookstore kept their block active till late even on weeknights. Johnny counted on this steady traffic of pedestrians and the occasional vehicle to help him in his approach to their building.