Hard Revenge
Page 11
“Yeah, I feel you.”
“Tell it back to me so I know we’re clear.”
“Don’t say shit, and don’t hit any of your friends.”
“Good. Now put that shirt on; forget the pants and shoes.”
Jerome struggled his left arm through the armhole, and then draped the shirt over his right shoulder. It hung open, unbuttoned.
“That’s good enough.” She stepped back through the door. “Now walk on out here into the living room and stand by the front door.”
He did so, and she tossed him the keys she’d picked up from the coffee table.
“Go get in your car and drive your bitch self to the hospital. I’ll follow you all the way; don’t try any stupid shit. The way you’re bleeding, you could go into shock and die.”
Although he wasn’t really bleeding enough to die, the part about his going into shock was true. Already he was showing the first signs of it.
Jerome nodded and went out the door. All the fight had gone out of him.
Michelle followed him to the hospital where she watched him walk through the emergency doors. He’d live. Earlier, she’d given her word to Deja that she would only hurt him a little. To do more, she’d have to tell her friend first.
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Nineteen: Urban Complications
BREATHE IN DEEPLY, slowly to the count of four . . . hold — one, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . . breathe out slowly to the count of eight . . . and hold — one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Again.
This breathing exercise helped to slow Michelle’s heart rate, to calm and center her for the task ahead. After five repetitions, she was ready.
She had everything set. Unfortunately, the silencer added length to the sniper rifle, which made it a little awkward. Using the silencer wasn’t really a choice, though. Gunshots always drew a lot of attention, even in New York City.
Street gangsters and bangers wanted their guns to be heard. Just the sight of guns scared people. Gunfire always pushed them to the point of panic. Every shot drew attention — lots of attention: Danger! Danger! Gangster with a GUN! Duck, run, hide.
Professionals like Michelle didn’t want attention. Get in, get out — get the job done and leave only the footprint they wanted the police to find. The silencer might make things a little awkward, but nowhere near as awkward as an arrest. Besides, Michelle would take the more classy and ladylike Puhffiitt! over BLAM! any day.
Again, Michelle used the service steps leading down from the roof to reach her hotel floor. A plain backpack held the collected box of chicken scraps, in addition to a few small things she’d need for the job. She carried the disassembled FR F2 rifle in a lightweight case hidden inside a sports bag slung over her shoulder.
First, she hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the knob. Next, she turned the TV on loud enough to be heard through the door. Then she prepared her shooting stage, put in her earplugs, and settled in. From her earlier observations, she knew her man’s schedule, and the wait would be at least a couple of hours. He and an associate would come out of the hotel between 8:10 and 8:20 a.m., and they’d stand waiting at the entrance while the doorman hailed a passing cab.
* * *
8:11 a.m.
Right on time.
Hmmm . . . interesting. They’re upset about something.
Her target and his associate had stepped out of the hotel, directly behind two other men. All four were dressed in the same style, and all four wore the same troubled expressions. Each gave the others nasty looks. Obviously there was bad blood amongst them.
Guess that’s why I’m here.
Focusing only on her target, Michelle disregarded the other three men. She set up the shot, took two calming breaths, and at the bottom of the third breath, she pulled the slack out of the trigger.
Michelle’s gaze was glued to the man’s face. He scowled at one of the other men. In that instant, his face went from scowling to wide-eyed surprise.
She pulled the trigger the last fraction of an inch and felt the recoil of the rifle. PUHFFITT!
The back of his head exploded in a pink mist.
Her mark lay dead on the sidewalk, and so did the man he’d been earlier scowling at.
What? Two shooters? What the fuck?
She’d never heard of that happening before. Had they both been assassinations? Looked like it. Did each man hire a shooter to take out the other guy? What was going on?
Focus! Get outta here!
Michelle didn’t have time to think about what another shooter would mean. Right now, she needed to move — and fast. She started prepping the room for the police.
First, standing out of the line of sight, she closed the window.
Next, she did a thorough wipe down — the table she used as a base, the rifle, the German field glasses, and the chair, which she put back on the far side of the table. Then she placed the aluminum step stool in the right place where the imaginary six-foot-tall “shooter” would have stood. The stool, the rifle, and the glasses were her gifts to the police.
Expensive gifts, but worth every penny.
Standing in the bathroom, Michelle loosened the string of her hood, then pulled the hoodie over her head, turned it inside out, rolled it up, and shoved it in her pack. She wiped her face clean with a Handi Wipe, removing any gunshot residue. She stripped off the surgical gloves and tucked one inside the other. The earplugs were rinsed off and, along with the used Handi Wipes, went inside the glove, which she filled with water then flushed down the toilet. The glove and its contents disappeared on the first flush.
With damp toilet paper, Michelle thoroughly wiped down the floor and all the bathroom surfaces to pick up any hair that might have dropped when she’d taken off her hoodie. Then, she dumped the damp wad in the toilet, flushed a second time, and for good measure flushed again. Couldn’t leave evidence floating in the toilet when the cops searched the room.
One last look around confirmed that everything had been either wiped down or successfully removed, and Michelle calmly stepped out the door. From pulling the trigger to exiting the room, it took less than fifty seconds.
Out in the hall, Michelle glimpsed the back of a man as he rounded the corner toward the only service stairs that lay in that direction — the same stairs she planned to use in another six seconds.
This just keeps getting better and better.
The distant pounding of rubber-soled shoes echoed softly up the stairwell. At a run, Michelle headed up, while above her, the door leading to the roof clicked closed. Certain she was following the other shooter, she slowed before opening the door; experience had taught her a little caution here might be wise. Her heart pounded at the possibility of another professional killer being on the other side. Slowly, she turned the doorknob and pushed.
Nothing happened.
“Sonuvabitch!” Michelle whispered vehemently. He’d blocked the door from the outside, which only confirmed her suspicions: he was the other shooter.
Jesus, this is just bizarre.
Unbelievable. They’d both set up on the same floor of the same hotel at the same time.
And he’d gotten out first.
Yet he’d fired only a fraction of a second earlier. Maybe he hadn’t been as careful leaving his room? Or possibly he had a different routine, giving him a few seconds’ head start? None of that mattered now. What mattered was that she had a serious problem: he’d blocked her way out. Even if she could break through, it’d make a lot of noise, drawing attention she couldn’t afford.
This changed everything, and not in a good way. She needed to get out, unseen, and be long gone before the police showed up. In short order, they’d realize where the shots had come from, and they’d swarm the hotel.
The lobby had too many potential witnesses. Same with the kitchen, so the service entrance was out. If she walked up the underground parking ramp, though, she’d only be seen from the back. It was the best choice she had, so she headed down toward the parking level.
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As she stepped into the garage, Michelle was relieved to find it quiet and empty.
So far, so good.
A siren wound down as a cruiser pulled up to the scene outside, while at least two more sirens blared, closing in with each second. Michelle walked steadily across the parking area toward the ramp, when—
“Shit.”
—a cruiser, siren fading, lights flashing, pulled up and parked in the entry of the ramp. Two cops jumped out and rushed across the street where the dead bodies sprawled.
Keep calm. They only need a place to put the car off the street. Keep walking.
“Oh, shit — damn, and double damn.”
A second cruiser pulled into the driveway of the ramp, completely blocking it. Another two cops got out of the car and walked away.
Okay, clear to go.
“No. Crap.”
A cop strolled from the direction of the scene, then stopped and talked to the parking lot attendant. A moment later, another one joined in the discussion.
Full of cops, the parking ramp wouldn’t work, and the front door was out of the question, and in a few minutes, the police would search the hotel. The roof was her last remaining option. She had to somehow reach the roof.
With a plan already formed, Michelle walked back toward the service stairs then, hidden almost out of sight behind the dumpster, she dropped her pants, squatted, and pee-soaked the hoodie.
With gunshot residue on the front and her DNA on the inside, the hoodie was hard evidence that would be any DA’s wet dream, so as disgusting as it was, she needed to hide it in plain sight, make it look like a street person had found a little privacy. Hopefully, no cop would pick up a wet and stinking pee-soaked rag.
Yet another good reason to dress down on the job — comfortably used clothes in good, serviceable condition were best. New clothes tended to draw attention, and repelled liquids. But this old hoodie? Soaked up her pee like a sponge.
One down. Now the hard part.
With a little prayer to the elevator gods, Michelle hit the button for the service elevator. The gods were with her; the elevator was empty.
Good and bad news. A maid’s cart stood in the corner. Maids didn’t normally leave their carts in elevators, so someone would be waiting for it to return. To prove her suspicions, the elevator started going up immediately when the doors closed.
More good news / bad news. The elevator had a maintenance hatch in the ceiling; unfortunately, it was in the middle — the exact hardest place to reach.
She hit the button for the tenth floor of the eleven-floor building, and leapt over to the cart. It would give her a needed boost. Michelle started to lock the wheels on the cart to steady it and caught herself.
No, she’ll notice someone has messed with her cart.
The elevator slowed to a stop.
In a few seconds the doors would open. She had to get through the hatch — fast.
Michelle leapt up on the cart, pushed open the top hatch, and tossed her pack through. As she jumped, the cart spun away, taking part of her momentum with it. Fortunately, she had a good hold and, kicking and scrambling, she pulled herself up. The hatch closed a half-second before she heard the doors swish open.
Hopefully, no one would take this car all the way up. If it went to the top floor, she’d be squished like a bug.
Damn the other shooter for causing her so much trouble!
Muthafucka.
Atop the elevator car, the faint smell of oil, grease, and machinery hit her. Not normally smells she liked; today, though, they smelled like the first steps to freedom.
Below, she heard two women talking and the rattle of another cart being pushed into the elevator, and up they went. Along the way, several people entered and left, and again, the elevator gods smiled down at her — the last person exited on the sixth floor, and the empty elevator car continued on its initial journey to the tenth floor.
The starting and stopping of the elevator had taken almost eight minutes. Peeing on her hoodie made it a total of nine since she discovered the police on site. All of this, combined with the time she’d spent going from the room to the roof and then down to the garage, at least twenty minutes had elapsed since the shot. The police were sure to be in the building, possibly in her sniper room. Time had run out.
The shaft had a side ladder for maintenance workers that went to a platform at the top —
Almost there.
— and a few possibilities still remained between her and freedom. Would the elevator shaft’s ventilation opening be big enough to fit through? If so, would it be open, or would it be covered with a welded grate? And did it open to a welcoming rooftop, or did it open to the side of the building with nothing but air for eleven stories?
Shouldering her pack, Michelle jumped onto the ladder, and up she went in a climbing sprint.
“Thank you, God!”
The vent was a regular sliding window big enough to climb through, no problem, and as an added blessing, it was three feet from the rooftop. A couple of steps away stood the service door, where the other shooter had gone old-school, wedging a chair under the handle. An easy, effective lock.
Michelle followed her pack out through the window and started across the rooftop when —
Bam!
— someone heavy hit the service door from the inside. The explosion of noise almost gave her a heart attack.
“Fuck!”
Only cops treated a door like that. She didn’t need a second warning.
Michelle sprinted across the rooftop, jumped up over a rail, landing on the adjacent building. She ran across that rooftop and down a fire escape on the other side. Down a few floors, she climbed up onto the steel rail of a landing’s safety fence, squatted, tensed, and leapt across to catch the wrought iron fence of an open hall, transferring to an office building facing away from the hotel. Six minutes later, a calm, relaxed young woman strolled out onto a busy street with no police.
“Taxi!”
“Where to, miss?”
“Starbucks on NYU campus.” Thursday afternoon. Time to buy Eban that promised coffee and dessert, and one for herself. A well-earned break she’d paid for in adrenaline and discipline.
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Twenty: Girls Get Their Hur Did
“COME ON GIRL,” Michelle said. “Get out of that bathroom. You’re already the prettiest one of us.”
After the tension of New York a few days earlier, Michelle looked forward to a day with her friends.
Michelle looked at Nikky. “I’m going to start doing what they do in Vietnam.”
“Yeah, what’s that?” Nikky asked.
“On the wedding invitations where they invite foreigners, it says, Vietnamese six p.m. Foreigners: seven p.m. They plan for people being late.”
Deja moved to catch Michelle’s reflection in the mirror. “What’re you saying? You think I’m later than anyone else in this camp?”
“I’m saying, I was ready to go an hour ago when I got here.”
“Your hair doesn’t need to be perfect to go to the shop,” Nikky said.
“Maybe your hair doesn’t,” Deja replied, “but I need to look fly today. My face is finally back to its real color and I need to represent when we’re out. That, and we’re not going straight to the shop — we’re stopping to eat, shopping at the beauty supply, and we’ll check out some wigs at His N Her Hair on Wilshire. Lots of people will see us, and I don’t want to look like no skank.”
“You’re always as slow as molasses,” Michelle said, “but I have to give you your props. You’re always fine when you finally do step out. Jesus girl, will you ever be ready? I’m so hungry I’m about to eat my own hand.”
“I’m ready already. And don’t you take the Lord’s name in vain. You need help; you need Jesus. Come on, let’s go before you waste away.” Deja flounced into the living room. “Ta-dah! Are you guys ready?”
Both Michelle and Nikky gave her a flat-eyed stare.
“What?”
Deja grabbed her purse from the kitchen counter. “What new age?”
“The age where we kick your butt and turn cannibal if we don’t get out of here now.”
The three climbed into Nikky’s Acura, because of its bigger backseat than Deja’s Nissan, then Nikky pulled away from Deja’s apartment. “This is your deal, girl,” she said to Michelle, “I’m only driving. Where to?”
“There’s a lot of fancy restaurants over by where I live, and most are good, too. But today I want something I can recognize. I want to get breakfast at Denny’s. Over in Thailand, I missed things like pancakes and sausage. It’s even worse in Vietnam — don’t even get me started on their eggs. Damn, it’s good to be home and with my rows!”
Nikky gave Michelle the squinty eye. “What’s wrong with their eggs? They have chickens, right?”
“Oh, you two won’t believe this. First off, nobody in the whole lousy country knows how to fry an egg. Every time they cook them, the eggs are burnt horrible and smell like shit. Lord, I couldn't stand it.”
“Burnt eggs are terrible,” Deja said. “I hate that smell.”
“And I swear, they eat some crazy shit. One time, at a little street café, I saw they had a pot full of boiled eggs, and I figured, hey, it’s a boiled egg, how bad can it be? So, this little old lady set up the egg on a small glass stand. The egg sat tall, with the pointy end up, like it was all proud to be right there on my table. Then the lady gave me a little spoon, smiled, and nodded, and I sat there not knowing what to do. She took the spoon, and cracked the shell all around the top, and lifted the end off. It looked like a little eggshell hat.”
“So . . . what’s wrong with a boiled egg?” Nikky asked.
“It wasn’t a regular boiled egg, that’s what,” Michelle said. “Inside were some long, black, stringy things. I didn’t know what they were. I picked at one and kind of lifted it up. It was — and I shit you not — a motherfucking feather. That sweet-looking old woman gave me a little dead chicken still inside the egg!”