Annihilate Them

by Christina Ross

  “Here’s what concerns me,” Gia said. “What if Rowe calls today and tells us that that the Wenns’ next event is tomorrow night? We’ll have zero time to plan for it.”

  “Then we tell him it’s out of the question. We tell him that we need at least three days to plan. Anything short of that is a non-starter for us.”

  “He might fire us. We could lose millions.”

  “I really don’t care whether he fires us or not, Gia, because no amount of money is worth going to prison for that son of a bitch. If he wants to end our relationship? Let him. But I’m betting that he won’t, because as far as I know, there isn’t some random assassin hotline that he can just tap into to replace us. People like you and me? We’re not so easy to find.”

  She had to smile at that.

  “So this much we know,” Carlo said as he touched his glass against Gia’s before taking a sip. “We’ll target Jones in the morning when she leaves for her workout. We’ll find some way to pluck her off the street and murder her in a safe location. My suggestion is that we lease a warehouse, kill her there, and then leave her there to rot until someone starts to smell the bitch—which will be several days after we’ve taken out the Wenns because it’s still cool outside.” He shrugged at her. “How does that sound to you?”

  “Like a plan. And you know? I bet Mario could help us find that warehouse. He had that car across from the Witherhouses’ home towed away for us. And he said to call him if we needed his help again. That man is as well-connected in this city as Uncle Niccolo was. He’ll know of a warehouse.”

  “Then call him now and make it happen soon, because we need to lock this down before Rowe calls with information about when we go after the Wenns. But listen to me on this—the warehouse must have an entrance like a garage. A door that can be lifted by remote control. To make this as seamless as possible, I want to open the door as we approach it, drive inside, and close the door behind us. Only then do we end Jones’ life.”

  “I’ll call Mario now.”

  “Get the warehouse, Gia. And offer him whatever amount of money it’ll take to secure it as soon as possible.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  IN THE THREE DAYS THAT passed after terrorists murdered and wounded more than four dozen people outside the Witherhouses’ mansion, it became clear to Alex and me that getting in front of the press as soon as we did had saved our asses when it came to Wenn’s stock.

  On Monday morning, it didn’t fall as we’d expected it to—instead, it rose, which suggested to us that Alex’s plan on how to take Wenn forward in the interim without Diana and Mike had resonated with investors.

  Assisting us in that cause was the groundswell of support we’d received from the press. After reading our reports, they had determined that, despite a depleted board, Wenn was still a force to be reckoned with. Moreover, with Alex leading the ship, many key members of the media wrote that, in the coming weeks, Alex would find suitable replacements for Diana and Mike.

  “There is no reason for concern,” the Wall Street Journal wrote. “Alexander Wenn has proved time and again that Wenn Enterprises is in very capable hands. The company has only grown since Wenn inherited it eight years ago, when his father killed his wife and then himself.”

  Over the last three days, Alex and I had attended too many funerals to fathom. We didn’t know everyone who had died that night, but we were close enough with eleven of them that we wanted to make certain we paid our respects in person. It had been painful and draining, especially for Alex, who had known many of these people far longer than I had. Some of the men and women who’d died he’d known since he was a boy.

  Now, on the fourth day—with all of the funerals, hospital visits, and phone calls behind us—we had to move forward, and so we did, regardless of the fact that we still had no answers when it came to who committed the crime.

  All the police knew from the surveillance footage they’d obtained from the Witherhouses as well as their neighbors was that two people were behind the shootings—a man and a woman. A Toyota Camry that had been reported stolen from New Jersey two days before the crime had been found on West Fifty-Seventh Street and Tenth with assault rifles and black ski masks in the trunk. There still was no word on whether any prints had been lifted from the car, but through Tank’s contacts, we’d know before most.

  After Alex made breakfast for us, which made me love him more because I never took him or his unexpected acts of kindness for granted, I began my morning at the office with Blackwell, who was still shaken by what had happened, as were most of the people in Manhattan and around the world.

  “Good morning,” I said to her when I entered her office.

  She was reading the Times. When I stepped inside and took the seat opposite her with a cup of coffee in my hand, she flicked her head up at me, and her face softened.

  “Good morning, my darling girl. How are you?”

  “Ready to get back to work,” I said.

  “You sound eager to...”

  “I am. Those two bastards took away so much from so many people that night. And now they probably want those who survived to feel defeated. Frightened. They want us to feel as if they’ve won. They want to believe that they’ve weakened us. After three days of funerals and reflection, I’m at the point where I have to say to hell with that. Because if I don’t? If we all don’t? Then they have won, Barbara—and I refuse to let them win. I won’t let that happen. So? Time to get back to work, and to life.”

  “I agree,” she said quietly. “Though it will be difficult.”

  “None of this is easy.”

  “And so it isn’t,” she said as she leaned back in her chair and studied me. “You have an event coming up this Saturday, which is just four days away. Are you and Alex still planning to go?”

  “Of course—it’s Kate Stone’s yearly event for the Stone Foundation. We have every intention of going.”

  “I apologize for being a bit distracted, but what is this event again?”

  “It’s a charitable event for the Stone Foundation, which Kate founded in her husband Michael’s memory after he was murdered. You know about that, don’t you?”

  “I do, and it was heartbreaking. But she seems to have come out of it well. He died five or six years ago, didn’t he?”

  “Around then.”

  “And didn’t I read that she’s now seeing a new beau?”

  “Ben Cade,” I said. “Her first love from high school. He’s now a private investigator. I won’t go into the specifics, but fate brought them together again, and now they’re engaged.”

  “And you like her?”

  “I adore her.”

  “Then I’d probably also like her.”

  “Tank and Lisa will be going as well. Kate is a big fan of Lisa’s books and wants to meet her.”

  Blackwell leaned forward. “Look, if you are going to go to this event, then we need to find you and Lisa dresses—and time is running out. How about some much-needed retail therapy today?”

  “I came here to work, but I have to admit, Barbara, that I’d kind of love that.”

  “As would I. We’ll have fun. Hell, I need to get back to my old self—and taunting poor Chloe at Bergdorf’s will do the trick. Call Lisa. See if she’s available, and if she is, set it up for noon.”

  “Done.”

  “A moment before you leave?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ve said it time and again, but I don’t think you know how grateful I am and how lucky I feel that Alex and you survived that night. At this point, I’m not sure what I’d do without either of you in my life. You’re family.”

  “And you, Daniella, and Alexa are our family.”

  “Family,” she said. “Funny thing about what that means as you grow older, isn’t it? The definition changes. Your circle shrinks. The core people you want around you become important to you in ways that you never thought they’d ever become. But they do. Blood doesn’t make a family. I once thought that wa
s the case, but not now. My family is my daughters, Alex and you, Lisa and Tank, and also Cutter. Now, give us a kiss on each cheek,” she said as she stood up from behind her desk.

  I put my coffee down and kissed her twice.

  “I love you, Barbara. Thank you for being my surrogate womb.”

  “Please stop saying that—it’s grotesque.”

  “It’s also true.”

  “Then you need to find a better way to say it, because my womb—as fabulous as it once was—probably should see a plastic surgeon at this point. I could make the news, you know. The first woman to receive a womb lift.”

  “I’m calling Lisa,” I said as I backed away from her.

  Blackwell tugged down the sides of her jacket. “Do that,” she said. “We leave at noon.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “CUTTER, DARLING—WE go to Bergdorf,” Blackwell said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She turned to me as he pulled into traffic, and her eyes were brighter than they’d been earlier that morning. Hell, give the woman a reason to shop and they became electric. “You know, just saying the word ‘Berrrrrgdorf’ sounds like mischief to me,” she said.

  “I know where you’re going with this, and you need to be nice to Chloe.”

  “Says who? She makes a fortune in commissions off us. And besides, all I generally do is poke her with a stick a few times when she disappoints me.”

  “Sometimes I think you poke her too hard.”

  “And sometimes I think you’re entirely too soft.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  She lifted her chin at me. “What I am is Blackwell...”

  “Jesus.”

  “How are you, Cutter?” Lisa asked. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  Lisa was sitting between Blackwell and me, and because I’d told her that Blackwell was the one taking us shopping, she’d totally and intentionally whipped herself into shape.

  Though she generally sat behind a computer all day in sweats and a T-shirt while she wrote whatever novel she was working on, today Lisa had brought it—she was wearing cream-colored Prada pants, a matching cashmere sweater, and a bright-red mid-length coat by Akris. On her feet—red Louboutins. She wore her blonde hair softly around her shoulders, and her make-up was spot-on. She’d nailed it to the point that Blackwell actually gave her a compliment when we’d picked her up.

  “I’m good, Lisa,” Cutter said. “Yourself?”

  “Fantastic. This morning, one of my zombies whacked off a guy’s head, cracked open his skull with the help of a rock, and used his fingers to scoop out his brains so he could eat them. But since that’s clearly been done before, I’m thinking of throwing in a twist. If the dead guy was smart, maybe eating his brains will make the zombie smarter...”

  “Actually, that would be a nice twist...”

  “I think it might be, too. I mean, what if the dead guy was some sort of genius? And the zombie becomes super smart because of eating his brain? Think of the possibilities.”

  “That zombie could organize a revolt of some sort.”

  “Oh, my God, see? I love it!”

  “You two and your zombies,” I said.

  “Like Tank to this day, Cutter also knows the power of the Z,” Lisa said.

  “Can’t you write about something that matters?” Blackwell said as Cutter came to a stop at a traffic light. “You know, something useful like topical Botox or something? Just dab it around your eyes and everything’s perfectly smooth within minutes. I hate those damned injections.”

  “What matters?” Lisa said. “I thought what matters was lifting Wenn’s bottom line, which my books are doing.”

  “Well, aren’t you the little scrappy one this morning?”

  “Actually, I am feeling scrappy.” She turned to Barbara and I saw my friend’s eyes glimmer. “You know, Barbara, I’ve written a character based on you into my new book.”

  Oh, no, she’s not...

  “What in the fresh hell are you talking about now?”

  “Jennifer knows about it... We’ve just kept it secret.”

  “Traitor!” Blackwell said to me. “Like hell she’s putting me into one of her books.”

  “It’s not as bad as you think...” I said to her.

  “Lies!”

  “It isn’t,” Lisa said. “And it’s already done. Her name is Bertha. You inspired her. Naturally, Bertha is a member of the undead, but because some part of her remembers that she loves couture, she raids all of the Chanel stores in Manhattan.”

  “I’ll sue!”

  “It’s satire—you can’t. Besides, I think you’d rather like Bertha—”

  “A horrible name!”

  “—because as she rots, she goes from a size zero to a size minus two. Oh, and she also decides which tailors get to live or die, if only so that her clothes can be fitted properly to her. If they screw it up, it’s off with any number of their body parts. So, you know, thanks for the inspiration.”

  “Are you telling me that Iris has sanctioned this?”

  “I’m telling you that even my editor doesn’t know that it’s you, so don’t worry. What I’ve done is actually given an homage to you, if you think about it. I mean, shouldn’t the undead also crave couture as much as you do?”

  “Well,” Blackwell said, clearly cornered.

  “I mean, shouldn’t they?”

  “Everyone should look their best—dead or alive.”

  “Then take it as a compliment. It was only meant out of good fun. I actually think you’re going to enjoy the scene.”

  “To be determined. But whatever. I have far more important things on my plate right now than worrying about being the inspiration for a zombie named Bertha. We’re here. At Bergdorf. Jennifer, I can already tell you that you will shine on Saturday night.”

  And then she turned coolly to Lisa.

  “But as for you, my kind-hearted little scribbler, the zombies, as you might say, are still out on that one.”

  AS CUTTER PULLED THE car next to Bergdorf and stopped beside it, Blackwell held up her hand and stopped us from exiting the car.

  She reached into her clutch, removed her SlimPhone, and punched in a few numbers. After a pause, she said, “Chloe. Are you ready for us? Good. We’re just outside and we’ll see you in thirty seconds.”

  With that said, she clicked off her phone. Then, Cutter got out of the car and came around to open the door next to me and we all stepped onto the sidewalk.

  “You totally should be in charge of a militia,” Lisa said to Blackwell.

  “Watch it, girl.”

  “I mean it. It’s kind of crazy to watch you like this. Obviously, I’ve seen you in action before after all these years, but I still can’t process how you can make everyone fall in line the way you do.”

  “That’s because you don’t understand or even grasp the idea of power,” she said. “Now, move forward toward the building. I told Chloe that we’d be inside in thirty seconds, and you are not going to blow that for me. Cutter, my darling young man, I’ll call you ten minutes before we’re ready to leave, OK?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “See!” Lisa said as we all moved toward Bergdorf’s entrance. “Look at Jennifer and me—both marching toward Bergdorf’s like we’re one of your automatons while poor Cutter is now on guard, ready to pick us up at a moment’s notice. I think that we’re your militia.”

  “Then I have terrible tastes when it comes to choosing my soldiers—with the exception of Cutter. He’s someone you want on your team, as is Tank.”

  “I’m totally team Tank!” Lisa said.

  “What you two ‘totally’ need to do is get the hell married, but we’ll save that for another day,” Blackwell said as Chloe opened the door for us, meeting us with a genuine smile.

  “Barbara,” Chloe said as we stepped inside.

  “Hellohoware?” Blackwell said as she breezed past her.

  “I’m excellent,” she said. “And very happy
to see you, Jennifer, and Lisa.”

  Blackwell raised an eyebrow at the middle-aged blonde beauty standing before us. “Really, Chloe? You’re... happy?”

  “Of course.”

  “Perhaps I should phrase it another way. Is it your bank account that’s happy to see us—or is it you who are happy?”

  “Barbara,” I said.

  “Never mind answering, Chloe—I think we all know,” Blackwell said. “Now, I assume you have things in mind for these two?”

  “I do.”

  “And I assume you’ve given those things a great deal of thought?”

  “I have.”

  “More thought than you’d even give to a dying loved one? Like your mother...?”

  “I—”

  “Don’t answer that—too awkward. Even for me. Let’s just see what you have in mind, my dear,” Blackwell said as we set off toward the elevator, which we’d take to the designer eveningwear section on the third floor. “And hope to hell that you’ve come through.”

  WHEN THE ELEVATOR DOORS slid open, Blackwell looked out at the busy floor before her, and sighed.

  “Look at them,” she said. “The general public. And some of them are actually checking the price tags, which suggests something even worse—we’re surrounded by tourists. It’s disgusting. We should have come before hours.”

  “If you’d like to come early tomorrow morning, I can certainly make that happen,” Chloe said. “The store will be yours.”

  “No,” Blackwell said. “We’re here. We’ll muddle through the depraved and the rancid as we’ve done before. Just get us into a private dressing room, pour us some champagne, and get me a glass of ice. Then, we’ll see what you’ve chosen for Jennifer and Lisa. Naturally, I have a few things in mind myself—but we’ll test what you have in mind first.”

  “It’s like we’re going to a hanging,” Lisa said under her breath to me.

  “I heard that, Scribbles,” Blackwell said. “Now, come on. We’re wasting time, which I eschew. Let’s get this show on the road.”