by Shirl Henke
She hadn’t been lying about the sickly sweet stench inside the van. It was nearly noon and the sun had raised the temperature inside the vehicle close to that of a fresh lava flow. “You can’t expect me to lay in there!” he said in outrage. She’d spread a cheap plastic tarp over the ruined carpet.
“Don’t see why not. You made the bloody mess.”
Her voice sounded positively cheerful. She was enjoying this. “I made it! You kidnapped me, used a stunner on me and then tried to drown me in strawberry Slurpee—and now you blame me!”
“Slurpees under the bridge,” she said sweetly. “Use the inhalator. Then you won’t be able to smell it. I still have to stay awake and drive.”
“Look, whoever’s paying for this—I mean really paying for this—I’ll get my aunt to pay you double. She’s good for it. I have to talk to Hugo Zandski and find out who those goons are who’re after Tess Renkov. This is a matter of life and death for a couple of innocent women and their kids.” He tried to keep cool, to think. Who the hell could this dame be working for?
Sam knew he was telling the truth—at least as far as he knew it—but she did not show it. She prodded him with the stunner. “Be a good boy.”
The inhalator lay by his hand. Her free hand—the one not jamming that infernal torture device in his kidney—was now grasping the seat of his jeans in a very strategic place. Seeing no way out at this juncture, he capitulated and picked up the inhalator, being careful to get as little as possible up his nostrils.
Although he did better than the first time, it still wasn’t good enough. The stuff hit him like the kick of a mule. Before he could get out a coherent expletive, she was hoisting his woozy body onto the sticky van floor. His last thought before drifting off was that he might asphyxiate before she made a pit stop. Considering how the last few days had gone, the thought held no genuine alarm. He almost giggled again.
Sam was worried. Her old partner had placed her smack in the middle of a turf war involving not only the Feds but the Ruskies, and now, if Granger was telling her the truth, Renkov’s daughter-in-law and her family were in danger. Once she had Matt secured and was on the road, she made a phone call to Sergeant William Patowski, Miami-Dade Homicide.
“Yeah, now that you got your snatch all safe and sound, you give me what I need,” he said as he jotted down Tess Renkov’s cell number and the address at Samaritan Haven. “We’ll get an agent over to the hospital for a little talk with this Zandski guy—if he’s really there like your newsman says.”
“Just make sure you get those women and their kids under protection before Mikhail Renkov’s boys reach them,” she countered.
“The APB on Renkov’s widow was only a smoke screen to throw old Mikhail off track.” Sergeant Will Patowski’s voice sounded like he’d just swallowed a mouthful of gravel. That had more to do with his four-pack-a-day habit than a poor phone connection.
Sam held her cell away from her ear while he hacked up a lung, then asked, “How long until you wrap this thing up?” She had the CD player’s rear speakers turned up in case Matt was alert enough to overhear her end of the conversation.
“Just gimme a few more days,” Patowski said. “The New York Ruskies have been crowding Renkov’s action here in Miami. After they blew his kid into orbit, Mikhail had Pribluda’s number-one boy in Miami whacked—Niki Benko. My officers and the fibbies are sweating his shooter even as we speak. We’re gonna break up this whole nasty turf war and expose the CIA’s darling Mikhail. The Company gets a black eye and Renkov goes up twenty to life for killing Benko. End of the Ruskie mob in Miami.”
“Better make it quick. I don’t want to be responsible for anything happening to Tess Renkov and her kid. And I don’t want my tits in a wringer if your case goes south and my ‘patient’s’ aunt comes after me. In Boston the Cabots may talk only to the Lodges and the Lodges only to God, but all of them bow to Claudia Witherspoon.”
“Don’t sweat it. Tess Renkov knows more than she’s telling about the family business. That’s another reason we’ve got that APB out on her.”
“From what I overheard, I don’t think so.”
“Could’ve been feeding Granger a line. The fibbies will put her in a safe house ’til we nail her daddy-in-law. Find out what she really knows.”
“I don’t like seeing an innocent kid involved,” Sam argued.
She could imagine Pat’s fatalistic shrug as he replied, “Hey, the FBI can protect the kid. His mom married the mob. No one held a gun to her head at the altar. I seen the wedding pictures in the society pages of the Herald. Speaking of which, how’s your newsman holding out?”
“He’ll live safely if not happily ever after. His aunt wants him on ice. She gets what she wants. So do you.” But what about what Sam Ballanger wanted? Even if he walked out on his aunt when this was over and returned to Miami, Sam knew the odds of her seeing Matt Granger again were long. What the hell did you expect for ten K? A stroll down the Miracle Mile?
No turning back now, not after all she had invested in this caper. Let Pat’s FBI buddies locate Tess Renkov and her family. The only thing she could do was beat feet to Boston and collect her money from Aunt Claudia. Maybe by that time the whole mess would be over and Mikhail Renkov cooling his heels in jail.
Sam glanced uneasily into the rearview mirror. No one following…that she could spot. From here on out, she’d be super careful. No more surprises from crazy soccer moms flashing guns and for sure, no Slavic-looking types were coming within fifty yards of her and Matt Granger.
Insidiously, the thought hit her. Once this whole mess was straightened out, she could collect her money from Aunt Claudia, then kidnap Matt for herself… Think of something else, Ballanger. Like how long it would be until Miami-Dade Homicide had Mikhail Renkov wrapped up with a sweet pink bow tied around his rotten ass.
One thing she’d put money on: The CIA wouldn’t get his collar away from Patowski unless the president himself called and demanded it. “Nah. Not even then.” She remembered how pissed Pat had been over the 2000 election results in Florida.
Sam kept her eyes on the rearview more than usual that afternoon. A big old ’89 Lincoln dripping with chrome kept pace about a half-dozen cars back on the busy interstate. She slowed, letting the rest of the cars pass, but the Lincoln never did. “Probably just some little old lady from Pasadena,” she muttered to herself, pulling off the road into a rest stop. But if she remembered the Beach Boys’ lyrics, that gal burned rubber.
Much to her relief the Lincoln drove serenely on. Its windows were tinted so she couldn’t see inside. Not all that unusual out here in the desert…or in the intense Miami heat. The car had Florida plates. “Shit, I’m getting as paranoid as Matt.” He started kicking the van door again. Speak of the devil…. A good thing the area was deserted. The racket sounded worse than some creature from the Book of Revelation trying to break out of confinement. Remembering her ordeal with the motel door yesterday, she wasn’t all that inclined to rush. Then again, what if he had to take a whiz? Cooped up lying on that sticky carpet might make him feel he had nothing to lose. Still watchful of the black Lincoln, she pulled off the road and unlocked the van doors.
“Okay, Matt, darling. Time for a potty break?”
He tried his best to scowl through the damned bandages, knowing so little of his face was visible that it was useless. Damn this pigheaded female. How the hell was he going to get away from her? Maybe tonight a loose piece of plumbing? Nah, too much to ask. She helped him climb out of the van and stand between the doors, then unzipped his fly. As her agile fingers aided him in conducting his business, he furiously mumbled curses through the surgical tape.
Samantha Ballanger, you will pay for this. And so will that old battle-ax Claudia. I swear it.
It was well past dark and Sam was exhausted when she pulled off the road. God, it seemed like she’d been driving up and down Interstate 15 for at least seven years. Her head pounded as if one of the Three Stooges had just applied his
mallet to it. Still keeping her gritty eyes peeled for that black Lincoln, she drove toward a flashing neon sign with over half the bulbs burned out. Instead of STRATFORD LODGE, the lights read RAT OR LO G.
Just the sort of joint she was looking for. No one driving a Lincoln would be caught dead here. Now if only she and Matt weren’t. Other than blowing smoke from an unfiltered Camel in Sam’s face, the blue-haired harridan behind the check-in desk barely glanced at what was probably her only customer of the night. Within minutes Sam had Matt inside the room.
He stumbled over a chair, still mummy-wrapped and barely able to keep his balance when Sam released him. “Stand still. I gotta check something out.”
Matt could hear her shut the door and vanish outside. Great. Here he was utterly helpless and she had to run off on some fool errand. The door was directly behind him. Maybe he could… He’d heard the lock click shut as she left. Then again, maybe he couldn’t. Of course, he still had his feet free, but somehow the idea of kicking his way out of the room while straitjacketed, blindfolded and unable to utter an intelligible sound seemed an implausible plan.
There was always the gooseneck pipe, he thought wistfully as Sam returned. Without a word, she guided him to sit down on the bed so she could begin the process of de-mummifying him for the night. She was going out of her way to act impersonal, as if their little interlude in the shower the other night hadn’t happened. Damn if he’d let her off the hook on that one. She felt guilty. Good. Maybe he could figure some way to use that.
Sam could see that he had the drill down now. Once she freed him from the jacket, he reached up to take off the bandages, tape and blindfold. By then she stood well out of reach with her stunner trained on him, dangling the cuffs. She tossed them to him wordlessly, motioning for him to go into the bathroom.
“You think the silent treatment will work, huh?”
“What silent treatment?” she replied, preoccupied by what she thought she’d spotted outside.
Matt knew this was more than just embarrassment over their having sex. He could see her eyes flicking toward a broken slat on the window blinds. A nasty feeling started crawling around in his gut. “You’ve seen someone following us? These boys don’t play nice, Samantha. We could both end up dead. What they did to Hugo Zandski wasn’t pretty.”
Sam wondered what the fibbies had found out when they talked to Zandski, but all she said was, “More conspiracy theories, Mr. Granger?”
“What happened to ‘Matt, darling’?” he asked, grinning in spite of their predicament.
“You know the drill. Click the cuff to the drainpipe.” Now her full concentration was back on him. She had to put him on ice, then check on that Lincoln. This wasn’t looking good. She knew Matt would figure something hinky was going on, but right now she had more on her mind than reassuring him. Especially when she needed reassurance herself.
Dutifully, he went into the moldy bathroom and did as she commanded. The instant she heard the click of the cuff around the pipe, Sam stepped inside the room with him and slammed the door. He watched, amazed and more than a little bit scared shitless, as she cranked open the rusty window behind the toilet and climbed outside, saying tersely, “Stay quiet if you want to stay alive.”
That’s when he saw the .38 she’d withdrawn from her fanny pack. Things were definitely not looking good. “You need my help, Sam,” he protested. She only shushed him, then vanished into the darkness. Frantically, his heart thudding in his throat, Matt began twisting the pipe.
Chapter 9
Sam slipped around the side of the building, hugging the wall in the darkness. Since she’d followed her usual pattern and taken the end-row unit, the hike wasn’t long. Peering carefully around the corner, she saw two thuggish-looking types standing in front of the door. They actually wore sharkskin double-breasted suits and snap-brim hats.
Retro gangster! She’d have laughed out loud if their craggy faces hadn’t looked cold and mean as a Russian winter. One gunsel was attempting to look through the broken blind into the darkened room while the other kept a lookout for any curious soul who might chance to wonder what they were doing.
No danger of that since her Econoline was the only car on the lot, standing out like a white elephant under the mercury vapor light at the edge of the Tarmac. Luckily that light had also bounced off the oversize chrome bumper on the Town Car. She could see it more clearly now. It had been well concealed behind a clump of cottonwoods dividing the motel lot from that of a dry-cleaning establishment next door.
Sam sized them up. She was sure both were armed although only the stocky one had his piece in his hand while his taller companion fiddled with the door lock. They were on the shady side of forty and overly fond of their vodka by the looks of their swag guts. But big-boned heavyset men could take a lot of punishment and still keep coming.
Pat, I hope Uncle Declan beats you to paste at my funeral.
Sam waited until the lookout turned his back to her. Seizing the instant, she jumped him, .38 in her right hand and the stun gun in her left. She shoved the stunner in his gun arm and squeezed. His Glock dropped from nerveless fingers. He grunted an oath and thrashed around, facing her just in time to receive another blast in the gut. His companion, who had by that time succeeded in opening the door, turned just as the shorter guy tumbled into him en route to the pavement.
The tall fellow was knocked against the door frame, trying to jerk a .45 from his shoulder holster. “Uh-uh,” she said, shaking her head as her .38 pointed perilously close to his nose. “Drop the piece with your left hand—slowly, very slowly.” When he hesitated she wondered how the hell to say it in Russian.
That’s it. I’m finished.
But then he complied. Breathing a silent sigh of relief, she scooped up both guns and stuck them into her fanny pack where she’d dropped the stunner, then motioned for him to back through the door into the room. “Sit down on the bed,” she instructed, feeling in control now.
Sam waited until he did as ordered, then moved into the room. “With your pal there down for the count, you and me are gonna have a little talk, Ivan. What say?”
He stared at her with eyes like two pale gray marbles, his thin mouth a stubborn slash set under a bulbous red-veined nose. “Nyet” sounded very final.
What? Had she expected this to be easy? The turkey probably understood and spoke English but wasn’t talking…at least not yet. Knowing his companion would be coming around sooner or later, she dug in her fanny pack and came up with a spare pair of cuffs. First things first. “All righty then. If you don’t wanna have a chat, I assume you’re familiar with these,” she said, dangling the cuffs. “Put one on your right hand and click the other to that table leg.”
She tossed the cuffs on the bed beside him. Again he hesitated as those unnerving gray marbles rolled in his head, studying the room, gauging his chances. Then he picked up the cuffs and clicked one over a brawny wrist, scooting glacially toward a wall writing table that looked as battle scarred as he was. Just as Sam was about to exhale, the bathroom door swung open and Matt emerged, brandishing a gooseneck pipe as he yelled, “Behind you, Sam!”
The stocky guy tackled her just as she turned and they went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Her .38 skidded beneath a bed as both of them thrashed around while struggling to reach the cache of guns inside her fanny pack. Ignoring the cuff on his wrist, the taller thug took a swing at Granger. And missed.
Grinning like a crazed chimpanzee who’d just peed into a Sunday crowd at the zoo, Matt swung the pipe with all the frustration built up over the past four days. It connected solidly with the side of his opponent’s head, dropping him instantly. A good thing since his pal had just succeeded in getting his paw over the .45 in Sam’s pack. Without breaking stride, Matt turned and swung his weapon down, whacking the back of the thug’s thick neck so hard they probably heard his vertebra popping in the next county.
Sam crawled out from beneath the bruiser, who outweighed her by an easy hundred
and fifty pounds. She struggled to catch her breath while scrambling across the floor to retrieve her .38 from beneath the bed. As she climbed onto the saggy mattress and sat panting, she looked down at the guy she’d stunned outside and shook her head. “I gave him a direct shot in the gut. All that body fat must’ve absorbed the shock,” she said, looking up at Matt’s lean torso—and stiffening in shock.
He held the big Russian’s .45 in one hand, the pipe in the other. Now his grin focused on her, shifting ever so subtly. He looked like a German shepherd eyeing a juicy hunk of steak. “I’ve been fantasizing about this for days…”
He paused and licked his lips, then glanced at the men on the floor. “First things first. Toss your gun down, Samantha, darling. You have to believe my ‘conspiracy theories’ now, don’t you? And no shit about Aunt Claudia.”
Knowing there was little point in carrying on the charade, she did as he asked. “Yeah. I suppose so.” She waited, wondering what he was going to do after he closed the motel door and relocked it.
“Let’s secure these guys and then play twenty questions. Oh, I’ll need that stunner.” He motioned to her pack. “Just lay it on the bed and scoot away.”
Sam eyed him uneasily. He wasn’t crazy but he sure as hell was pissed and, she admitted, had every right to be. She’d badly misjudged the situation and endangered both their lives.
He sighed. “Much as it would serve you right, I don’t intend to use the stunner on you.”
Sam looked down at the two sprawled, unconscious bodies of the Russian mobsters. She unfastened the fanny pack and laid it on the bed, moving away. “Okay, twenty questions with the stun gun. I thought of it, too. Great minds run along the same course,” she said with a cheeky grin. “That was my plan…before things got out of hand.”