by Holly Hart
He didn't break the silence. I did.
"I read the letter, Russell."
He flinched as I said his name. He hated me calling him that. He used to anyway. It looked like he still did. "What letter?"
"Mom's suicide note," I said coldly.
Russell froze. I'd call him Russell to my dying day, even in the peace and quiet of my own head. That was one thing he couldn't take away from me.
"You never read it," I continued, watching as his face flinched under my verbal assault.
"You never read it, and you let me think she was still alive. All those years I bit my pillow and silently cried myself to sleep, asking myself why she left. Why she didn't love me, and you knew." My voice cracked, and I hated myself for it. It made me sound weak, and I was anything but. That I was here at all was proof of that. The old Cara – the one beaten down by years of abuse – she'd never have had the balls to do what I was doing.
But that was the old Cara.
This Cara pulled the trigger.
This Cara had a Beretta 87 in her purse.
And this Cara would use it.
Russell clenched hands that went white with effort and looked knotted with arthritis. He squeezed and loosened, and his knuckles cracked one by one. I shuddered. I wasn't scared of him, not anymore. He was like an old war criminal. Hidden for years and now splashed on the front page of every newspaper in America, but now old, wizened and pathetic.
Yet still evil.
He coughed as he spoke. "How dare you talk to me like that, young lady. I'm still your father, and you'll respect –"
I laughed a cold, bitter cackle. I realized that I shouldn't have bothered coming here. He had nothing for me. He was still the same hard bastard he'd always been, and he was too old to change. A nagging voice in the back of my mind asked me why he'd called me down here in the first place. What the hell had he had to say that was so damn important?
And why's he sober?
But I ignored it. I was too far gone, the anger running too freely to hold it back. And after all those years, I felt I deserved it. Here was my one chance not to turn the other cheek; my one chance to return even a thousandth of the pain that he had rained down upon me.
"You're no such thing," I growled.
Without realizing it, my hand had crept into the bag by my side, and I had to make a conscious effort to uncouple my fingers from the weapon.
"Because no father," I hissed, "would treat a young girl the way you treated me; and you can believe that as sure as the sky is blue!"
Russell laughed a dull, soulless wheeze that affected me like the sound of nails on a chalkboard. "Oh, bitch, you better believe I'm still your father. You can run away with some man and that don't change a damn thing."
Something rattled shut in the background; a window shutter, maybe, or an outside door. My subconscious heard it, processed it and ignored it.
"Then why the hell did you drag me down here?" I spat back. "What's your problem? Was two decades not long enough to do your worst? What do you get out of this, anyway?"
He stared at me and uttered perhaps the only honest word that had ever passed his lips; he didn't even look ashamed doing it.
"Drink."
My mouth went dry as a bone. "What? What the hell are you talking about?"
Russell's teeth pulled back into what I assumed was a smile, but looked like an animal’s snarl. "Oh, baby. You’re in a whole heap of trouble, now."
I backed into the chair I’d ignored. It fell back behind me and clattered against the floor. I barely noticed it. My mind kicked into overdrive while my body was still reacting; the black truck with tinted windows; the empty café; the sound of the door banging shut.
"You stupid, stupid girl," I moaned, spinning around and searching for any sign of trouble. Then I bolted.
I didn't need to be a goddamn spy to realize that Russell had sold me out. That the only reason he cleaned himself up enough to stay off the drink was the promise of more.
So as I ran, I scrabbled in the inside of my tiny handbag for the gun, Val's words echoing in my head: "never point your gun at something you're not prepared to kill."
Believe me, Val, I'm prepared.
I didn't bother shouting back angered curses at Russell for betraying me. There was no point. In an hour’s time, when his paymaster provided the goods, he'd be slumped in an alcoholic coma. I doubted he'd remember any of this.
I burst through the café door, snatching a look back over my shoulder.
"Shit," I moaned. I had a pursuer. What little I saw told me that he was a stocky guy. All dressed in black, up to a matching cap and burly enough to swat me aside like I might a fly. I knew enough to know that falling into his clutches would put me into a very bad situation indeed.
I picked up the pace. I sprinted towards the sidewalk, and as I ran, I saw salvation in the shape of a barely moving black limo. My chaser was closing on me fast, and I knew there was no chance I'd be able to outrun him. Not in these shoes. So I did the only thing I could think of. I threw myself in front of the car.
It screeched gently to a halt, and I collapsed onto the hood, my heart exploding in my ears. "Please," I begged in a ragged voice, not knowing if anyone was listening but knowing I had to try. "A man's chasing me. Please help me."
A window hissed down, and as I half-fell, half-ran towards the opening I snuck a glance in the direction of the café, eyes desperately searching for the man in black. I didn't expect what I saw. He had stopped dead, ten yards away, his hand resting on the holster that lay strapped to his hip –
just watching.
A cold chill of foreboding gripped my stomach. I knew even then that I was a dead woman walking. Whatever lay inside the limousine, it couldn't be good. And yet it was my only choice. I approached the open window with feet like lead.
"Ah, Miss Winters," a serpentine voice hissed from the blackness inside. "We meet. A mutual friend has told me rather a lot about you."
"Who … who are you?" I asked, my voice trembling and betraying the utter terror that had paralyzed my mind. Some part of me was screaming that I should run, that I should…
Fight.
The gun; how could I have been so stupid?
I heard the sound of a heavy van door opening, and thudding boots.
I went for it, digging into my purse and…
too late.
"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," a man snarled from behind me. His voice was high-pitched, and he was panting slightly. I'd heard it before. "Not unless you want that Prince Charming of yours to find your brains spread like jelly on the road; and how would your baby girl like that?"
Before I even had the chance to spin on my heel and loose the shot that would have signed my death warrant, I felt something hard press against my skull. I felt his hand close around mine and free me of the weapon, and watched as he circled my body until that he was in front of me.
I knew that face. I knew that voice. It was Anatoly, Val's man. The one he didn't trust.
I was done for, and I knew it.
A silver haired man leaned out of the limousine window. His face was twisted into a sick rictus grin.
"You can call me Arkady. All the pretty girls do."
19
Val
I carried Kitty in my arms, cradling her like she was the most precious thing on earth. Hell to me, she was.
"You ready to see mama?" I whispered, knowing that the little girl was fast asleep. I wasn't speaking to her, I was speaking for myself. I never knew that this was what I wanted. I never knew that being a father would mean more to me than anything in the world. I never knew that Cara coming back into my life would make me this happy. I wouldn't have believed it.
I wasn't speaking to Kitty, I was speaking to myself and Cara and everyone and no one, because I wanted the world to see how much fun we'd had, my daughter and I.
I knew that Cara had been as eager for some time to herself as I was for some time with Kitty. I didn't blame
her. Getting used to being a family was pretty tough. It was easy enough to say that love conquers all, but when you've spent two years alone in a cell, or hiding in your room from an abusive parent, a bit of peace and quiet is worth its weight in gold.
It was an easy gift to give, because I got one of my own in return.
I clutched Kitty to my body to press my thumb against the fingerprint reader, and the door to the apartment clicked open.
"Babe," I called out, keeping my voice low enough not to wake Kitty. "We're back!"
I heard nothing.
I kicked the door closed with my heel and waited for the triple locks to thud shut. They did, and the place was a fortress again. I laid Kitty down on the nearest couch and watched as her hair spread out on the gray suede.
"Let's go find your mom," I muttered.
An uneasy sense of foreboding started to build in my stomach; the kind of feeling you get as a kid when you're waiting at home, and your parents are late coming back. Your mind starts to conjure up scenarios – every one more terrifying than the next: a car wreck; a kidnapping; a murder.
Apart from Kitty's quiet breathing, the apartment was deathly silent.
"She's just asleep, Val," I said. I didn't know who I was trying to convince. If it was me, it sure didn't work. I moved from room to room, cursing the size of the apartment.
Who the hell needs this much space?
But as I searched from kitchen to bedroom, and even out onto my balcony, each nook and cranny told the same story – the one I didn't want to hear – the place was as empty as the grave. Cara wasn't here.
It wasn't just unease in my stomach; now, it was pure, abject terror.
"Fuck," I swore, mind spinning as I tried to figure out where the hell she might have gone. Or why she would have left in the first place. I grabbed the knife from my bedside table, shoved it into my waistband and paced back to Kitty, terrified now that someone might break into the apartment and snatch her while she slept. It was an irrational fear. My place was as secure as Fort Knox – maybe more. I'd spared no expense.
And yet she's gone.
I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, mashing the touchscreen in haste. It only rang once before he picked it up.
"Dimitri," I barked.
"Yes boss?"
"Where the fuck's Cara? And why the hell wasn't there a man outside my front door? You best give me answers quick, or –"
"Boss, slow down," Dimitri replied, his voice clipped. That was when I truly realized that everything had gone to hell. Deep down, I'd harbored some hope that maybe this was all a mistake: that I was panicking for no reason; that Cara had just gone out with a bodyguard – shopping, maybe. I wouldn't have liked it, but at least I’d have known she was safe.
But if Dimitri didn't know, then there was no way that happened. And I could tell from his voice that he didn't have a fucking clue what I was talking about.
"Boss, I'm on it. I'll call you back in ten –"
"Five."
"Five."
Three minutes later the doorbell chimed three times. It sang a jaunty jingle that was so at odds with my tortured state of mind that I imagined stabbing my knife blade into the speaker.
Dimitri?
Too soon.
I picked Kitty up and jogged to her room, cradling her to my chest. She moaned in her sleep, but didn't wake. I locked the door behind me. Better safe than sorry.
The thought crossed my mind that I might as well make it a permanent fixture on my hip. I should have known that this idyllic little interlude couldn't last. I cursed myself for allowing myself to be seduced by the idea that I could live a normal life; for putting Kitty and Cara in danger.
My brain ran ahead of the facts.
Rule number one: no guns with kids in the house.
Number two: whoever's behind that door, they're the ones who took Cara.
"And they're going to pay."
I approached the door in a crouch, my knife held in a reverse grip. The camera above the door showed only a man's head. Other than that he had a full head of hair, and was a shade over 6 feet tall, I didn't know a damn thing about him. I didn't like it. But I didn't have time to put a meticulous plan in place. It was time to roll with the punches.
I keyed the door open.
And I charged.
As I moved, I learned a few things.
First, my adversary was taller than I'd first thought.
Second, the way he reacted told me this wasn't his first rodeo.
And third, he was built like a brick shithouse…
I bit back the curse words that were building on the tip of my tongue. Kitty was asleep, and the last thing I wanted was for her to witness this. Even to hear the sound.
The hit man jerked backwards to avoid my onrushing blade. That's what he was, I was certain. His easy movement only confirmed it. He grimaced and backed away, holding his arm up and his palm flat. It almost looked like a gesture that he came in peace.
But that can't be.
My brain didn't even entertain the thought. It put two and two together and made five, or six, or ten. So I didn't stop.
He's trained. He's a killer.
That meant if I allowed him to gain the upper hand, even for a second, then he'd take his chance. I couldn't allow my resolve to slip, or my energy to flag, not unless I wanted to find a blade sprouting from my carotid artery. Maybe even my own.
I balanced on the balls of my feet, and took a boxer's stance. My knife shifted to my left in a blur, and I curled my right into a fist.
Come and fucking get me.
Then I waited; and waited. And the killer didn't do a damn thing. He stood there, just out of reach – ready to draw his own blade, but as prepared to simply jump out of the way.
It was a Mexican standoff.
And he spoke first. "I didn't come here to fight."
His voice was low and gruff, and tinged with the faintest hint of an accent – Eastern European, certainly; Russian probably – a lot like mine.
"So what the hell are you doing here?" I grunted. "I suppose it's a damn unlucky coincidence that you turn up at the precise moment that my girlfriend goes missing, is it?"
I said ‘Girlfriend’.
The imposing hitman shrugged. "I never said I was taking you for a fool. Of course it's no coincidence. But hell, I thought I'd help a neighbor out. Sue me."
"Neighbor?"
The man looked around and whistled. "Sure is a nice place you've got for yourself here -- and at your age too. What are you, twenty-one?"
I held a glowering silence. He continued without breaking step. "I had to knock a lot of heads together before I managed to afford a place like this. Cut a few off, too." He looked down at his fingernails and smoothed an imaginary piece of fluff from his finely tailored white shirt. "Sound similar?"
"What, you're telling me you live here?"
"Boy, you're not the only killer come good in this town. Alexandria's wriggling with crooks like us."
I bared my teeth and held myself back from growling. "So what's this, a friendly visit from the neighborhood watch? Or are you coming around for a cup of sugar? Because I don't have time, and you're wasting what little I have."
The hitman strode forward and held out his hand. Staying just far enough away, I noticed, to dive for safety if he needed. I closed one eye, weighing up what would happen if I lopped off one of his fingers. He cocked his head, "Truce?"
I uncurled my fist one finger at a time. My knuckles danced and cracked. "We'll see." I held my hand out and embraced his in a wary handshake.
"The name's Roman."
"Sounds familiar," I grunted. "But what makes you so special?"
"Oh," he smiled, "Nothing much. I'm retired, mainly. But I still have friends who tell me things in exchange for their friends getting to keep hold of their fingers."
Was that a coincidence?
"So what are your friends telling you?"
Roman's face lost all color and expression
. I hid a shudder as I imagined how terrifying he must be to his enemies. And I still wasn't sure whether I was one of them … "Oh, things," he said, waving his arm offhandedly. "You know – drips and drabs. I was planning to come see you anyway, you see. When you said neighborhood watch you weren't too far off the mark. We noticed you setting up your own organization –"
"Who're we, exactly?"
"Friends," he replied with intentional vagueness. "Friends who hope to see a peaceful Alexandria one day."
"Enough," I growled. "I don't care who you are, or who your friends are. This isn't getting me anywhere. There's a fucking clock ticking, a girl's life is at stake and we're standing here talking about shit that doesn't matter. Either you tell me what you know, or get the fuck out."
"53 A, Miami Boulevard. It's a piece of crap crack shack in Vista Beach that should have been knocked down years ago."
My pocket vibrated and rang. It cut across the growing tension like the crack of a whip.
Five minutes – Jesus that went fast.
I fished the cell phone out of my pocket and pressed it to my ear.
"Dimitri,” I growled, "I'm in the middle of something. Be quick."
"We know where she is, or at least where she'll be."
"Give me an address, Dimitri."
"53A Miami Boulevard, Vista –"
I cut him off. "I'll call you back," and killed the line.
"It looks like you're the real deal," I said, flipping my knife and catching it. Flipping, and catching, and chewing something over in my mind. "So tell me, Roman. Why are you here? Give me one good reason to trust a single goddamn word that comes out of your mouth."
Roman dropped down on one knee. He deftly picked a short two-inch knife from the sheath strapped to his boot. I stiffened, watching his every move like a hawk. He flipped it once, copying the blade that was dancing between my fingers. My eyeballs followed as he raised the weapon slowly to his throat, and as he delicately rested the tip on his carotid artery. He beckoned me over.