2. Payback

by Fern Michaels

  Charles looked at Myra in the dim yellowish light of the limo. “Unfortunately, not what we would both like to do. We have a job to do.”

  Myra wiggled even closer, “Oh…poop!”

  Twelve

  Jack Emery did his best to bellow, “Come in” to the person knocking on his door. It came out little better than a hoarse croak. He flopped back on the sofa, drained with the effort. They were probably coming back to finish the job they started. He wondered what it would feel like to die, to take his last breath, to see the world turn fuzzy and gray. Would he see the white light, the angels everyone talked about, when he drew his last breath?

  He tried to open his eyes but finally gave up. “Just fucking do it and get it over with. I’m an easy target, I can’t move. Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Look, my eyes are closed. Shoot me and get it over with.”

  “Jack, it’s me, Mark. Look, I’m sorry the way all that crap went down back at my place. I came over to take you to the hospital. You need some help, buddy. For whatever it’s worth, I’m on your side. I admit, back there, they scared the living crap out of me. Then I realized I can’t stand still for that kind of thing just the way you can’t. I’d rather quit. After I get you patched up, I’m calling my boss and whatever happens, happens. Worst case scenario, we open up our own security agency. I have some money saved. My dad will lend me the rest to get us up on our feet.”

  “Are you nuts! You’re looking at a real loser here. Why in the hell would you want to tie yourself up with someone like me? Forget it. Go home. Forget you ever knew me. Let me lie here and die. Go on, get out of here, Mark.”

  Mark ignored the tortured words as he headed for the kitchen and the freezer. He took out a plastic bag of peas and shook them loose. Jack had to be the only single guy in the world who kept frozen peas in his freezer. He walked back to his friend and placed the package on his battered face. He then made his way to the bathroom and rummaged till he found a first aid kit. He was on his knees about to dress some of Jack’s cuts when a knock sounded at the door. In a heartbeat, he was on his feet, his gun in his hand. “Come in.” The sound of the hammer clicking back was so loud in the quiet room, Jack almost fainted.

  A middle-aged woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform and a swarthy man wearing a white lab coat and carrying a medical bag stepped into the room. They seemed oblivious to the drawn gun. “You won’t need the gun, young man. We’re here to help Mr. Emery and to offer…apologies.” At least that’s what Jack thought he said, his accent heavy and guttural.

  “I don’t think so,” Mark said. “How do we know you aren’t here to finish the job? No shots. No nothing. Turn around and leave. I’ll take care of my friend.”

  “No. Your president sends his sincere regrets for this unfortunate turn of events. Allow us to help make it right,” the guttural voice said.

  Mark dropped to a crouch to shield Jack but not before he stiff-armed the nurse. “We don’t need your help. I’ll take care of my friend.”

  Jack would have cried if he could have made his tear ducts work. Loyalty was something he hadn’t encountered in a long time. He continued to listen to his friend.

  “You are to call this number,” the guttural voice said, handing over a slip of paper.

  “Yeah, like I’m really going to do that and lay down my gun, too. Take a hike, buddy. There’s no way you’re squirting anything into my friend’s veins.”

  “Call the number, Mark, or hand me the phone and I’ll do it,” Jack said. “Tell them to back off toward the door.”

  “You heard the man,” Mark said, brandishing the gun. Both white-coated figures moved backward while Jack dialed the number Mark read from the slip of paper in his free hand.

  “United States White House.”

  Jack ended the call. “It was the White House. What now, Coach. I’m in a lot of pain, here, buddy.”

  “OK, open the bag and let’s see what you got. You can examine him while I watch. No shots, no pills. Clean him up and dress the cuts. That’s it. Capice!”

  An hour later when Jack was done howling and kicking his feet, the doctor stepped backward. “Give him these every four hours for pain. It’s Demerol. The word is written on the tablet. They’re safe. I taped his ribs. He should see his own doctor as soon as he’s comfortable doing so. If his condition changes, you can call me at this number,” the doctor said, scribbling a cell phone number on the corner of a magazine on the coffee table. “The number is only good for twenty-four hours at which point it will be disconnected. The best thing for him right now is sleep. We can see ourselves out.”

  Mark stayed a safe distance behind the couple as they exited the apartment. He shot the dead bolt and the other two locks Jack had personally installed. He himself had the same kind of locks at his own apartment. No sense looking for more trouble.

  “Guess they belong to the spook brigade,” Jack mumbled. “Get me some whiskey, Mark. It’s in the kitchen cabinet. I went to the armory, Mark.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know,” Mark said, looking around the messy apartment. “You really should clean this place up, Jack. You could probably catch a disease just living here.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I kind of lost all heart when Nikki dumped me. I always kept it clean for her. The whiskey, Mark?”

  Mark poured liberally and then had second thoughts so he watered down the Jim Beam. Jack swallowed it in two gulps.

  Mark stuffed the gun he was still holding into the shoulder holster under his armpit. He perched on the end of the couch. “What do you want me to do, Jack?”

  Jack knew he was about to fade out. “I don’t know, Mark. You know as much as I do right now. Hell, man, you’re FBI. If this was your case and there were no obstacles, what would you do? Treat it like it’s the most important case on your desk and go on from there. You can use my computer. My password is…is…Nikki. Don’t let me sleep too long, OK?”

  “Yeah, sure, Jack.”

  Mark looked around. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was a mess. One of seven children, he’d been taught at an early age how to clean, cook, do laundry, and take care of himself. He started to work. First, he cleared out all the trash, empty pizza boxes, empty Chinese containers and stacks and stacks of beer bottles. The empty dishwasher yawned in his face. He loaded it and what didn’t fit, he soaked in the double kitchen sink. He used the vacuum and Dust Buster and loaded the washing machine with a load of pitiful-looking towels. The dirty clothes strewn all over the floor went into an already overstuffed hamper.

  Now, he could sit down at the computer where he tapped away for hours without taking a break. When he finally looked up he was surprised to see gray light seeping through the open blinds. It was still raining.

  Mark checked on Jack and then went into the kitchen to make coffee and toast for himself. He massaged his neck and shoulders as his mind raced. The big question in his mind was what seven very diverse women had in common? Add one very important man named Charles Martin to the mix and what did he have?

  One big mother of a mess was the answer.

  Well, hell, he was a computer programmer for the FBI. Even the CIA and the DOJ borrowed him from time to time because he was beyond good. How modest he was, he thought. In the spook world he traveled in, you had to blow your own horn from time to time. He’d installed and programmed some of the most sophisticated computers in all three organizations. As such, he knew where the fire walls and back doors were, how to undo and patch up the fire walls so no one would notice if he accessed them. The big question was, did he really want to put his ass on the line for Jack Emery?

  Coffee cup in hand, Mark made his way back to Jack’s computer. He stopped a moment to stare down at his sleeping friend. The answer was yes.

  Thirteen

  Julia Webster leaned back against the plush cushions of the limousine. She was exhausted but she’d done her part. The driver of the limousine she and Mitch were riding in would have Kathryn’s rig in sigh
t all the way to Manassas, Virginia. For now she just had to listen to her husband’s tirade which was getting louder by the moment. It was typical Mitch. Place blame, cry poor poor me. If she wanted to, she could recite the litany verbatim.

  “Where the hell are we going?” Mitch bellowed. “This isn’t the way to Georgetown! Where’s our detail? You really are stupid, Julia. We’re in the wrong limousine! This is your fault. Where the hell are we going?” he bellowed a second time.

  Julia yawned elaborately. “You’re right, we’re in the wrong limousine. Your detail is following some Republican couple to Arlington. Or maybe it’s Alexandria. We’re going to Manassas to have drinks with those horrid Monarch HMO people. I’d appreciate it if you’d lower your voice. You’re giving me a headache.”

  Not about to give up, Mitch moved forward until he was next to the partition separating the driver from the passengers. “Turn this damn car around and take me home. To Georgetown. We changed our mind, we don’t want to go to Manassas.”

  “Too late, sir,” came the response. Isabelle took her eyes off the road for a minute to glare at her passenger. “Sit down and buckle your seat belt. If you force me to stop this car, you won’t like the consequences.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Mitch shouted.

  “Yes,” Isabelle shouted in return.

  “Do you know who I am, driver? I’m a United States senator! You just threatened a United States senator! I can have you thrown in jail for threatening me.”

  “Go for it, Senator!” Isabelle snapped.

  Julia smiled to herself. Her eyes still closed, she sensed Mitch returning to his seat. She knew he was searching for his cell phone he’d laid on the seat earlier. She was now sitting on it. She smiled again.

  “Well, we’ll just see about this. Where’s my cell phone, Julia?”

  “I have no idea, Mitchell. Maybe you left it back at the armory.”

  “I brought it with me. Will you move, please. Maybe it slid across the seat.”

  Julia made a pretense of looking and patting the seat. “No, Mitchell, it isn’t here.”

  “Then let me use yours. C’mon, c’mon. I think we’re being hijacked here. Though who would be stupid enough to do something like that boggles my mind.”

  Julia handed over her evening purse. “There was no room for a cell phone so I left it in my car. Relax, Mitchell, and think about how you can snooker the Monarchs into doing some fund-raising for your campaign. The night’s still young. We’ll be back home by midnight.”

  “What was that crap before about leaving me? You said if I gave you that list you’d stand by me.”

  “I lied.”

  “Oh, no, it doesn’t work that way. I need you, Julia. We’re going to discuss this when we get back home.”

  “Whatever you say, Mitchell.” Like that was really going to happen.

  Fifteen minutes later the limousine slowed to a crawl.

  Up ahead, Kathryn’s eighteen-wheeler approached the security panel outside the Monarch estate. Kathryn glared into the electric eye and speaking box. She pressed a series of numbers on a portable keypad Charles had given her. The gates — some kind of thick wood mixed with heavy iron — swung open. The only thing missing was coiled razor wire. Kathryn pulled ahead and then waited until Isabelle’s limousine cleared the gates before she pressed a second series of numbers. She waited another few minutes until she was certain the gates were closed and locked. She then pressed a third set of numbers that jammed the gates. Safe.

  Nikki was in the passenger seat while Yoko was settled in the small area where Kathryn slept when she was on the road. In the back of the truck, the Monarch family huddled together inside their car in the dark. Alexis was their driver.

  “Do you suppose the Monarchs think all this security makes them important or do they have something inside they don’t want anyone to see? They aren’t the type to hide out. They like to be seen. It is impressive, though. I wonder how many of their subscribers had to die for them to get all of this,” Nikki said.

  “Too many,” Kathryn said curtly. “Nikki, call Charles and tell him we’re inside the gates.”

  The driveway that looked more like a two lane highway was lined with tall cypress trees that formed a canopy as the big truck lumbered around the snake-like road that was a mile long.

  “I can’t wait to see this place in the daylight. I read in one of the reports that the Monarchs pay their ground keepers two hundred thousand bucks a year! Do you believe that? This is way too decadent for me.”

  Kathryn drove the rig up to a concrete apron in front of an eight-car garage. She cut the engine, hopped out of the cab, and ran around to the back to unlock the huge door. She sucked in her breath when the huge metal door slid upward. Headlights glared in the darkness. With Nikki’s help, she lowered the metal treads that would allow Alexis to back the Town Car out.

  “You ready, Nikki?”

  “Yep.” Nikki pulled a nine-millimeter Glock out of the waistband of her slacks and brandished it about. “Open the door!” Kathryn obliged. Ethan Monarch was the first one out as he swung his arms ready to do battle. Kathryn brought up her elbow and smacked him square in the throat. He collapsed to his knees. He looked like he was praying as he gasped and sputtered.

  Elaine Monarch was next. She looked frightened. “What do you want? We’ll give you anything you want. Don’t kill us. Please don’t kill us.”

  Kathryn looked at Nikki and shrugged. She looked back at Elaine. “Clarify what you mean by, ‘anything.’”

  “Whatever you want,” Derek said as he minced his way over to stand next to his wife.

  “OK, we’ll think about it. Let’s go in the house. That goes for you, too, Junior,” Kathryn said, giving the young man a none too gentle kick with her booted foot. “Don’t even think about pressing the panic buttons on the alarm system. They’ve been disabled. I’ll take it as an act of bad faith if you try. Move!”

  “Who are you people?” Derek asked, his voice quivering with fright.

  Nikki waved the Glock. The trio picked up their feet and practically scampered to a set of French doors. Nikki aimed the gun and shot off the lock. She blew imaginary smoke from the barrel of the gun. The trio moaned as they grasped at one another.”

  “Great shooting, girl!” Kathryn said. “Lights, people!”

  Elaine scurried to a row of switches inside the door. Kathryn and Nikki both blinked. It wasn’t a room, it was a cavern. They took a minute to look around in disbelief. Oriental and Aubusson rugs, inlaid marble, French parquet, stained glass skylights and windows, priceless paintings, brocade-covered furniture, spindly tables with spindly legs. Nikki looked upward at the vaulted ceiling that had cherubs and angels floating overhead. “What’s this room?” Nikki asked, directing her question at Elaine.

  Elaine looked like she was trying to decide if there was a right or wrong answer to the question. “It’s just…a room. We don’t use it.”

  “Then why do you have it?” Kathryn asked.

  “To…to hold our treasures. We…we call it the French room. Everything in this room is priceless, one of a kind. Things a collector dreams about,” Elaine responded. She appeared relieved that she’d apparently given the right answer.

  “We sent your servants on a little vacation. The chauffeur and the garden crew, too. There’s no one here but us,” Nikki said as she continued looking around.

  “Where is your home office? According to this,” Kathryn said, pulling a folded sheet of paper out of her shirt pocket, “it’s next to a suite of rooms on the second floor. Who wants to lead the way? And your home theater, where is that?” Derek pointed to the doorway on the left.

  “Where’s the safe?” Nikki asked.

  “We don’t have a safe,” Derek bleated.

  Kathryn waved the paper. “Rule number one. Don’t lie to us. If you do, you will be punished,” she singsonged. “Take us to the office. Lead the way, Junior. Mummy and Daddy, follow Junior.”

  Ju
nior led the way through two more cavernous rooms — a Japanese room and a Chinese room. Kathryn and Nikki rolled their eyes at one another. The rooms were stuffed with treasures. “Does this remind you of a museum?” Nikki whispered.

  “Yeah, one where the curator has really bad taste. Ah, we’re here,” Kathryn said, poking her head into the Monarchs’ private office. She whistled at what she was seeing. Nikki simply gawked.

  “Yo, Derek, what is all this?” Kathryn asked, waving her arms about. “Remember rule number one when you answer.”

  “Tell them, Derek,” Elaine said, clutching her husband’s arm.

  “Don’t tell them anything, Pop. This is a home invasion,” Ethan squawked hoarsely. “You’re going to pay for this,” he squawked again.

  Nikki waved her gun. “I-don’t-think-so! Lookee here, we’re the ones with the gun.” Ethan clamped his lips shut.

  “It’s a duplicate of Monarch’s home office,” Derek said. “Everything is at my fingertips. Tell me why you’re doing this.”

  “Really,” Kathryn drawled. “This is Washington. You gotta keep up with the trends. I’m thinking this is a trendy operation. No more questions. Show my friend how everything ties together while your wife shows me where your home safe is. But before we do that, Junior, strip down and then sit down. Well, what are you waiting for, strip!”

  “Oh, my Godddd!” Elaine dithered. Her eyes sparked momentarily as though she understood she would be next. “Is it really necessary to do this? We’re cooperating with you. Why do you have to humiliate us?”

  “Because we can,” Kathryn said coldly. “Humiliation is the least of your worries.”

  Ethan stared defiantly at Nikki and the gun she was holding.

  “Do you really want me to count to three?” Nikki aimed the gun and mouthed the numbers one through three. When Ethan made no move to undress, she fired at the point of his shoe. Shiny black patent leather and splinters of hard-wood flew upward. And a waterfall of blood mixed with black nylon from his sock. Elaine stumbled. Kathryn didn’t look back.