Hunter: Perfect Revenge (Perfectly Book 3)

by Alice May Ball

  “If it costs me twenty, thirty thousand dollars, to get a girl here, believe me, she’s going to make it back for me in a couple of months at the most. Usually half that time.”

  “So why are you talking to me?”

  “Good question, American.” His eyes shone as they narrowed. “My instinct should be to hand the two of you over.”

  “Or neutralize us.”

  We both took a drink. I didn’t think Vassily was playing me, but he was as tough to read as any of the Russians, I’d come across. Still, I couldn’t see what reason he would have to tell me anything that would hurt his involvement with the ‘boilerhouse project,’ and I couldn’t think of a thing I could do to apply pressure or anything I had that could give me leverage, so I waited him out.

  “Any association like the boilerhouse,” he said slowly, “Different people with different interests. The frictions that already exist in the outside world, from time to time, perhaps they’re bound to follow people around.”

  “The hit on Carmine?”

  “It doesn’t sit well with me, American.”

  “And the Bonaventura twins?”

  His chin lowered.

  “The purpose of the group is to help people function. Not as a tool to use against each other. Collaborative. Not competitive.”

  The track he was taking, I could see where he was headed. Or at least, I could sense the shape of it. He left a long pause. A Russian mobster in the slammer did that. Spoke softly, like he was being confidential with you. Then he’d stop, say something to make you think that it’s going somewhere, but then it just stops. Leaves you swinging. Makes you feel like you ought to fill the space.

  Again I wished that Vesper was in here, not outside. She would be better at this game than I was. Subtle interrogation wasn’t exactly my strong suit. Generally, I’d ask a guy a question. If I didn’t get what I needed, hit him. Ask again. Didn’t usually take too many rinse and repeats.

  But something about just being with Vesper had made me understand. Vassily wanted to tell me something, and I had to wait. Give him space to do it. Maybe it was something that he shouldn’t be telling me. Or perhaps it was something untrue and he was feeling me out, looking to see how to present his little package. It could be that he was baiting a trap.

  Watching him, my instincts said that any or all of those things could be true. What I had learned from Vesper, just from her little party tricks, it served me well in the joint and especially in dealing with the Russians. Of course it’s never good to generalize, but they were some cold and ruthless bastards.

  It wasn’t ever wise to second guess them and get it wrong. I waited some more.

  “Somebody in the group is trying to pick off the heads of the Italian families.”

  I left it a moment before I responded. “Only them?”

  Vassily thought a moment. “No. You made me remember something. The first time my nose started to itch, was an accountant at a big city law firm. He thought he was about to be investigated. We all heard about it and I think everybody offered him somewhere to stay or a quiet route out.”

  I nursed my bourbon and watched him. He said, “Next thing, he turned up dead. Suicide, the paper said.”

  “You don’t believe it.”

  “I spoke to the man that afternoon. I said to him that I had an easy escape ready for him. He was going to take it, he said, and he didn’t sound like he was worried at all. By nine o’clock that night he’d painted his brains on a hotel wall.”

  As I watched Vassily I wondered whether to ask which law firm. From a couple of floors below, there was a dull thud and the floor shook. Instinctively I grabbed my gun and sprang to the door. Pulling it open I reached for Vesper. Her long barreled weapon was out already. The goon who had been waiting with her was headed down the corridor that led back into the club.

  Gunshots and two bigger bangs came from that direction.

  Vassily called me from the office.

  “Go out this way.” He pointed to the door behind his desk. “There’s a fast elevator, you’ll be out at the back of the building.”

  The noise grew louder, nearer as I put a hand on his shoulder. “I thought you said that people come here to relax.”

  “Probably someone didn’t like how Orso spoke to him at the door. Or his Martini wasn’t the right temperature.” He twinkled. I could relate to a man who relished a fight. He patted my shoulder back. Then he held on. “You know Noah Braxton, tovarich?”

  I thought a moment. Where did I know that name from?

  “Go on,” he said. “I have guests to attend to.”

  It sounded like his guests were starting a war. His face was alight with relish.

  ORSE INSISTED I go down the bright metal staircase ahead of him. There was smoke and noise behind us, and I didn’t stop to ask questions. The building shook from what sounded a lot like explosions. And ahead was a cool, echoing stairwell with a breathtaking view through a sheer glass wall.

  Two flights down, Armand waited by an elevator. He showed us in like we were royalty and he was the secret service. If he was angry or upset about how Horse had dealt with him in Vassily’s office, he didn’t show any trace of it now.

  The express car took us down to ground level in no time. On the way down, he said, “I’m sorry for that caveman stunt. I needed to get his attention and…”

  I slapped his face. Hard.

  “I get it. Don’t think this is over, mountain man.”

  We padded around the block to where the Jeep was parked. Even down here, we heard muffled thumps. Flashes in the upper floors reflected in the glass of the building across the street.

  As we got in the car, he said, “I think you should be somewhere safe.”

  I liked him saying that. “My apartment,” I said, buckling in, “I always feel safe there.”

  Horse looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. I felt we’d established a balance of power. For now at least.

  The night-time streets were wet. I opened the window and stuck my nose out. Behind the sweet caramel scent of New York, gasoline and exhaust was all that I could smell. Closing the window, I was aware of the scent of him again.

  It reminded me of the time, that night, the night before he went to jail. The night before I arrested him.

  Between the arrest and those hours in my apartment, there was a whole world of things I didn’t want to think about. Not here, not now, at any rate.

  He cleared his throat and I could feel the way he looked at me, sideways while he drove, and I guessed that he was thinking about some of those same things. Things that neither of us should have been thinking about. Too distracting for one thing, and probably too difficult to resolve.

  “There’s something,” he said, quietly.

  “I know there is.” I lifted a hand. “There are a few somethings.”

  His voice was a burr. “There’s never going to be a good time.”

  I ached for him then, literally. It gave me a cramp to think that we could be so perfectly in synch and at the same time so hopelessly opposed.

  “There isn’t going to be a good time,” I said, “but there is going to be a bottle of whiskey up in my apartment. We can talk and,” I thought about what the ‘and’ might be. Fight? Kill each other? Fall into bed and fuck? Again. Well, not again, strictly speaking, since we never quite made it into the bed before.

  We had made it just about everywhere else that night. I tried to chase the memories away, but even after the fire fight at Carmine Montreal’s house, the meeting with the charming Russian mobster and our hasty getaway, the memories from that night five years before were stronger.

  Memories of the taste of his breath. The sounds of his body and the scrape of his skin on mine. The lithe strength of his fast tongue. The length of his thick, hard sighs. And the awesome, terrible size of him.

  All of that was more present for me now that the reflections of the red and white lights of the 42nd Street traffic and the chill from a draft in th
e front of the car.

  My thighs shook.

  “And… ?” His grin made me tremble. My mouth tightened. I wanted to reach across and slap him, but I knew I couldn’t trust my hand if I let it get that near to him. It would find something to grip and hold. Pull him towards me And besides, he was driving.

  He parked up across the street from my building we got out and he looked over the top of the car. “Talk and… ?”

  His grin was getting to be unbearable. The thought of riding up the six floors to my apartment with him, pressed into the tiny elevator, my stomach flipped as we crossed the street. Mr Kwan, the owner of the store on the ground floor saw me coming to the doorway. He was serving a customer, but his face turned up to me and I thought there was an anxious look in his eye. His hand raised and I waved and gave him a quick smile as I opened the door and showed Horse in.

  The elevator was slow at the best of times. Tonight it felt like it was going at about half speed. Inside, we were so close that I felt the heat of Horse’s hard stomach through my shirt. He looked down at me with his insolent, sardonic grin in place. I cleared my throat to ask him about what he’d got from Vassily. My pulse thumped remembering how he had dragged me out of the room.

  Then, as the car was almost at my floor we both started to talk at once. We laughed a little and the mood lightened. I hauled the elevator door open and got out my keys. He was smiling as I opened the door. As soon as I turned the key, my face froze. He caught it immediately, too.

  As I opened the door no tiny piece of paper dropped from the second lock. He saw my reaction and I could tell that he understood the meaning. Both of us drew our weapons as we stepped inside. We chattered, talked about nothing, keeping our voices as normal and light as we could. Trying not to sound too sing-song, we moved around the apartment.

  I was leading toward the kitchen area but he stepped ahead of me. Even then I wanted to swat him for it. The kitchen was clear. We checked the pantry cupboard. He aimed inside while I pulled the door.

  We did the same for the bathroom, and he slipped inside first, me behind him, checking behind the door, inside the shower. The way we moved, like a single being, four legs and arms, one purpose, it reminded me of dancing with him. And of what had happened between us after.

  I went first into my bedroom. As we entered, he kept a lookout behind us. Then we stood either side of the closet. He held the door handle and I stood ready. He counted silently, one, two, and I jammed my gun in as he pulled open the door. Rapidly moving the gun around inside I made sure there was no one there.

  To look under the bed, we both stood on opposite sides and made straight squats, making sure our voices didn’t change tone. I looked at him and he looked back at me across the dark, empty space.

  That only left the closet in the living room.

  Still chatting, we made our way back to the kitchen. I moved on into the living room, both of us kept our guns trained on the closet door. Horse stopped at the edge of the kitchen, I crossed the room backwards, talking about some movie with my gun still trained on the cupboard. I quickly cued a playlist up on my phone and dropped it into the cradle by the stereo. There was a tinny rattle, and then Kelis started, ‘My Milkshake…’ what the hell.

  Horse called from the kitchen, “Shall I fix you a coffee?”

  “No,” I called back. “I’m too tired. Get us a couple of beers and come over here.”

  “Sure thing.”

  He stayed quiet and waited by the closet. Kelis said she’d teach us, but she’d have to charge.

  The closet door slammed open. It was the huge man from Carmine’s house. With a massive gun in each hand. His face was covered with a hard, black visor. He had on a new down jacket over hefty body armor. When he came out he spun around.

  His reactions were shocking. Even surprised to see two of us, he didn’t fire until he had a target. It was like watching something awful, a landslide or a tsunami, in slow motion. He moved like thick fluid, like lava. His arms crossed and Horse and I both leaped aside as he fired. I felt a hot blast like a rail pass my thigh.

  Horse turned and rolled to the floor, spun over in front of the man and held his gun in both hands. He fired three shots. Two tore strips into the armor, one thudded right into the Kevlar.

  I was backed against the wall with nowhere left to go. The man dashed between us, still recovering his aim with both hands. He was like a machine. He paused, took his time to aim his guns, the right one at me, and the left at Horse.

  Horse and I both opened fire at once. I let off four shots at his arm. The Kevlar dented as they hit. I kept as still as I dared to try for two or more in the exact same spot. Horse did the same thing, aiming for his chest.

  The black figure shook, then he swelled and pitched forward. He span and went straight through my back window like a cannonball.

  I heard the shower of glass as he clattered onto the metal fire escape outside. That had to hurt. The landing was two stories down. Still, by the time I got to the window he was dropping over the rail to the next landing below.

  There was no way we would have a chance of catching him unless we went the same way. I looked at Horse. His grin was wide now as he shook his head. I smiled as I shook my head too. I had no wish to plunge out of the window into the night air either.

  Horse touched my arm and I jumped at the rush of relief. He didn’t even ask, You OK? I felt it. And he smiled when I nodded back.

  His chin tilted up. “Still think this where you ought to stay?”

  I hated having to run from my own apartment. Scuttling and hiding really wasn’t my style. That’s what the bad guys did. Also, I was infuriated at having to grab a toothbrush and a tiny bag of essentials, knowing that I would have to live out of it for, who knew? A few days ay least.

  Worst of all, I was furious that he had been right.

  In the car I said, “Almost nobody knows where I live. Even in the Bureau. I came from out of town, and I haven’t publicized my address. How could anyone know?” It was just irritation and I knew that. How they had known my address was irrelevant. Someone knew. And at the same time it was the key. How someone knew was a smaller part of the much more important question. Who.

  He could have teased me some more over that, and I liked that he didn’t. It almost felt like we could have been on the same side. A team. Damnit. He and I would have been some team. Only, on what side?

  He nodded towards me, “Humor me. Your phone. Turn it off and pull out the SIM card.”

  “I don’t give my number out, Horse. Nobody knows it outside of the Bureau.”

  “Like I said,” that damned grin, “Humor me. Okay?”

  I did as he asked. I turned off the phone, pulled the chip out and put it in my wallet.

  He said, “I’ve got someone to call, then I’ll have to wait for a call back. Until then I’ll just keep us moving around. No pattern, no destination.” He unrolled a pair of earbuds and took out his phone. “I hope I can get a call back from this guy. After that, I’ll disconnect mine, too.”

  As we drove downtown, he made a call. “Mitch. Hey.” He listened. “Yes, you bastard, it’s me. I’m coming for my two hundred bucks.” Then he chuckled. “No. No, not really. Listen, do you remember a guy from the Force called Noah Braxton?” He stopped us at a red light. Both of us were instinctively alert while the car was still. Checking mirrors, looking side to side.

  “Yeah,” he said, “Didn’t he head up that insurgent team? The Skull and Bones crew.” He pulled away from the light and made an unexpected left, cutting across traffic. I watched the mirror.