The Equalizer

by Michael Sloan

  “Too bad about Danil Gershon,” Kostmayer said. “Can’t have been an accident. He was working undercover for The Company. I’d say he was murdered.”

  McCall nodded curtly.

  Kostmayer felt the chill and changed the subject.

  “You know I can put our hooker…” Kostmayer began.

  “Call her Margaret,” McCall said. “That’s her name.”

  “Okay, Margaret. I can put her onto a Greyhound bus without you holding my hand.”

  “I want to say good-bye to her.”

  “That’s important to you?”

  “It’s important to her.”

  Outside Bentleys McCall and Kostmayer got into the cab. Kostmayer told the cabbie to take them to the Liberty Belle Hotel. The cab pulled away from the curb.

  In his Lexus parked down the street, Bakar Daudov pulled out after the yellow cab. Behind him, two black Lincoln town cars also eased out into the light traffic.

  CHAPTER 25

  There was no one in the lobby when McCall and Kostmayer entered the Liberty Belle Hotel. Sam Kinney was behind the reception counter hunched over a newspaper open to the crossword. He didn’t even glance up as they walked up.

  “Seventeen down. Ten letters. Rebels playing a gig? Might be illegal! Starts with a C.”

  “Contraband,” McCall said.

  Sam nodded vigorously and wrote in the word.

  Kostmayer looked down at the newspaper. “London Sunday Telegraph?”

  “I finish the New York Times crossword every morning by nine.”

  Kostmayer looked around the big lobby.

  “You ever get any guests checking into this mausoleum?”

  “You just missed two couples and a tractor salesman from Tennessee. Chloe’s on her break. You want to know the last time I watered the plants?”

  “You remember Mickey Kostmayer?” McCall asked him, a little ironic.

  “Oh, sure. Smart mouth, but a good shot. Joined The Company just about the time I got booted out.”

  “You retired, Sam.”

  “Perspective is a wonderful thing, McCall,” Sam said dryly. He looked at Kostmayer. “You came to the hotel this afternoon carrying a shopping bag from Bloomies. Went up to see the young lady in six-oh-two. Unless whatever you bought from the Lilly Pulitzer boutique department was for you?”

  “The lobby was deserted then, too,” Kostmayer said. “I didn’t see you when I walked through.”

  “Doesn’t mean I didn’t see you.”

  McCall took out his wallet and handed Sam a credit card. “I’ll settle up for Margaret. She’s leaving tonight.”

  Sam turned the credit card over in his hand. “Robert Maclain. Bad picture, which is good. 1494 West Thirtieth Street, apartment two B. That’d put you in the middle of the Hudson River.” He handed the card back. “There’s no charge.”

  McCall nodded and headed for the elevator with Kostmayer. Sam went back to his crossword.

  “So, if you’re going to stay in New York, McCall, come by sometime,” he said casually. “You like exotic coffee, I remember. I got a Sumatra blend to die for. We can sit in this mausoleum and reminisce about the old days. When I was young and you had ideals.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “I won’t hold my breath.”

  “He must be a lot of fun at parties,” Kostmayer murmured.

  The elevator was on the ground floor. McCall opened the door, moved into it with Kostmayer, punched the sixth-floor button and the elevator ascended.

  “You really going to come back here and see old Sam?” Kostmayer asked.

  “I might.”

  “You’re full of surprises these days, McCall.”

  Outside, the Lexus pulled over to a loading bay spot two blocks from the Liberty Belle Hotel. Bakar Daudov got out and waited while the two Lincoln town cars found spaces on the next block.

  It was gloomy in the hotel corridor when McCall and Kostmayer stepped out of the elevator on the sixth floor. There were only three lights lit in the recesses in the ceiling, and they were little better than night-lights. There was a door marked STAIRS twenty yards beyond the elevator to the left. The door to room 602 was across the corridor and to the right. McCall knocked on it. There was no immediate response. He took the second key he had got to the room from Sam Kinney and opened the door. He wasn’t expecting trouble. It would be a miracle if any of J.T.’s brothers had been able to trace Margaret to this hotel on the Upper West Side. But McCall’s hand went instinctively to his coat pocket.

  It was empty.

  Kostmayer shook his head. “Never leave home without a gun.”

  “I gave my Sig Sauer to Danil Gershon in the tunnels,” McCall told him. “When we split up.”

  “You were with Gershon? What tunnels?”

  “Doesn’t matter now.”

  The hotel room was in darkness. McCall could barely see Margaret’s figure sitting on the made-up bed. She was completely still, staring into whatever memories were churning in her head. She didn’t even acknowledge their presence. She was dressed in a soft blue blouse that Kostmayer had bought for her at Bloomingdales, new jeans, new sandals on her feet. Her purse was beside her. She had her hands clasped in her lap. Kostmayer walked to the window and pulled the drapes. The bright haze from hundreds of neon lights, skyscraper glass, and streetlamps shrouded inside. Still Margaret didn’t move. Didn’t look at either of them.

  “I can’t go,” she said softly.

  McCall glanced at Kostmayer. “Give us a minute, Mickey?”

  “I’ll sweep the back of the hotel,” Kostmayer said, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  McCall walked over to the bed and sat beside Margaret. She had been crying; her eyes were red-rimmed. But there were no tears now. Her hair was clean and brushed and fell down her back. She smelled of lavender soap and a shampoo with organic extracts of honey and sage. With the moonlight floating through the window, catching her in its radiance, she looked beautiful, McCall thought. This was not Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

  This was Margaret.

  He realized he didn’t even know her last name.

  He reached over and took one of her hands in his. It was soft, but felt cold. He warmed it up.

  “It’s going to be all right,” McCall said.

  She shook her head, but there was no vehemence in it. It was as if all of the passion and fire had gone out of her. Like she was a shell sitting there. If McCall opened the window—and these old windows in the Liberty Belle Hotel did open—a strong gust of wind would just splinter her figure into small rapier pieces.

  “Your friend taped up my ribs this afternoon. He was very gentle.”

  “It’ll have to do until you get home and see a doctor. Did you call your folks?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Do you want me to call them?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then surprise them. Get off that Greyhound bus, take a cab to your house, walk right in. The trip will be several hours. You’ll be there by breakfast time.”

  “They know,” she said. “They know what I am. My mother knows I’ve been using.”

  “You stopped.”

  “Maybe I escaped from this creepy place, found a drug dealer on the street, and shot up again. You gave me enough money to do that.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I wanted to.” She turned suddenly and hugged him. “You’re all I’ve got,” she whispered.

  “You’ve got your family.”

  “They won’t want me back. My mother will look at me and see a prostitute.”

  “No, she won’t,” McCall said. “She’ll see her daughter.”

  Silence followed that. Margaret broke the embrace, looking into his face. The tears came to her eyes and fled again.

  “She gave up that relationship a long time ago.”

  “You never give that up. She’ll be relieved you’re home. She may be angry with you, or angry with herself for failing you.”r />
  “She didn’t fail me.”

  “She might not look at it that way. You’ll have to help her. You can’t do that if you stay in New York. And you want to go home.”

  “You know that, do you?” she asked, the familiar edge back in her voice.

  “This is your last chance, Margaret. But I can’t force you to take it.”

  “I’ll never see you again, will I?”

  “You have my phone number. If you’re in trouble, you can call me.”

  “But only if I’m in trouble, right? Not just to let you know how I’m doing. No progress reports. I get on that Greyhound bus, I’m a nuisance out of your life forever.”

  There was silence, then McCall smiled in the darkness.

  “That’s true. But you can let me know what it’s like working at Target in the local mall.”

  “Fuck you,” she said, and then she laughed.

  He had not let go of her hand. Now she let go.

  “Your pal brought me this blouse, these jeans, some underwear—how did he know my bra size, by the way?”

  “I made a lucky guess.”

  “Panties and shoes. He took your overcoat for you. I got your Mets cap in my bag.”

  “Keep it as a souvenir,”

  “These are all the clothes I’ve got.”

  “Buy new ones when you get to Golden Valley.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “Mickey has got some for you. In an envelope. He’ll give it to you right before you get on the bus.”

  She nodded. Stood up. McCall moved back to the window and closed the drapes.

  If he’d looked straight down, which he didn’t, he would have seen Daudov and five men walk up to the front of the Liberty Belle Hotel.

  * * *

  Sam Kinney looked up as the men entered the lobby and his instincts kicked in immediately. Five of them, all in their twenties, all in black, wearing dark sunglasses, even though it was night. They were led by an older man, impeccably dressed in a dark blue pinstriped suit. Handsome face. Dark, hooded eyes.

  Killers, Sam thought.

  And then he thought: McCall.

  Sam pushed the crossword away, folded the newspaper, and smiled as he leaned down and opened a cabinet below the counter.

  “Be right with you, gents.”

  Inside the cabinet was a small safe. Sam knelt down, a spasm of arthritis searing through his leg. Technically he had arthritis, but it had affected the sciatic nerve, particularly in his left leg, so he thought of it as sciatica. The limp hadn’t been put on, but he hadn’t wanted to tell McCall that. He tapped the safe combination on the black buttons and opened it. On a top shelf was a Smith & Wesson black Sigma 9 mm pistol. Beside it were six clips of ammo, wrapped in tissue paper. He’d never had to load the gun in the eight years he’d been managing the hotel. He started to unwrap one of the clips with his left hand as he casually straightened.

  Daudov walked up to the reception counter. The other men, including Kuzbec, fanned out behind him across the lobby.

  “What can I do for ya?” Sam asked amicably.

  “Two men came into your hotel ten minutes ago,” Daudov said. “Which room did they go up to?”

  Sam didn’t glance down. His fingers, trembling a little, tore away the tissue paper from one of the clips of ammo.

  “Who wants to know?”

  Sam started to cough, leaning down. He pushed the ammo clip into the Sigma 9 mm, the cough covering the sound. Then he straightened again.

  “Sorry. Can’t get rid of this bronchitis. Been hanging on for a month now. I think it’s folks not washing their hands often enough. They give me stuff, want to shake my hand, sneeze right in my face.”

  “We’re Federal agents,” Daudov said. “The two men are fugitives. Which room?”

  Sam gripped the Sigma 9 mm below the desk in his left hand, ready to transfer it to his right. His tone was still pleasant and a little awed.

  “Ya don’t say? What did they do?”

  “Which room?” Daudov said again.

  “I can’t give up room numbers. I have to protect my guests. Some of them live here full time, ya know. I need to see some ID.”

  Daudov made the smallest of gestures with his head and one of the enforcers moved to come around the reception counter. He pulled an M92 semiautomatic pistol from his pocket.

  Sam shot him dead.

  It was a good shot, considering he’d had to do it left-handed and at a low angle.

  Sam flipped switches on a panel in front of him and the lights in the lobby went out. The enforcers scattered, drawing their weapons. When Sam looked straight ahead, Daudov’s figure was gone. Sam fired into the sudden darkness at the shadowy figures. Bullets ricocheted off the marble pillars and thumped into the heavy furniture. The enforcers took cover, firing back, splintering the wooden reception counter and the cubby holes behind it. Sam aimed again, adrenaline pumping through his veins. McCall had put him back in the game in the blink of an eye.

  It felt good.

  He never saw Daudov coming.

  The man vaulted over the reception counter, drawing a Taurus 740 G2 Slim pistol from beneath his coat. Sam had never even noticed the bulge. Daudov fired. The bullet tore into Sam’s left shoulder. Blood spurted and excruciating pain burned through his body. A wave of nausea followed. He hadn’t even made the full turn toward Daudov when the Chechen knocked the Smith & Wesson 9 mm from Sam’s shaking hand. Daudov slammed the old Company agent against the cubicles of messages. His face was close to Sam’s. He brought the Taurus up against Sam’s right eye.

  Then he stabbed the barrel into his eye.

  Sam fought off more nausea, trying to rise above the pain and failing, swimming in the agony. He was held in a viselike grip. Daudov’s breath stank of stale cigarettes and vodka. His voice was calm and reasonable.

  “This is what is going to happen. You will tell us which room they went up to. If you refuse, I will start on the first floor, at the first hotel room. Whoever opens the door, if it is not one of the two men I seek, if it is a man or a woman, young or old, or a child, I will kill them. I will kill everyone in the room. I will then move on to the next room. I will kill every human being in every room on every floor until I find these fugitives.”

  The pain in Sam’s right eye was so intense he almost passed out. Daudov brought the gun barrel out of the old man’s eye. Sam’s breath came out in a series of wheezing gasps. He believed him. Instinctively he knew this man was capable of such barbarism. He could see it in his eyes. Sam thought of his hotel people, old Mrs. Gilmore with her white poodle; the beautiful Clara and Brittney, roommates in 108 on the first floor, going to NYU; the Colson family, six of them with two young children on the fourth floor; the elderly Blumsacks who still held hands and sat having tea together in the lobby as if it was their first date.

  McCall will know they’re coming, Sam thought.

  “Room six-oh-two,” he whispered.

  Daudov slammed the Taurus against the side of Sam’s head. He slumped down to the floor behind the reception counter, his breath a dry rattle in his throat.

  Daudov aimed the Taurus at Sam’s head, then decided against taking the kill shot. Let the old man bleed out in his own time. Daudov came around the counter, motioning one of the enforcers to come with him to the elevator. The others would secure the lobby and dispose of their dead comrade.

  * * *

  Kostmayer walked out of the back of the Liberty Belle Hotel, not expecting to find any trouble. He wanted to give McCall and Margaret their moment of good-bye. A bullet smashed into one of the antique carriage lamps on either side of the back door. Glass splintered hot across Kostmayer’s face. He fell back into the doorway, pulling a Beretta Px4 Storm 9 mm from his coat pocket, firing at the two men who were running from a parked Lincoln town car. They fired back.

  * * *

  Behind his reception counter, Sam Kinney thought he heard faint gunfire. His world had narrowed down to the space just a few
feet in front of him. Around it was darkness, pulsing with the pain that throbbed through his body. His limbs were leaden. He couldn’t open his right eye. He could only see with his left eye. Blood had run hot down the right side of his face and was congealing. He ignored it. He fought to stay conscious, because he knew what he had to do.

  He reached out a shaking hand. Too far away. He would have to move. It took every ounce of strength he had left. He pressed back with his right hand on the floor and scooted his butt forward four inches. The pain of moving even that little distance shuddered through him.

  He saw the switch on the panel and fixed his attention onto it. Just another couple of inches. He willed himself to move forward again. Put the weight onto his right hand, on the floor. Edged two inches closer. None of the assassins could see him behind the reception counter. They weren’t interested in him now. He’d been left for dead.

  He wouldn’t remain conscious for much longer.

  He had to warn McCall.

  He reached out again. This time his fingers brushed the light above the red button. He leaned forward.

  His fingers found the button.

  He pressed it and fell back, gasping.

  The fire alarm bell began to clang loudly.

  CHAPTER 26

  McCall had just closed the door to room 602 when the alarm started to shrill. He knew there were frequent fire alarms that went off in hotels all the time. Usually false alarms. But this one was deliberate. He knew instinctively it was a message from Sam. He and Kostmayer walked into the Liberty Belle Hotel and five minutes later there was a fire? It was a warning. He saw the elevator rising from the lobby. On the lighted panel above the door it had gone from the big oval four to the oval five. It would be at the sixth floor in seconds.

  McCall grabbed Margaret’s hand, dragging her to the door marked STAIRS along the corridor from the elevator.

  “What’s going on?” she said. “Is there a fire?”

  “I don’t know. Go up to the next floor!”

  McCall threw open the door.

  Margaret looked disoriented, but started to climb the concrete stairs. McCall stood in the open stairwell doorway. There was a soft ping as the elevator arrived at the sixth floor. The elevator door slid open. McCall waited long enough to see Bakar Daudov and a young Chechen enforcer step out into the gloom of the corridor and head to the door of 602. Daudov had a Taurus 740 pistol in his hand. He blew open the door to the hotel room.