Ultimate Weapon

by Shannon McKenna

  He had won, he realized. He had hooked her, but the realization gave him no satisfaction. On the contrary. It made him feel like a piece of shit to use her in this way. Turning a knife in old wounds.

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  “I don’t have his location yet, but I have a solid lead,” he hedged. “I will help you follow it. In exchange for your support on my project.”

  She laughed. “Project? What a word for it. What do you mean by a lead? If you are fucking with me, I swear to God I will kill you.”

  “I know where his daughter is,” he said.

  Her soft white throat worked. “Ana,” she whispered.

  “Yes, Ana. She lives in Italy. She is married to an Italian businessman with connections to the Camorra. I have someone following her right now. A client of mine can introduce us, the wife of a Camorra boss. I can exploit the connection. If you like.”

  “If . . . I . . . like,” she echoed, her voice hollow. She stared at him, or through him. She had forgotten that he was there. She was looking back through the years at something he could not see and did not want to. From her haunted eyes, he understood that it was as vivid as if it were happening here and now.

  He understood that. There were moments in his life as well that had burned their indelible afterimage onto every day that followed.

  He steeled himself. “So?” he prodded her. “Do we have a bargain?”

  She made a choked sound, put her hand over her mouth, and lurched out the door. Her rapid, clicking footsteps receded down the hall.

  Val gripped the door frame with his fist. Was that a yes? Nothing was ever obvious with that woman.

  Three steps back, he reminded himself, but it was no use. The emotions he’d learned to step back from had never been like these. They had no place, no right to exist. Inconvenient desire and guilt. And grief.

  Imre. He gathered up the hair ornaments, retrieved the video camera, and headed out a door at the end of the corridor that led out onto the grounds. He cut through the forest on his way to the parking lot. It was freezing cold. He had not bothered to retrieve his coat, but he was still in a near molten state, from the encounter with Tamara Steele.

  He could melt the polar ice caps in this condition.

  He loped through frozen leaves and twigs crunching beneath his slippery dress shoes and slid into the car. Hoping desperately that there would be wireless coverage. He did not want to have to drive away from her and Rachel. He hated to let them out of his sight at all.

  He booted up the laptop. Ah, joy. There was coverage. He established a connection, activated the tiny video camera embedded in the screen. Downloaded the digital video footage.

  Editing it made his heart pound. The footage was too good, the angle paradoxically perfect, showing every detail of Steele’s flushed face, eyes closed, head thrown back, her perfect thighs clamped around his.

  His chest ached. This experience was private, precious. And he had to throw it to that fiend, Novak. A chunk of meat to quiet the beast.

  He edited out her tears, their conversation. A meaningless attempt to protect what he could of her privacy. He encrypted it, attached it. His finger lingered for minutes over the button. He closed his eyes and thought of Imre’s hands.

  He clicked “send.”

  He sat in the dark with his hands clamped over his face for over ten minutes until he could trust himself to link up to the videophone.

  András’s grinning face flickered into view. “Ah, there you are. We were enjoying your show. Lucky pig.”

  “I want to see Imre,” Val said stonily.

  “Wait.” András disappeared. Val waited, staring at the screen, the antique chair’s carved back. Several minutes passed.

  Novak seated himself in front of the computer, grinning. He had licked his purplish lips until they gleamed.

  “Well done, Vajda,” he said. “Forgive me for making you wait, but I was riveted to the screen. Your performance with La Steele was magnificent. I have not been so stirred in years. I shall set up video screens in the room where I conduct her punishment and loop the footage the entire time. Those will be the last images she ever sees, before I gouge out her eyes. Perfect, eh?”

  Val instantly manufactured white noise in his brain to block out the image. It did not work. “I want to speak to Imre,” he repeated dully.

  “Of course, of course. I had him brought down the minute your video appeared in my inbox. He was privileged to watch it with us. Let me give the chair to him. I wish to go back and watch it again.”

  Novak dissolved into a swirl of pixels. Another blurred, moving image as Imre was muscled onto the seat that Novak had just left.

  The murky blur resolved into Imre’s face.

  Val stared, his jaw aching. Imre looked shrunken and grayish and small. His eyes were sunk deep into their cavernous sockets. His cheeks looked caved in. He had aged fifteen years in four days.

  Val’s hands clenched into fists. “Are they treating you well?” He hated himself for saying it. How stupid, how incredibly fucking inane the question was under the circumstances.

  Imre’s eyebrow gave its habitual ironic upward quirk. “They have not beaten or cut me, if that is what you mean.”

  “Are you eating?” Val persisted. “You have to eat.”

  An irritated frown flashed over Imre’s face. “Don’t be a fool, boy.”

  An agonizing, helpless silence followed. Val finally broke it, in desperation. “I will get you out of there,” he said.

  “By betraying that poor woman? Delivering her up to torture and murder? Do not make me party to this, Vajda.”

  Impotent rage swelled up in Val’s throat. “Do . . . not . . . judge . . . me,” he ground out.

  Imre glanced over to his left. Loud, raucous bursts of laughter and lewd comments were audible. “This man is a demon,” he said quietly. “He will drag as many people to hell with him as he possibly can, and he wants you in particular to keep him company. Take care you don’t go with him.”

  “I am doing the best I can!” The words exploded out of him.

  “Indeed.” Finally, it was the dry, ironic tone that Val knew so well. “Was that your best? May God have mercy on us all. That performance was a bit much for an aged widower, boy.”

  Val’s jaw tightened at the disapproval in Imre’s tone. “I cannot believe it,” he said. “Here I am, scrambling like a fucking monkey to keep you from dismemberment and death, and you are lecturing me?”

  Imre’s lips twitched mirthlessly. “Fucking monkey is exactly the term for what I just saw, boy. And yes, I am lecturing you. Old habits die hard. I think you will have to do somewhat better than your best to get out of this predicament. Go with God, Vajda.”

  The screen flickered, and the picture was lost. Val leaned over and knocked his pulsing forehead against the steering wheel.

  Stuck-up, old bastard. Better than his best, his ass. What else could he do? Val was tying his balls in a knot as it was. Fuck Novak, fuck Imre, fuck them all. He wished he could find the nearest cliff to drive off. Let them sort it out however the fuck they wanted.

  But he could not. Not an option. Not for him.

  One more detail. It had been a wild gamble, assuming that Stengl was located near his daughter, assuming that Donatella could contrive an introduction. Assuming that the vain, capricious Donatella would even speak to him after years of neglecting the connection. She had wearied him to death, but now that he needed her, he regretted having been so lazy. He glanced at his watch. Six AM, an indecent hour to call her, in Italy, but he could not bear to wait.

  He would explode.

  He fished his cell phone out of his pocket, and closed his eyes to pluck Donatella’s number out of his long-term memory. It had been five years since the time he’d spent in San Vito, infiltrating that ring of smugglers, and the woman had a complicated, secret, personal life, aside from the rigors of being a Camorra mafiya don’s wife. She might well have changed her cell number. She would scratc
h his eyes out for waking her. But he had never had any difficulty sweetening her.

  His jaw clenched at the thought of having to fuck Donatella again. She was a beautiful woman, but she was selfish and spoiled and loud, and she had a streak of random cruelty that chilled him.

  Imre. He forced out a harsh breath and dialed.

  The phone rang three times. She picked up. “Chi cazzo sei?” she snarled. Who the fuck is this?

  “Donatella. It’s me, Valery.” He caressed her with his voice.

  “Valerio! Amore. I thought you had forgotten me.”

  “As if I could, bellissima,” he said. “Forgive me for neglecting you. My life has been complicated lately.”

  “Hmmph,” she grunted. “I can well imagine. What are you thinking, calling at this hour? Imagine if I had been in bed with Ettore. How would I explain myself?”

  “You would never take a phone with this SIM card into bed with your husband,” he said. “I take it you are in bed with someone else?”

  “Do you care, Valerio?” Her voice was falsely sweet.

  “Not as long as you love me best,” he murmured tenderly.

  “How sweet. Always, carissimo. Although it would not do to neglect my succulent young Giuseppe, here.” She giggled, murmured something inaudible. “Perhaps you can join us some evening. The bed is wide enough for three. And Giuseppe looks . . . mmm, oh, sì . . . most enthusiastic at the idea.”

  “Anything to please you,” he murmured promptly. “But first, I have something to ask you. Do you remember the earrings I gave to you, the ones with the poison beads?”

  “Of course, amore. I treasure them. A fearless gift for a man like you to give to his lover. Did it never occur to you that I might kill you with them in a jealous rage?”

  “It occurred to me, yes, but I do not fear death,” he said. “The designer of those earrings will be in Italy day after tomorrow, and she has an entire line of beautiful pieces containing all manner of concealed weaponry, poisons, drugs, explosives. Of course, I thought of you. Appropriate adornments for a dangerous beauty like yourself.”

  “Ah, Valerio. Tesoro,” she cooed. “Am I so dangerous? Is that why you stayed away for so long?”

  “Only for my peace of mind,” he assured her, his voice smooth. “But to give you a treat like this, I will risk coming out of hiding. Would you like to meet this woman, and see her wares?”

  “Of course. I wish to see them all.”

  “I thought so,” he said silkily. “I have a favor to ask in return.”

  “You know that I can deny you nothing, tesoro. Ask.”

  “Do you know a woman named Ana Santarini?”

  “Ignazio Santarini’s boring wife? What on earth do you want with that stupid cow? You cannot possibly intend to fuck her!”

  “No, not at all,” he assured her. “But I need an introduction to her for this jewelry designer. Could you arrange it for me? Preferably at her own residence.”

  He heard the machinery grinding in Donatella’s mind. “I might be persuaded . . . if I could have the pleasure of your company once again.”

  He sighed silently and rolled his eyes. “Of course, piccola. Could you arrange for the day after tomorrow, when I bring this designer?”

  “So soon? You are crazy! I don’t even know if she is in town!”

  “Invite her to see the jewelry,” he urged. “It would appeal to her.”

  “And have that Santarini slut know all of the secrets of the pieces that I buy? She will tell everyone! What is the point of it?”

  He clenched his fists. “Ti prego,” he said softly. “Please. For me.”

  She made an irritated huffing sound. “I am going to Paris for a week to shop,” she announced. “You will join me there?”

  “I cannot wait,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “The entire week? Prepare yourself. It will be strenuous.”

  “Have no fear,” he assured her. “Send me a text message with the meeting time and location with Santarini, va bene?”

  Donatella paused and made a little clicking sound with her tongue. “Anxious, Valerio?” she purred. “What’s going on? Are you in trouble? Tell Donatella all about it, bambino mio. Maybe I can help.”

  A muscle in his jaw started to twitch. He was in a bad way if even an empty-headed vacca like Donatella was tuning in to his nervous tension. “You already are helping me,” he said softly. “My angel.”

  “February seventh, in Paris,” she reminded. “Mark it on your calendar.” There was a thread of steel in Donatella’s voice.

  “Certainly. A dopo, dolcezza.”

  A tedious back-and-forth of stupid endearments, and finally he managed to close the telephone. He released a long, controlled sigh.

  Three steps back. A week of stud service in a luxury hotel in Paris was not too much to pay for Imre’s life. He would do it if he had to. But a sour, wrong feeling clung to him. It made him want to take a bath.

  Ah, well, what the fuck. He might be dead by February seventh anyway. That was the best he could do to cheer himself up.

  He headed back to the hotel, preparing himself for disaster. Steele had probably fled in the time it had taken to do this infernal errand.

  But when he peered into the ballroom, she was there, wrestling a whimpering, protesting Rachel into her coat, bulging black diaper bag dangling on her other shoulder. She was deep in conversation with Erin McCloud. Now the other woman talked earnestly, looking worried. Tam shook her head in response. The McCloud woman patted Steele’s shoulder. Tam nodded, hoisted the child onto her hip, and headed toward the exit. Her pale face was set in stark lines, her eyes haunted. She looked so different with her hair down, shining and loose, brushing her perfect ass. Everyone stared as she passed.

  She ignored the swathe of speculative murmuring in her wake.

  He backed into the lobby and positioned himself carefully, waiting only until the direction she was going to turn was clear before he melted around the corner and into a stairwell.

  Relief made his knees weak. She was not going out the front, to the parking lot. She was going out the back toward the breezeway that led to the guest houses. She was not running from him. Not tonight.

  He was grateful. He did not have the strength to chase her again. He had no more cards to play, no more tricks. He was all out of ideas. If Steele ran now, his choices were brutally simple.

  Steele or Imre. One of them would have to die, badly.

  He followed at a safe distance, took note of the door she and Rachel disappeared into, and then strolled along the herringbone path.

  A wrought iron bench sat in the shadows of a huge tree roughly opposite her guest room door. He sat down, bone weary. A thousand years old. The cold of the hard metal bench penetrated his clothes, burning into his flesh. He would have to get his coat if he meant to sit here any length of time, he thought, but he did not move.

  He could not take his eyes off that door.

  He didn’t like being compelled by anything, whether the forces originated from inside himself or out. Being manipulated by Novak, Hegel, even Donatella, was bad enough. Being jerked around by the shadow parts of his own fucked-up psyche was intolerable.

  Yet there he sat, rooted to the bench, his ass turning to ice. Guarding her door but not to prevent her from escaping. On the contrary, he wanted to fend off the dangers that lay in wait for her.

  He was cast in the wrong role in this fucking Greek tragedy.

  People passed by without noticing him lurking motionless in the dark. Then a couple came ambling by. The tall, fair-haired man’s face was revealed in a beam of light slicing through the tree boughs. Sean McCloud and his wife, Liv. Sean spotted him and turned off the path. He guided his wife across the frosted grass until they stood before him.

  The man’s piercing eyes made Val squirm. The picture he made revealed too much. Him sitting like an asshole with no coat outside a woman’s closed door. Hands filled with a bristling array of Steele’s deadly hair orname
nts. A whining, hungry dog hoping to be let in.

  Begging for scraps.

  “What are you doing out here in the cold?” McCloud demanded.

  Val’s long exhalation made a vaporous cloud in front of his face. “Standing guard,” he said.

  His wife, a luscious, buxom brunette, gave him a polite but suspicious look. “If there’s any woman on earth who can look out for herself, it’s Tam,” she said.

  Val acknowledged that with a shrug. “Overkill.”

  McCloud grunted. “Well, then. You’ve got your work cut out for you.” He hesitated, looking puzzled. “Good luck,” he added. “I think.”

  Val inclined his head. The couple turned and walked on. McCloud threw a troubled glance back over his shoulder. The low murmur of their voices faded into the darkness.

  He was good at telling lies. The trick was to enter so completely into whatever role he was playing, he practically believed them himself even as he told them. But what he had said to Steele was not a lie. He had blurted out the raw truth to her. More truth than he’d ever told to anyone, even Imre. Braided together with half-truths, yes, but even so.

  I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you. The truth of those words reverberated through him, an explosion from within. It blasted his whole relationship to the world out of alignment. A dangerous secret.

  Dangerous secrets are beautiful, don’t you agree? He had taken Steele’s words in Shibumi as meaningless banter, but now, they rang in his head, as a fundamental truth. Imre had always been his dangerous secret. A treasure that he had to hide just so it could survive.

  Most people had to hide their ugliness, their shame. With him, the situation was inverted. He had to keep the beautiful things secret.

  Or else risk finding them dead on the bathroom floor.

  Ironic. A man like him compelled by an irrational longing to protect Steele, instead of exploiting her. A dangerous secret, indeed. Like her jewel-studded pendant earring bombs. Her taser necklace. It was an urge he would have to keep secret even from her.