The Chase

by Holly Hart

  “Right.” I feel like a kid in the principal’s office instead of a grown woman in an ice cream shop.

  “And now you’re telling me we have to wait a while for our start-up capital to come in.”

  “Yeah.”

  She manages to glare at me for a full five seconds before she bursts out laughing.

  “I know,” I groan. “It sounds ridiculous. But it’s just business. We’re still on track, I promise.”

  Tricia wraps a sugar-sticky arm around my neck and hugs me tight.

  “I’ll tell you what, honey,” she sighs. “Life is never boring when you’re around. I know you’re good for it, Cassie. Besides, you were always the one with the deadline, not me.”

  She’s got me there. I guess I just assumed she’d be as disappointed as I am in not being able to move ahead on schedule. I should have known better. I’ve always been a Type A. Doesn’t mean everyone else is.

  “Now if only Miranda Winthrop can be as forgiving,” I say.

  Of course, Miranda definitely is.

  “Look, hon, I get that you want to make it on your own, and I’m totally with you on that,” says Tricia. “And I’m sure Miranda won’t have any problem extending the deadline. But if she doesn’t, you know you can just drop Carson’s name, right?”

  I do know she’s right, but just the thought of it makes me stiffen. I didn’t go through everything I’ve been through to just roll over and ask Carson to save me. I know he’d do it in a heartbeat, but that’s not how I do things. For good or bad, that’s not how my father raised me.

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” I say, leaning in to give her a peck on the cheek. “And I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Chin up,” she says as I head for the door. “Your life is still pretty fucking good, you know.”

  I realize she’s right as I leave the air-conditioned safety of Patty’s and step into the midday Midtown oven. It’s just hot enough that I decide to cab it to Tate Capital instead of walking.

  I head for the taxi stand about a half a block up the street when someone pulls alongside me. I glance out of the corner of my eye to see a familiar face: it’s the Texan gentleman who bought me the white roses in Hell’s Kitchen.

  He stops to face me, and his jowls lift in an easy grin. He’s dressed in a manner more suited to his home state today: short-sleeved cowboy shirt, jeans and boots.

  “Looky who it is!” he hoots. “I told you I’d see you later!”

  “Well, hi!” I smile back. “Now, what are the odds that we’d run into each other again?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “But I bet you do. I’m sure you’re as smart as you are pretty.”

  Sweet old guy. I notice he’s not wearing his ball cap today; the pink skin on his scalp is gleaming in the sun.

  “You should probably wear a hat on a day like this,” I scold. “At least get some sixty SPF on there.”

  It’s then that I notice the tan line. His face is brown, but the pink begins right at what would be his hairline if he had hair. That’s odd.

  “Did you shave your head when you came to New York?” I ask.

  Why would he do that?

  His grin widens and he slaps his knee. “I knew you were smart!”

  Something weird is going on here. My instincts are starting to crawl around in in my belly like a little spider.

  “Have you and I met before?” I ask.

  “Not exactly,” he says, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. He produces a leather wallet and pulls a small square of paper from it. He shows it to me.

  “Maybe you’ve seen my photo somewhere before.”

  It’s a folded piece of glossy magazine paper. On it is a mugshot of a portly man with flowing silver hair and jowls that hang like pouches from his cheekbones.

  It’s him. But it’s also someone else.

  I look up to see him smiling at me, black humor gleaming in his beady eyes.

  Eyes that were hidden behind sunglasses that day in Hell’s Kitchen.

  Oh, my God.

  “You’re Randall Buckner,” I breathe.

  No. 17 on Forbes’ list of richest people in America.

  “Right the first time,” he says.

  His hand reaches into the pocket of his jeans. When it emerges, it’s holding something familiar. Something I saw five nights ago in Carson’s hand.

  A brass skeleton key.

  I look up to see three burly men closing in on me.

  “Pleased to officially meet you, Cassandra,” says Buckner. “I hope you’re ready for our date.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  51. CARSON

  “I’m glad you saved me the trouble of having to find you,” I say, trying to keep my temper in check.

  Another man might find it emasculating, but not me. I don’t care that Cassie is way more hardcore than I am. In fact, I kind of wish she was right here by my side.

  Red Dress stands there with her hands folded in front of her. She’s calm and totally dry, despite the stifling heat and humidity of the afternoon. I’m still trying to slow my breathing so I can sound calmer. I hate being caught off guard.

  “And you’re right. We do have things to talk about. First and foremost, Ca – the quarry’s money.”

  She smiles.

  “The quarry forfeited the prize when you broke the rules.”

  Broke the rules? What kind of bullshit is this?

  I take a deep breath before my agitation has a chance to show on my face. Keep it under control, Carson. This isn’t the time or place.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I say evenly. “I was under the impression that I won the competition fair and square on the eleventh day.”

  Her smile is maddening, like a game show hostess who’s expressing just how darn sorry she is that you didn’t win the new washing machine.

  “Some information came to light early on that disqualified you as a contestant,” she says.

  “And what might that information be?”

  “You and the quarry had a pre-existing relationship. You became reacquainted on the first day and continued to meet daily, yet you never ended the competition.”

  Oh, shit.

  Steady, Carson. Keep it off your face.

  “We knew each other years ago,” I say. “It was sheer coincidence that we were both involved in this.”

  “My associates find that hard to believe. At first they were willing to accept that you were merely conspiring together to win the competition. But that made no sense – neither of you stood to gain from it.

  “That was when I suggested you were, in fact, investigating them.”

  This time I can’t keep my anger in check.

  “That’s a goddamn lie,” I growl. “What possible reason could we have had to do that?”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t know the answer to that just yet. But we’ll discover it soon enough.”

  I sigh and run a hand down my sweaty face. This is going nowhere. I know Cassie wants to give these people what they have coming to them, but the longer this goes on, the fewer options I see.

  “Look,” I say. “In the interests of putting this behind us, I’m willing to offer your associates compensation for any perceived damages.”

  That game show hostess smile again.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s too late for that option.”

  My stomach sinks. I don’t like the sound of that.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Unfortunately, the competition was tainted when you prematurely stole the prize. The quarry is no longer… intact. Therefore, my associates were forced to return the other contestants’ entry fees.

  Her expression turns serious, and suddenly I’m terrified. If that smarmy smile is gone, I don’t want to hear what she has to say next.

  “Only one contestant was willing to forego reimbursement,” she says. “In return, he was… allowed to finish the competition, even though the prize was tainted.”


  Jesus Christ. Cassie.

  “The contestant is known for his straightforward negotiation style. My associates hope the experience will make the quarry more… amenable to their questions regarding any possible investigation of their activities.”

  My heart is pounding in my chest. I can hear my blood coursing through my inner ear.

  “This ends now,” I say, leveling a finger between her eyes. “No more fucking around, no more euphemisms, no more banter. You call it off and take me to her right now, or I’ll make it my mission to see you spend the rest of your life in the bottom of a pit somewhere deep inside the world’s asshole. Do I make myself clear?”

  Her smile is back.

  “I appreciate your concern,” she says. “But I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  I feel a large presence behind me, and I know who it is even before I turn. It’s the man who dropped off the briefcase outside the Boom Boom Room.

  “My associate is here to escort you back to your penthouse, Mr. Drake.”

  “So,” I say. “We’re using names now?”

  “What harm can come from it at this stage?”

  You’ll soon see what harm can come from it, sister.

  “I’m not going home,” I say. “And if you’re smart, you’ll get on your phone right now and call everything off, then take me to her. If you don’t, I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”

  She pouts those ruby lips into a pitying look.

  “Mr. Drake, please don’t waste time on hollow threats.”

  “You’re right,” I say, hanging my head. “I should stop wasting time.”

  With that, I flex my right hip from the foot upwards and loop my right fist in a rising arc that connects squarely with her jaw.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  52. CASSANDRA

  The room isn’t in the Regent. Of course it’s not, that would be stupid.

  It’s in the Hotel James, a fleabag off of Times Square. The three goons are posted outside in the hallway, and I’m alone with Randall Buckner. Randall Fucking Buckner. How could I have been so stupid?

  “You know,” he says, “I should have just given you the key that day in Hell’s Kitchen instead of those roses,” he says, sitting on the swaybacked old bed and pulling off his boots. “I was pretty sure you were the one at that point – that’s why I bought you the white bouquet. They’re supposed to symbolize purity.”

  He looks me up and down like a steer at auction. Like I should know the color of the rose that symbolizes fucking purity. This guy makes me sick.

  “Course, I guess that doesn’t apply anymore,” he mutters, a disgusted grimace scraping his face. “But I guess we’ll make up for it.”

  “I don’t understand,” I breathe. “What’s going to make up for it?”

  He’s acting like someone who always gets his way, as if there’s no other possible outcome. I never really appreciated just how special Carson is among the obscenely rich. He’s a real person. A human being.

  Most of them are just obscenely entitled.

  “Well, like I told you on the ride here, I decided to forego my refund in order to get you for a night.”

  “Because the Russians think I cheated,” I say. “But they’re wrong! I didn’t cheat!”

  He chuckles. It makes his jowls quiver like a pair of turkey wattles.

  “Man alive, you are a feisty one!” he hoots. “That’s going to make this even better. Anyway, they want me to soften you up a bit so they can question you afterwards. They’re worried that maybe you and Drake are trying to collect some damning evidence to use against them.”

  “But we didn’t! We would never!”

  He untucks his cowboy shirt and starts to open the buttons.

  “Doesn’t really matter to me what they do with you after,” he says. “I just have to make sure you’re receptive to it. I’m good at making gals receptive. I rented out the whole floor tonight, just in case things get loud.”

  He slides his belt out of the loops on his jeans and coils it around one fist.

  I will the blood to rise into my cheeks.

  “No,” I whisper, lying through my teeth. I just need a second’s opening. I’ll rip this fat fuck to shreds. “It doesn’t have to be that way. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Honey, you’re going to do that anyway.”

  Panic creeps across my face as my eyes dart around the room.

  “I’ll be good,” I plead, shuffling closer to him. “I can p-please you.”

  He stops and gives me the once-over. I take that as a good sign and move even closer. I reach under the overhang of his belly and unbutton the fly of his jeans.

  His leathery palm whips forward and strikes my left cheek with a dry smacking sound. I gasp.

  “I didn’t say stop, bitch,” he growls.

  I avoid his eyes and tug downward on his jeans until the waist is around his knees.

  “What are you waiting for, stupid?” he says. “Take ‘em all the way off.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, grabbing his right wrist in my left hand and twisting it inwards. The motion drags him toward me and to my right, where his nose connects squarely with my rising elbow.

  The wet crunch it makes is the most satisfying sound I’ve heard in a long time.

  “Guhnf,” he croaks as he stumbles forward. The waistband of his jeans trips him at the knee and he hurtles face-first toward the floor. My right knee stops his momentum, snapping his head back. The blow sends him sprawling onto his side on the floor, out cold.

  I time the thump of his fat gut landing with a scream.

  “No, please!” I cry, tugging off the ring that came in my Chase package. I realize now that it’s how they tracked me and sent Buckner to my location. I stuff it into his bleeding mouth.

  I clap my hands together hard and follow it up with another shriek.

  “Oh God! Someone help!”

  Meanwhile, I examine the window. There’s a slide opening at the bottom, but it’s not wide enough for me to wriggle through. The upper casement is big enough to fit through, but it doesn’t open.

  I figure I’ll have less than a minute before the goons in the hall come charging in.

  It’ll have to do.

  I pick up Buckner under his armpits and drag him toward the window. If I have to do this, might as well get some poetic justice out of it.

  I drop him on his knees on the windowsill and grip his skull on both sides. With a swift motion, I jerk it back and then drive it forward, shattering the glass.

  The inevitable knock comes as I wrap my hand in the curtain and knock out the remaining shards.

  “Sir! Everything all right?”

  I hop out onto the fire escape and swing onto the descending ladder. We’re on the third floor, so I have to hop from the end of the ladder onto the balcony below, then down its ladder and onto the alley below that.

  A goon’s head appears in the window just as I look up. I see the flash of the muzzle an instant before I hear the cough of the silencer. A slug kicks up chunks of pavement less than a dozen inches from my foot.

  I sprint from the alley into the street, melding into the Times Square crowd. It amazes me how someone who had the brains to become the seventeenth richest person in America could be stupid enough to pick a hotel right next to the most congested spot in North America.

  I emerge into the Square and get my bearings. Avoiding the goons in here shouldn’t be difficult. The question is, where do I go next? The goons took my phone, so I can’t call Carson.

  Thank God it’s Times Square, one of the few places left in the country that still has payphones. This is going to be easier than I thought.

  As I rummage in my pocket for a quarter, I scan the area. And suddenly, all my bravado dries up and flies away like a feather in the wind.

  Across the street, Tricia is sitting at a table on the sidewalk outside a coffee shop. Next to her is a swarthy man I’ve never seen.

  He’s pointing a
gun at her under the table.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  53. CARSON

  The big man is much faster than he has any right to be.

  He’s easily six-nine and probably four hundred pounds, but he’s on me in a flash, wrapping his tree trunk arms around me in a bear hug from behind. He straightens to his full height, lifting me a good three inches off the ground.

  It presents an interesting challenge from a physics perspective: my arms are locked in place and I have no leverage since my feet are off the ground.

  Luckily, I don’t need leverage to use my trapezius muscles to whip my head backwards.

  The back of my skull connects squarely with the bridge of the big man’s nose and I hear cartilage snap. He reflexively drops me and reaches up to touch his shattered face, allowing me time to land, drop to my back and piston my right foot upwards into his balls.

  Again, thanks to physics, I have the upper hand because I have the stability of the ground under me. Combine that with the hours I spend in the gym with Matthias every day and my odds in this confrontation are actually pretty good.

  Now might be a good time to mention that Matthias is a retired four-time world mixed martial arts champion. When I say he kicks my ass, I mean he literally kicks my ass.

  The big man is reeling backwards, consumed with pain I’ve inflicted to two of his most vulnerable areas, giving the perfect opportunity to finish this with a couple of shots to his kidneys and a shin kick to the base of his thigh where it meets the knee.

  Pain explodes in my temple and the world goes wobbly for a moment. When my vision finally clears, I see him still stumbling but flailing wildly. It’s my own damn fault for underestimating him – his arms are almost as big as my legs. If there’s one thing that physics can’t compensate for, it’s mass. And the big man has that in spades.

  I reach down and throw a handful of dirt into his face, sending him staggering backward, following it up with a stomp kick downward to his knee. That does the trick; his leg collapses inward and twists at an unnatural angle.

  He’s not getting up from that. Now to finish with Red Dress.