Текст книги "Among thieves"

Автор книги: John Clarkson

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

39

Olivia continued to stare at Beck, unblinking, with such intensity that it sparked something in Beck beyond desire.

Power.

She was making him feel incredibly powerful. As if he had total dominance and control over her.

Until that moment, he had not fully understood how dangerous Olivia Sanchez could be. Or how devious she actually was.

The temptation to exercise control over such an astonishingly alluring woman actually made it difficult for Beck to breathe. Beck’s eyes narrowed. He let the fear of how much control she was about to obtain over him penetrate into his gut, actually feeling his stomach tighten.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t waiver.

She continued holding on to his legs, pressing herself into him, staring at him.

Beck pictured what would happen if he simply reached out and touched her, ignited the fire by making her believe he was comforting her.

They would be on each other in a heartbeat. A literal heartbeat.

She still wore nothing under her white shirt and jeans. It would take seconds for her to be naked. Beck pictured her standing in front of him without clothes. Without guile. He felt his erection grow, adding an excruciating insistence.

He imagined the feel of her bronze, flawlessly smooth skin. Even smoother and softer over her breasts. He had stared at them long enough when she was clothed to be able to imagine them uncovered. Full, perfect teardrops. Perfect. The thought of cupping those beautiful breasts, feeling them, running his hands around to her back and down to her ass, around her hips, in between her legs; feeling for the wetness made him clench his jaws, but he didn’t back off from the fantasy.

That was the thing. The intriguing thing about her body. Full breasts and rear, but long limbs with fine wrists and ankles. And the skin, that amazing skin. And her mesmerizing eyes. And a mouth he wanted to feel against his. Passion he wanted to experience as he slid into her. Feeling the silky tightness. Hearing her gasp. He was actually sweating slightly under the sexual tension. The offer of sex, the contest of power and control, the temptation to say fuck it to everything to experience her—he was in a battle of wills he was losing.

Christ, Christ, stop it, he told himself. What a fucking disaster.

He swallowed hard. He forced a mantle of deception over himself. He continued to look into her eyes, intent on preventing her from deriving any satisfaction from making him look away. He leaned forward in the chair, using the force of his larger physical presence to impose on her.

The moment passed. The power of her seduction, her intensity, were diverted into a part of Beck that nobody could touch. A part that had emerged in the hard, cold hell of his incarceration. Something that he shared with Ivan Kolenka, and Gregor Stepanovich, and Manny and Ciro and Demarco. A part that even the power of Olivia Sanchez couldn’t penetrate.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.” He reached out and took hold of her forearms, firmly, with purpose. He slowly pulled her arms away from him.

He stood and lifted her to her feet. Holding her forearms, controlling her, he pivoted quickly, like a boxer who had been maneuvered into the corner of the ring, slips a punch and twists away, exchanging the cramped, tight area of confinement for the open space that allows maneuvering.

He let go of her and sidestepped deftly to the other side of the room, leaving her alone near the end of the bed. But he had done it with such agility and quickness that she couldn’t pretend he was fleeing from her. He had achieved a separation from her completely on his terms.

Just then, his cell phone rang.

At one o’clock in the morning, Beck knew there was very little chance this would be good news.

He answered quickly. “Beck.”

It was Nydia. “Yo, I was you I’d get the fuck out of that room. Hard guys on their way, man. Two coming at you, two down here covering both ends of the elevator bank.”

“Fuck! Do what you can to help when we get to the lobby.”

Beck shoved the phone in his pocket. Olivia had heard him. It immobilized her.

“Quick, Olivia—we have to get out of here.”

For just a beat, perhaps two seconds, Olivia didn’t move, trapped in fear and confusion. And then she reacted with surprising speed. She didn’t say a word, no questions, no comments. She moved fast toward the head of the bed, picked up her bag from the floor, ran to the bathroom without hesitating, and pulled her underwear off the shower curtain rod.

She was at the doorway grabbing her coat from the closet before Beck had on his own coat.

He opened the door. Checked the corridor. Motioned her out of the room. She followed with her bag over her shoulder and her black underwear clutched in her hand.

He moved cautiously out into the hall, peering around, standing in front of Olivia until he saw that the hallway was empty. He quickly tried to locate the stairs, but gave up on the idea. He didn’t want to set off any alarms, or be trapped in a stairwell.

He hurried toward the elevators, sensing more than seeing Olivia behind him.

He pulled out his Browning Hi-Power, racked a bullet into the chamber and released the safety, holding the automatic pointed down next to his right leg.

Beck thumbed both the up and the down elevator buttons. Whatever elevator came first, they were getting on it. Hopefully, not the one bearing the hard men coming for them.

40

Nydia Lopez had returned from a quick meal of eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee eaten at the counter of a diner down the street near Lexington. But when she had left the hotel for the diner, she’d made sure to stop and speak to the doorman on duty.

The fact that he was Hispanic helped. The fact that underneath the tattoos and rough clothes Nydia Lopez had a killer body and sharp, attractive features helped more.

“Yo, homes,” she had said. “What up?”

For a moment, the doorman hesitated, as if he were deciding whether or not to acknowledge being referred to as somebody’s homeboy while on duty at the prestigious Four Seasons Hotel. But then Nydia flashed a smile accompanied by a sly wink that said volumes.

The doorman, Caesar Gascon, melted. He smiled back.

“What’s up with you?” he said, posturing a little, his macho side coming out.

Nydia shrugged. “Not much. I’m taking care of a white lady up on the fortieth floor.”

“Taking care how?” asked Caesar.

Nydia pulled back her jacket and turned just enough so that Caesar could see the butt of the Smith & Wesson tucked in at the small of her back.

“You know,” said Nydia, as if she didn’t need to explain it to him, making Caesar a coconspirator.

“I didn’t see that,” said Caesar.

“No doubt,” said Nydia. “But you see anything, you know, like any nefarious types hanging around, you let me know, huh?”

“Yeah, sure. Where you going?”

“Got to eat. My partner is upstairs covering until I get back. Watch things for me for a few, okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Nydia placed a forefinger under her eye, then pointed around, and flashed her killer smile as she slid into the revolving doors.

When she returned, Caesar quickly opened the front door for her and said, “Check out the front desk. Four guys, only one big rolling bag? Don’t feel right.”

Nydia muttered, “Thanks,” and focused instantly on the men at the top of the landing. They had their backs to her, taking no notice of her in the huge, multistoried lobby.

The four stood in pairs of two.

Nydia didn’t have to look at them for more than a second to know they were trouble. She angled to her right, quickly stepped up a half flight of stairs, making sure to stay far enough away so she wouldn’t catch their attention. She pulled out her cell phone and slid into a chair, keeping the men in her peripheral vision.

One man stood talking to the hotel clerk at the main desk. He was tall, bald, and looked ready to kill someone, perhaps because someone had recently broken his nose. There was adhesive tape across the bridge and both eyes were blackened. On his left, stood a man with a large rolling duffel bag.

Two others stood as a pair off to the right of the bald man talking to the clerk. They both wore dark overcoats, good shoes, dress pants. One of them leaned in between the bald man with the broken nose and the hotel clerk to ask something. She pointed toward the rear of the hotel. Both men peeled off, leaving others with the rolling bag at the desk.

Nydia guessed he had asked for the men’s room, but as soon as the two of them reached the middle section of the hotel where the elevators were, they stopped, looking to see which set of elevators to take.

Nydia had already dialed Beck. Listening to the phone ring, she said to herself quietly, “Pick up, motherfucker.”

41

There were two elevators that opened onto the fortieth floor. Beck waited and waited. He pushed the buttons again. It seemed like minutes had passed, but it was closer to thirty seconds. Finally, Beck felt more than heard the air being pushed ahead of the elevator rising to their right.

The elevator door vibrated. Beck reached behind him for Olivia, feeling for her as he faced the elevator. And suddenly, he cursed.

“Shit. We’ve been out here too long.”

He moved Olivia to the left, away from the corridor where they’d come from. He backed up quickly, gently guiding Olivia to the east corridor while he faced the elevator, gun ready as they moved out of sight around the corner.

Just as they made it into the east corridor, the elevator door opened and Beck heard somebody step out of the elevator. He craned his head around just enough to see two men in dark clothes head in the direction of Olivia’s room.

Beck moved very quickly, trying to remain completely quiet on the hallway carpeting. The elevator door had almost closed, but he just managed to get four fingers between the closing doors and force them open.

Olivia was right behind him. They slipped into the elevator, the doors closed, and before Beck could press any buttons, the elevator started to rise.

Beck snarled, “Shit.”

Beck’s agitation made Olivia nervous. She backed into a corner of the elevator.

The elevator stopped on the forty-fifth floor. A hotel waiter stood in the corridor with a room-service cart. He hesitated. Beck said, “Come on in. There’s plenty of room.”

Beck expected the elevator to reverse, but again it went up. He checked the digital numbers showing the floors the elevator serviced. This one served floors thirty-one to fifty-two. They rose past fifty, without slowing. The hotel waiter stood with his back to Beck, watching the floor indicators. Beck slipped the Browning into the pocket of his shearling coat.

*   *   *

One of Kolenka’s men pressed his ear against Olivia’s door, trying to hear movement inside the room. Nothing. He took out a small crowbar from underneath his overcoat and began to pry open the door just above the lock. It took a good deal of effort, but when the door popped free of the frame, it made surprisingly little noise.

The room was unoccupied, but the magazines and wrinkled bed top showed that someone had been in the room. They quickly searched for luggage or anything that might indicate the occupant would be returning, but there was nothing.

*   *   *

On the way up, Beck calculated how to play the situation.

If the two who had come up for Olivia got back on this elevator, what would they do? Would they know it was Olivia? Would they risk a move with a hotel employee on the elevator? What would happen when they hit the lobby? And who were they? How the hell had they found Olivia?

Beck’s thoughts were interrupted when the elevator stopped on fifty-two. There was nobody there. But just as the doors started to close, a woman appeared. She stopped the doors and stepped into the elevator. She was blond, dressed in a fake fur coat. She wore high heels and a blue dress that barely reached mid-thigh. She carried a large handbag on her left shoulder.

Hooker, Beck thought. And not a very expensive-looking one at that. She stepped to the back of the elevator, avoiding eye contact, hardly moving.

Her perfume filled the elevator, but it didn’t give the impression that she was clean and fresh. She looked worn out. Intent on leaving the hotel without causing any notice.

The elevator started down. Christ, thought Beck, if things go bad, if shooting starts, now there were two more people who could get hit. The complications had escalated exponentially.

But then again, the more people who got out in the lobby, the better their chances of getting to an exit before the two waiting downstairs could sort out who was who.

Then the elevator slowed down and stopped on forty, and all of Beck’s calculations changed.

42

Gregor Stepanovich checked his watch. One-forty in the morning. Kolenka’s men were to secure the woman in her room, then call him. He and his partner would go to the room he had rented for an outrageous price with the large rolling bag. The bag contained everything he needed and would be used to remove the body from the hotel.

Kolenka’s men were to deliver her to Gregor’s room and leave. That was the agreement. Which was fine with Gregor. He and Josef would have the woman all to themselves. Once they were in the room with the woman and secure, he would tell his driver to leave, call Markov, and the fun could begin.

He waited at the west end of the elevator bank. His man Josef at the east end.

Gregor checked his watch again. What was taking so long? She was probably sleeping. They should be in before she even woke up. Ah, he thought. They have to get her dressed before they take her out of the room. That must be it.

*   *   *

The elevator door opened on two men. Both were medium height. Both wore long, dark wool overcoats, dark slacks, and decent tie shoes. One wore a blue button-down shirt. The other a white shirt.

They had the hard-edged look of Slavs. Both grizzled. Thin and sinewy and feral. The good clothes couldn’t hide their predatory air. When the man in the white shirt reached to hold the elevator so his partner could enter, he revealed a tattoo of a Russian Orthodox cross on the back of his right hand.

Shit, thought Beck. Vory-v-Zakone. Definitely Kolenka’s men.

Between the four people already in the elevator and the hotel waiter’s food cart, there wasn’t much room for the Russians, but the hotel waiter said, “Please, come in. I’ll take the next one.”

He wheeled his room service cart out of the elevator, and both men stepped in.

Beck had been standing in front of Olivia. Now he moved to his left so that he seemed even more apart from the two women. Give the hunters the impression that the blonde was with Olivia. Two escorts working as a pair. But would they believe Olivia belonged in the same league as the blonde?

Beck made sure to not even glance at the two women behind him. He was certain Olivia had figured out these two were after her. Could she mask her fear? Would they sense her apprehension, like animals closing in on prey?

The Russians briefly checked out Olivia and the hooker, ignored Beck, turned to face the front of the car. The elevator started its descent. Beck gripped the Browning in the right hand pocket of his shearling coat.

He considered the situation. Maybe they would make it to the lobby. After all, the elevator had come from a different floor. There were two women instead of one. They hadn’t connected Beck to either of the women.

But what would these two do when they reached the lobby? What made sense?

Step out and confer with their partners, Beck supposed. Could they slip out unnoticed while that happened?

Beck made no move to look at the men on his left. He didn’t want to distract them from doing just what they were doing: standing still, facing front, looking at the numbers flashing by on the elevator’s display panel.

And then the Russian farthest from Beck did what men do. He turned to look over the blonde once more. He stared at her, blatantly, without apology, as if she were sitting in a store window. She completely ignored him. She stood in the back of the elevator, staring past him as if he weren’t there. And then he looked over at Olivia.

No, thought Beck. No. He felt the atmosphere shift. The Russian in the white shirt stared at Olivia a beat too long. Then his partner turned. They both stared at her, stared for way too long.

Beck had to move. Now. Hard and fast and now.

In the cramped space, Beck leaned right, raised his left foot, and stomped the side of the Blue Shirt’s right knee, driving the leg down to the floor of the elevator. As he collapsed in Beck’s direction, screaming, Beck rammed his elbow into the man’s right temple, knocking him out, and driving him toward the second Russian.

As Blue Shirt crumpled to the floor, Beck whipped the barrel of the Browning into White Shirt’s face, cracking open his forehead and sending a spray of blood spattering against the rear wall of the elevator.

White Shirt fell back into the blonde, who couldn’t avoid him, but she was tough. She stifled a scream and shoved him away, which kept him on his feet. He lunged for Beck, blood pouring into his eyes, obstructing his vision, trampling his partner still on the floor, managing to get his arms around Beck’s waist.

Beck let the standing attacker drive him into the side of the elevator. Beck knew he wasn’t going down. There was no room to fall. White Shirt was bent over, arms around Beck, his face on Beck’s chest. He reared up and tried to ram the top of his head into Beck’s chin.

Beck turned away, but the man’s head banged into the side of his jaw. Before White Shirt could do any more damage, Beck leaned over him and drove the butt of the Browning down into his spine, liver, kidney—shot after vicious shot, again and again and again with as much leverage and strength as he could muster. His attacker let out guttural grunts of pain. He was paralyzed, but Beck didn’t let up. He kept hitting him until he felt the man’s grip loosen, then he kneed him in the chest, driving him off, and kicked him to the other side of the elevator. White Shirt fell over his comrade on the ground, but still grabbed for Beck’s leg.

Beck rammed his foot into his face, breaking White Shirt’s jaw, and knocking him out. He fell in a heap, half on top of his partner, who screamed at the added weight on his torn knee. The pain revived Blue Shirt. He reached for his gun. Beck backhanded the butt of the heavy Browning into his temple, knocking him unconscious, just as the elevator landed on the ground floor.

But the elevator door wouldn’t open fully because White Shirt’s body was jammed against it. Beck pulled him off the door, maneuvering him out of the way so he and Olivia could get out.

Olivia seemed frozen in the corner, but the hooker moved, deftly stepping over the Russians. She muttered a curse as she made her way out of the elevator, touching her face to feel for any blood spatter, intent on getting the hell out before hotel security arrived.

Beck shoved one of the inert bodies farther into the corner and pulled Olivia toward the open elevator door. He leaned out to see who was in the lobby. The blonde had already walked past the bank of elevators, turning toward the Fifty-eighth Street exit.

He spotted two men, one at each end of the elevator area. On the west side stood Gregor Stepanovich, with a large rolling luggage bag. At the east side, stood his partner.

Beck didn’t linger. He pressed the elevator button for the fiftieth floor, stepped off, and led Olivia toward the east corridor in the direction the hooker had taken, figuring she had momentarily distracted Gregor’s partner on that side. She had, but not enough to prevent Gregor’s man from seeing Olivia, clearly terrified, and Beck with blood smeared on the side of his face and chest.

He raised a gun in Beck’s direction. Beck had the Browning down against his leg. Beck stopped, pushed Olivia away from him, raised the Browning, knowing he would not get the first shot. His only hope was that the man would miss at ten feet. And then, Nydia Lopez appeared out of nowhere behind the gunman. She jumped to gain height and leverage, and came down with a smashing overhand blow across the back of his head. She hit him so hard that he flew forward and fell flat on the marble floor, out cold, his face smacking into the lobby’s marble floor.

Just then a gunshot shattered the two-o’clock-in-the-morning serenity of the Four Seasons.

Olivia ran toward Nydia. Beck dropped into a crouch, turning to face Gregor, who had already twisted around the corner, taking cover from Beck and his Browning.

Beck didn’t fire. He immediately turned back and ran around the corner for Olivia and Nydia. Nydia held Olivia’s arm with one hand and her compact Smith & Wesson M&P .40 with the other.

“Go!” Beck shouted, pointing toward the Fifty-eighth Street exit. Even if Gregor ran after them, they should be able to make it out the door.

Beck shoved the Browning into his coat pocket, ignored everyone and everything except Nydia and Olivia. He ran ahead of them toward the back of the hotel, sure that they would be running right behind him.

As they reached the far end of the hotel, he slid around the corner, and hustled down the steps to the ground floor exit. Outside, Beck could see a doorman and someone who looked like a hotel security guard struggling with a large man trying to get into the hotel.

There was a Cadillac Escalade parked in front of the hotel. The driver’s-side door was open. The SUV was empty. It had to be the driver fighting to get into the hotel. He had already tossed aside the doorman. The security guard, a young black man who nearly matched the driver’s size, was clearly have troubling grappling with what Beck figured was the last of the team sent to get Olivia.

Beck turned and told Nydia, “Get her into that SUV.”

Beck burst out of the exit door and jumped into the scuffle without breaking stride. He pulled the driver’s head back with his right hand and punched him in the throat with his left.

Beck didn’t even pause to see the result. If the security guard couldn’t take him down now, he didn’t deserve the job.

He ran out into the street and jumped into the driver’s seat of the double-parked SUV. Keys were in the ignition. He turned over the engine, shoved the gearshift into drive, and accelerated east on Fifty-eighth, tires squealing, the trucklike SUV fishtailing down the street.

Police sirens were already converging on the hotel. Beck turned left onto Park Avenue, blasting through a red light, just missing a cab.

The light ahead was green and Beck floored the accelerator. The four-hundred horsepower engine hesitated, and then the massive torque kicked in and he streaked through the intersection as the light turned red. He continued accelerating, catching green lights one after the other until the light on Sixty-sixth turned red while he was a half block away from the intersection.

He braked hard, hoping Nydia and Olivia had had time to get their seat belts on. He hadn’t, but braced himself on the steering wheel. They slid into the intersection. Luckily there was no cross traffic. Beck managed to wrestle the big SUV into a right turn and headed east on Sixty-sixth. He braked hard at Lexington, peered to his left looking for empty cabs. He didn’t see any, the light changed and he continued east at a normal speed, stopping at Second Avenue. He pulled the SUV into an empty space near a fire hydrant, shut everything down, took a deep breath, and turned to Olivia and Nydia seated behind him.

“Fuck. You two okay?”

Nydia said, “Yeah.”

“What’d you hit that guy with? Couldn’t have been your fist.”

Nydia pulled out a set of brass knuckles.

Beck pictured the blow. Thought for a second how hard that man’s face smacked into the marble floor when he went down.

“Thanks. You saved us.”

“No problem,” said Nydia.

“Olivia?”

“Yes?”

“You okay?”

“When I stop shaking. God, what happened back there?”

“You guys almost died,” said Nydia.