The Unforgivable Fix (8 page)

She handed the cab driver a fifty-dollar bill, told him to keep the change, and stared straight ahead as she entered the building. She walked confidently, aware the wide-brimmed hat, loose jacket, and dark glasses would render her virtually unidentifiable to the numerous security cameras tracking the comings and goings of thousands through the wide halls of the airport terminal.

She wasn't there to catch a plane, though the urge to fly far away was attractive. She allowed herself a moment's fantasy of jetting off. Alone. With no one waiting whenever or wherever the plane landed. Free to begin again. She could do it. She had enough money. Her work had been extremely lucrative. There were accounts in the Caymans, Switzerland, and Dubai. She imagined she should feel guilty, given how the money was earned.

But it felt good to be free of the consideration of guilt. She made her way through the terminal, keeping a lookout for the tool she needed. She spotted it across from the baggage claim. She made her way past dozens of people talking into their cell phones, to the unusued bank of pay phones nestled between two rental-car counters.

She settled her bag on the small shelf, pulled a pouch of coins from her pocket, and with gloved fingers dialed the number she'd committed to memory just that morning. An automated voice told her how much money to deposit and she complied. He answered on the second ring.

“I don't think it's a good idea to call here.” He sounded scared.

“Listen carefully. In two hours you'll be receiving, via private courier, four cell phones. They'll be marked A, B, C, and D. Keep A with you and the others in a secure place known only to you. I will call you in alphabetical order. Answer before the second ring or this goes no further. Do you understand?”

“I do.” He now sounded more hopeful than frightened.

“Once we've ended our conversation, remove the battery. Destroy the phone. Discard the battery and the dismantled phone in two separate places at least three miles apart. Do you understand?”

“I'm not stupid.” He shifted to irritation.

“And I'm not one for second chances.”

He responded a moment later. “I understand.”

“You will always have at least twelve hours between my calls. So, once you've destroyed phone A, you'll have time to retrieve phone B. Keep only one phone on you at a time.”

“My cell's secure. There's no need for cloak-and-dagger.”

She remembered this part of the game. It still made her weary. The stage where men felt the need to second-guess her. She hadn't gotten where she had by being lax.

“We can end this here.” Her tone left no room for misinterpretation. “I will ask one last time if you understand. Remember what's at stake. You're the one who wants justice for her.”

Again he hesitated before responding. “Four phones, one on me at a time, answer by the second ring, battery removed, phone destroyed, three miles apart.”

“Very good,” she said. “The courier will be there in two hours.”

“One last thing,” he said.

“I'm listening.”

“I don't want him to die easy.”

She closed her eyes and settled herself before responding. Dead was dead. She failed to see the point in extending the drama. Still, she owed him the service he was paying for.

“
That
is the one thing we'll do your way.”

Allie woke up frightened. The room-wide, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sea were gone. She'd been awakened by the sun rising over the Atlantic for nearly three months. But not today. She looked right. The bed was smaller than the king she was used to. The polyester bedspread and flat pillow were undisturbed on the side of the bed where Patrick was supposed to be. She looked to her left. Where was her marble bathroom? The dingy grass cloth on these walls was streaked with tobacco and water stains.

Then she remembered. She wasn't in Barbados. Patrick wasn't there to protect her. He'd taunted the Rusian by going after his woman. Tokarev would have no other option but to respond in kind. She'd had to leave. And now she had to stick with her plan.

You've done it now, Allie.
She rubbed her eyes and willed herself to full attention. She pulled the thin covers tight around her shoulders and took stock of her situation. She had money. Four years with Patrick had taught her about opening accounts known only to her and the bank, but she was in no position to access them.
I have expenses.
She'd fled with only what would fit in her bag. Allie glanced across the room and saw the Hermès Birkin lying on top of the pressboard bureau.
I could buy a car with what Patrick paid for that bag.
But she didn't know how to turn assets into cash. She supposed she could go to a pawnshop, but did the small Georgia town where she'd rented the room even have one? Would they know the value of her bag?

First things first, Allie. You're safe. You're back in the States. Everything is going to be just fine.

She knew it was a lie even as she thought it. Patrick would be looking for her. And he'd be angry. Tokarev would be looking for her. And he'd be murderous. She burrowed deeper under the blanket and pushed the thought from her mind.

I need clothes. Cosmetics. Toiletries.
I need to go shopping.
Not the kind of shopping

where designer boutiques bring trunks of haute couture to her living room for inspection. Not even the high-end avenue shopping she and Alyssa used to do in Palm Beach or Cannes.

I need to find a mall.

She and her mother used to go shopping. They'd leave Robbie and Dad to do whatever they did down in the basement workshop and head off to South Center or Alderwood. If it was back-to-school time, her mother would take her downtown, calling it a treat. But Allie always preferred mall shopping. Walking in climate-controlled perfection past kiosks of cheap trinkets. Often she'd see someone from her school who was there with her own mom. Each girl would smile, drop her eyes, and count the number of bags the other held. An all-day mall excursion meant lunch. She and her mother would linger over tuna-salad sandwiches in the restaurant of the flagship store.

A sadness swept over Allie. She'd never shop with her mother again. She thought of Robbie. Did Claire take Hadley and Hayden shopping?
That would be a great aunty thing to do. I'd spend too much on those twins for hair clips and party dresses. Robbie would fuss and say I'm spoiling them, but he'd smile.
Allie wondered if either of her nieces was like her. They were so young. She tried to imagine their lives. Robbie a reporter, but now with a bestseller under his belt. Claire a stay-at-home mother.
I'll bet those girls have cookies and stories every afternoon when they get home from school.
Was it enough?
she wondered. Would they be content with a middle-class life? Would they grow up to make their grandpa proud?

Or would they be like me?
Allie wondered if either of her nieces yearned for more. Did they hunger for things and tastes and places and people not available to those who follow the idealized American dream of two kids, two cars, and two-week vacations? She stared at the ceiling of her sixty-dollar-a-night motel and traced a crack from the overhead light to the far corner. She thought of her life with Patrick. The places they'd seen. The celebrities they'd met. The birthday parties she missed. Her mother's funeral she didn't attend. The awareness that regardless of how important she'd been to him, she'd always be viewed as Patrick's whore.

The heaviness pulled at her chest. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tossed off the covers.

I've got to go shopping.

B
ARBADOS

Patrick glared at the two men sitting in his penthouse drinking his liquor. “I don't know why you can't see this.” He paced in front of them, fighting the urge to pound understanding into them. “She's been missing for days. If there was any way for her to contact me, she would have. My men have searched everywhere. Tokarev has Olwen. I'm going after him. There's no alternative.”

Felix Nuñez swirled the ice in his crystal tumbler. As head of the Mexican cartel he was used to the finest tequila in the world, and Patrick made certain it was available by the gallon. Still, Nuñez looked dissatisfied. “You've already gone after him. This business in Montreal was despicable,
mi amigo.
” He turned a knowing look to the man seated across from him. “And worse than that, it was unsanctioned. Your actions were reckless, Patrick. It was not the move of a man in control of himself.”

“He's killed five of my men! Stolen millions of dollars of my product.” Patrick clenched his fists and turned away in a failing effort to control himself. “Do you expect me to sit idly by? Especially now that he has Olwen?”

“Look at us when you speak.” Carlos Durazo grumbled the low-level rasp that served him well as head of the Colombian drug cartel. “And I will only instruct you once to contain your temper.”

Patrick spun around. “You do not instruct me, Carlos.” He alternated his glare between the two middle-aged men. “We are equals here. I've invited you here as a courtesy. It is my intent to go after the Russian. He's coming for me. If we don't stop him now he'll come for you. These Russians are savages.”

“And a man who will butcher an innocent woman? That is not the work of a savage?” Nuñez joined Durazo in a disgusted scowl. “That was bad business,
amigo.
”

“Do
not
call me friend,” Patrick roared. “I have stood beside the two of you for years. I have made available funds and men when the two of you were growing your hold on the business.” He turned to Durazo. “And Carlos, who fronted you twelve kilos when that boat went down?”

“It was you, Patrick.” Durazo set his drink aside. “And for all those years we thrived together because we acted as one. We are civilized men in a dangerous business. It is only that reasoned civility…along with our unity…that will keep us strong.”

“Then stand beside me in this,” Patrick insisted. “Give me enough product to last three days. My suppliers have assured me they can replace the inventory Tokarev stole within the week.”

Felix Nuñez nodded. “This I will do. Provide me a list of what you need and I will advance you half. Carlos will do the same. You will have no problem with your customers.”

“And I want men,” Patrick continued. “And guns.”

Carlos Durazo laughed. “And do what, Patrick? Fly them like an army to Russia? Perhaps we can call a surplus store and get a troop carrier to ship them across the sea.”

Felix Nuñez joined in the ridicule. “We can have a parade. I will get my wife's designer to make uniforms. We need to tell the good guys from the bad guys, no?”

Patrick's neck muscles tightened and his mouth went dry. He stole a glance at the kitchen. One automatic weapon from that closet would wipe the smirks off their faces. Olwen's voice came to him, urging him to be calm. To be strong. To be effective.

“If we don't finish him now it will be the end of us all,” he said.

Nuñez wiped a tear from his eye and struggled to catch the breath his laughter had stolen. “Russia is a long way away. It is a big country. I'm sure Tokarev has all he can handle keeping his own territory. We have no proof he is coming for us.”

Patrick couldn't believe their ignorance. “He left rubles in payment for my men.”

This time Durazo answered. “Rubles are cheap. Even in Russia. We have had no movement against us.” He leveled a stare at Patrick. “We keep our house in order. Can you say the same? You may be being attacked from within. That is a much more likely scenario than Russians invading from across the sea. Perhaps you are too distracted by your own whore that you cannot see what is happening.”

Nuñez shot Durazo a warning look, but it was too late. Patrick took two broad steps, grabbed Durazo up by the lapels, and dragged him across the living room toward the balcony.

“Aquí ahora!”
Nuñez shouted. Four large men stormed through the front door. They charged Patrick. Two men pulled Durazo free while the other two pinned Patrick's arms behind his back.
“Traigale aquí. No le dolia.”

The men responded to Durazo's orders and pulled Patrick into the living room. They held him until his curses and straining stopped, then looked to Durazo for instruction. Durazo nodded toward the door. The two men holding Patrick tossed him to the carpet and all four bodyguards exited.

Durazo and Nuñez stood over Patrick, who struggled to stand. Durazo kicked his arms out from under him. “Stay down,
amigo.
”

“You fucking bastards.” Patrick's voice rumbled. “Do you think I will forget this?” He shifted his weight to his legs. This time Nuñez kicked him twice, square in the back.

“Stay down, Patrick,” Durazo warned. “Stay down and pray
we
forget this. That we will forgive you and count your actions as driven by a broken heart. Make your list of the merchandise you need. Felix and I will see to it you're covered.” Durazo placed his boot over Patrick's hand. “And you will end this craziness with the Russian. You will not invite him to this side of the world with wild schemes of revenge. You will not destroy all we have because of your whore.”

Patrick began his protest anew. Durazo stepped down, bringing his full weight to the heel of his boot. Patrick screamed as his wrist snapped. “Do you understand me?”

“You fucking bastards,” Patrick cried. “I'll bury you!”

Nuñez and Durazo responded with a rain of kicks to Patrick's back, gut, and legs. Within a minute, Patrick was gasping for breath, no longer a threat to either of them.

Durazo stepped back, pulled a handkerchief from his jacket, and wiped the sweat from his brow. He bent over to speak to the man whose blood stained the white carpet. “Set this aside, Patrick. Get yourself a new woman. Take care of your business.” He stood and grabbed the bottle of tequila. “I thank you for your hospitality,
mi amigo.
I like you better when you mind your manners.”

Nuñez delivered one last kick to Patrick's stomach, turned, and left the penthouse without saying another word.

Patrick writhed on the floor, trying in vain to find a position that didn't send steel swords stabbing through his body. Nuñez and Durazo were careful with their beating. Despite their lofty status, they each had started in the streets. They knew what they were doing. No kicks to the face, no blow so hard as to rupture an organ. Patrick understood they meant to control him…beat him into compliance, rather than destroy him.

He would survive to kill the Russian.

And then he'd come for them.