Dying for Revenge (52 page)

“Don’t you dare lie about my husband.”

“If he’s dead, then he’s dead because of you.”

“You’re the one who sent him after the man you were afraid to go after your damn self.”

“You were his goddamn partner.”

“Fucking coward.”

“You were the worst decision he ever made. That’s what he told me. You were his one regret.”

“You fucking bitch.”

“From the mouth of an incompetent cunt.”

“What did you call me?”

“A
cunt
. An incompetent
cunt
.”

She screamed at the politician. And as she did a wave of nausea hit, she vomited, gagged, struggled to pull herself together, looked up and saw her employer frowning down on her.

Again her Blahnik was picked up and shoved back inside her hand, a shove that almost knocked her over. The big hands gripped her shoulders, her body being yanked, forced toward the dinghy.

The Lady from Detroit shook her head and said, “You fucked up in London. This could’ve been over with. And you expect to get paid more money. To get rewarded for incompetence.”

“I. Don’t. Care. About. The. Money.”

“Bitch, please.

Now she was a prisoner. They would kill her, leave her on Long Island, next to Matthew.

If they took her that far. If they didn’t throw her into the sea halfway between the islands.

She held her damaged Blahnik to her chest; the men overpowered her, led her to the dinghy.

Unbearable pain clutching her gut. Nauseated. Head aching. Barely able to stand.

Her blurry eyes on their weapons. Seventeen plus one times two.

Weapons they held close to them at all times.

Fear. She was the epitome of fear. This trip her sojourn to death row.

A bodyguard stepped down into the dinghy, reached back for the Lady from Detroit.

The politician stared at the dinghy, paused as if she were terrified to get on board, as if she wondered if Gideon was really dead, the look back exposing a new level of fear, a new level of doubt. Then she took the bodyguard’s hand, stepped down into a floating inner tube.

That was when she noticed that the bodyguard who was assisting the politician was trembling too, afraid to go to Long Island. Afraid because that had been a one-way trip for his coworkers.

Doubt was in his face. He wasn’t sure the boogey man was dead either.

She spat out more blood. Her face ached, the raindrops making her wounds sing.

They were going to kill her on that island. She would die on the white sands of Antigua.

Then the bodyguard leading her pointed out toward Long Island, beyond Jumby Bay.

Startled, he pointed out into the rain, uttered one terrifying word. “Fire.”

Everyone looked toward Long Island, startled, mouths wide open.

The beautiful flames from a luxurious vacation home barely visible, but luminous.

A fire had been started. A fire that obviously had been ignited
after
she had fled.

A fire that couldn’t be blamed on Mrs. O’Leary’s cow.

Something else was seen in the distance, in the glow, moving out over the rough waves.

Another dinghy was leaving Long Island, the dark shores of hell.

A dinghy fled what looked like a swelling conflagration, moved toward Antigua, sped away from the fire, didn’t come toward them, moved in another direction, toward another dock that was unseen.

Panic rose, her chest tightened, her heart beat loud and strong, drowned out all sounds.

Those were the flames of the truth. They knew someone had been left alive.

She knew that was the moment they knew Gideon wasn’t dead.

Thirty-six

murder and betrayal

One damaged work of art on her foot. One damaged masterpiece in her hand.

She felt as if she were dying, flooded with hormones, frightened, heartbeat so fast she knew that she was about to have a heart attack, about to pass out, faint, nauseous, everything flashing.

She looked down at what was in her hand. It was no longer a Blahnik. It was her last hope. She sucked in the pain, grunted.

She gripped her Blahnik, pulled it back, swung hard, did that with all the strength she had.

The bodyguard was turning, about to reach and grab her.

But it was too late.

She swung the Blahnik and the four-inch stiletto heel led the way, like a knife.

The four-inch stiletto went directly into the bodyguard’s eye, sank deep.

Like a blade going into a ripe plum or sinking inside a ripe grapefruit.

She hit him hard enough for the stiletto to come to rest in the back of his cranium.

The bodyguard roared, set free a scream the sounded like it had come from the basement of hell.

Driven by the pain, the bodyguard reached for his face.

He reached for his face with a nine-millimeter in his hand.

His fingers bending to grab the pain in his face.

His gun discharged. Shot himself in the head before he reached the Blahnik.

He shot himself in the head, blew his hat into the air, and silenced his own screams.

The bullet found a new home above his wounded eye, his head opened like a trapdoor.

Small hole in the front of his head. Big hole in the back.

Instant death.

His huge body collapsed, started to fall forward, his momentum taking him toward the dinghy.

The female assassin grabbed the bodyguard’s arm, struggled with the dead weight, held on to his muscular arm and pulled hard, grunted and struggled to get the body to fall backward, land on the dock.

The Lady from Detroit screamed. The other bodyguard aimed his nine-millimeter.

He began shooting. Shooting and missing.

Four shots. Four near hits. Four misses. Seventeen plus one now down to thirteen plus one.

He had fourteen more bullets. Fourteen more chances.

Rain fell hard and the wind blew, clouds overhead blocking stars and moon.

The bodyguard struggled to find his balance in the rocking dinghy.

The Lady from Detroit ducked inside the dinghy, screamed into the rain, terrified.

So close to death right now.

The politician had a gunman.

And she had no one.

Like it had been most of her life.

Just her against the world.

She fell down on the rugged landing, dropped next to the dead man, a man who had a hole in his head and a stiletto heel in one of his eyes. The concrete scratched her, opened a wound on her skin, hurt her elbow, her right elbow, the elbow on her shooting hand. Her elbow smashed into the concrete and made her want to howl, made her want to grab her arm and hold it, rock until the pain went away. But she didn’t have time for that. There was no time for recovery. She had been shot three times in the past, that pain always on her mind. Her insides were on fire as she scampered for the gun, as she battled pain and nausea, as she felt blood between her thighs, as she hurried after the smoking gun, a gun that was lodged inside the dead man’s hand. The grip of death held it in place, his finger still on the trigger. Bullets hit the dead man. Bullets that were meant for her. Bullets that were too close to finding their target. Three shots from a gun that held seventeen plus one. Eleven shots left in that SR9. Two more shots cried out. Nine shots remained. That dead man rested between her and a promised death.

The bodyguard tried to get out of the dinghy, get back to steady ground for a better shot.

She saw him come her way.

Two more gunshots rang out as she struggled to pry the gun out of the dead man’s hand.

Seven bullets left in that nine-millimeter. That was seven too many.

Her heart pumped fast enough to explode in her chest.

Another shot.

Six chances to send her on the express train to hell left inside his gun.

Heard him stepping back up on the landing.

The motor on the dinghy, she heard it try to start. The Lady from Detroit was trying to start the engine. While she screamed for the big man with the small gun to
blow her fucking brains out
.

Here.

Now.

Nausea gripped her, forced her to dry-heave again.

Saw him. Coming through the rain. Gun in one hand, pointing at her.

She was on her side, snuggled up to a dead man, that man her shield, closer to him than a bulletproof vest. That same rain falling into her face. Huge drops of water splashing into her eyes. Rain that was washing sand out of her braids, sand that tried to slip inside her eyes and blind her.

The dead man’s gun was in her hand.

She fired three times. Her shots missed. Down to fifteen chances to live to see another day.

He fired twice.

Down to four.

She fired once. Fourteen.

He fired twice, one bullet hitting concrete next to her head, his shots getting closer.

She fired once. Thirteen.

He fired twice.

Then he got in range, she saw he had a clear shot, a kill shot, and he fired at her again.

The last shot did nothing but make a click, that sound of emptiness swallowed by the storm.

His gun was empty. Seventeen plus one down to zero.

He reached inside his pocket, reached for a fresh clip.

She didn’t expect him to have a refill.

She sat up, gun in right hand, leaned over the dead body, elbow aching, left hand holding the weapon steady. She saw the man with the empty gun staring at her, an
oh shit
expression on his face.

An empty gun in one hand, a full clip in the other.

Being at the business end of a nine-millimeter made him hesitate.

Made him rethink his life in a flash.

Made him focus on what was important.

That look that said
No, I have family, I have kids, I have a mother, bills and taxes to pay,
his begging for sympathy, empathy, life. The three things they didn’t give her when she had come out of the water bleeding, wounded, cramping, dying. No sympathy, no empathy. No chance at life.

She fired. Missed. Adjusted for her pain. Fired again.

The second shot created a moon roof in the bodyguard’s head. His face remained painted with surprise and terror. Not ready for death. He had things to do. Places to go. People to see.

Not in this lifetime.

The lifeless body fell backward. Dropped into the dinghy. Dropped hard.

There was another urgent scream, the cry for help stolen by the storm.

Her body felt heated. Emotional. Her stomach like someone was blowing a balloon up inside.

That heat traveled upward to her throat.

She closed her eyes and retched, gave in to the nausea, again choking, again gagging.

When she finished she heard the motor on the dinghy struggling to start.

Eleven rounds left. Eleven chances to stay alive. Eleven chances to be free.

Could barely lift the light gun in her hand. Eyes clouded with tears and rain.

She looked toward the parking lot, toward the empty cars and trucks.

Each looked like freedom.

But she had to go the other way, toward the sea, toward the dinghy.

She took two uneven steps, stopped, bent with the pain, kicked off her shoe, let her foot move across the rugged concrete. Then the pain returned, a great pain that sent her down on the concrete.

The motor started as she struggled back to her feet, made it to her knees, crawled, scratched up her knees and the palms of her hands, did that until she made it to the edge, to where she could see the Lady from Detroit. The woman who had slept with her husband.

The woman who had insulted her and called her a cunt.

The motor to the dinghy was on. The engine strained. But the dinghy hadn’t been untied from the dock. It was anchored, struggled against a rope that wouldn’t break. Maybe the Lady from Detroit had expected the bodyguard to be victorious, to kill her seventeen-plus-one times, then return.

His dead body was inside the dinghy, had dropped and blocked her from getting to the rope.

Detroit looked up at her.

Saw a woman battered and bruised. A woman with a scratched, bloody face.

She looked down at Detroit.

Saw a woman in expensive jewelry and top-shelf clothing, a woman who would be queen.

Detroit stood up. She expected the politician to surrender, to concede, to beg, to apologize.

The Lady from Detroit surprised her.

She raised her right hand and pointed an SR9 at her. She had a goddamn gun. The Lady from Detroit had stashed one of the goddamn guns that had come from the Punjabi girl on her person; maybe the bitch had kept it inside her purse, didn’t pull it out until now, didn’t show her hand until she had to.

The politician fired the gun without hesitating. Fired as the dinghy struggled against the docks, fired as she struggled to keep her balance. Fired seventeen plus one times.

Missed seventeen plus one times.

The gun was light, but the trigger weight was too much for her to handle. And they were separated by more than point-blank range. At this distance, skill was more important than luck.

The dinghy struggled against the rope, struggled to get free, strained and went nowhere.

The female assassin stared at the politician who held an empty gun like it was an empty threat. A woman who had fucked her husband, had beaten her, then tried to kill her.

She raised her gun. All bullets, no words. All the talking had been done.

The politician scampered, moved like she was about to dive into the sea.

Then she stopped. Came to an abrupt halt like she was trapped.

The reason she had stopped became apparent.