From Manhattan With Revenge Boxed Set (22 page)

“Who is this one?” the woman asked.

The two social workers, each women, followed her into the
living area.
 
“This is Chloe,” one
of them said.
 
She mouthed, but did
not say the word,
disturbed
, which Chloe caught, and which the woman
furrowed her brow at, as if what they said was insensitive, cruel and
inappropriate, which is it was.

The woman reached out a hand, which Chloe shook.
 
“I’m Carmen,” she said.
 

“I’m Chloe.”

“So, I hear.
 
You
know, for a fall afternoon, it’s a lot warmer than I thought it was going to be
when I got dressed this morning.
 
Otherwise, these pants would have been history.
 
I’m having an ice cream at the shop next
door.
 
Feel like joining me?”

Chloe, facinated, nodded.

Carmen addressed the two women.
 
“The ice cream shop next door?
 
I’d like to buy her a cone.
 
Of course, I understand if you need to
come along with us.”

“One of us does,” one of the social workers said.
 
“It’s protocol.
 
I hope you understand.”

“Of course.”
 
She
looked at Chloe and rolled her eyes so only Chloe could see.
 
“So, how about a cone?
 
I’m buying.”

It was the beginning of their relationship, during which time
countless letters, emails and phone calls were exchanged.
 
Carmen visited at least once a
month.
 

As the social workers came to know Carmen and especially her
money, protocols slipped.
 
Sometimes, Carmen took Chloe shopping.
 
Or they’d go to a movie.
 
Another time it was just lying on beach
towels and sunning themselves in Central Park in bikinis while listening to
dance remixes on the radio.
 
The one
constant in their relationship is that they always found time to talk.
 

Sometimes it was just girl talk.
 
Sometimes it was how Chloe needed to
improve her grades at school.
 
Sometimes Carmen would teach her how to deal with bullies.
 
Sometimes they just laughed.
 
As their relationship deepened, Chloe
started to feel that even though she’d probably never be officially adopted,
Carmen had adopted her.
 
The enthusiasm
she showed each time they met in person wasn’t faked.
 
Chloe would have picked up on it.
 
She would have smelled the fakeness just
as easily as she once smelled the alcohol and pot on her mother and her
boyfriend’s breaths.
 

They were friends—good friends—and through that
friendship, Chloe started to think that certain things did matter.
 
Receiving better grades was one of
them.
 
Carmen was correct.
 
If she wanted a better life when she
left here, she needed to go to college.
 
Getting good grades was critical for that, so Chloe started to focus on
her studies and her grades improved.
 
As the years past, she started to allow
people into her life, which Carmen urged her to do.
 
She now had two close friends, Valencia
and Shenika, whom also came to know and love Carmen.
 
Things were better than they used to
be.
 
In a year and two months, when
she turned eighteen, she knew she could leave this place and step into
something better.
 

And that’s what she planned to do.

*
 
*
 
*

It was the slap across her face that jolted her awake.
 

Startled, she raised her cuffed hands to her cheek and blinked
into the light above her, where a shadow of a man’s face was inches from her
own.

“I told you to wake up,” he said.
 
It was the Russian.
 
“You’ve been down long enough.”

Her head hurt.
 
Her
cheek stung.
 
She looked at the
camera across from her and remembered.
 
They wanted a video of her.
 
Something about her crying out to Carmen for help.
 
When she refused, they cold-cocked
her.
 
She must have passed out.
 
Her head and her lips ached.
 
She could taste blood in her mouth.
 
What did they shoot on video?
 
Obviously, it was of her passed
out.
 
But since she was unable to
say what they wanted, what had they said for her?
 

Worse, what did they say on that video?
 
If Carmen hadn’t received it already,
she knew that soon she would.

And then she remembered what else they said to her.
 
About Carmen being an assassin.
 
Is that really why she was here?
 
Clearly, they were using her to get to
Carmen, but could it be true?
 

Was Carmen an assassin?

CHAPTER EIG
HTEEN

Aberdeen, Scotland

It was the older man who lifted his hand when he past the farm
that made Liam Martin rethink his strategy and turn around.
 
The idea came to him quickly, he thought
it through quickly, and he acted quickly because he knew that he was right.

He drove back to the farm and pulled the MKX off the B979 and
onto a long dirt road that was sided on the right by a weathered wood
fence.
 
In front of him, off in the
distance, was a large white farmhouse that was likely more than a century old.
 
From a distance, it looked in passable
shape.
 
But up close, he could see
it was in desperate need of repair.
 
It looked as if years had passed since it was freshly painted.
 
The dark green shutters at the windows
were faded, the front port sagged, a window was cracked and the roof was
questionable at best.
 

Behind it and to the right were seven massive red barns lined
in a row, one behind the other, as if they were oversized dominoes laid on
their sides and ready to be shoved over, perhaps by a stiff wind.
 
In his rearview mirror, he could see a
tornado of dust rising up from the SUV’s wheels and announcing his visit.
 
When he slowed midway up the drive and
stopped, the dust rolled over the car to the point that for a moment, he
couldn’t see.

When the air cleared, he looked out his tinted right window and
saw hundreds of sheep being herded by several border collies and by eight men,
one of whom was the man who waved to him when he drove past a moment ago and
who looked at him now, along with the others.

Liam Martin stepped out of the car, his friendly face appearing
above the hood before his hand went up and waved to the group, who started in
his direction with curious but pleasant expressions.

“Hello,” he called.
 
“Is this Kester Farm?
 
Of the
cheeses?
 
I didn’t see a sign.
 
If this isn’t it, I apologize for
trespassing.”

The older man was closest and came forward with a businesslike
smile.
 
He was thin, black hair,
pale complexion, eyes rimmed with fatigue but bright with welcome.
 

Liam knew what he was thinking.
 
They made cheese here.
 
Did they also sell it here?
 
Was this person stopping by to praise
them for their cheese?
 
To buy
some?
 
Liam was certain this wasn’t
the first time that someone had stopped by to sing their praises or to buy
their cheese.
 
And since it was
their livelihood, anyone was a potential customer or already a loyal one.
 
Best to treat them like a friend,
particularly with a house in that condition.

“This is Kester Farm,” the older man said.
 
He came around the MKX and shook Liam’s
hand.
 
“A’m Sholto Kester.
 
Hou ar ye?”

The air stank of manure so badly that Liam was reminded of his
own youth, when he was raised by his grandparents on a farm in Witney, where
they raised cattle.
 
When he was
eighteen, seeing no life for himself on the farm, Liam went into the Marines,
emerged as a Royal Marine and then was recruited for the darker career he
enjoyed now.
 

“I’m fine, thanks,” he said.
 
“I’m a friend of Iver’s.
 
He told me that if I ever was in
Aberdeen, to drive by this way and have a look at where he grew up.
 
We’ve been friends for a few years
now.
 
We did a deal together in New
York.”

“Whit’s yer name?”

“Michael Blake.”
 
It
had been his alias for years.
 
Not
unlike himself, it sounded distinctly British.
 
“So, this is where you make the cheese
Iver talks so much about.”

“He talks about the cheese?”

“He does.”
 
Liam
looked around.
 
“Beautiful land.”

“Thank ye.”

He was aware of the others walking over, including the old
woman, who wore a pair of jeans, wellies and the sort of practical layering
that wouldn’t hinder her work.
 

He wanted this over with and checked his watch.
 
“I’m catching a plane in a couple of
hours to go back to New York, but since you’re so close to the airport, I came
by between flights to take a photo of the farm to show Iver that I’ve been
here.
 
Do you mind if I take a photo
of you all?”
 
He snapped his
fingers.
 
“Better yet, would you
like to say hello to Iver yourselves?
 
That would be brilliant.
 
I
have a small video camera and know that he’d be thrilled.
 
Are you game?”

They all looked at each other and then nodded their
agreement.
 
They seemed interested
in the prospect of saying hello to Iver, who visited only once each year and
who rarely called and never wrote.
 
They started to gather around each other.

Liam went to the rear of the MKX and pressed a button on his
key to lift the back gate.
 
Inside
the small leather bag were three different video cameras.
 
One was made for professionals, the
other two were more pedestrian.
 
He
looked for the least intimidating of the lot—a white Flipcam—and
came around with it, checking to make sure the battery was charged.
 
It was.
 
Better yet, the camera shot in 1080p.

“Iver rarely comes to visit, you know?”

It was Iver’s mother, now standing in the center, who made the
statement, her brogue not nearly as thick as Sholto’s.
 
He looked at her weathered face and saw
that through the farm toughness was a trace of sadness in her eyes at the
mention of her son.

“I’m sorry, he doesn’t,” Liam said.
 
“Maybe this little video will make him
feel guilty about that.”
 
He smiled
at her.
 
“Maybe I can use it to
persuade him to get on a plane and come home.”
 

“That would be good,” she said.
 
“Been over a year now.”

“He won’t come,” one of the younger men said.

“None of you know that,” she said.
 
“Pay attention.
 
I’ve got something to say to Iver.”

That intrigued Liam.
 
He pointed the camera at them, said “Go!,” and pressed the red button to
record.
 

None of them smiled for the camera.
 
They just stood there,
shoulder-to-shoulder, each weary at the end of a long day’s work.
 
Covered in dirt and manure, brown grass
and mud stuck to the bottom of their shoes, Iver Kester’s family smelled like
shit and looked worse.
 

They peered into the lens as if they were looking straight into
Iver’s eyes.
 
What Liam Martin saw
was a mix of longing to see Iver again, and also anger that it had been so long
since he’d visited.
 

Or, as far as he could tell, given them any financial
assistance.

He was about to ask one of them to say something when Iver’s
mother broke the silence.
 
She
stepped forward and held her hands out at her sides.
 
“You should be here now, Iver.
 
Take this man seriously and come
home.
 
Things aren’t good here.
 
Things are desperate.
 
We need you now.
 
Not tomorrow.
 
Now.
 
Before it’s too late.”