The Betrayer (30 page)

He was concerned for his brother and thought that perhaps privacy was what the kid needed most now. He was also concerned about the hours, at the least, that lay between himself and Haley making their escape from the city — the earlier this began, the earlier he and Haley would be free to leave.

But what was really motivating him to action was his knowledge that the sooner Jeremy was safely tucked away in a room — with Johnny or Cat between him and the only door — the better for all of them.

Like the sobs continuing to echo in the room, Jeremy’s recent words were still echoing in Johnny’s head.

Someone has to make him pay. Someone has to stop him.

Jeremy had run off, and headlong into danger, before. There was always the chance he would do it again.

In the name of the woman he lost.

“Actually, I’m going to call Fiermonte now,” Cat said. “That way I can give him the names. Who knows, maybe he knows something about them already. Or maybe he can make some calls and find something out on his way here.”

“Once we get a room, I’ll let you know the number,” Johnny said. “When you get back with the CD, send Jeremy to us. We’ll watch him till you’re done.”

“The sessions were a half hour each, and Jeremy said he had four, so that’s two hours for Donnie and me to listen to all of them. Can you guys wait that long?”

“Yeah.”

Cat looked at Haley, then at Johnny. “Thanks for coming back,” she said. “Into the city, I mean. And for sticking around like this.”

“No problem,” Johnny said. He nodded toward their brother. “Keep a close eye on him.”

“I will. And if you guys need to slip out after, then do it, I understand. Do what you have to do. But maybe check in once in a while, let me know how you are. Okay?”

“That might be the best thing. For you, I mean.”

“Is that why I haven’t heard from you over the past year? You stayed away for my sake?”

Johnny nodded.

“I don’t know what it is you’re hiding from,” Cat said. “It must be bad if you felt you had to go to Dickey for protection. But whatever it is, whatever happened, whatever you did, I don’t care. Just like I don’t care what happened last night. You’re my brother. You’ll always be that, no matter what. And I’ll always be there for you, no matter what.”

Johnny rode with Haley in the elevator. It was just the two of them all the way down. He felt weak, and suddenly there was a pain in his collarbone for which he couldn’t account. Haley watched him closely. He assured her that he was okay, but she wasn’t buying it. She wore an expression of concern that bordered on frustration.

“Not much longer,” he said to her as they passed the first floor. “I can make it. Promise.”

He stood in the back of the lobby as Haley walked to the front desk. He had instructed her to ask for one of two rooms — either 829 or 629, the rooms above and below the one they’d just left. The desk clerk didn’t ask why, simply smiled and began to check the computer. It took a moment, but it was determined that although 629 wasn’t available, 829 was. Haley paid for the room with the cash Dickey had given Johnny.

Afterward, she and Johnny rode up to the eighth floor. Once they were in the room, Johnny texted the number to Cat.

She replied seconds later that Fiermonte was on his way.

Nothing left to do, then, but wait.

Johnny sat down on the couch. Haley stepped to him and placed the back of her hand against his forehead.

“You have a fever,” she said. “I should get you to bed.”

“No, we’ll put Jeremy in there. I need to be between him and the door.”

“Then at least lie down.”

She eased him down onto the sofa. He wouldn’t have been able to do so without her help, that much was clear. His knife was clipped to his belt. She removed it, placing it on the coffee table, then went through the bedroom and into the bathroom. She held a washcloth under cold water till it was soaked. Returning to the sofa, she laid the folded compress across Johnny’s forehead.

She had done all that she could and felt now a sudden and overwhelming sense of helplessness. The man who had saved her life — who had spent the past year keeping her safe from outward threats as well as her own fears — was falling apart before her eyes. She thought of calling her brother and asking him to come to New York. He could watch over her and Johnny while Johnny healed, help her move Johnny when he needed to be moved. But the earliest he could get here was fourteen hours from now, and by then she and Johnny should be long gone, no? Out of the city, at least. Maybe fourteen hours from now they’d be on the train to Chicago, on their way to
him
,
to hide out in his apartment. As a professional boxer, her brother had worked with a number of corner men — men who were skilled at stopping bleeding and experienced with battered ribs. She imagined one of these men taking care of Johnny, bringing him back to full health, and quickly. She imagined her Johnny being as good as new in no time.

Till then, though — till they got to her brother — she would have to take care of him. Make decisions, choose the route out of the city, be his crutch, if necessary.

She knew she had what it took to do that.

And if she didn’t, she would find it within her.

Cat pocketed the cell phone, then returned to the bedroom, where Jeremy was lying down with his forearm draped over his eyes. She brought him a glass of water and one of her pain pills.

“It’ll at least help calm you,” she said.

Jeremy swallowed the pill without a word, then draped his forearm over his eyes again. His crying had stopped, but this was, Cat knew, more of a case of her brother shutting down than anything else. Like he had done before. Years ago, when he was still a boy and Cat barely a woman.

Eventually, Cat left Jeremy alone and stepped out into the living room. In anticipation of escorting Jeremy to the UPS Store around the corner, she removed her Sig from the top drawer of the bureau and quick-checked it. Not an easy thing to do with only her left hand, but she managed. Then she slipped the weapon into its holster and clipped the holster to her belt.

On her right hip, not her left, where she usually placed it.

Standing at the window that overlooked Twenty-Seventh Street, she noticed that the city was beginning to darken. It was too early for sunset, so she looked up and saw that rain clouds were gathering.

It wasn’t long after this that Fiermonte appeared on the sidewalk below. He rounded the southeastern corner from Fifth, was heading for the hotel’s entrance at a steady pace and talking on his cell phone.

He ended the call and pocketed his phone as he stepped inside.

In the abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn, Vitali woke on his cot and saw that the one across from him was empty.

He sat up fast, ready to hunt down his partner, but then he heard sounds coming from the makeshift bathroom — water running and a long, frustrated gasp, like someone drawing in air through gritted teeth. He rose and made his way through the maze of half-walled rooms to the bathroom.

Rachel had left the door open. She was leaning over a small sink stained with black dye. Her short hair was wet and dark. A towel was around her neck, catching the blackened drops that were rolling down the sides of her face like sweat. She had stripped down to avoid staining her clothing and wrapped another towel around her torso. Vitali remembered dressing her with Smith, who hadn’t bothered with undergarments.

Rachel looked at his reflection in the cracked mirror mounted on the wall above the sink.

“I heard sounds,” Vitali said. He glanced at the open duffel on the tile floor.

“The dye is getting into the cuts on my scalp. It stings.”

Vitali nodded, said nothing at first, then offered, “Do you need help?”

“I can manage.”

He looked at her a moment more, then asked, “How long will this take?”

“I’m almost done.” She removed the stained towel from around her neck and began to scrub-dry her hair. “Did he call?”

“Not yet.” Vitali stared a bit more, then finally left the bathroom and returned to his cot.

A few minutes later he heard the sound of a blow-dryer. She must have had one in her duffel. A few minutes after that, she appeared in the doorway of their room. She was still wearing only the towel, her jeans and blouse hanging over one arm, the duffel in her other hand. Her hair was now Bible black. She tossed the duffel onto the floor and her clothing on top of it.

Vitali noted how different she looked with black hair. It was by no means a disguise, but her skin did appear paler than before, her features more angular — to the point of seeming harsh, almost ugly. And while her short blonde hair had been combed neatly, her new black hair was spiked like a punk rocker’s.

So maybe she was a pro after all, he thought. Despite her failure last night, maybe she had value.

This only made him want to break her even more.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to drop the towel, but before he could say anything, his cell phone beeped.

He read the incoming text, then said, “It’s from Smith. He says it’ll be another two hours, at least.”

Rachel nodded. But she didn’t move, simply stood there, holding his stare.

Vitali knew what this meant.

He told her to drop the towel. She waited, then did. It fell to her feet. She faced him boldly, and he admired her for that.

He also felt the rush he always felt when he was about to dominate another being.

A lesser being.

He scanned her body. He didn’t move from his cot, wanted her to come to him, wanted her to offer herself, to be his for the taking. She seemed to understand this because after a moment she crossed the small room, standing just beyond his reach and looking down at him.

Neither spoke. A mutual standoff. Eventually she submitted, took the two remaining steps, and knelt before him. His legs were closed, so she parted them, moved between his knees, and began to unbuckle his belt. She undid the fly of his jeans and lowered the zipper, then reached in and removed his member.

It was large, but she was expecting that. Though it wasn’t yet fully erect, the moment she took it into her mouth, stroking its underside with her tongue, it swelled quickly to full hardness.

She’d pleasured strangers in this manner many times before, men of all ages and all types, for money or some other gain. And though she knew this probably wouldn’t make any difference at all when it came time for him to kill her — he was a troubled young man, yes, that much was clear, but he was also a pro — it was worth a shot.

Men, after all, were slaves to their desires. Would this hulking Russian be any different?

Maybe he would hesitate just long enough for her to get the upper hand and kill him before he could kill her.

As if reading her mind, the Russian whispered, “Do it as if your life depends on it.”

She’d heard men say things like this before — worse things than that, in fact. Dirty talk, most of it stupid, though sometimes vile, almost always revealing something about the mind and heart of the man speaking it.

This, however, more hissed than spoken, carried the ring of truth.

So she did what he had told her to do, performed wildly, hungrily, getting him off quickly. Afterward, he sat on his cot and watched as she dressed. Black jeans and black turtleneck sweater now. Again, she looked significantly different from the way she had looked when they first met.

He watched, too, as she removed two folding knives from her duffel, clipping one to her belt and sliding the other into her right hip pocket.

Dressed, Rachel sat on her own cot and faced the Russian. They were like prisoners sharing a cell, nothing to do but kill time. She asked him where he was from, and to her surprise he answered. Maybe it was the truth, maybe it wasn’t, but that wasn’t the point. She began asking other questions then — everything she could think to ask, anything that would create even the slightest illusion of intimacy between them.

Anything that might cause him to hesitate even briefly once this job was done and there was but one thing left for him to do.

One task left to perform.

His reason for living, from what she knew about him.

If not for her employer, and her vow to never fail him, she would have made her escape by now. She would have killed the Russian when he had fallen asleep, then slipped quietly out of this building and simply disappeared.

But her employer — the man who made her who she was now — was a man one didn’t cross. As was, she assumed, the man he had loaned her out to, the man who had saved her last night and brought her to that motel, stripped off her bloodied clothes, and bandaged her head.

The man whose face she had seen.

No, I will see this job through, she thought. Get it done, play this Russian’s fool for as long as it takes, be on my toes and, when the time comes, act in self-defense.

Act preemptively, if need be.

She knew what would save her in the end was the fact that her employer had invested too much in her to allow her to be sacrificed. He would take her in, protect her from any possible fallout caused by the Russian’s death.

She had to believe this, had to trust the man who made her who she was, trust that he would assure the man whose face she had seen that he had nothing to fear, that there was no reason for him to send men to Detroit to kill her.

She had to trust, too, that her employer had the clout to stop this man, whoever he was.