Among Thieves (30 page)

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.

 

43

Gregor Stepanovich knew after missing with his first shot that he wouldn't get another. He had to leave. There was no point. The police and hotel security would be on him before he could kill Beck, or capture the woman.

He had turned and walked out of the front entrance of the Four Seasons as fast as he could, nearly shrieking with frustration that Beck had gotten away from him yet again. It took every shred of his willpower not to chase after Beck, shooting at him until his gun was empty.

What the hell was he doing here? Guarding the woman, obviously. Even so, Gregor couldn't believe Beck had wiped out three men he couldn't have known were coming. How does this fucking guy keep doing this?

He had lost another man. He assumed Kolenka's two men were also lost.

Markov would be furious. Kolenka? Who knows? This might send the old Vory over the edge. Good, thought Gregor. Kolenka has plenty of men. Maybe this will persuade him to send them against Beck.

Stepanovich vowed never to go after Beck, or anybody connected to him, without enough men to crush him. Next time, there would be no chance for Beck to fight him off. Stepanovich vowed to literally shoot Beck into unrecognizable pieces.

No one tried to stop the tall, raging Bosnian from leaving. He walked straight out the door, hailed a cab, and was gone before anybody could identify him as the man who had shot off a gun in the lobby of the Four Seasons.

*   *   *

They'd all piled into a cab on Second Avenue. Nydia directed the driver to her neighborhood up in East Harlem. Beck thanked Nydia again, dropped her in front of her apartment building, and then gave the driver directions for the long ride to Red Hook.

He sat on the right side of the cab's backseat. Olivia to the left. Beck didn't much want to talk, but he had to know how they had found her. Manny wouldn't be stupid enough to check her in under her real name. And Beck was sure he had rented the room for cash.

“You checked into the hotel with Manny, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then how did they know your name?”

Olivia paused. For the first time Beck heard her curse. “That fucking idiot, Raymond.”

“Raymond? Who's Raymond?”

“The manager.” Olivia turned to Beck. “Look, I know him. He comes on to me every time he sees me. Offers me discounts at the spa. Preferred rates at the hotel. I have lunch in their lobby café a lot. He saw me check in.”

“So you asked him for the preferred rate?”

“No. No. I specifically told him that”—Olivia made a quotation mark in the air—“I wasn't supposed to be there. That I was checking in under a different name.”

“What name?”

“I told them to put the room under the name Ellen Grey.”

“Ellen Grey?”

“I was thinking of Earl Grey. The tea. So I changed it to Ellen.”

Beck asked just to make the point. “Do you have a credit card under the name of Ellen Grey?”

“No.”

“He has your card on file?”

“I don't know. I've used it enough times in there.”

“For hotel rooms or the restaurants?”

“Both. I've stayed there a couple of weekends. And I've used my rate for friends. What does it matter? Manny paid cash. I told them I'd pay cash for incidentals. Told them I wanted privacy.”

“He probably used your card to credit you back the difference, trying to score points with you when you saw the nice surprise on your next statement. That automatically checked you in under your real name. Using a phony name for people calling around trying to find somebody doesn't change the hotel billing system.”

“Christ, I can't believe it. I could kill that idiot.”

“I should have made you go to a hotel where nobody knew you. It's my fault.”

“No. It's mine. But how did they find me?”

“Obviously Markov has connections to people who can access credit card records. And phone records and e-mails and blah, blah, fucking blah.”

Beck shook his head in disgust and slumped down in his seat, doing his usual inventory of where it hurt. His left elbow was going to be sore. There'd be the usual aches and strains in the aftermath of yet another fight. At least he hadn't hit anything with his hands. Just the butt of his gun.

When they arrived at the safety of the Red Hook building, Beck let Manny find a room for Olivia on the third floor and settle her down. He went straight to his room, showered off the sweat and blood from his two fights, took four Ibuprofen, and collapsed into bed.

*   *   *

Markov had continued to work and wait for Gregor's call to verify they had the woman. It was nearly two-thirty when his phone's ringtone pierced the quiet of his room at the Waldorf. Too long. Markov knew Gregor had failed, but he waited to hear the words, “They got away,” and then he cut off the call without saying one word in response.

He muttered a stream of Russian curses. And then his phone rang again. He was about to throw it against the wall rather than speak to Gregor, but the caller ID showed it was Ivan Kolenka. Kolenka sounded very calm, which made it all the worse. He told Markov, “We are going to solve this Beck problem now. Come see me.”

Markov checked his watch. Two thirty-seven, Wednesday morning.

“When?” he asked.

“Two hours. The place near the boardwalk where we met last time,” said Kolenka. “I want to know exactly how many reliable men you can put into this. Exactly.”

Kolenka broke off the call.

Markov called Gregor back and told him to come to the lobby of the Waldorf in one hour and wait for him.

Sixty minutes later, after showering, shaving, and changing into his last set of clean clothes, Markov walked out of his room, towels on the floor, toilet unflushed, his clothing bag over his shoulder, heading for the lobby.

 

44

Beck slept a dreamless sleep for just over five hours before his cell phone woke him.

He recognized Ricky Bolo's voice. Ricky always spoke in a low voice, out of the side of his mouth. He could have been in a secure facility in a sound-proof office with an encrypted scrambled phone, and he would still talk as if someone were standing right behind him.