From Manhattan with Revenge (The Fourth Book in the Fifth Avenue Series) (15 page)

“Who is this one?” the woman asked.

The two social workers, both 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, fascinated, 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.”

“Yes, one of us does,” one of the social
workers said. “It’s protocol.”

“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, e-mails, 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 passed, she started to allow
people into her life, which Carmen urged her to do. She now had two close
friends, Valencia and Shenika, who 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. Had they shot the video? If they had,
 
it must have been of her passed out. But
since she was unable to say what they wanted, what had they said for her?

Worse, how did they threaten Carmen? And
if Carmen hadn’t received the video already, she knew that she soon 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?

CHA
PTER
EIGHTEEN

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 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 stared 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 car 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.”

CHAPTER NINE
TEEN

Liam Martin’s video of the Kester family
was sent directly to Carmen’s cell—and only to her cell—via
Spocatti, the moment after he received it from Liam and viewed it himself. He
attached to it a message:
This should help. Stay in touch. I’ll do the same.

Carmen was sitting in one of the red
chairs in Babe McAdoo’s gilded parlor and thinking about Babe’s love affair
with Katzev and what that meant to her in this situation when her phone buzzed
and beeped in her pocket. She removed it, clicked it on, viewed the screen.
Babe and Jake turned to her in interest.

“It’s a message from Vincent,” Carmen
said. “A video is attached.”

Once again, Babe and Jake got behind
Carmen and they watched the video together.
 
For the first time, they saw the Kester
family and noted how weary they looked. No one in the video was smiling. The
way it was shot made it look as if they had been forced to assemble, not gather
naturally. One of the men fidgeted. Another stared at the screen in
hostility—over what Carmen could only wonder. Still, she was happy to see
that nobody here looked as if they were sending home a nice greeting to Iver.

“He met them,” Jake said. “I thought he
was just going to photograph them from afar so Katzev would know that we had a
man there who was ready to take them out if he didn’t release Chloe.”

“Spocatti chose him,” Carmen said,
watching. “So, of course, he’s good. Let’s pay attention.”

Next came the money shot, along with the
unexpectedly perfect piece of audio that they could use against Katzev: “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.”

It appeared as if they were being
threatened when that wasn’t the case at all. They were just pissed off at Iver,
who apparently lived his big life with little thought of assisting them.

“That must be Katzev’s mother,” Babe said.

Carmen nodded. “Likely.”

“How do you want to proceed with this?”

“We send it to Katzev,” Carmen said. “We
threaten him with it. We tell him that if he doesn’t let Chloe go now, we will
kill his family and send him a video of that, as well.”