Kill Me If You Can (19 page)

There are twelve
hundred and one rooms in the Royal Towers at the Atlantis Resort. Twelve hundred of them are just what you’d expect from a luxury hotel. But the twelve hundredth and first is beyond imagination.

The Bridge Suite is an expanse of ten rooms on top of the bridge that connects the two Royal Towers buildings. It overlooks the entire resort and marina, and at twenty-five thousand dollars a night, it’s the most expensive hotel suite in the world.

It’s where the Diamond Syndicate held their meeting.

Two men in dark suits picked up Nathaniel and Natalia at their hotel, drove them to the Atlantis, and escorted them to the Bridge Suite by private elevator.

Nathaniel was patted down, then both of them were body-scanned—first with a metal detector, then with an EMF meter looking for bugs.

So much for trusting me,
Nathaniel thought.

“You’ll wait in the other room,” one of the guards told Natalia.

He escorted her down a hallway while the other guard unlocked the front door of the suite and led Nathaniel into a lavish living room decorated in red, black, and lots of gold.

Six men sat on sofas upholstered in muted shades of silk damask. Nathaniel recognized the five Syndicate heads. The sixth man was a mystery.

Arnoff, the senior-ranking member of the Syndicate, spoke. There were no pleasantries, no foreplay, no invitation to sit.

“Did you know Zelvas was stealing from us?” Arnoff asked.

“No,” Nathaniel said. “When he delivered merchandise to our customers, he would always come back with the exact amount of money I expected. My ledgers were balanced to the penny. You saw them every week. It was months before I finally found out he was shortchanging the diamond merchants a few stones on every shipment.”

“Those merchants are our loyal customers,” Arnoff said. “Without them, we would be out of business. Every time he extorted a little bit from each client, he was doing damage to our reputation and goodwill.”

Nathaniel was still standing. “Absolutely,” he said. “That’s why I had him killed.”

“And what happened to the diamonds?” Arnoff asked.

“Unfortunately, they were stolen from Zelvas before I could retrieve them,” Nathaniel said. “But I have my people looking for them. I’m confident we’ll have them back soon.”

“That’s good to hear,” Arnoff said. “Very reassuring. Have a seat, Nathaniel. Make yourself comfortable.”

Prince lowered himself into a soft gold-and-white Queen Anne chair.

There was a brass samovar on the table in front of Arnoff, and he leaned across, turned the spigot, and filled a china cup with steaming aromatic coffee.

“Smells like home, yes?” He smiled. “It’s imported from Leningrad. Can I offer you some?”

“Thank you,” Nathaniel said.

“Liar!” Arnoff roared and lifted the samovar by the base, dumping the entire pot of scalding coffee on Nathaniel’s lap.

Prince screamed. He leaped up from the chair, grappled frantically with his belt, and dropped his pants to the floor. His thighs were already burned red, and he shoved both hands into his underwear and cupped himself, but nothing could relieve the scorching pain.

“Zelvas was stupid,” Arnoff bellowed. “We are not. He stole. You helped him.”

“No. I swear on my mother’s grave,” Nathaniel said, blinded by the searing pain. “I run the North American operation. Why would I steal from myself?”

“Because you’d be stealing from all of us.” Arnoff gestured to the other men in the room, all of whom nodded, corroborating the fact that they had been grievously wronged.

“Zelvas was the one who was disloyal,” Nathaniel said, sobbing. “As soon as I found out, I had him killed. You must believe me.”

Arnoff turned to the sixth man, the stranger in the room. “Do you believe this
svoloch,
Gutov?”

Gutov looked at Prince in disgust and spit out a single word.
“Nyet.”

Arnoff stood up. He was tall and muscular, with a perpetual tan and thick white hair that was combed perfectly in place.

“Anton Antonovich Gutov is your replacement. He doesn’t believe you. I don’t believe you. No one believes you.”

Nathaniel stood there, his pants around his ankles, his legs and genitals burning hot, his dignity and his dreams gone.

“You were the golden boy, Nathaniel,” Arnoff said, a hint of regret in his voice. “Another five years, and you would have been seated among us. But now, the gold is tarnished. The price of your mistake is ten million dollars. If you pay it, you can return to Russia and live out your days without threat from us. Your prior service has earned you that.”

Nathaniel dropped to his knees, more overcome by the blessed reprieve than the intense pain. “Thank you,” he said, weeping. “Thank you.”

I was desperate
to find Katherine before Chukov did.

I phoned, e-mailed, and texted. No whining, no pining, no
please come back, I need you
messages—even though that’s how I felt. I made it clear that the people who were after me could come after her and that I had to get her out of harm’s way immediately.

By midmorning I still had no idea where she was.

But the Fortress was battle-ready. Ty had set up a surveillance post on the roof that gave him clear visuals of all points of access to the building. Zach was on the first floor, waiting in his apartment to flank our enemies and trap them inside when they charged up the stairs. Adam and I were in my apartment, tactical harnesses strapped on, magazines checked, going over our points of cover one more time.

“Déjà vu,” he said. “Takes me back to Phantom Fury.”

“Not a place I want to go back to,” I said.

And yet I go back there in my head all the time.

Operation Phantom Fury had been part of the second battle of Fallujah. A year after Saddam fell, the insurgents had turned the city into a rat’s nest of booby traps, IEDs, and snipers. Adam, Zach, Ty, and I were attached to Third Battalion, 1st Marines—the Thundering Third.

Our mission was to take Fallujah back one block at a time.

I was leading a squad of nine men when we took on enemy fire from the top floor of the Qukayh Hotel. We ducked into an abandoned apartment building and raced up the stairs to get a better shot at the hotel
hajjis.
As soon as we made it to the roof, two of our guys were hit. The rest of us scrambled for cover, but it was only a matter of time before they’d either pick us off or hit the roof with mortar fire.

I was about to give the order to head back down the stairs, when the insurgents stormed through the front door and started heading up.

Pinned down by fire from above and with the enemy blocking our retreat below, we radioed for an evac team. Tank support was still six blocks away, trying to navigate through a maze of IEDs.

We were carrying two wounded, running low on ammo, and didn’t have enough cover to wait for air support.

There was only one way out. Down the stairs through a shitstorm of enemy bullets. I figured half of us would make it out alive. I was ready to go first.

I’d be dead if it hadn’t been for Middleson. Jody Middleson was nineteen, a kid from rural Kentucky who spent most of his free time thumbing through a dog-eared Bible, playing the harmonica, and writing home to his mother, father, and his four sisters. I’d never seen him drunk, never heard him curse, and rumor had it he was still a virgin.

“No, sir,” Jody said. “The squad needs you. I’ll go first.”

“Thanks, but it’s not your call, Private Middleson,” I said.

The kid had never disobeyed an order until that day.

He didn’t argue. He just pulled the pins on two grenades and ran for the rooftop entrance to the hotel.

I screamed at him to stop but he kept running, miraculously making it to the doorway without being hit.

But as soon as he opened the door, five insurgents riddled him with bullets. He dived forward, letting the armed grenades fall from his lifeless hands.

In all my years in combat, it was the finest act of courage I had ever seen.

The explosions rocked the building, and the insurgents were either killed or stunned enough for the rest of the squad to finish the job. An hour later, the tanks got through and cleaned up the snipers’ nest.

Jody Middleson was awarded the Medal of Valor.

I learned a hard lesson that day, one that neither the Ghost nor I ever forget. Consider every possible angle.
Think the unthinkable.

Adam was right. It
was
déjà vu. But this time, I was on my home turf, and I had no excuse for being trapped in a desperate situation.

I made a promise that afternoon in Fallujah never to lose another man to poor planning.

The Russians were coming. And we’d be ready for them. We knew we had one big advantage. No matter what Chukov threw at us, we still had the element of surprise.

“I’m not going to second-guess you,” Adam said, “but do you think this is the best idea?”

“What do you mean?”

“You let Chukov know where you are. We’ll win this battle, but these guys are like cockroaches. You squash one, and the next day ten more crawl out of the woodwork. These maniacs will keep after you until they get their money or kill you—or, most likely, both.”

“I have no choice,” I said. “I need to get their focus off Katherine.”

Adam shook his head. “All these years you’ve managed to keep the Ghost off everybody’s radar. But the way this is shaping up, the Russian Mafia will be chasing Matthew Bannon. You’ll be running for the rest of your life.”

“I’m not running anywhere. Not until I can convince the woman I love to run with me.”

“And if she says yes?”

I smiled at the thought. “They’ll never catch me. I’ve got plenty of money and the three best bodyguards on the planet.”

Adam put both hands to his heart and fluttered his eyes at me. “And the woman you love.”

I punched him in the shoulder. It was like hitting granite. I’m sure I felt it more than he did. “Are you making fun of the guy who signs your paycheck?” I said.

“No, sir. Just let me and the guys know if you decide to change your handle from the Ghost to the Hopeless Romantic.”

My cell phone rang. I checked the caller ID. It was Katherine.

I grabbed it. “Hello.”

I heard her say my name, but it was a terrible cell connection and she was sobbing uncontrollably.

“Katherine, what happened?”

“Leonard…Leonard Karns. They shot him. He’s dead.”

This was no coincidence. Karns was about one degree of separation from me—the same as Katherine. I had to get to her. “Where are you now?” I said.

“Subway station. I just got off the—”

And then the phone went dead.

“Damn it!” I turned to Adam. “They killed one of the guys in my art class. An asshole, but still. We’ve got to find Katherine. We’ve got to find her right now.”

I started to dial again, when my walkie-talkie crackled.

“Bartender to DJ, over.” It was Ty on the roof.

Adam answered. “This is DJ. Go ahead, Bartender.”

“I’ve got five dancers headed our way, looking to tango. They’ve come to the right place.”

“Roger that. We’ll start the music. Have Doorman let them in. Let’s do what we do best. Over and out.”

They arrived in
three cars—an Escalade, a Crown Vic, and a Mercedes S550—all black. They parked a block away, out of sight, but not out of camera range. Ty had a top-of-the-line Pelco surveillance camera pointed down onto Perry Street.

Adam and I went to the video monitor.

“Let’s see couple number one,” Adam said.

The two men in the Escalade were standing next to the car. Ty pushed the 22x optical zoom in on the first one, a black guy with a scar running from his left ear down past his collar and beyond.

“Umar Clarke,” Adam said. “Jamaican hit man. Operates out of Brooklyn.”

The camera panned to his partner. “Rosario Virzi,” Adam said. “Complete scumbag. And from what I hear, racist. Chukov must be desperate if he threw those two together.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s desperate,” I said. “He owes somebody a lot of diamonds.”

“Couple number two,” Adam said.

“Chukov likes to hire dirty cops,” I said as Ty panned to the two men in the Crown Vic. “The one in the FedEx getup is Nick Benzetti. Partner is John Rice.”

“
That’s
their play?” Adam said. “
Knock, knock. Who’s there? FedEx.
That’s a goddamn
insult.
Do they think you’re a complete idiot?”

“They probably figure all art students are as easy to pop as Leonard Karns. I guess I owe Leonard a debt of gratitude.”

The driver of the Mercedes stayed behind the wheel. The camera zoomed through the windshield, and I saw a familiar face.

“Chukov,” I said. “He must have the entire Russian mob up his ass to show up, but he’s not going to storm the castle. He’ll just sit there and watch.”

“You realize Ty could take him out right where he’s sitting?” Adam said. “Do you have any wiggle room in your
don’t clutter the neighborhood with dead bodies
policy?”

“None whatsoever,” I said.

“Okay, I’m headed back to the first floor. Once you’ve drawn them up here, Zach and I will box them in from behind.”

“Bartender to DJ,” Ty said over the walkie-talkie. “Cue the music.”

He pulled back to a wide shot. The four dancers were on the way.

Tango time.

Benzetti, the cop
in the FedEx outfit, entered the vestibule alone and rang my bell.

I responded on the intercom. “Who is it?”

“FedEx,” he said. “I got a priority envelope for Matthew Bannon. That you?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But I’m about to jump in the shower. Just leave it at the front door. I’ll get it later.”

“No can do, fella,” he said. “Needs a signature.”

“Who’s it from?” I said.

“Katherine Sanborne.”

“Damn,” I said. “I can’t come down. Do you mind walking up five flights of stairs?”

“No problem.”

I buzzed him in. He opened the door. He was oblivious to the CCTV camera, and I watched him slap a piece of duct tape on the latch. The door closed but it didn’t lock. A few seconds later, the other three followed him into the building.

Zach called in from apartment 1. “FedEx man and two others on the way up. They left a sentry at the front door.”

Thirty seconds later, Benzetti rapped on my apartment door. “FedEx.”

“Door’s open,” I said.

Three of them stormed in—Benzetti, Clarke, and Virzi—pistols drawn and suppressed and ready to shoot. But there was nobody to shoot at. They slowly fanned out around my living room.

“Where are you?” Benzetti called out. “I got deliveries to make.”

“Be right out,” I yelled. “I’m in the john.”

Hearing my voice, Virzi pushed Benzetti aside and rushed to the bathroom door. Planting his boot inches above the doorknob, he splintered the jamb and sent the door crashing inward. I put a bullet through his head before the door even struck the wall. He never crossed the threshold.

As soon as Virzi hit the floor, I could see the Jamaican charging toward me from behind him. I fired, but the bastard was quick. He lunged straight at me, his body going horizontal, narrowly ducking my shot. He plowed into my midsection and we both went down in a heap on my bathroom floor.

Benzetti, more accustomed to shakedowns than shoot-outs, began firing in our direction. I’m sure he didn’t care if he killed the Jamaican, too, as long as he kept himself alive. But Umar Clarke cared. When a bullet shattered the tile an inch above both our heads, his eyes grew wide and the scar on his face seemed to flush. He turned his attention away from me and fired a pinpoint shot at Benzetti. The bullet passed through Benzetti’s thigh and the cop fell back against the wall.

Benzetti staggered toward the door, and the Jamaican turned to me. We had both held on to our guns, but his knee was pressing mine to the floor. I desperately grabbed his wrist, twisting the barrel of his gun away from my face. He pressed so hard, I felt the trigger guard of his Beretta jammed under my nose. He strained to turn the barrel a few more inches so he could fire a 9-millimeter slug through my left eye.

If he had been smart, he would have hauled back and pistol-whipped me. It might have stunned me and given him the edge he needed to get off a shot.

But he wasn’t smart. He was strong. Stronger than I was, and he knew it. And as he forced the barrel of the gun closer and closer to my face, he grabbed me by the jaw and twisted my head, trying to angle it for a better shot. I could see he was determined to win this one on brute strength alone.

Macho bullshit. Not my style. Certainly not my father’s style. Rule number one according to Dad was “There are no rules. Do whatever you have to do to win. Kick him, pull his hair, gouge his eyes out, fight like a girl, bite him.”

I bit him.

With his giant palm pressed under my jaw, his fingers digging into my face, I got my teeth around the first joint of his thumb and clamped down hard. Real hard. They passed through the skin, through the flesh, and right between the joint of his first knuckle. I spit the end of his thumb straight into his eye.

The Jamaican yanked his bloody hand to his chest, and as his body lurched backward, his knee lifted off my gun hand.

I shoved my gun under his nose and fired. At point-blank range, one bullet was more than enough. Covered with blood and bits of gray matter, I reeled out of the bathroom and toward the door in pursuit of Benzetti.

His leg was bleeding and he was limping toward the top of the steps.

Adam was standing directly below him on the fourth-floor landing, a 9-millimeter Glock in his hand. Benzetti fired his gun. Adam fired his. The only difference was that Adam took the time to aim. Benzetti toppled forward and bounced noisily down the stairs.

Rice yelled up from the first floor. “Nick. Nick. You okay?”

Then I heard him running toward us. I counted ten frantic steps before I heard the whispered pop of Zach’s gun.

It was over. And since everybody used suppressors, there was almost no noise. Just death.

The walkie-talkie sprang to life. “Bartender to DJ. Chukov knows there’s trouble. One of his guys must have entered the building with a wire or an open cell connection. He jumped in the Benz and drove up. He’s right in front of the building. I can drop him.”

“Stand down, Bartender,” Adam said. “Hold your fire.”

I expected Ty to say, “Roger that,” but instead he came back with “Oh, shit. Matt, it’s Katherine.”

I grabbed the walkie. “What do you mean, ‘it’s Katherine’?”

“Big as life,” Ty said. “She’s walking down Perry, headed straight for us.”

Zach’s voice came on. “Matt, I’m going out there to get her.”

“Stand down, stand down,” Ty yelled. “Chukov has a gun trained on the door. He’ll drop you before you get to the top step.”

“Where’s Katherine now?” I said.

“Thirty feet from the building,” he said. “Oh, shit—
he sees her.
No question—he recognizes her.”

So much for my good-neighbor policy. I keyed the walkie. “Take him down,” I said. “Now.”

“I don’t have a shot,” Ty yelled. “He grabbed her!”

Zach jumped in. “I’m going after him. Cover me. Oh, shit—he has her, Matthew. He took Katherine in his car. She’s gone.”