The Givenchy Code (16 page)

T
he shot came from somewhere off to the left, and Stryker reacted immediately, grabbing Mel’s arm and pulling her down to the floor with him. She yelped, her hands over her face, and he wasn’t sure if she was terrified or confused. No time now for comfort, though. He pressed his palm to her back. “Don’t move,” he whispered as he shrugged the laptop case off his shoulder and onto the floor. He was back up almost immediately, still crouched behind the relative safety of the coat check counter.

The blast had echoed through the room, but Stryker didn’t think they could count on anyone outside having heard and coming to investigate. The bar was too well insulated and too far off the beaten path at this time of night. No, they were on their own, and now he peered over the counter, his own gun at the ready.

There.
A tall figure melding into the shadows, moving slowly toward them. A quick movement as Lynx fired again. Stryker hit the floor, but not before getting off a round of his own. Above him, the wood of the counter splintered. “Go,” he hissed to Mel, urging her to crawl along the length of the alcove and then following her.

“Do you have a mirror?” he whispered when they were a few feet away.

“My bag.” She nodded back the way they’d come. Stryker cursed softly, then moved slowly back to retrieve it. He could have made do without a mirror, but he didn’t want the bag found in the morning, a glaring testament to their presence.

He brought it back, and she retrieved a small cosmetic mirror. He held it up so that it just peeked over the bar. Lynx was still approaching with care, his body hidden now by an ornate wooden beam. Stryker considered whether he could get off a good round but decided he couldn’t. He’d wait for a clear shot. Lynx might not realize the alcove extended so far, which meant he’d be expecting Mel and Stryker about six feet from where they were currently crouched. A small advantage to be sure, but at the moment Stryker would take whatever advantage he could get.

He angled the mirror again, this time scoping out the hall that ran perpendicular to the hallway Lynx was currently moving down. Short and narrow, this hallway seemed to be primarily some sort of service route. It hit a dead end a few feet away, but there were two doors, one just across from their alcove and a few feet to their right.

Lynx was far enough along that he’d be able to see them. But he might not be expecting them. If they could get out and to that doorway…

They’d have to risk it.

There was no hinged panel in this part of the counter, which meant the only way out was over. “I’m going to lift you,” he whispered. “There’s a hall, then a door. Right about there.” He pointed in the general direction. “I’ll be right on your heels. Move fast and don’t look back. Understand?”

She nodded, her eyes wide but determined.

“It’ll be okay,” he said, hoping he wasn’t making promises he couldn’t keep.

She pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “For luck.”

“Ready?” He put his hands on her waist. “On three,” he said, then counted down. On cue, she jumped, and he pushed, hoisting her up to the countertop with ease. As she rolled over and down, he pushed up and got off two covering shots, both coming at the same time Lynx’s bullets hit the wall beside them.

One jump and Stryker was over as well. He rolled to the far side, getting off a shot as he did, then realizing that Mel was crouched on the far side, her back pressed against the wall. “Go on,” he yelled.

“It’s locked.”

“Shit!” He whipped around and aimed at the lock, then got off three shots in quick succession. “Go!” She turned and went, racing through the door as he followed, pausing only once in the doorway to fire one shot back the way they’d come.

On the other side, he took her hand. As they ran, he glanced around, trying to get his bearings. They’d come back into the main room, and his attention was immediately drawn by the ornate bar and the magnificent stone fireplace. Neither one would make a decent hiding place. Once again, they’d been sitting ducks.

They rounded a corner, and he paused, pulling her behind him as he peered back the way they’d come. So far, clear. “We need to get out of here. There has to be a back entrance. When you worked here, did you come in a service entrance?”

“Um, maybe. I don’t remember.” She turned, her gaze taking in the place, then pointed. “That way.”

“You sure?”

“Hell no.”

“Good enough,” he said, and they moved quietly in the direction she’d pointed. They reached another set of locked doors, and Stryker cursed. He didn’t have time to pick the lock, but he didn’t want to call attention to them by firing, either. If there was an exit through those doors, though…

It was a risk they’d have to take. He stood back and fired. He pushed open the doors, tugged her through, and—

“Oh, shit,” Mel said.

Stryker echoed the sentiment. This wasn’t a service entrance—it was a balcony. They were two stories above street level, too high to safely jump, and Lynx would have heard the gunshot. Any minute, he’d burst through that door.

“Fire escape,” she said. “There’s got to be one, right?”

He nodded, and they raced to the stone rail closest to the wall, hoping to find the metal grid of an escape route. Nothing. Just a large refrigerated truck parked beneath them, probably delivering supplies to one of the restaurants in the station.

He turned, planning to cross the area and check for an escape route on the far side. He didn’t get that far. The doors to the balcony were still open, and he could see the assassin’s form through the leaded glass, backlit by the lights of the city.

There was no other way.

“Jump,” he whispered.

“What?”

“That truck is probably at least twelve feet high. If we hit the roof, we should be able to manage without breaking anything.”

“Stryker, I don’t think I—”

“It’s either the truck or him,” he said.

She glanced toward the door, her teeth worrying on her lower lip, then she pulled herself up onto the rail and swung her feet over. He followed suit, taking her hand. He looked at her, she nodded, and together they jumped.

They landed with a clatter on the roof. If Lynx didn’t know where they’d gone, he’d surely figure it out. “You okay?”

“I think so,” she said.

“Then keep moving.”

They kept low and ran toward the front of the truck, climbing down to the top of the cab, then sliding down the wind-shield and over the engine compartment. He hit the ground first, then held his hands up to help her down. The sharp crack of a bullet hitting metal sounded behind them, and he realized that Lynx had fired toward Mel, hitting the truck’s hood and barely missing her head.

They didn’t hesitate. Instead, they raced under the balcony, grateful for the cover, then eased through the open doorway. They were in some sort of service corridor, well below Lynx and The Campbell Apartment, but they weren’t out of the woods yet.

Carefully, they crept through the passages, easing back and out of sight when a man in blue coveralls and pushing a dolly passed by on his way back the way they’d come. After a few minutes, they emerged though a metal door into the main concourse. A sign to the left announced the way to the S train, a subway train that shuttled between Grand Central and Times Square.

That would do nicely.

Stryker kept a close eye on their surroundings as they moved, the gun ready but hidden under his jacket. They made it onto the platform and raced onto the waiting train. He led them to seats facing back the way they’d come, and then he sat back, watching every face that appeared in the doorway.

No Lynx.

The doors closed and the train jerked, starting to pull away from the station. And then, there he was. That flash of dark hair and those precise, penetrating eyes. Like Stryker’s, his gun was hidden. But Stryker knew it was there, under the assassin’s jacket.

Stryker tensed, fearing that Lynx would see them through the subway car’s window and fire across the platform. He didn’t move, though. Just stood there, anger and defeat playing across his face as the train picked up speed and left the station, leaving the assassin behind.

For the moment, anyway, they were safe.

Beside him, Mel was still holding his hand, her grip so tight that his fingers were numb.

“It’s okay,” he said. “We’re safe now.”

“For how long, though?”

“I don’t know.” He wanted to tell her a soothing lie, but he owed her honesty.

She let go of his hand, and he swung his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close.

“Where to now?” she asked.

“From Times Square, we’ll catch a cab to the Upper East Side. There’s something I want to check out.”

T
odd’s apartment.

I couldn’t believe it when Stryker told me he wanted to go back there.

I cringed at the thought and tried to sink back into the taxi’s tattered upholstery. I didn’t want to see the place again.

More, I didn’t want the image of Todd’s head—bloody and battered—filling my thoughts. I hugged myself, the warm sting of tears filling my eyes as I thought about Todd. I hadn’t been in love with him, but somebody would have been. He was a good guy at heart, and he hadn’t deserved to die. I mean, he gave me shoes, didn’t he? If he were still alive, he’d go on. Marry a paralegal. Have three kids and a dog, and maybe even a hamster.

Some asshole had taken that away from him. An asshole who wanted me dead, and for no better reason than the fact that watching me die was the ultimate score in some sick mind-fuck of a game.

God.

And then I remembered Stryker’s phone call and the latest information—that the car with the clue was registered in Todd’s name. It didn’t make sense.

I waited until we were almost there, then I sucked up my courage and turned to Stryker. “Why?” I demanded. “Why go back there?” I didn’t really want to ask the question. Mostly because I didn’t want to know the answer.

Stryker didn’t answer. He just looked at me, his eyes filled with regret and pain.

Gooseflesh prickled on my arms. “You think Todd’s behind all of this,” I said. “You think he wants me dead.”

H
e couldn’t be right. Todd couldn’t really be at the heart of all this.

Could he?

As I had the last time we’d come here together, I hesitated in the doorway, venturing in only when Stryker signaled for me to close the door. “I don’t want anyone to know we’re here,” he said, and I had to agree wholeheartedly with that.

Stryker was at the bed, crawling around on his hands and knees, looking for God only knows what. I waited about forty seconds, then my curiosity got the better of me.

“What exactly are you looking for?”

He shook his head. “Not sure.”

I frowned and started looking around myself, figuring I’d know it when I saw it. “Who do you think cleaned the place up?”

“Lynx,” Stryker said. Then he looked up at me. “Or Todd.”

I frowned, not liking the direction of Stryker’s thoughts. “I saw blood. I saw…” I trailed off, closing my eyes as I sucked in a deep breath. “I saw
brains.
He can’t…I mean, how could he…there’s no way he could have survived.”

Stryker didn’t answer, but I could tell from his expression what he was thinking: Things can be faked, and death can be an illusion.

“No,” I repeated, shaking my head. I moved to Todd’s desk and started opening drawers at random. “He can’t possibly—”

I clamped my hand over my mouth and took a step back.

“What?” Alarm filled Stryker’s voice, but I couldn’t answer. I could only stare down at the blotter on Todd’s desk…and the code I saw there:

“He saw the message you received, right?” Stryker asked, his voice tight.

I nodded, mute, still trying to process what my eyes were seeing. “This is just gibberish,” I said. “At least, it is if we’re using the same code key.”

“Maybe he was just doodling,” Stryker suggested. “Could he have drawn this after you two got back here? After he saw the message?”

“I don’t—” I cut myself off as understanding dawned. “No.” I closed my eyes, wishing the answer could be different. “I would have seen. We were together the whole time.”

It was possible, I supposed, that Todd had gotten up after I’d gone to sleep in the bathtub, ignored the fact that I was no longer beside him, and settled himself at his desk to draw pigpen codes…then spread bills and notes and photocopied pages of depositions over his blotter to partially hide what he’d been doing. Possible, but not probable.

“I’m sorry,” Stryker said.

I just shook my head, feeling like my brain was moving through Jell-O. This didn’t feel right. I
knew
Todd. Didn’t I?

“Check the bureau,” I said. “He keeps his passport in the back of the top right-hand drawer.” I’d discovered that little tidbit last Christmas. Todd’s Christmas bonus had been over thirty grand, and he’d danced around his apartment, waving his passport and promising me a trip to Paris. We’d never gone, of course. Lawyers who get thirty grand bonuses don’t have the time to spend it.

I watched as Stryker rummaged around, pulling out various bits of clothing until I was certain that he’d removed a volume of material that simply would not fit in that drawer.

“Not here,” he said. A muscle in Stryker’s jaw twitched as he faced me. “He could be out there, planning on skipping the country when—”

“Search the rest,” I said.

“Mel—”

“Do it.”

And while he did the chest of drawers, I started searching the desk and the rest of the apartment. I was looking in the toilet tank when Stryker joined me. “Nothing,” he said. “And I searched the kitchen area, too. It’s not here, Mel. Face it. He’s—”

I held up a hand, silencing him even as I sagged down into a nearby chair. I understood the ramifications. I hardly needed Stryker’s blow-by-blow explanation of why he thought my ex-boyfriend was playing this deadly game with me.

No passport, no Todd, and no blood. It definitely didn’t look good. All the little bits were falling into place. The only thing that was missing was why.

I asked the question aloud, hoping that Stryker would have a theory. Without a motive, I could still believe that it wasn’t Todd behind this. Could still believe that my ex wasn’t fucking with my mind…and my life.

Stryker didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just looked at me with sad eyes.

“It doesn’t make sense,” I said, my words spilling out to fill the void. “He was there when I got the message. I saw his face. He was totally perplexed.”

“People can act.”

“Not Todd,” I said, feeling surly. “And why would he? I mean, yes, we broke up, but I’m not that much of a prize. I mean, it’s hardly like me leaving is going to prompt him to go postal on me.”

The corner of Stryker’s mouth turned up. “I don’t know, Mel. I think you underestimate your appeal.”

My cheeks burned at the backhanded compliment, but I wasn’t inclined to be distracted. “I’m serious, Stryker. Todd doesn’t even play online games.”

“Maybe he started and didn’t tell you.”

I frowned at that but kept on. “But why kill me? And flee the country? That’s what you’re thinking, right? Because of the passport? Why do that? He’s got a great career here. He’s with a huge firm. He’s saving money like crazy so he can buy a place.” I swept my hand around the apartment. “Not bad for a studio, but he could afford a lot more. He’s saving every dime so he can buy into a co-op.”

“That’s what he told you?”

“Yeah.” I frowned, something in Stryker’s voice giving me pause. “Why?”

He pulled open the middle desk drawer and took out a yellow pad of paper and what looked like a credit card statement. I took the statement first, gasping when I saw the balance—over fifty thousand—and realized that the last payment reflected was less than the minimum. Keep that up, and Todd was never going to pay the thing off.

“He must’ve hit a rough patch,” I said. Stryker was holding out the yellow pad. Reluctantly, I took it.

“Very rough,” Stryker said, nodding at the pages I now held.

I glanced down, then closed my eyes, as if that could block the truth of what I was seeing: a list of creditors, each with a five-digit amount next to it. And the finance company for the Jaguar was listed right along with everything else.

Stryker waved the credit card statement I’d looked at earlier. “This is just the tip of the iceberg.”

I grimaced. I’d had no idea Todd was in such bad financial shape.

“It gets worse,” Stryker said.

I found that hard to believe, and I wasn’t about to ask. I kept my mouth closed and just looked up, sure Stryker would tell me whether I wanted to hear it or not.

“Flip the pages,” he said.

I did, at first finding nothing at all. Just blank yellow sheets. I riffled down toward the bottom of the pad, and a bit of black ink caught my attention. I slipped my finger in and marked the spot, then turned the top pages away. I was staring at a full page of doodles. Someone (presumably Todd) had taken a black felt tip and drawn typical doodle-type things. Mazes and concentric circles. Phone numbers turned into three dimensional designs. And there, among the fat, bold pen strokes, was something else. Something I really didn’t want to see.

In one corner: PSW

And in another: MLP

I swallowed, numb.

“At least we know a little bit more about our enemy,” Stryker said. He wasn’t being unkind, just practical. Didn’t matter. His words still cut me like a knife.

“No. This can’t be right. He must have been framed,” I whispered. “Someone left this stuff in his apartment to make us think…I mean, I just can’t believe Todd did this.”

“It’s possible,” Stryker said. “But—”

“You don’t believe it.”

“Honestly? I don’t know what to believe. Someone’s running this show, though. That much I know for certain.”

“I want to get him,” I said. My voice was low, and I hardly recognized myself. “Whoever’s behind this, I want to nail his ass to the wall. You’ll help me?” I said to Stryker.

“I’ll do more than that,” he said. “I’ll hold him down while you kick the shit out of him.”

And that, I thought, sounded like a pretty wonderful plan.