The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (47 page)

35

Jessica felt the cold barrel of the gun against her temple.

“What do you want?” she asked.

Aaron signaled. The man behind her covered her mouth with his free hand. He pressed her hard against him. Jessica could feel hot spittle on her neck. It was hard to breathe. She twisted her head back and forth. Her chest hitched as she scrambled for more air. Panic seized her.

Aaron rose off the couch. The black man moved a step closer, his gun still pointed at her.

“No reason for preliminaries,” Aaron said calmly. He took off his white jacket. He wore no shirt underneath, revealing instead the hairless, bodybuilder physique. He flexed a little. His pectoral muscles made ripples, like a stadium crowd doing the wave. “If you can still speak when we’re through, make sure you tell Myron it was me.” He cracked his knuckles. “I’d hate for my work to go unaccredited.”

“Should I break her jaw?” the man with the fishnet asked. “So she can’t yell or nothing.”

Aaron thought a moment. “No,” he said. “I kind of enjoy a good yell now and again.”

All three men laughed.

“I go second,” the black man said.

“Like hell,” the man with the fishnet countered.

“You always go before me,” the black man whined.

“All right, we’ll flip for it.”

“You got a coin? I never carry change.”

“Shut up,” Aaron said.

Silence.

Jessica struggled feverishly, but the man in the fishnet was too strong. She bit down and managed to skim one of his fingers. He yelped and called her a bitch. Then he bent her head back in a way it was never supposed to go. Pain shot down her spine. Her eyes widened.

Aaron was about to unbutton his pants when it happened.

A gunshot. Or more than one gunshot. It sounded to Jessica like only one, but it had to be more. The hand pressed hard against her mouth slackened and slid off. The gun against her temple dropped to the floor. She turned just enough to see the man behind her no longer had a face or even much of a head. He was dead well before his legs realized it and let him cave onto the floor.

At seemingly the same time, the back half of the black man’s head flew across the room. He too fell to the floor in a bloody heap.

Aaron’s speed was uncanny. Seemingly before the first bullet even hit its target he had rolled into a crouch and whipped out a gun. Everything—the shots, the men going down, Aaron rolling to safety—had taken less than two seconds. Aaron came up aiming his gun at Win, who aimed his right back. Jessica stood frozen. Win must have come in through the terrace window, though how he could have gotten there and how long he’d been there Jessica could not say.

Win smiled casually and gave a half-nod. “My, my, Aaron, you’re looking rather buff.”

“I try to stay in shape,” Aaron said. “Nice of you to notice.”

The two men continued to aim their guns at each other. Neither blinked. Neither stopped smiling. Jessica had not moved. Her body quaked as though from fever. She felt something sticky on her face and realized it was probably brain matter from the man at her feet.

“I have an idea,” Aaron said.

“An idea?”

“For how to end this deadlock. One I think you’ll like, Win.”

“Do tell,” Win said.

“We both put our guns down at the same time.”

“So far it doesn’t sound very appealing,” Win said.

“I’m not finished.”

“How rude of me. Please continue.”

“We’ve both killed men with our bare hands,” Aaron said. “We both know we like it. A lot. We both know there are very few worthy adversaries in this world. We both know we are rarely if ever seriously challenged.”

“So?”

“So I’m suggesting the ultimate test.” Aaron’s grin grew brighter. “You and me. Man to man, hand-to-hand combat. What do you say?”

Win chewed on his upper lip. “Intriguing,” he said.

Jessica tried to say something, but her tongue would not obey. She just stood there, stone-faced; the thing that used to wear fishnet shirts bled without a twitch.

“One condition,” Win said.

“What’s that?”

“No matter who wins, Jessica goes free.”

Aaron shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Frank will get her some other time.”

“Maybe. But not tonight.”

“Fine then,” Aaron said. “But she can’t leave until it’s over.”

Win nodded at her. “Wait by the door, Jessica. When the fight ends, run.”

“But you have to wait until it’s over,” Aaron added.

Jessica found her voice. “How will I know when it’s over?”

“One of us will be dead,” Win said.

She nodded numbly. She couldn’t stop shaking. Both men were still pointing the guns at one another.

“You know the drill?” Aaron asked.

“Of course.”

Still holding the guns, both men placed their hand on the floor. At the same time, they twisted their weapons so that the barrel was no longer pointing at the other man. They both released their weapons at the same time. They both stood at the same time. They both kicked the weapons into a corner at the same time.

Aaron grinned. “It’s done,” he said.

Win nodded.

They approached each other slowly. Aaron’s grin spread into something fully maniacal. He got into some weird fighting position—dragon or grasshopper or something—and beckoned with his left hand. His body was sleek, all muscle. He towered over Win. “You forgot the basic premise of the martial arts,” Aaron said.

“What’s that?” Win asked.

“A good big man will always beat a good little man.”

“And you forgot the basic premise of Windsor Horne Lockwood III.”

“Oh?”

“He always carries two guns.”

Almost nonchalantly, Win reached into his leg holster, took out his gun, and fired. Aaron ducked, but the bullet still hit him in the head. The second bullet also hit Aaron’s head. So too, Jessica guessed, did the third.

The big man fell to the ground. Win walked over and studied the still figure, tilting his head from side to side like a dog hearing a strange sound.

Jessica watched him in silence.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Win continued to look down. He shook his head and made a
tsk, tsk
noise.

“What is it?” she asked.

Win turned to her, an almost shy smile toying with his lips. He gave a half-shrug. “I guess I’m not much for fair fights.”

He looked back down at the body and started to laugh.

36

Jessica didn’t want to talk about it. She wanted to make love. Myron understood. Death and violence do that to a person. The fine line. There was definitely something to that “reaffirming life” stuff after facing down the Grim Reaper.

When they were spent, Jessica lay her head on his chest, her hair a wonderful fan. For a long time she didn’t say anything. Myron stroked her back. Finally she spoke. “He enjoys it, doesn’t he?”

Myron knew she meant Win. “Yes.”

“Do you?” she asked.

“Not like Win.”

She lifted her head and looked at him. “That sounded a tad evasive.”

“Part of me hates it more than you can imagine.”

“And another part of you?” she prompted.

“It’s the ultimate test. There’s an undeniable rush to that. But it’s not like what happens with Win. He craves it. He needs it.”

“And you don’t?”

“I like to think I loathe it.”

“But do you?”

“I don’t know,” Myron said.

“It was scary,” she said. “Win was scary.”

“He also saved your life.”

“Yes.”

“It’s what Win does. He’s good at it—the best I’ve ever seen. Everything with him is black and white. He has no moral ambiguities. If you cross the line, there is no reprieve, no mercy, no chance to talk your way out of it. You’re dead. Period. Those men came to harm you. Win wasn’t interested in rehabilitating them. They made their choice. The moment they entered your apartment they were doomed.”

“It sounds like the theory of massive retaliation,” she said. “You kill one of ours, we kill ten of yours.”

“Colder,” Myron said. “Win’s not interested in teaching a lesson. He sees it as extermination. They’re no more than pestering fleas to him.”

“And you agree with that?”

“Not always. But I understand it. Win’s moral code is not mine. We’ve both known that for a long time. But he’s my best friend and I’d trust him with my life.”

“Or mine,” she said.

“Right.”

“So what is your moral code?” she asked.

“It’s flexible. Let’s leave it at that.”

Jessica nodded. She lay her head back down on his chest. The warmth of her felt good against his heartbeat. “Their heads,” she said. “They just exploded like melons.”

“Win doctors the bullets to maximize impact.”

“Where did he take the bodies?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Will they be found?”

“Only if he wants them to be.”

A few minutes later Jessica’s eyes closed and her breathing grew deep. Myron watched her drift into a sound sleep. She cuddled closer to him, looking small and frail. He knew what would happen tomorrow. She’d still be in some form of shock—not a dazed shock as much as a denial. She’d go about her day as though nothing had happened, straining extra-hard for normalcy but falling just short of achieving it. Everything would be just a little different than yesterday. Nothing drastic, just the little things. Her food would taste a little different. The air would smell a little different. Colors would have an almost indiscernibly different hue.

At six in the morning, Myron got out of bed and showered. When he came back she was sitting up. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“To see Pavel Menansi.”

“This early?”

“They’ll think Aaron took care of the problem last night. I might catch them off guard.”

She pulled the covers over her. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night at dinner. About the connection to the Alexander Cross murder.”

“And?”

“Suppose you’re right. Suppose something else happened that night six years ago.”

“Like?”

She sat upright, leaning against the headboard. “Suppose Errol Swade didn’t kill Alexander Cross,” she said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, suppose Valerie saw what really happened to Alexander Cross. And suppose that whatever she saw pushed her already battered psyche over the edge. She had already been weakened by what Pavel Menansi did to her. But now suppose whatever she saw was the ultimate cause of her breakdown.”

Myron nodded. “Go on.”

“And now suppose years pass. Valerie gets stronger. She makes a remarkable recovery. She even wants to play tennis again. But most of all, she wants to face up to her darkest fear: the truth of what really happened that night.”

He saw where she was going with this. “She’d have to be silenced,” he said.

“Yes.”

Myron slipped a pair of pants on. Over the past few months his clothes had begun a slow migration to Jess’s loft. About a third of his wardrobe now resided here. “If you’re right,” he said, “we now have two people who want to silence Valerie: Pavel Menansi and whoever killed Alexander Cross.”

“Or someone who wants to protect those two.”

He finished dressing. Jess hated his tie and told him to change it. He complied. When he was ready to leave, Myron said, “You’ll be safe this morning, but I want to move you someplace out of town for a little while.”

“For how long?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Few days. Maybe longer. Just until I can get this situation under control.”

“I see,” she said.

“Are you going to fight me on this?”

She got out of bed and pattered across the room. She wore no clothes. Myron’s mouth went a little dry. He stared. He could stare all day. She walked with the ease of a panther. Every movement was supple and marvelous and rawly sensual. She slipped into a silk robe. “I know this is the part where I’m supposed to get all indignant and say that I’m not going to change my life,” she said. “But I’m scared. I’m also a writer who could use a few days of solitude. So I’ll go. No arguments.”

He hugged her. “You’re always a surprise,” he said.

“What?”

“Being reasonable. Who would have thought?”

“I’m trying to keep the mystery alive,” she said.

They kissed. Passionately. Her skin felt wonderfully warm.

“Why don’t you stay a little longer?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “I want to get to Pavel before Ache realizes what happened.”

“One more kiss then.”

He stepped away. “Not unless you want to pack me in ice.” He blew her a kiss and left the bedroom area. Clumps of blood were stuck to the exposed brick wall by the door. Courtesy of Fishnet Lee’s head.

Outside, Win was nowhere in sight, but Myron knew he was there. Jess would be safe until they moved her.

Pavel Menansi was staying at the Omni Park Central on Seventh Avenue, across the street from Carnegie Hall. Myron would have preferred to go in with backup, but it was better Win wasn’t there. There had been a bond between Win and Valerie—more than just the family-friend variety. Myron didn’t know what that bond was. Win cared about very few people, but for those select few he would go to any lengths. The rest of the world meant nothing to him. Somehow Valerie had entered that protective circle. Myron would have enough trouble keeping his own rage in check. If Win were here—if Win were to question Pavel about his “affair” with Valerie—it wouldn’t be a very pretty sight.

Pavel was staying in room 719. Myron checked his watch. Six-thirty. Not much activity in the lobby. The floor was being mopped. An exhausted family was checking out. Three kids, all whining. The parents looked like they could use a vacation. Myron walked purposefully onto an elevator, like he belonged. He pressed the button for the seventh floor.

The corridor was empty. When Myron reached the door to Pavel’s room, he knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He tried once again. Nothing. He was about to go downstairs and try the house phone when a sound made him stop. He listened again. The sound was barely perceptible. He pressed his ear against the door.

“Hello?” he called out.

Crying. Faint. Growing stronger. The cries of a little girl.

Myron pounded the door this time. The crying picked up a little steam now, becoming more a sob. “Are you okay?” Myron asked. More crying, but still no words. A minute or so more of this and Myron began to look for the familiar sight of the maid cart and her passkey. But it was six-thirty in the morning. The maid wasn’t on her run yet.

Picking locks was not Myron’s forte. Win was a lot better at it. Plus he didn’t have the tools. Another cry from the room. “Open the door,” he shouted. The only answer was more cries.

To hell with it, he thought.

Leading with his shoulder, Myron pile-drove his body into the door. It stung him pretty good, but the lock gave way. The cries were still muffled, but for a moment Myron forgot about them. Sprawled across the bed was Pavel Menansi. His eyes were wide open but unseeing. His mouth was frozen in a surprised oval. Dried, dark blood was caked on his chest where the bullet had entered.

He was naked.

Myron stared for a few moments before the renewed cries snapped him out of it. He turned to his right. The sound emanated from behind the bathroom door. Myron moved toward it. There was a plastic Feron’s bag on the floor. The same kind they used at the U.S. Open. The same kind they found at Val’s murder.

The bag had a bullet hole in it.

In front of the bathroom door, jammed under the knob, was a chair. Myron kicked it out of the way and opened the door. A young girl was sitting on the tile, her knees pulled up to her chest. She was huddled in a corner against the toilet. Myron recognized her right away. It was Janet Koffman, Pavel’s newest protégée. Fourteen years old.

She too was naked.

Janet looked up at him. Her eyes were large and red and puffy. Her lower lip quivered. “We were just talking tennis,” she said in a dead voice. “He’s my coach. We were just talking about a match. That’s all.”

Myron nodded. Janet started to cry again. He bent down and wrapped a towel around her. He reached out, but she shrank away.

“It’s okay now,” he said, not knowing what else to say. “You’re going to be okay.”