Twisted Justice (40 page)

“He has a gun!” the lady from Carrollwood yelled. “Get down!”

“Molly!” the mother screamed as she dropped the heavy suitcase. It came toppling down the stairs, glancing off the top of the head of the hefty guy who now lay on top of Molly. Rushing headlong, the mother landed spread-eagle on top of the security agent. The other man, slighter and older than the one carrying the kid, still weighted down by luggage, slipped and landed on top of the mother. Molly now lay buried — protected — by the three adults.

“Get up,” the hefty guy grunted as he squirmed to extract himself from the weight of the two Palmers.

“Don't leave,” screamed the mother as the big man struggled out from under the pile. “Stay with Molly! You were hired to protect her!”

He stood up and pulled out a shiny silver gun.

Manny waited under the stairwell. So the big hunk was a bodyguard. Figured. Shoulda factored that in earlier. The lady who had seen him and screamed had disappeared beyond the lobby door and for a moment he considered his options. Go up and kill all four of them? Wait for them to come down and go for the kid? Or just get the fuck out of there? Then he heard steps again from above. Cautiously, he peered up to see the bodyguard descending, his arms outstretched, holding a forty-five like he knew how to use it.

Manny leapt up, deciding on the “get the hell out of there” option. As he pushed through the door to the lobby, he heard a shaky female voice.

“Stop there!”

Manny glanced around. The lobby seemed deserted, but it was difficult to be sure through all the smoke. The draperies by the windows still smoldered, and the foul odor of the stagnant water from the sprinkler system that had left the lobby drenched was nauseating. Smoke irritated his eyes, and he hesitated, still gripping the Sig in his right hand at waist level.

The woman repeated the warning. “Stop!”

Then the door from the stairwell flew open. There was a “crack” as the heavy door struck Manny's right hand hard, knocking his gun onto the lobby's wet marble floor.

The Sig skidded across the floor, and Manny launched himself sideways toward Celeste as she emerged. She'd hesitated too long, not pulling the trigger of the Beretta she held shakily in her hand.

Manny flung himself at Celeste and in one smooth action, spun her around, securely pinning her in front of him as he wrenched the Beretta away. With the barrel of her own small weapon pressed against Celeste's temple, Manny turned to face the big bodyguard who'd crashed through the lobby door.

“Drop it now,” he rasped at the startled agent. Quickly, Manny calculated his options. Right now his only thought was to just get out. Every fraction of a second threatened his escape. Any minute now, firemen and cops would be all over. The fire alarms still screeched.

Forget the kid. He could use the lady as a shield. Maybe shoot her depending on what went down at the car. If not, take her out later. But he really did need to get to his Sig, concerned that it could be traced to previous hits. He loved that weapon, and superstitiously used it almost exclusively, against his professional judgment.

“Do it now,” Manny said as the bodyguard let his forty-five drop slowly onto the marble floor.

Still holding Celeste securely in front of him with one arm and her Beretta in his other hand, Manny kicked the shiny forty-five to a corner of the lobby.

“Okay, lady,” he shouted in Celeste's ear as he quickly prodded her to where his Sig lay, “pick it up!” He nudged the barrel of the Beretta against her head as he loosened his hold on her so she could bend down and put the weapon in his left hand. “Hand it to me real careful.”

Celeste bent down and lifted the gun from the wet floor. As if
in slow motion, the weapon sailed through the air in the direction of the hunk in the blue blazer.

The startled security guard caught the gun and fumbled with the silencer to adjust it in his hand.

Still holding Celeste in front of him, Manny cursed and swung Celeste's Beretta, aiming at the exposed chest of the guard. He pulled the trigger. An unimpressive click. The security guard then aimed the Sig at Manny who'd pulled Celeste even closer to shield his torso.

“Motherfucker!” Manny spat before firing once again with the same impotent result. Tightening his hold on Celeste, he turned sideways, placing her between him and the guard. “Let's go, bitch!” he shouted over the scream of the alarm system.

There was a muffled “pop” and Celeste sunk like a dead-weight through Manny's arms. He dropped her on the spot and sprinted out of the lobby to the exit, waving Celeste's pistol as he went through the door. Two unlucky misfires from the bitch's gun or an empty chamber? Manny struggled to think. Could he shoot his way outta here? Play innocent with an unloaded gun? Hell, he hadn't even fired. Too fucking late.

Sirens and flashing red lights were converging from every direction, cops crawlin' out of everywhere. On the ground, cuffed and surrounded by more cops than he could count, he heard the surly voice of authority read him his rights as the dark-haired lady lay motionless on the lobby's pinkish marble floor.

He cursed himself — and Frank Santiago.

“You're right, Chuck,” Laura jumped at Chuck's suggestion, “let's just go get them!”

“I don't think airport security will stop us as long as we have their mother here, Chuck,” Greg offered. “Might be another story if it were just you and I. Good thing you came, Laura.”

“Sshh,” said Chuck. “Did you hear that?”

“Paging Mr. Greg Klingman.” A woman's voice emanated from the public address system. “Paging Mr. Greg Klingman. Please go to the nearest airport phone.”

“What the —?”

“Gotta be important if they tracked you here,” said Chuck with a frown. “Hopefully it didn't register with Nelson.”

Greg loped toward the nearest phone. Chuck's eyes roamed the vicinity, constantly returning to Steve as he surmised that he'd heard the page when he turned back for a prolonged, very deliberate look at his sons. With a distraught look on his face, he appeared to say something loud enough to attract the attention of the woman ahead of him in line, who turned in obvious agitation.

“Excuse me?”

“What the hell is going on? That guy with the ponytail's been up there for ten minutes,” Steve growled. He'd been sweating nonstop since Lopez dropped him off at the airport entrance.

She nodded. “I know. I don't know why it's taking so long to check in.”

There were still six people ahead of him. And what about that page? He listened for it again. Greg Klingman? Could that be the same Klingman from that damn Tampa law firm? At this point it didn't matter, he needed to get through the line pronto, stay clear of Santiago, and find an out-of-the-way place to wait with the boys until the flight boarded. How in the hell did that damn law firm find out he was here? He needed time to process what Lopez had told him. Could it be bullshit or did they have enough to charge him with Kim's murder? Could Lopez make it stick? What awful shame he'd suffer if the world found out he'd let Laura go down the way he had. Fuck, the whole world was caving in on him, and all he wanted now was a new life with Mike and Kevin. Steve's eyes darted around as he stood helplessly in line. He had to cut forward in line fast, but how?

And how had it happened, how had he shot Kim that night? She was so scared when he got there, asking him to show her how to use that thirty-eight. When he started to, the damn thing just went off. Kim went down. He'd wiped any prints off the gun with his shirt and fled out the back door. Then to his horror, the police found Laura there and blamed her. What could he do? There was no going back, not now, not ever. He had to get on that plane. Lopez was right — it was a mistake, an accident.

An accident.

It took a few minutes to find a phone. It was now 6:43 p.m. and Greg had to move fast. Anything could happen — this was Laura's window to get her boys back.

“Greg, it's Rob,” said the excited voice as soon as Greg picked up the page. “You need to know what's happened. Is Chuck with you?”

“Bad timing, Rob. Things here are about to pop.”

“Greg, it's about Celeste, and —”

“Celeste? I don't have time right now. I know she's upset, but —” “She's just been shot, Greg. At the condo on Amelia Island. All
hell's breaking loose. Some guy, a hired hitman looks like, apparently went after the Palmer girl.”

“Celeste was shot? What are you talking about?”

“The girl's okay, but Celeste took a hit.”

“Huh? How could this …” Greg stuttered. “Celeste at the condo? She didn't even know the Palmers were there.”

“The details are just coming in, but Greg, your fiancée was a real hero up there. Saved the kid. You know she packs a Beretta?”

Greg was speechless.

“Listen, don't worry. She's on her way to the hospital in Jacksonville. And Greg, they say she's asking for you, so —”

“She wants to see me? Is it serious?”

“Touch and go, but they're taking her to the operating room.”

“Operating room? What —”

“Apparently, Celeste went after this guy with her own piece. It misfired, or it wasn't loaded, or something, and the hitter grabbed her. Chuck's guy fired the shot that hit her, trying to stop the other guy.”

“Good God, Celeste had her gun? She hates that thing so much she won't even let me show her how to load it. Listen, I'll be there, Rob. Tell her I'll be there.”

“Will do. What's the situation there, anyway?”

“Situation?” Greg repeated dully. All he could see was his beautiful Celeste, imagine her bleeding, hurt, needing him.

“Has Nelson taken off with the boys?”

“Uh, no, not yet. Look, Rob, get word to Celeste that I'm on the first flight out of here. Tell her I love her. Tell her —”

It wasn't until Greg heard shouting that he looked over and saw that Laura and Chuck were not where he'd left them. Still holding the phone, he craned his neck in an attempt to find the source of the commotion developing at the ticket line. Steve Nelson seemed to be in the center of some angry people. Where were Chuck and Laura? Looking here and there, Greg finally saw Laura running over toward Mike and Kevin. Chuck was walking purposefully in the opposite direction, toward Steve.

Frank Santiago chose that moment. Dressed in nondescript khakis and a plain white tee shirt with a Detroit Tiger baseball cap pulled down over a longish blond wig and black sunglasses, he slowly approached the angry group just as a Northwest agent stepped in.

“You just can't cut the line,” said a stocky woman in a loud, angry voice.

“We've been waiting longer than you,” said her husband.

“Such a rude young man,” said someone behind Steve.

“I have a sick child!” shouted Steve as he pushed away the hand of a burly man blocking him from reaching the ticket counter. “I've got to check in early so I can give him his medicine.”

“Sir,” said the pleasant young gate agent as he made his way to the center of the controversy. “What's the trouble here?”

Literally dripping with sweat, Steve lied, “I gotta get through. My kid —”

“Wait your turn, mister,” said the stocky woman as she planted herself directly in front of Steve.

“Okay, okay.” Steve put up his hands in surrender and the young agent nodded affably, walking back toward the check-in podium.

Feigning a look of curiosity, Frank Santiago nudged his way closer until he stood beside Steve. Quickly and carefully aiming his weapon to a spot just below Steve's left rib cage at an upward angle, he pulled the trigger. There was a loud “pop,” like a champagne cork. Steve slumped and slid to the floor, falling against the husband of the loud, stocky woman. Everyone from the airline agent and clump of irate passengers to merely curious bystanders looked first at each other, then down at Steve. As the group's gaze focused on the bright red blood seeping through Steve's light blue polo shirt, all activity in the airport seemed strangely still before a few women began to scream.

In less than a minute, Frank was in the waiting car. The clock registered 6:46 p.m. Hat, glasses, wig, and gun had all been tossed into
the trash can outside the exit doors. Mission accomplished. He'd be on I-94 before the cops figured what the hell was going down and in Chicago in time to catch the Delta flight back to Florida. Another identity, another change of clothes for the flight, and no one would even suspect that he'd been anywhere near Detroit.

As he swung the Fairlane around the corner, only feet away from the airport exit, he heard the sound of sirens. They were coming from everywhere. Then, to his horror, the huge steel apparatus next to the exit gate came crashing down. Airport security vans came at him from every direction. He was trapped. Without a fucking gun. Trapped.