Worth Dying for (A Dying for a Living Novel Book 5) (6 page)

Finally, I settle upon, “Protects her
from
?”

“You.”

“Me! Why in the world does Rachel need protection from me?”

Rachel

I
’m skipping and singing through Central Park. It feels so good! Until Gideon grabs me by the elbow and whirls me around to face him.

“This is not a game!”

I wrench my arm free. “You don’t own me.”

His face crumples. “I’m sorry. You frightened me back there.” He jabs a finger over his shoulder in the direction of the station we left behind several blocks ago. “You utilized your power in the open without any regard for the consequences.”

“You’ve got your device. Unless it’s stopped working, we’re fine.”

He puts his hands on his hip. “Sure, it may be a matter of the officers convincing others of what they saw—”

“If they saw anything at all—” I interrupt.

“Even if there is no digital evidence, that’s not the point,” he says, running one hand through his hair. “We want to appear weak.”

“I’m not weak.”

He removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “The idea is to not let anyone know what you can do unless you have no choice.”

“We had no choice,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

“We did. We could have waited until we learned who they were and what they wanted. It’s good to have a sense of what someone doesn’t know before you show them your cards, love.”

I scowl at him and his utter cluelessness. “I don’t know if your mother covered this. Maybe you only have snakes and jackals in Afghanistan, but in America, we don’t go willingly with the first strange man who asks.”

“You do if that man has a big toy that you want. Or enough money.”

“You’d crawl into a crocodile’s mouth to see if he has a gold tooth!” I snort. “And
I’m
the reckless one!”

Gideon looks away from me, surveying the park. I know he’s trying to regain his composure as well as evaluate our situation.

The park is full of people despite being the middle of the day and winter. Women jog with large dogs at their sides. A couple of men walk arm in arm. A hobo sleeps beneath a tree with a puffy black trash bag under his head as a pillow, three bare toes protruding from the end of a worn boot.

Gideon stops a gaggle of kids under an oak tree beside a row of benches.

“Can I interest you three in a magnificent business proposition?” he asks them in crisp, accented English.

The youngest girl with thick eyeliner and a skateboard under one hand grins at him. Though she is at least as tall as I am, I don’t feel the same murderous rage I did for the woman on the subway with the coffee.

“I like to party,” she says, stepping forward from her friends. “What’ve you got? X? Speed?”

“I made a bet with my friend here that you wouldn’t trade clothes with us. I bet her four thousand dollars that you wouldn’t trade!”

The three kids frown and step back.

“Told you,” I say, playing along. “Pay up!”

“No, no,” Gideon begs in false desperation. “She hasn’t even properly refused me yet.”

One of the girls frowns at us. “What kind of scam is this? Screw this. Let’s go.”

I force a laugh. “Pay up sucker.”

“Wait!” Gideon cries out as they turn away. “I’ll give you and your boyfriend each a thousand dollars if you trade clothes with us.”

Gideon pulls out a large money clip and the kids’ eyes double in size. The friend who was offered no money at all, given that neither Gideon nor I could fit into extra small garments, swore.

“$1500,” the girl says, looking up from the clip into Gideon’s eyes.

“A business woman,” Gideon says, stiffening. “Of course you are. $1250, and that’s my final offer.”

She shakes her head. “$1500 firm. You’ll save $1000 than if you lost the wager, and you’ll have the satisfaction of being right.” The girl turns her eyes on me then. “Besides I wouldn’t be caught dead in
that
for anything less than $1500.” She gestures at my beautiful magenta dress and petticoat.

I scoff. “This is Versace.”

“It’s hideous.”

“You’re one to talk!” I wave my hand up and down her body. “What do you call this? Dumpster diving chic?”

They turn to leave and Gideon blocks the path that would lead them into the tunnel.

“$1750 each. Compensation for my lady’s poor manners.”

“Sold!” the girl exclaims, her face lighting up. “But I keep the board and my underwear.”

“Of course,” Gideon says and begins to count out the money into their outstretched palms. He stops halfway through the promised amount and motions for them to strip. “Half now. Half after.”

I assume that there is a good reason for all of this, so I strip down to my underwear, leaving the scarf wrapped around my head. Both Gideon and the kids stare at me for several heartbeats.

“This is the opposite of leopard print heels,” I moan. I should be getting nice new things, not giving my nice things away. I wiggle my fingers at the girl. “I’m not getting any warmer here!”

She looks around the park wildly and then rolls her eyes. “Fuck it, whatever.”

She thrusts her clothes at me and then steps into my dress. She scowls. “God, there’s so much air up
there
. How can you stand it?”

Her friend giggles. “I’d pay $1500 to see you in a dress!”

“Why do you keep your face covered with that scarf?” She casts a look at Gideon. “You’re not one of those Arab women, are you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” the lanky boy says. He trades his shirt and hoodie for Gideon’s sweater and button up shirt. They seem to prefer going piece by piece in their exchange. “She wouldn’t have torn all her clothes off in the middle of Central Park. And that’s like a
scarf
scarf, not a hijab or whatever.”

“Give us the scarf,” Gideon says, waving his fingers at the friend.

“You didn’t give me $1500!” she protests.

“$200 then.”

“$500.”

“Oh come off it, Bev. Your stupid scarf isn’t worth $20.”

“My grandmother made this scarf!”

“Who cares? Get her to make you another.”

“She’s dead. And the yarn in my scarf is worth more than your Goodwill resale which you just got $1750 for!”

“Fine,” Gideon huffs. “$500 for the dead grandmother’s artwork.”

The girl tosses the scarf to Gideon with so much enthusiasm that I’m fairly certain she never even loved this grandmother or her collection of expensive yarn.

“I’m freezing,” the girl tugs at the bottom of my dress—her dress—still clutching the petticoat in one hand as if she’s unsure what to do with it. “Can we go now?”

Gideon counts out the rest of the money, and they scamper off hooting and hollering.

“Just how much money are you carrying on you?” I ask.

“About ten thousand. I have a few cards under aliases, but I wanted to change our clothing quickly to make us less recognizable.”

When they are out of sight, I switch the girl’s rainbow scarf for the one I’ve been carrying. Gideon wraps the boy’s scarf around his head.

“Are we going to rob a bank now? That would be fun.”

“I’m sure,” he says, his voice muffled by the yarn. “But we should get our papers and get back. Can you suppress your chaotic nature until then, little nymph?”

I huff despite his compliment. “Anything is possible. What if her parents ask her why she came home in a dress?”

He makes an acknowledging sound. “Yes, they might report the suspicious activity, but I don’t suspect they’ll go straight home with $3500 between them, and if they do, they’ll likely not mention it. Most parents would insist they give it back. Therefore, I conclude we have a little time. At least enough to get back to the hotel, and then out of town.”

I shrug and we begin walking again.

We walk forever. Thank goodness I kept my own shoes, but even those are beginning to rub blisters on my heels. It’s an hour before we stumble into Little Italy. Gideon points at a sign.

“That’s Luca’s place,” he says. “We won’t be but a few minutes, then we’ll head back to the hotel.”

The smell of bread and spices ignites my hunger. But it must be coming from somewhere else because this restaurant is unlit and a
sorry we’re closed
sign hangs crookedly in the door’s window.

“Are you sure this is the place?” I press my face against the glass. The chairs are upturned, seats resting on the table top. “It looks like someone swept up last night and never came back.”

“I have a feeling I know why he didn’t answer my calls.” Gideon’s tone is low. “Come on.”

We creep down the dim and narrow space between two buildings. At the back of the trattoria, we find a dented screen door slightly ajar. A single black slit of darkness lines the entrance, ominous and uninviting. A black cat with white paws jumps up onto a barren window box and begins scratching at the frozen earth there.

“Be careful,” Gideon says, and I don’t know who he is talking to. Me? I’m not the one with my hand on the door, pushing it open.

“Are you sure he’s here?” I’m having doubts that some random Italian with the ability to acquire travel documents for total strangers is here.

“Shall we see?” He glances over his shoulder, taking in the small alcove between buildings with its overflowing dumpster to one side and the crooked walkway leading to another street. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t see it before he ducks into the restaurant.

We creep through the dim hallway, past two empty bathrooms and a door labeled “employees only.” This command holds no sanctity for Gideon, so he twists the handle. His face crumples.

“What?” I whisper, unable to see around his body.

“It’s unlocked.” He lets go of the handle. “We should go.”

“What if the papers are in there? You said we needed them.”

His shoulders slump and he pushes open the door. The little room is especially warm and crowded with filing cabinets and a large desk. Luca sits behind it, a bullet hole in his head and a stream of thick, sticky blood on the side of his face, soaking the upper collar of his crisp linen shirt. His black eyes are dull and unfocused.

Gideon sighs. “Check the drawers. Perhaps we can still find our papers.”

A large pile slips precariously to the edge, threatening to tumble into the floor.

Gideon yanks open the nearest drawer and begins ruffling through its contents. “We can still get to Arizona if we don’t have the papers to fly. We will simply have to drive instead. It will take longer, but it will be safer.”

O
n guard
.

I stiffen at the sound of Uriel’s voice. “We’ve got trouble.”

A small sound draws my ear and I whirl, expecting to see police or whomever must have been called in response to the sound of a bullet blasting out Luca’s brains. But it isn’t the police blocking our exit, trapping us in the small office. It’s five men in dark suits and opaque glasses, guns drawn. They aren’t the men I threw onto the tracks earlier, yet they have a similar look to them like perhaps they all fell off the same assembly line.

“Hello Gideon,” the one with a blond crew cut says. His neck is thicker than his head, giving it a squished look. As if someone had mounted his skull in a hurry, pressing it down into the nape with too much force. “Ms. Wright.”

I don’t hesitate. I throw my arms out in front of me and shove the men back. Their bodies slam into the wall and then through it, ripping holes in the plaster.

We run, spilling out into the nook cradling the back exit. The cat screeches, leaping out of the window box and over the fence. We squeeze down the walkway to the street. As soon as we’re immersed in the crowd, we slow our pace. We walk like perfectly calm and rational people. It’s fun pretending.

“Damn,” Gideon swears. “We shouldn’t have gone there. When he didn’t answer my call this morning, we should have moved right on to plan B.”

“You mean our $3500 wardrobe was all for naught? $6000 if you count the loss of my dress.”

He doesn’t even smile at my humor. I don’t know if it’s because he saw a dead body, if Luca was a friend, or because he’s frustrated by our lack of progress this morning.

“Who are they?” I ask, my breath still hitching in my throat.

“I can wager a guess or two.” He runs a hand through his hair and flashes me a lopsided grin.

There’s something different about his face. It takes me a minute to realize it’s bare. “Your scarf!”

“Keep yours.” He stops me from removing it by placing his hand over mine. “Your face is more recognizable than mine.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“The absolute best.” He glances over his shoulder. “I think we are in the clear.”

I look back too, but see only power walkers with their paper cups of coffee marching in all directions. Most on cell phones. “They knew who I was. Why should I even wear this thing?”

Gideon points at a woman in a black mink coat walking a Pomeranian. “She doesn’t know who you are. And she might have watched the news last night or this morning. Leave it on.”