Pretenses (22 page)

I picked up the cell phone issued to me by the FBI. I pushed the power button several times, but it wouldn't come on. I opened the back of the phone to check the batteries. There weren't any. That meant that Coco, probably wearing her Phoenix Perry disguise had intercepted it while I was out in the park. Then she changed disguises and gave the briefcase to the clerk. I shook my head in disgust and anger. Coco was right about one thing. Tonight, it would be all over. I was going to end it.

I put her communication device in my ear, sure that she would be on the air soon to give me further instructions and probably gloat. On the way to the lobby, I thought about what had happened in Central Park. I remembered the little girl, and my anger flared up. I was a walking inferno, ready to unleash the fire that burned within. I walked through the lobby so focused and concentrated on what I had to do that it seemed as if I were moving in slow motion.

When I came out of the lobby onto Central Park West, I was awakened by the sounds of the city that never sleeps. My driver opened the door of
the stretch limousine for me, and I got in. A few minutes later, we were headed toward the seedy side of Manhattan that most people outside New York don't see or hear about.

“Right on time,” I heard Coco say in the earpiece. She laughed. “I would love to have seen your face when you realized you'd been duped again. Don't worry; I let the agent who delivered the electronics live. This is so much fun. Too bad we have to die, huh, Phoenix?”

“Oh, you're going to die all right,” I said. “It's just a matter of time now.”

“Do I detect a note of hostility?” Coco asked, still snickering in my ear. Hearing her constantly laughing at me made me even more homicidal. “I see you've figured out what I was trying to tell you, my sister. Tell me. Now that you understand, are we so different?”

I didn't answer. The question was strangely disturbing, penetrating every stratum of my personal ethics and morality. I convinced myself that killing Coco Nimburu was better than the alternative; it was better than her killing my family or me. It was better than her killing Kelly, Sterling Wise, or Victoria Warren. Killing Coco Nimburu was good. It was good for society. It was good for the judicial system. Her death would save the system millions of dollars in trial costs, prison, and the endless appeals. Yes, killing her would be good for everyone—especially me.

“Your silence says it all, Phoenix,” Coco continued. “Promise me something.”

“What's that, Coco?” I asked, wondering what new chore I had to complete.

“Promise me you will be merciless. I want to go out in a battle. I want my life to end as I have lived it. No regrets and no second thoughts about anything I've done in the flesh. My fate was sealed the moment I was conceived. All that I have done was leading up to this moment—and I welcome it. So, will you? Will you be merciless?”

“What about my family? If I do what you want, will they be released?”

“I am an honest woman. This I promise you. They will be released and will be free from harm.”

“Then I will do as you ask.”

T
HE LIMOUSINE STOPPED
in front of a bedraggled bar called The Spot. The driver opened my door, and I got out.

“I think it's time we met,” I heard Coco say after a long silence. She had been conspicuously quiet for about fifteen minutes, which was usual for her. I was getting used to her philosophizing and endless nefarious banter. “Come on in. I'm waiting for you.”

The air was foul in this ill-kept part of Manhattan. A bum, wearing clothes that probably hadn't been washed in a year, was urinating against a wall covered with graffiti. Two prostitutes wearing little more than a thong were sharing a crack pipe. Empty malt liquor bottles were everywhere. Burger King wrappers were at my feet.

This is a strange place for a battle, I thought. Nevertheless, I would do what I had to do here or wherever Coco chose to die.

The people on the street stared at me as if I were a rock star slumming and looking for quick thrills. I could hear the thunderous bass of the loud music being played inside the bar. The tune sounded familiar, but I couldn't remember the name of it. I walked in and heard the voice of Leroy “Sugarfoot” Bonner of the Ohio Players singing “Skin Tight.”

I saw a woman standing in the midst of a crowded bar full of black men and women and a few Puerto Ricans. She was holding a mug of beer and raised it as if she were toasting me. Was this a joke to her, I thought? We were about to engage in mortal combat, and she was having a beer in a
loud bar like nothing was going on? She had a lot of nerve. My family was at her mercy, and here she was, playing with me as if I were her personal toy. I could see Coco's lips moving and heard her voice in my ear.

“Come on over and have a beer.”

Finally, I had come face to face with Coco Nimburu. I don't know what I had expected, but I certainly didn't expect to see such a beautiful woman with such a tight body. I could tell she worked out regularly. She was Japanese with long, flowing black hair.

I was just about to go over there and knock that smile off her face when I was punched in the jaw. The blow sent me spiraling out of control against the oak bar. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion—except for Coco's laughter in my ear. My jaw had been broken, and the pain was agonizing. Ying Ming Lo had warned me of this very thing many times. My anger had gotten me flattened by an unexpected punch.

If I had been in control of my anger, I would have been able to feel the antagonism in the air. I would have been able to intercept the blow or to redirect it away from me. In either case, my jaw wouldn't have been broken. But the blow was sobering in that it awakened me spiritually.

“You got a lotta goddamn nerve coming in here after what you did,” my assailant yelled.

Then I heard Coco say, “Oh, I forgot to tell you—you came in here earlier and robbed these people at gunpoint. I think they're a little pissed.” She laughed again. “I told you—you have a lot to prove. If you can get out of here in one piece, I'll know I've got the right woman for the job.”

Having a broken jaw helped me put my anger aside so that I could focus on what was happening. An angry crowd was gathering, hurling insults at me, racial invectives included, in their array of embittered words.

“We gon' kill you, bitch,” I heard someone yell.

“I'm gonna cut you every way but loose,” I heard another man say.

He pulled a switchblade, and the sharp blade snapped out. It was life or death with these people, and I wasn't about to take it easy on them. The man with the switchblade was the immediate threat. I had to take him out first. He made a move toward me with the blade, and I kicked it out of his
hand with a front snap kick. The blade flew up in the air and stuck into the ceiling. Then I kicked him in the head with a reverse hook kick, knocking him out cold.

My skill as a martial artist didn't scare anyone. They were all still determined to attack me. I sensed a blow coming from the right. It was the same guy who had broken my jaw. I redirected his blow, but the bar patrons were all coming at the same time. I feinted at the nearest man, which caused him to hesitate long enough for me to kick the next man. While my foot was still in the air, I whipped it in the direction of the man who had broken my jaw, connecting with flesh and bone. Both men were unconscious.

The man who had hesitated now ran toward me at full speed. I bent my knees just before he reached me and used his weight and speed against him. As I stood up, I threw him over the bar and into the mirror. I heard the sound of glass breaking behind me. The bar patrons were still coming at me.

I stepped into the midst of them. One was coming to my right, another to my left. The man to my right was about to swing, but I was ahead of him. I hit him with a left right left combination. He was out before he knew what had hit him. I was blocking and striking everyone near me. People were falling all around me, and still they came.

A bottle of beer sailed across the room. I ducked just in time, and it hit the bartender in the face. Another bottle flew toward me while I was in the middle of a palm strike. I caught the bottle and hit the woman to my left in the head with it. Using the same bottle, I hit several attackers, then threw it back across the room and hit the man who had thrown it in the face.

I sensed immediate danger behind me, but before I could turn to face my assailant, a shuriken whistled past my head. Then another whistled by. Coco was a deadly assassin. If she were trying to hit me, she would have.

A woman groaned behind me. I turned around to see what had happened. The woman had pulled a gun from her purse and was obviously preparing to shoot me. One shuriken was stuck in her throat and another in her forehead, right between the eyes. Blood was sliding down her face and mixed with the blood coming out of her throat.

Distracted by the death of the woman behind me, I felt someone grab me by my uniform. I grabbed his hand and twisted his wrist.

“You're breaking my fuckin' arm!” he shouted.

I held on to him and continued the battle. Using my legs, I was able to kick a few more of my attackers. Several ran for their lives. Applying more pressure to his wrist, I forced him to bend over. I kicked him in the face a couple of times. As I let him fall to the ground, another man grabbed my arm. I swung the arm he had grabbed in a circular motion, raising it above his head. I punched him in the stomach, then lifted him off his feet and threw him into the shattered mirror.

Looking around, I saw that my attackers were stretched out on the floor, and the bar was empty. Coco must have left with the other fleeing patrons. When I walked out of the bar, the driver was waiting for me with the limousine door open. I got in, and we headed toward the financial district.

T
HE
T
WIN
T
OWERS
of the World Trade Center were my next stop. The limousine driver again opened my door, and I got out. The vibration from walking on the cement caused my jaw to ache more than before. It needed to be wired so it could heal properly. The driver opened the glass door to One World Trade Center for me. I remembered that Adrienne Bellamy had an office here. I assumed I was about to meet the queen bee herself.

“Saving your life is becoming a full-time job, Phoenix,” I heard Coco say in my ear. “Ever see the film
Interview with the Vampire
?”

“Yes,” I said through clenched teeth.

“I'm feeling a little like Tom Cruise, trying to get the killer in you to come forth,” she laughed. “Make no mistake, Phoenix; you are a killer!” She laughed again, borrowing a line from the film. “Take the elevator to the 102nd floor. They're waiting for you.”

“They?” I questioned, hoping she would tell me whom I was meeting other than Adrienne Bellamy.

“Ebony and Ivory, together in perfect harmony,” she joked, singing the Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney hit.

She was telling me that Winston Keyes would be there also. “Where are you going to be?” I asked, stepping into the elevator.

“Around.”

The elevator door opened a couple of minutes later, and I saw Winston
Keyes standing in front of an office door. He was well-groomed, sporting a trimmed moustache and wearing a black suit with thin pinstripes.

“This way, Agent Perry,” he said, politely. “That's a nasty bruise you've got there.”

I didn't say anything. Talking brought more pain, and I wasn't a masochist. At this point, I was more interested in finding out why Adrienne Bellamy had done all of this. What could her reason possibly be? What explanation was she going to give me that would justify all of this?

I walked into the outer office expecting to see her, but I would have to wait a bit longer. I saw another set of doors that probably led to her inner sanctum. Winston Keyes opened both doors as if I were about to meet the Queen of Egypt.

I found myself almost peering around the doors as he opened them, curious to see the woman who had ordered the deaths of so many people. She was sitting at her desk with the phone to her ear. When she saw me, she motioned me to come in and pointed at one of two leather chairs in front of her large circular desk. It was hard to believe that this blue-eyed blonde was a black woman. She was tan and looked to be about fifty-five years old.

The large diamond earring on her desk had my attention now. Adrienne Bellamy had taken it off so she could use the phone. It must have cost a small fortune. I wondered how many karats the earrings were. Were they Cartier diamonds? Then I saw the diamond on her finger, which was much larger than those in the earrings.

As I patiently waited for her to conclude her conversation, I admired her taste in clothing. She was wearing what I thought was a red Louis Vuitton suit. The collar and buttons were black, which matched her black cashmere blouse. I resisted the urge to look under the desk to see what kind of shoes she was wearing.

She finally hung up. “My work is never done,” Adrienne Bellamy said. “I'm trying to build a casino in Sun City, South Africa, near the spectacular Palace of the Lost City Hotel. We're scheduled to break ground a month from now.” She looked at the bruise on my slightly swollen jaw. “Are you okay?”

I nodded.

“I suppose you're waiting for an explanation, right?” she asked.

I nodded again.

She reached across the desk and turned around a picture of a handsome white man who looked just like her. “Do you know who this is?” she asked.

I shook my head, trying to avoid as much pain as I could.

“This is Sean Bellamy, my son and your next president. He'll be running as an independent in the next election.”

I closed my eyes. It was clear now. She was wiping out everybody who knew he was black. “What does Victoria Warren have to do with this?” I forced myself to say through clenched teeth.