Shattered Trust (13 page)

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Authors: Leslie Esdaile Banks

BOOK: Shattered Trust
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The young security guard looked at his older partner.
“Man, listen ...” James said in a calm tone. “My wife is about to die a thousand deaths because she just upchucked in the ladies' room and can't walk through that crowd smelling like that, and her gown all messed up.” He pulled Laura to him and rubbed her shoulders as she turned her face away. “They don't let a lot of us in events like this, feel me? So, she's ...”
Laura timed fake sobs perfectly, and both guards glanced at each other in full accord.
“Look, brother,” the older guard said. “We could lose our jobs. You know they've got events like this on lock. All doors except the front one are supposed to be off limits. But, damn, that's a shame to have her walk through all those folks like that.”
“Man, I hear you, and would really appreciate the favor,” James said as humbly as possible. “You've got the power brother—to make her die going out the front, or let this sister save some face, going out the back.”
“Aw-ight, look, if we let you out that way, you ain't get there 'cause we was involved. Cool?”
“Thank you,” Laura breathed into James's lapels. James extended his fist for the two guards to pound. “Thank you. I owe you.”
“Cool. Well, then, hurry up,” the older guard urged, and began walking quickly in front of Laura and James, while the younger guard kept his post, glancing around nervously.
Half running, half jogging down the corridor behind the older guard, they kept alert, and within moments he'd ushered them through the control room past several other guards, made some sort of eye signal not to ask questions, and allowed Laura and James to slip out the back, closing the door behind them with a thud.
Fresh air allowed them to take a deep breath, and then begin a flat-out dash to the waiting rental several blocks away. She stopped once, took off her heels, and resumed the pace on cold concrete, but the moment they hit lot gravel and glass, he scooped her up and kept moving.
It was only for a few seconds, but the action of being picked up so that her feet wouldn't be injured by debris was surreal. It was also spring, she noted. Here she was a woman of her age, and again she was running barefoot, after an altercation, in a gown ... just like on her damned prom, and fighting for her life, her dignity. And strangely, this time like before, she had a real man from around the way to step up and help her ... just like that kid who'd given her an unmolested lift home did. She'd never gotten that kid's name ... but the man who'd shoved her into a rental after checking it thoroughly had a name she'd taken—James Carter.
He pulled out of the self-park lot like a man possessed, and barreled down the street, yanking a firearm out from under the dash. “Change of clothes, under the seat. Do it now.”
She complied, knowing that Dulles airport was out of the question. They'd expect that. BWI was the closest option, and they'd have to change tickets in transit.
“James, I don't think your boys stopped the limo,” she said glancing over the backseat.
Gunshot report was the answer that shattered the back window as she screamed. James swerved away from oncoming traffic and headed up Fourteenth. Before she could remove her hands from over her head, James had hollered at her to take the wheel, never slowing down. She gripped the wheel, eyes wide, her ability to control the car, fragile. He leaned out the window and sent three shots into the limousine's grille, then quickly leaned back into the car, grabbed the wheel from her, and spun out to go in the opposite direction.
“He can't maneuver in that big rig like we can, so hold on!”
Sirens were everywhere in the distance and gaining. Cars and pedestrians screeched to a halt and jumped out of the way.
“Grab my cell, hit Cap, and tell him we're taking fire in the streets of D.C. proper! Then get a damned gun and hold the bastard off, but try not to hit any folks in the street!”
She was motion itself, grabbing the cell from James's waistband at the same time she dipped low and snatched the second gun from beneath the dashboard. She hit the unit and pressed the phone to her ear. “They're shooting at us in the District!” she hollered to whomever answered the line. She didn't know if it was even Captain Bennett, nor did she care, because another shot whirred by them and put a neat hole in the front windshield.
She dropped the phone on the seat and rolled down her window, pointed the gun behind her, and closed her eyes as she squeezed off several rounds. The limo swerved behind them. Police lights entered the drag race from two side streets and cut the limo off. James floored the accelerator, turned into a side alley, screeched to a stop, and jumped out of the car. He grabbed his phone and the small bag of clothes. Laura was still barefoot and he threw a pair of sneakers at her. “Change as we run—gotta ditch the ride and get to a subway. The corner. We jump the rails, come out walking slow and easy. Seen it done by perps trying to get away from us every day. Let Cap straighten it out on the back end.”
By the time he'd finished his statement, he had on a hooded sweatshirt, had lost the cummerbund and jacket, but kept his tux pants, and his feet had been jammed into sneakers. She ran behind him, yanking a sweatshirt over her head, and only stopped for two seconds to rip down the gown and pull on a pair of sweatpants. When they exited the other side of the alley, she'd been transformed, like James, and they were on their way down a flight of Metro steps. She ditched her beaded purse, taking only her cell, ID, and Blackberry out of it to shove into her pockets. James had the bag over his shoulder, which contained money, his wallet with a different ID, and her laptop.
Pacing, they waited in the white-tiled space for the train to come, not even caring if they were on the right line or not. They just had to flee the scene, as the main priority. Later, once above ground and away from the sirens, they could navigate the city by cab and get to Amtrak. From there, the airport was within reach.
Laura bent over, gulping in air as the wait ground her nerves down to a thin filament. In a subway, there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, if a gunman came for them—or if the police did. Every time she opened and closed her eyes, dots of light danced like floaters within her vision.
She'd fired shots in an open street. A limo driver had tried to kill them, had tried to actually blow the gas tank of their rental car! They'd created a serious security breach in Washington fucking D.C., and had hacked a computer to get on an A-list using bogus names, when everyone there knew their real names. Canada no longer gave exile to American fugitives. Mexico was out. She'd take her chances in prison before going underground there. Multiple felony charges swirled in her head until she thought she'd pass out. Instead she dry heaved, and then felt James's hand on her back.
“I want you to stand up, lean on me, and breathe slowly, until the train comes,” he said in a firm, quiet tone. “All right?”
“But James,” she gasped, wheezing out the words. “The many legal implications—”
“Breathe in and out, and lean on me before anyone walks down here and gets suspicious. You look like you've been running, and that's not good.”
She nodded, went to him, and leaned on him, forcing herself not to cry. Panic was eating a hole in her brain. Claustrophobia was setting in. She wanted to be free, away, moving. Standing still was making her crazy. The train came, and she almost tore away from him to jump through the doors, but he held her firm, and walked slowly to get on and sit down coolly. Only when the doors closed and they'd passed several stations did she feel and hear him audibly exhale.
He'd been prepared for the worst, and the worst had come. But had it not been for his skill and planning, she knew she might well have a bullet in her skull right now.
They hailed a cab once they surfaced. She glanced around, but couldn't tell what section of the city they were in for a few moments. Then it hit her, Georgetown—the only place, other than by the station and tourist areas, where a cab would be available at this time of night. D.C. was not like Manhattan, in that regard, and she thanked God in heaven that they'd ended up on the right train.
Union Station looked like a sanctuary, and they booked the last thing smoking out of there to Newark.
“Newark,” she whispered, as they walked away with tickets from the automated machines.
“You see all these cops in here?” he whispered, keeping his back to the milling patrols that scoured the echoing, marble terrain. “We dip into a bar in here, go buy a drink, and quietly fade into the backdrop of weary travelers. By now, they've got a dragnet at Dulles and BWI with our pics probably posted, plus probably at Philly International as well, knowing that's where we'd most likely catch a flight from. So get on that BlackBerry of yours and get us tix out of Newark or even JFK for Jamaica.”
Chapter 13
C
aribbean sunshine never looked so good. She didn't care that she appeared to be a vagrant, or that what she was wearing was ridiculously hot under the outrageous sun. Sleep on the flight and a chance to breathe and think had done wonders for her mind, not to mention her spirit. They'd agreed not to contact Akhan and the rest of the family until they'd gotten a hotel, checked in, and were sure they weren't being followed.
Enduring the slow customs process was their greatest challenge at the moment, but they'd survived. James kept a protective arm over her shoulder the whole time, even once they'd entered the cab that dropped them off in the center of Kingston. He'd been on her hip while she quickly selected a few sundresses, T-shirts, and pants for them, and gathered toiletries that he could stuff in the small knapsack. Eerily quiet, she monitored his mood, but understood it. He was now freaked out after the near brush with disaster, like she had been during the heat of everything.
“Baby, breathe,” she said quietly as they crossed the street. “We'll get inside a nondescript hotel or rooming house, no majors ... get you something to eat, a cool shower, and a change of clothes. Then we call Akhan.”
James just nodded and watched her buy some fruit and bottled waters and juices to take to the room in a small, cement walk up that simply had a painted sign that said HOTEL.
American cash being the universal language, they had no difficulty getting an out-of-the-way room for the night in Kingston. The fact that there was spotty hot water was not an issue, given that it was already hot as the blazes outside. She let James hit the shower first, and set out mango slices and oranges, cheese and crackers, and water and juice while he freshened up. Knowing that he'd feel calmer once out of his getaway clothes, she didn't tell him about the plan that had formed and taken shape in her mind while on the plane. She simply got in the shower behind him and allowed the tepid spray to wash away her worries for the moment. That was the key to remaining sane: Take each moment by moment.
He was already dressed when she reentered the bedroom, and had pulled on the pair of khaki slacks, white Polo knockoff collared shirt, and generic brown leather men's sandals she'd laid out for him. He'd eaten half the spread of goodies she'd left on the dresser, which was also a good sign. His color looked better and he appeared to be more relaxed.
“How'd everything fit?” she asked, stripping her towel off and finding a bright orange sundress to slip on.
“It worked, but you forgot drawers,” he said with a smirk.
“No, I didn't,” she said chuckling, and finger combing her hair.
“I put on the swim trunks, instead.”
She poked out her bottom lip. “Bummer.”
He laughed. She had him.
Ever so casually, she sat down on the side of the bed, swiping a mango slice and a bottled water. “I've been thinking.”
He stood. “Oh, shit, here we go.”
They both laughed.
“OK, what, Laura? My nerves are shot.”
She peered up at him, munching on mango. “We need backup.”
“Tell me something new.”
“We have backup we're not using.”
He sat down on the bed and gave her a sidelong glance.
“They messed up this time, and hit an Italian jobber. I have a direct number to the head guy down at the casinos in Jersey, who might be interested to know that Russians did it.”
James ran his palms down his face and stood again. “Oh, shit, Laura ... have the Italians go after the Russians? Woman, are you crazy? After we narrowly got out of that casino-inspired jam before, you wanna call Joey Scapolini?”
“Yeah. Why not?” she said, smiling. “Caluzo got us a security car, on Steve's call, right? Now, how do we know if it was casino family or not that got whacked in the limo? The guy who tried to hit us definitely didn't know that we, of all people, might have had an Italian jobber as a driver, and just eliminated what he thought was some Joe-regular guy.”
James fought a smile, but didn't commit.
“These Main Line assholes wanna play hardball, so let's play—street variety,” she said, pressing her point. “Last I saw, Scapolini had Tony Rapuzzio as his driver, so who knows who this kid that was our driver was related to?” She stood and wagged her finger. “Never make assumptions, and you know the Italians already have an axe to grind with the Russians moving into Philly and Jersey. Now add on the indignity of the same folks that almost snatched the casino-charter-building contracts out from under them having a hand in trying to mess with
friends
of theirs—which resulted in a wrongful death of kin ... heeeey. Who knows what might happen?”
“Well we damned sure don't want 'em to think we had a direct involvement in them losing one of their own—that's for sure.”
“My plan has merit, James.” Laura put her hands on her hips. “Besides, it's a poor rat that has one hole.”
“You know this will get construed into us owing the Mafia. You ready to deal with that?”
She let her hands fall away from her hips and blew out a breath. “If I have to give them some of the land, so be it. I'd rather burn it to the ground than see any of that Micholi rat pack have it.”
“Six in one hand, half a dozen on the other, if you ask me.” James stared at her.
“Both sides are deadly, James. So why not deal with the friendliest element we can negotiate with for now?”
“All right,” James said grudgingly, and smiled. “You call Scapolini, but make sure you let that bastard know you're married.”
“I will ... if it comes up.” She gave him a sly smile, which he returned.
“You're not a part of the bargaining process. Ever.” He gave her a look with a smile, but in a way that told her not to play with him.
She nodded respectfully and got some crackers and cheese and didn't say another word for a moment.
“We're gonna have to clean up that D.C. incident, though,” he said, lost in thought, swiping another orange section from the dresser top.
“Been thinking about that, too,” she said, guzzling water. “Got more untapped resources,” she added, dabbing her mouth dry with the back of her wrist.
“Like?”
“Like Megan's father works for the State Department, and I'd bet Sean's people are tapped into some high-level governmental post as well, given they're cousins, went to the schools they did, and are living in the U.S. If those families thought their kids were at risk because some greedy, Philadelphia Main Line bastards had lost some land to inner-city black folks—through a legal will and legal deed transfer ... hmmm ... I wonder what they might be able to dig up on the old boys, if provoked?”
“Damn, Laura,” James said quietly, leaning over to stroke her cheek. “You have an evil mind.”
“I have a practical mind,” she whispered, kissing him more deeply.
“I'm glad you're feeling better,” he said in a low, sexy tone. “Last night you looked beautiful, even running in bare feet.”
She laughed and flopped back on the bed. “I didn't thank you, though—did I?”
He covered her and chuckled. “Nope.”
 
 
Joey Scapolini put the phone down slowly. “Tony ... we've gotta call a meeting. It's your nephew. He didn't come home last night.”
Anthony Rapuzzio set his drink down slowly and swallowed hard. “What happened to little Eddie? It was just a limo job for Caluzo. That kid is only twenty-three, twenty-four. What the fuck coulda happened, Joey? What am I gonna tell my sister? Oh, Christ. How bad?”
“Russians. Vladimir Chertoff blew a hit on Laura and her cop. They got another one to stand in, and he fucked up the job in the Caymans—house job on 'em. Then they sent an enforcer, real pro, he took lil' Eddie's limo. Kid never saw it coming. Silencer. Ordered by Main Line developer boys. Now it's personal.”
Scapolini balled his hand into a fist as he stood and went over to his hulking bodyguard cousin and hugged him. Bitter sobs wet his suit shoulder and made him look up to the ceiling.
“We have to fix this, Joey. It ain't right!”
“First we send the Main Line a message, then go have a conversation with those Russian muthafuckas.”
 
 
Prison COs stood around the body scratching their heads.
“He was in solitary confinement, yo. How in the hell did another prisoner get to him to slit his throat? This one was only in here because he was a doctor and couldn't go into general population till he got moved to a country club facility. There wasn't enough time for him to have made any enemies. Damn!”
The other guard scratched the hair on his neck. “This is gonna be some fucked-up paperwork and long reports,” he said with a weary sigh. “Get Sutherland's body out of here, before he draws flies.”
 
 
Megan clicked her cell phone off and walked through her parents' British-styled home like a slow-moving shade. Her entire life had changed through one visit, one attempt to help a friend, and she wanted her world to go back to the way it had been. Shunning privilege as an option of rebellion was one thing, but truly living impoverished and on the run was unacceptable. She'd spent so much time lambasting her father for selling out, working for the man, big government, but today, after what she'd heard, she hoped that he had connections, strings, favors, markers, anything out there in the universe that he could call upon to protect her and Sean.
She found her father in the study, where he normally took his afternoon tea and pored over dense portfolios while on the phone, before going back to his office downtown or catching a flight to Washington.
“Daddy,” she said in a quiet voice. “Can we talk?”
Her father looked up from the stack of folders on his wide mahogany desk and peered at her over half, Ben Franklin glasses.
“You haven't called me daddy in years, baby,” he whispered.
Tears rose to her eyes and she swallowed hard, then glanced around his impressive sanctuary filled with leather bound law books. “I'm in trouble,” she whispered.
He was immediately on his feet to rush to her and embrace her. “Megan, tell Daddy what's wrong. Your mother and I can fix this.”
She buried her face against his shoulder, wetting his blue Oxford button-down shirt with quiet tears. “People in the government are chasing me and Sean because we found out some things we shouldn't have.”
He held her away from him, wiped her face, and stared at her hard. “What people?” he demanded. “If they are not as high as the President, then I know for a fact they don't want me on their ass over my daughter.”
 
 
“What happened to your cousin's nephew is as upsetting as what happened to our Vladimir,” a thick Russian accent said into the phone. “Our client double-crossed us and went to freelancers when they became unsatisfied with Vladimir's work.”
“Then you got our message, that we're unsatisfied by the way you guys don't have checks and balances on your fucked-up Russian freelancers,” Scapolini said. “Shame about that fire that burned out several stores in K. and A., and, oh yeah, my condolences on one of your old, Main Line clients ... a doctor, I think? Prison's a bad place for an educated man to be.”
“He wasn't our client,” the voice snapped through the receiver. “How many times do I have to tell you that? He was cut off from his associates, a nobody now! Who cared if he died in prison—he wasn't one of our paying customers.”
“Oh, no? Then a colleague maybe? A vodka-drinking buddy from a long time ago, huh, maybe?” Scapolini was on his feet walking with the phone. “All I'ma say is this—you guys fucked up. You need to become more organized. You made a grave error. An apology is in order. Some show of good faith that it was really an accident. Accidents happen, true, but you still gotta repay the family for the inconvenience—Capice? So you tell your client that I took a head for my cousin's nephew's, but I still ain't really feeling a complete sense of total satisfaction!”
 
 
“What?” Akhan whispered, as they all sat on the back porch of Braithwaite's hidden house in the bush.
Laura and James calmly took turns relaying the chronology of events as small insects dove at them, despite the smoking pots of Citronella candles. Steve, Jamal, Najira, Akhan and Brother B sat with plates laden with jerk chicken, fried plantains, callaloo greens and cabbage, pigeon peas and rice, with tall glasses of sorrel punch gathering gnats, but nary a fork moved as the couple spoke in hushed tones.
Fully sated from making the critical phone calls, taking a nap, and making love to release tension, James spoke between bites of home-cooked food, while Laura also dug into her plate with abandon. It was what it was; wheels had been set in motion. The Main Line had pressed their backs up against a corner, and they came out fighting like any good street rat would—no holds barred. That was the one thing that the boys at Micholi had discounted; yes Laura and James were educated, had reached a significant level of affluence, but they had roots from 'round the way.

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