Vengeance (12 page)

T
he black lipstick had an unappealing waxy taste that made Val cringe as she lathered it on her lips. When she was done, she checked her face in the car's vanity mirror—thick black eyeliner and shadow, no blush, the black lips, and the top of a fake barbed wire tattoo she'd drawn on her neck with the eyeliner pencil. She twisted her hair into a bun, then pulled the hood of her black sweatshirt over her head. Her red locks were her most recognizable feature, and she needed to keep them hidden until she could apply the black hair dye.

Val looked at Max, still asleep as he'd been the entire three-hour trip. She'd driven south along Interstate 5, then east on Route 12 until they'd come to a fleabag motel deep in the Cascade Mountains, a place that probably saw decent business from cash-strapped college students during ski season. In October, the off-season, the motel stood maybe a quarter full, occupied by truckers and malcontents passing through. A good place to lie low, she figured, while Max healed and they figured out what to do next. The police were unlikely to cast their net this far outside Seattle, but close enough for Max and Val to return within a day when the time came.

Taking a deep breath and praying her disguise would hold, Val left the car and walked across the dark parking lot, past the neon “Stardust Motel” sign with the “o” burned out, and into the lobby that stank of stale coffee and cigarette smoke. The area was deserted save for an old woman behind the check-in counter. She clutched a cigarette between two prunes for fingers topped with long red fingernails, leathered face blank as she watched the local news on a cathode ray tube television perched on the counter.

Trying to commit to her Goth Girl look, Val put on a bitch face. “Need a room,” she said to the old woman, doing her best “I'm acting tough to hide my inner pain” impression.

The woman threw Val a side-eye so full of loathing, Val knew she'd nailed it.

“How many nights?” the woman asked.

“A week. Probably.”

“That equals
seven
, honey.”

Val scoffed and pretended to be insulted. “Whatever,” she muttered.

“It's forty-eight thirty-six per night for a queen bed room, including tax and fees. You have to times that by seven.”

Val dropped a handful of crumpled bills onto the counter.

“I need your ID, too.”

She bit her lip, letting her “inner pain” show. “My dad took it,” Val said.

The old woman cocked one of her drawn-on eyebrows. “In that case it's seventy per night.”

Val pouted and dropped two more hundred-dollar bills on the counter.

The woman snatched up the money in her knobby claws. She programmed a plastic room keycard while a banner that read, “Police Seeking Any Information on Whereabouts of Millionaire Murderer and Accomplice” scrolled across the bottom of her TV screen. Val turned her face to stone as photographs of her and Max popped up side by side. They used an official photo from her Army days, one with Val posing in her dress uniform in front of the American flag.

“You're in room one twenty-two, on the west end.” The woman pointed past Val's head. “West is
that way,
where the sun sets.” She handed Val the keycard. “Enjoy your stay, honey,” she smirked.

“What-
ever
.” Val grabbed the keycard and rushed out the door.

Back in the car, she heaved a sigh of relief that the ruse had worked. Max stirred when the car door slammed. He turned his head in slow arcs to take in his surroundings.

“Where are we?” he asked, blinking back sleep as Val started the car.

“Packwood, according to the sign.”

“Packwood, Fiji?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Packwood, Fiji. The part that looks just like Washington State.”

She drove the few hundred feet to their room. When she was confident no one saw them, she jumped out and opened the passenger's side door to help Max out. His broken face cracked into a painful-looking smile when he got a good look at her in the car's dome light.

“Is it Halloween already?” he said. “I can't believe I've been asleep that long.”

“This getup saved our asses, so keep your snarky comments to yourself.” She reached under his shoulder. “Let's get inside the room before someone sees you.”

He groaned as she pulled him out of the car, less dazed but stiffer than he'd been during their escape from the Thornton Building. Leaning against her shoulder with one arm while clutching his chest with the other, he shuffled forward on unsteady legs to their room door. Val swiped the keycard and ushered them inside. The room smelled the same as the lobby, stale and smoky. A brown comforter enveloped the queen-sized bed below a generic picture of a pine forest panorama. Stains from nicotine tar spotted the white walls. A sink dripped in the bathroom. Better than a jail cell—or a shallow grave.

She led Max to the bed and helped him sit down. He inhaled sharply, eyes and teeth clenched shut, hunched forward as if protecting a ball of pain in his chest. If he could walk around and hold on to her, then his arms and legs weren't broken, but she wasn't sure about his ribs, or other possible damage to his internal organs. Val brought in the Walmart shopping bags and pulled out the medical supplies.

“Take this,” she said, holding out a handful of aspirin and a glass of water for him.

He took the pills with hands still coated in pavement grime mixed with his own blood. Water dribbled down his chin as he worked to swallow them. Carefully she started to undress him, stripping all the pieces of his expensive, ruined suit from his battered body.

“I asked around about the mystery account,” Max said as she pulled his coat off. “One of the accountants seemed to know something about it. He pretended he didn't, but then he shit his pants.”

Val laughed. “Are you sure a night of greasy take-out didn't catch up with him?”

“No, it was definitely a guilty shit.” He winced as she unbuttoned his dress shirt, rust-colored splotches dried down its front. “His name was…It was…Damn, I can't remember. I can't think straight right now.”

“I'm just glad you can think at all—” Val gasped before she could stop herself. Thick bruises covered his entire torso, some already ringed with black. How could Sten have done this much damage in so short a time? She pushed back tears with images of doing the same to Sten.

“I think we should go to the hospital,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Nah,” he said, “then we'll both die, instead of just me. I'll be okay. I've been through this before. Help me lie down.”

She pushed the sheets down and stuffed a pillow under his head as he inched onto his side. He pulled his legs up into the fetal position and closed his eyes.

“Are you hungry?” she asked him.

He mumbled, “No.”

“Well, I saw some vending machines on the side of the building. I'm going to get something if you want it later. I'll be right back.”

Val flipped up the hood of her sweatshirt and stepped back into the cold wet night, following the neon glow to the vending machines around the corner. She loaded up on chips and chocolate bars, and anything that looked like it might have nutritional value like peanuts or fruit snacks. When she was done, she moved the car to a parking spot where it couldn't be seen from the main road. Then she walked to a secluded spot away from the building, pulled the burner phone from her pocket, and dialed Stacey's number.

“Hello?”

“Stacey, it's me.”

Val heard the muffled sounds of movement, then a door shutting.

“
What the fuck
, Val?” Stacey hissed in a semiwhisper.

“Yeah, I know—”

“Where the hell have you been? I thought you were kidnapped or dead until your face showed up all over the news. Are you really helping Maxwell Carressa? Are you with him now?”

Val sighed, the white tendrils of her breath disappearing into the black sky. “It's kind of a long story.”

“I've got all night. You know I actually asked
Sten
of all people where you were? That's how desperate I was for answers. So tell me what the hell is going on.”

Val gave Stacey a quick summary of everything that had happened since she'd run off to Chet's apartment three days ago, sidestepping the parts that involved Max's ability. She figured he wouldn't want her telling people without his permission, not even her best friend.

“We can't trust the police, and we're running out of options,” Val said. “Chet is dead, Delilah won't talk, and Dean's hiding something that could connect him to Robby's death. He's our only real lead right now.”

“I seriously doubt Dean would have anything to do with the murder of his own son.”

“I know, but he's connected somehow. He's all we've got, besides the accountant whose name Max can't remember. I need you to arrange a meeting between us.”

“Dean and I aren't exactly close. How am I supposed to convince him to meet with a wanted fugitive and not tell anybody about it?”

“I don't know. Appeal to his memory of Robby. Get creative.”

“Hmm…I guess I could tell him I'm organizing a fund-raiser in Robby's honor, or something like that. But I'll have to wait until it's convenient for Dean. If I push him to meet right away, he'll get suspicious.”

“That's okay. Max is in bad shape. He needs a few days to heal. Just give us at least a three-hour heads-up.”

“Can't you just look into the future with him? Find Dean or this accountant that way, like you found Chet?”

“It's not like that.”

“But it was like that with me?”

Shit, here we go.
“Stacey, come on. What happened between us was a…a mistake. Neither of us was thinking straight. Can't we go back to the way things were?”

Stacey scoffed. “I don't want to be your girlfriend. But it would've been nice if you had at least stuck around to talk about what happened. You just
left
me with my vag hanging in the breeze! Even
I
don't do that to my girlfriends!”

“Look, I'm sorry. I panicked, okay? I—” Val shook her head. She didn't have the time or energy for this conversation. She let out a long sigh. “I promise we can talk about what happened when this is all over.”

After an icy pause, Stacey said, “I'll call you back at this number when I get a day and time to meet with Dean.”

“Thank you, Stacey, I really mean it. I owe you.”

“Yeah, you do.” Stacey hung up.

Val walked back to the motel room and dumped the junk food on top of the tiny microwave. She sat down on the bed next to Max, his head by her hip. She leaned over and dropped her face close to his, listening for his breathing to ensure it was smooth and unhindered. His bruised chest moved up and down in a steady rhythm. She lifted her head and ran her hand through his black hair, fine waves that slipped between her fingers. Looking down at his battered face, she couldn't hold back her tears any longer; they flowed off her cheeks and landed in fat dollops in his hair.

He stirred, put an arm across her lap. “You should run,” he muttered.

“Shut up,” she said.

K
itty enjoyed the sound of her heels clicking on the pavement as she walked down one of Seattle's seedier commercial streets, a throughway tourists ignored and locals avoided unless a specific purpose brought them there. A less assured woman might have feared for her safety; Kitty's stiletto shoes pounding the ground into submission told the world she was not that kind of woman.

Wrapped in a thigh-length red coat with fur encircling the collar, she smiled as she approached the Green Door Nightclub. It was nice to have a job that involved something other than keeping tabs on Max. Aside from the sex, spending time with him could get downright boring, his nose always stuffed in a book—that is, when he wasn't doing hard drugs, killing people, or running from the law. It'd been especially boring since he'd disappeared four days ago. Max was gentler than she preferred, both in his manners and sexual tastes. Tonight, Kitty anticipated she'd get to indulge in her own preferences for once.

The bouncer at the club's door—painted green, how clever—sized her up in one long head-to-toe leer, then gave his approval for her to enter with a curt nod toward the entrance. Kitty winked a baby blue eye at him and swept past.

She took a moment to orient herself in the dark, unfamiliar setting that throbbed with energy. Silhouettes gyrated on the dance floor as employees performed above them in cages hung from the ceiling. A shirtless man in a blond afro wig, white thigh-high kinky boots, and a thong swung his hips to the music while a woman in the cage opposite him matched his hip swinging in a black version of the exact same outfit, including the shirtless part. Three additional pairs of cages followed the same theme—men and women in the same outfit, different colors. The music thumped like a good, strong fuck. She'd never been to this club before, but she made a mental note to return for pleasure when she was off duty.

She checked her coat and cut through the dancing throng to the bar nestled in the back corner. On the far end she spotted her target. He leaned against the bar's edge, dressed in a shiny European-style suit, dark hair slicked back and graying at the temples, bony fingers clutching a Scotch on the rocks. He eyed every nubile young thing—male or female—who wandered into his line of sight, quietly judged them, then cut his gaze to the next. His attention lingered on the women; he was in the mood for the opposite sex tonight. He liked the curvy, sensuous ones, the slow dancers. Didn't seem to have a preference for hair color. Perfect.

She moved to the music and stepped into his field of view, the beat flowing from her neck, down her spine, and to her knees in thick, slow waves that lingered at her hips. She closed her eyes and imagined herself as a python wrapping itself around a rabbit in tighter and tighter circles. Kitty felt his stare before she opened her eyes and confirmed it. She'd passed his test, gotten her foot in the proverbial door.

After a couple minutes of showcasing herself to him without breaking eye contact, Kitty danced closer until she stood next to him at the bar. She leaned forward onto the counter, her full breasts pressed up and almost out of her halter top, and regarded him through thick lashes before turning her head away and flagging down the bartender.

“What can I get you?” her target finally asked.

“Rum and Coke,” she replied with a thick Russian accent. She was feeling Russian tonight.

He ordered the drink. When the bartender brought it over, her target watched her wrap her lips around the tiny straw that came in the glass and suck out the liquid.

“Do you follow politics?” he asked.

She half smiled. “No.”

“You should. Race for mayor is hot right now. Neck and neck. Exciting if you care about that sort of thing.”

“I don't. I cannot vote, so why would I care?”

“Then get naturalized, baby. Marry some rich sucker, get your green card, then dump his ass and take half his money. It's the American way.”

She laughed. “You are funny. No, what is right word—
cynical
. Yes, you are very cynical.”

“You gotta be in this town. Seattle's known for being so
nice
—on the surface. Means you can't trust anybody.” He ordered her another drink. “Your mother give you a name?”

“Yes. But I go by Katya.”

“Katya. Pretty. My mother gave me a name, too, but I go by Gino.”

“Nice to meet you, Gino.”

“So…whatcha doin' here?”

God, finally.
Any more tedious chitchat and she'd be forced to shove her hand down his pants just to get him to shut up. “Looking for fun,” she said. “You?”

“Ditto—that means
the same
. How much is a fun time with you worth?”

Kitty's lips twisted into a smile she knew he would incorrectly assume was playful, and not predatory. He thought she was a prostitute—a Russian prostitute, embroiled in the sex trade, probably in the country illegally. Someone he could pay for and own for the night. A disposable toy to be played with and tossed when he'd had his fill. A woman he could talk freely in front of because she wasn't a real person. Too perfect.

“Eight hundred, all night.”

“Can do.” Gino pulled a thick wad of cash from his coat pocket and dropped some bills on the bar, then put his arm around Kitty's waist. “Let's blow this pop stand—that means
let's get out of here
.”

A cab ride later, Kitty followed Gino into his penthouse apartment.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said as he tossed his suit coat on a white leather sofa. A panoramic window framing the glowing cityscape forty-seven floors below dominated the living room. “My abode for now anyway. How long it lasts depends on the results of this election. That's why I care, babe.”

Kitty surveyed the layout of the room. Leather sectional in front of the window, wet bar to her left, open kitchen to her right, bedroom past the kitchen. The couch was the best place for sex, tactically speaking. She took off her coat and draped it carefully across a kitchen stool directly diagonal from the sofa.

Gino poured himself a glass of vodka at the wet bar. “Your national drink,” he said.

Kitty resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“Want one?”

She shook her head.

He stepped close to her, sipping his alcohol. “I hear Russia's nice this time of year.”

“Yes,” she said. She grabbed the end of his tie with one hand and slid her fingers up its length with the other. “Very wet.”

He reached under her miniskirt. His thin lips twisted into a smirk when he felt her lack of panties, her Brazilian wax. He inserted two fingers into her.

“Mmm,
very
nice.”

She backed away from him, toward the couch. “You will be gentle with me?” She bit her lip.

Gino laughed. “Fuck no.”

She grinned.

He shoved her down on the couch and pulled her skirt off, then spread her legs apart and licked her clitoris. Kitty let out a throaty moan. He was the kind of guy that liked a show, and she'd give it to him.

Gino put his drink down on the end table, then got down to business. He dropped his pants to his knees and propped Kitty's ankles on his shoulders, yanked her halter top off so her stilettos remained her only item of clothing, then slammed into her. No condom—not that it surprised her. Gino didn't seem like the kind of guy who cared much about the consequences of fucking people. Ah well, the cream Christophe made for Northwalk would ensure she'd stay STD and pregnancy-free. She didn't like the feel of the rubber anyway.

She gasped at the force of him, an insatiable animal, probably a sex addict. He fucked her hard, thighs meeting hers in a succession of satisfying, quick slaps. Her breasts bounced with each thrust, matched by her screams of ecstasy. Before she knew it, she'd come, but of course he kept going and she kept screaming like it was the best sex of her life. In truth, it was decent.

Five minutes in, Kitty heard the suite's door open and close.

“Pizza!” a man called from the foyer.

Gino didn't stop thrusting.

The visitor stepped into the living room area, shaking out his beige nylon jacket, which was spotted with rainwater. His face was blotched with partially healed bruises and a thick mustache above his lip. He didn't have pizza.

“Oh, I'm sorry, you have company,” he said, then walked past them to the kitchen. He rooted in the fridge for a moment, then reappeared with an apple. He leaned against the kitchen counter and took a bite out of the fruit. “Still no sign of Shepherd or Carressa. Thought you'd wanna know.”

Gino glanced to the side where his visitor stood behind him. “You checked with friends and known acquaintances?” His grip on Kitty's thighs tightened, and he thrust faster. Sweat bloomed on his brow.

“This ain't my first rodeo,” the visitor said through a mouth full of apple. “Shepherd's a PI. She knows how to hide. Probably in Mexico by now.”

“It doesn't matter where they are as long as they stay gone until after the election. So keep it that way.”

Gino stiffened and he groaned, finally climaxing. He let out a long exhale, then slipped out of Kitty and pulled up his pants, retrieved his drink from the end table, and took a long gulp. His tongue flicked out and licked vodka off his upper lip. “Where are my manners? Sten, Katya. Katya, Sten.”

Kitty rolled onto her side to face Sten, arm propping her head up, not bothering to cover herself. “
Privyet
,” she said to him.

Sten cocked an eyebrow at her, then focused back on Gino. “And what about the accountant?”

“We need to get as much money as possible out of that account before turning off the spigot. Wait two weeks, until right before elections, then make it look like an accident. Or a suicide, whatever. God knows I'd off myself if I woke up one day as a lonely, fat-ass accountant.”

Sten shrugged. “Sure.” He set the apple core down on the kitchen counter. “Though if I can give you some advice that I read in
Cosmo
, don't push your luck.” He eyed Kitty for half a second. “Sometimes the hare doesn't know that the warren it's dug is actually a lair for snakes.” His mustache ticked upward; it took Kitty a moment to realize he was smiling.

She frowned at him, and his eye twitched into an almost imperceptible wink.

“Gee, thanks,” Gino said, “I'll file that nugget of wisdom right next to my Confucius verses.”

“Just trying to help you out, bro.”

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Sten answered on his way out.

“Ah, a distinguished visitor,” he said as Norman Barrister entered the suite.

Norman's granite face, already etched with disapproval, fell farther when he spotted Kitty on the couch. She sat up and leaned back, draped her arms across the back of the sofa, and waved at him.

Sten tipped an imaginary hat to the mayoral candidate. “Have fun, Colonel,” he said, winked, then left.

Fun indeed. Let the games begin.

“You know what I had to go through to get here without being seen?” Norman barked at Gino as the letch refilled his drink. “Why can't you live a little more modestly?”

“Because if I wanted to live modestly, I wouldn't bother helping you, and you'd be floundering in the polls right now. It's a win-win for everybody.”

Norman kept his eyes resolutely off Kitty as she sat with her legs crossed and made circles in the air with her foot. He marched to the kitchen counter and slapped down a wad of cash. Gino picked up the stack and flipped through the bills with his thumb.

“It's all there, twenty thousand,” Norman said.

“I never doubted you. I just like the feel of it. I'll need another infusion next week in order to keep operations running smoothly.”

“I seriously doubt that this suite, and whatever
she
is, are necessary for your operations.”

“Every good fighting force needs some R and R.”

“Maybe take care of that
after
you do your job. Valentine Shepherd and Maxwell Carressa are
still
at large. They could know everything by now. What if they resurface and go public? I'll be sunk. All of this will have been for nothing!”

Gino slammed his glass down on the marble countertop. “They know nothing and they're long gone,” he said with an intensity that finally matched Norman's. “Stop panicking. If you can't handle the risk of having your deep, dark secrets exposed, then you should've stayed out of politics. You're all in now. There's no going back.”

Norman turned away, his face taut with anger before it collapsed into a defeated frown.

“Might as well enjoy yourself while you can,” Gino said, his voice light again. “Have you met my friend Katya?”

“I'll see you next week,” Norman said and took a step toward the exit.

“She's really something else,” Gino went on, “enough to make a gay man go straight, even. Would you like a taste?”

Norman stopped and looked at her. Kitty uncrossed her legs and let them fall wide open. She ran a hand up her thigh and smiled at him.

“No,” Norman said, but he stayed where he was.

Kitty wondered if he felt anything when he looked at her—every straight man and gay woman's wet dream—or did he react out of conditioning, willing himself to feel something,
anything
rather than his desire for men?

“Are you sure?” Gino said, sensing weakness and moving in for the kill. “I've got her all night.” He walked to Kitty and pulled her to her feet, then turned her to face Norman. He stood behind her and ran his hands up her torso, squeezing her breasts and putting a hand between her legs. “Any real man would want this.”

Gino stripped all his clothes off and sucked on Kitty's lips while she stroked his penis into a steel rod. He pushed her head down, and she fell to her knees and took him into her mouth.