Running of the bulls

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

9:38 p.m.

In the safe house on Avenue A, Carmen grabbed a satchel of supplies, followed Spocatti into their shithole of a bathroom and ripped open his shirt. She paid no attention to the buttons that popped off and ricocheted off the peeling walls. She was in a hurry. They needed to move.

She could sense Spocatti looking down at her.

“Horny?” he asked.

“Shut up, Vincent.”

“Because I’d be happy to fuck you,” he said. “Release some of this unnecessary tension between us. Consider it my way of apologizing for leaving you behind.” He grabbed a handful of her ass, but she was fast. Just as quickly, she grabbed his crotch and squeezed it hard, so much so that he released his hand and, through the pain, put it on top of hers. He squeezed his crotch with her. “How does that feel?” he asked. “Big enough to make you forget you had a bad day?”

She knocked his hand away. “I don’t need your mercy fuck, Vincent.”

“It wouldn’t be one.”

“Let me fix your arm.”

He put her hand back on his crotch and she was surprised by how much it had grown. “What do you say?” he said. “I fuck you, you do your nurse duties and then we get back to work?”

She’d be a liar if she said she wasn’t attracted to him, but this isn’t how she played it, and she knew it was the same for him. He was testing her, just as always.

She put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re sweet, Vincent. And that’s quite a package you’ve got. Your old man would be proud. But I’m going to clean your arm now, you’re going to let me do it and then we’re going back out. You know why?”

He had an amused look on his face. “Tell me,” he said.

“Because if we don’t finish this job soon, we’ll have blown it. The police are onto us. So are Maggie Cain and her P.I., who now knows for certain that we’re working for Wolfhagen. If this isn’t front-page news by tomorrow, then it will be the next day. And all those people who once testified against Wolfhagen who aren’t already dead will know that soon they will be. And then they’ll flee.”

“Schwartz won’t flee.”

Spocatti took him out days before Carmen arrived from Spain. There were two others in the city sitting in their own chilled living rooms, poised exactly like Schwartz. Only, those people had been dead longer. “No,” she said. “Not unless those maggots sprout wings.”

She removed the last of his shirt. He hadn’t lost much blood. Cain’s bullet only grazed him. Still, if she didn’t clean and stitch it properly, it would become infected and then they’d really be in for it. Given their records, there were no hospitals available to them.

She removed a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the satchel and soaked a clean cloth with it. She pressed it against his arm and wasn’t surprised that he didn’t wince. “I’m not losing out on a $10 million bonus for you, Vincent.”

“I don’t expect you to. I was just offering you my cock, Carmen. Frankly, I’m offended you don’t want it.”

She looked up at him and was about to speak when the look on his face stopped her. Gone was any trace of humor. Back was the cold man with the hard eyes and the set mouth that reminded her again why she never could trust him.

He took the bottle of rubbing alcohol from her hand, poured it over the wound and allowed it to splash into the sink. He saved half for the clean-up and handed the bottle back to her.

“Get a needle,” he said. “Stitch me up. It’s past nine-thirty. I want to be out of here in fifteen. We have four people on our list and we’re getting through them tonight.”

She looked surprised. “I thought there were five.”

“There were,” he said. “But I had an opportunity to take out Alan Ross earlier today and so I did.” She was about to speak when he held up a hand. “I’m not explaining it to you. Later, you can watch the footage yourself to see how it went down. Just stitch me up so you can take care of that scrape on your forehead and make yourself look pretty. We know Yates’ routine. He’ll be sitting at that bar in twenty minutes.”

When they left the building, Carmen was a new woman.

Her face was clean, she’d applied fresh makeup, brushed her hair, concealed the scrape and changed into a short black dress that revealed long, slender legs and a robust bust. Her dark hair tumbled down her back and swung when she moved. In her ears were faux black diamonds that concealed tiny microphones. The brooch she wore was a camouflaged miniature camera. She was beautiful, she knew it, and just how deeply she knew it was reflected in the confident way she held herself.

She was wearing heels for the first time in what seemed like months and even though she hated them, she knew how important they were. This next job was all about illusion. As pretty as she looked right now-and as sexy as she was without going over the top-it was just a tool to generate the interest of one man.

Spocatti was ahead of her, climbing into the van parked curbside. Carmen went to the passenger-side door and slid in. She opened the small, jeweled black purse she’d brought with her, checked her gun to make certain it was loaded, looked for the syringe Spocatti had filled with a lethal dose of potassium chloride and, satisfied, snapped it shut.

The drove uptown in silence.

When they arrived at a private club called The Townhouse, which was just off Park on 67th Street and which Wolfhagen had made arrangements for Carmen to enter, Spocatti stopped at the street corner to drop her off.

“Stick to the plan,” he said. “Don’t pull another Hayes.”

She lowered the illumined visor for a final check of her appearance. “I learned my lesson, Vincent. Don’t worry about it.”

“Yates is fat and lonely and old. This should be easy for you. I’m expecting you to be out of there in twenty.”

“He’s also worth billions, which erases age and weight. I have no idea what I’m walking into or which starlet will be trying to charm him when I find him. But I’ll be quick. And I’m better looking than most. Expect to hear from me in fifteen.”

“Don’t use the gun.”

She was growing tired of him. She was every bit as good as he was and he knew it. She applied a last swipe of lipstick, smacked her lips together, shut the visor and opened the door. She pulled her hair away from her face and turned to look at him. Her voice was steady when she spoke. “Cut the condescending bullshit attitude toward me or you’re finishing this alone.”

On the street, it was quiet. This was mostly a residential neighborhood, but there were a handful of restaurants and, of course, The Townhouse, which was two-thirds of the way down the street on the right.

Carmen moved down the sidewalk as if on air.

She was still in pain from the bookend Cain smashed against her side, but unlike most people, Carmen didn’t mind the pain. Her awareness of it only made her focus more intently on the task at hand and so she moved through it, holding herself with the confidence of the rich, her black dress swinging along with her hair as she approached the building’s red-carpeted entrance.

At the top step stood a middle-aged man in an expensive business suit. His hands were behind his back and he smiled at her as she approached. “Welcome,” he said when she took the steps. “Beautiful evening, isn’t it?”

She smiled at him.

“Are you here to meet someone?”

“No,” she said. “I’m in town for the week and a guest of one of your members.”

“May I ask who?”

“George Redman.”

“Your name?”

“Sophia Bianchi.”

From behind his back, he pulled out an iPad. Carmen watched him turn it on and, in the glow reflected upon his face, move his finger down the screen until he arrived at her name, which he clicked. “Perfect,” he said. He stepped aside and opened the glass and bronze door. “Have you been to The Townhouse before?”

“First time.”

“You’ll find a lively crowd on the first level, a terrific new talent performing wartime standards on the second, and the lounge on the third. Waiters are throughout, so you won’t want for a drink. But if you are looking to relax with a cocktail before potentially coming upon someone you know, I recommend the lounge first.”

She moved past him and then, turning on her heel, stopped on the cusp of entering the crowded room. “Actually, I am hoping to find an old friend here tonight. Do you happen to know if Ted Yates has arrived?”

“You’ll find him in the lounge.”

When it came to taking a life in public, Carmen was no stranger.

She’d slit throats in Sicily during open-air operas, she’d broken necks in Paris while shopping for shoes in the Marais, she’d swept down the Alps and caused one especially difficult man to go flying into a tree, and on one job in Vienna, she’d taken down a pedophile priest (and a few unfortunate others who were there to absolve their sins) when she poisoned the wine being offered at Communion.

Now, as she walked into a room that harkened back to another time-dark mahogany woodwork reaching to the tall ceilings, Tiffany windows and fixtures splashing color along the golden walls, lights dimmed just low enough to flatter the well-appointed crowd-she felt suddenly recharged with the life she was about to take.

Ted Yates had earned his billions thanks to Wolfhagen and, in turn, Wolfhagen had earned at least part of his fortune thanks to Ted Yates. With their contacts, their knowledge and insights into national and international markets-not to mention Wolfhagen’s ability to garner inside information-they once were an unassailable team, until Wolfhagen was charged, put on trial and had to face Yates when he took the stand to testify against him.

For his trouble, Yates was offered immunity, as was everyone. As a slap on the wrist, everything was taken from him save for his apartment on Fifth and all the money he’d managed to tuck away in Swiss accounts. In all, he’d lost close to a billion in cash, securities and property, but it was just a dent in what he really had at his disposal. Though people assumed but could never be sure, Ted Yates was among the wealthiest men in the world.

And today he would die.

“Can you hear me?” she asked Vincent while turning her head to toy with one of her earrings.

“I can hear you.”

“And the brooch? You can see everything?”

“You’re fine, Carmen. Move.”

At the end of the room was the staircase that led to the two additional levels. There also was an elevator to the left of the staircase. In a glance, she could see it was the building’s original elevator-this crowd would have it no other way-and that it likely was too slow for her needs.

And so Carmen moved through the smiling crowd, took to the stairs and passed the level on which a young woman was singing “The Memory of Your Face,” which was just ironic enough to make Carmen smile. The woman was so good, Carmen longed to listen, but there was no time. She went quickly up the last flight of stairs and into the lounge, which was dominated by an enormous mahogany bar and just as crowded as each of the rooms below.

A man stopped beside her with a silver tray. “Champagne?”

She looked at the shallow bowls with their bubbling stems and couldn’t deny that she wanted one. She looked at him and also couldn’t deny that with his dark wavy hair, broad shoulders and classic Greek looks, that she wouldn’t mind having him either. “I’m more of a martini girl.”

“I’d be happy to get one for you.”

“You’re kind,” she said, sweeping the bar and finding no trace of Yates. “But I think I’ll just sit at the bar, if I can find a seat.”

“You won’t find one here,” he said. “But there is room on the other side.”

Other side?

Carmen followed him through the crowd and to the rear of the bar, where there was a wide arched doorway that led to another room. Here, it was somewhat quieter. The decor was the same and there was an identical bar, at which sat Yates, alone-just as they were told he would be.

The seats to his right were occupied, but to his left there were two open chairs. Carmen went to the one farthest away from him. The young man pulled out the chair, she smiled over her shoulder at him as she sat down, and then she heard him say to the bartender. “Martini here.” He looked at her as Yates turned to do the same. “Straight up?”

“And with three olives.”

“Belvedere?”

“I prefer the Goose.”

Yates lifted his own martini in an amused toast to her comment and Carmen knew why. This was his drink, and Grey Goose was his choice of vodka.

She looked at him. “I suppose that is an odd way to put it.”

“The French would love you for it.”

“The French would be happy I was buying their vodka.”

“The French know how it’s done.”

“The French almost made me an ex-pat.”

She crossed her legs and put her purse on the bar. Yates, who was indeed fat and hovering somewhere near 80, glanced down at her tanned legs before taking another sip of his drink. “I haven’t seen you here before,” he said. “I’m Ted Yates.”

“Sophia Bianchi.”

“An Italian drinking French vodka?”

“Consider me a non-conformist.”

“Non-conformist. Ex-pat. What do you believe in?”

“Freedom.”

He laughed at that. “I would have thought Uvix for you.”

Carmen waved her hand. “Vodka never should be made from grapes.”

“It’s actually rather good.”

“As good as the Goose?”

“Probably not that good.”

She smiled. “I didn’t think so.”

The bartender came with her drink and she watched Yates look around the room. It was starting to fill up, the din was rising and soon the chair between them would be occupied. “Are you meeting someone tonight?” he asked.

She shook her head and ate an olive. “It’s just me. I’m in town for the week and a good friend who’s a member thought I might enjoy stopping by for a cocktail.”

“What do you think so far?”

“It’s lovely,” she said. “And obviously popular.”

“How’s the olive?”

She chose another and held it to her mouth. “Perfectly soaked in French vodka.”

At that moment, a middle-aged gentleman pulled out the seat between them and started to sit down. Carmen saw the disappointment that crossed Yates’ face and shrugged her shoulders at him, as if she wasn’t sure what to do. The man caught the shrug and asked if anyone was sitting here. And Carmen took the opportunity.

“Actually,” she said. “We were just starting to talk. Would you mind if I slid over and you took my chair?”

“Not at all.”

She sat in the chair next to Yates and lowered her purse so it rested in her lap. She released the latch. The bartender, missing nothing, moved her martini in front of her. She touched glasses with Yates, who once again dropped his gaze to her legs. “This is a nice surprise,” he said. “Nobody ever talks to me here.”

“That’s a curious thing to say. Did you throw a drink in someone’s face?”

“No,” he said, smiling. “But sometimes I’d like to. I’m just old and worn out and not very popular anymore.”

“Sometimes, being unpopular with the wrong crowd isn’t such a bad thing. But if it bothers you, why come?”

“Lot’s of reasons,” he said. “I live nearby. I once had terrific times here, especially when my wife was alive. And I still enjoy myself even if the mood has changed against me.”

“Now you’re creating a mystery.”

He motioned for the bartender to bring two new drinks. “Allow me to deepen it. What I am is a man at the end of his life who’s made his share of mistakes.”

“Who hasn’t?”

“They were public mistakes.”

“I think you’re probably more than that,” she said. “Look at this place.” Her words gave her an excuse to look around the room. People were talking closely and loudly in an effort to be heard. The room was near capacity, which was to her benefit. At the far right of the bar, vodka and vermouth were shaking with ice. Carmen noted that on this side of the bar, he was the only bartender on duty.

With distraction on her side, she reached her hand into her purse and grabbed the syringe. And then, as always when she was about perform a kill, she felt the rush of anticipation shoot through her body. “They don’t just let anyone in.”

He held out his hands as if in defeat.

She stuck out her bottom lip and took one of his hands in her own. She came up behind him, the syringe at her side. She looked down at his face and into his liquid blue eyes, and felt nothing when she saw hope, lust and embarrassment reflected back at her.

“And besides,” she said, leaning in close so only she, he and the microphones could hear. “You’re Teddy Yates. You could buy and sell all of these people. We both know that just as we both know that Maximilian Wolfhagen would one day make you pay for sending him to prison. Now, it’s time to collect.”

Yates’ brow furrowed and then, just as quickly, his eyes widened with recognition as he saw what was about to happen.

But Carmen was quick. She leaned forward as if to kiss him on the neck, but instead, with her hair tumbling over and concealing her hand, she slipped the syringe into his carotid artery and pressed down hard so the contents mainlined into his heart.

It was over in seconds. His eyes growing wider, Yates placed his hand over his neck and tried to speak. But he couldn’t. His heart was seizing up.

Carmen backed away from him and positioned her body so his last few breaths were caught on camera. She dropped the syringe into her purse, blew him a kiss and lowered her head slightly as she left him behind and moved through the enthusiastic crowd.

It didn’t take long.

Behind her, she heard the crash of a chair hitting the ground, women screaming, men shouting for someone to call 911, and then she was on the stairs, hurrying past the singer who now was belting out something jazzy on the second level, and then she entered the first floor, where the crowd was tighter than before.

She slipped through it. As she neared the door and the doorman she’d encountered earlier, she was completely composed.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked.

“Afraid so,” she said. “One drink limit. My flight leaves first thing. But it was nice to see Teddy even if he wasn’t feeling well.” She moved past him and took the stairs. “Good night.”

He nodded at her and with that, she walked down the street toward Vincent, who was waiting for her in the van she could see at the end of the street. She stepped into it and he pressed the gas. “How long was I?” she asked.

“Just over twenty.”

She couldn’t still the disappointment that washed over her. She had promised him fifteen and she’d blown it.

Spocatti turned the wheel and they started moving toward their next target. Carmen stepped to the back of the van, where she changed into comfortable clothes and then checked the contents of a large satchel that was at the center of the van. It was all there. With an uneasiness that was alien to her, she moved back to the front passenger seat and sat down.

Everything was in place.

Spocatti broke the silence. “Killing Yates wasn’t easy,” he said. “But you pulled it off. You did well.”

She pulled her hair away from her face and knotted it into a ponytail. “I’m worried about this next one,” she said.

“I agree, but we need the distraction.”

“There are other ways to cause a distraction.”

“You’re just a woman going for a walk. You’re too sharp for anyone to know what else you’re up to. I know you’ll be discrete.”

She pulled hard on the knot, turned her hair up into a bun and reached down into the bag at her feet. Inside was a cap with realistic blonde ponytail attached to it. She put it on and checked herself in the visor’s mirror. “Powerful people live there. There has to be some level of protection on that street that we’re not considering. Are there cameras?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because, I’ve checked.” He turned to her. “I’m putting neither of us in jeopardy for Wolfhagen, Carmen. I could give a shit about him. But just like you, I’ve been paid. I’ve done my work and I’ve checked that street. It’s clean. Now we stick to the plan. Just walk at a regular pace. When you bend, do it quickly. I won’t be far behind.”

“I want that bonus, Vincent.”

“We both do. We’ll get it.”

The van weaved through traffic, Spocatti caught a string of green lights and started uptown toward East 75th Street. He didn’t say another word to Carmen and she felt she knew him well enough to know why. What they were about to do next was critical not only because it would take out the one woman who delivered the trial’s most damning testimony against Wolfhagen, but also because it would cause a massive, city-wide panic that would allow them to complete their night’s work and finish this job for good.

But the downside was beyond comprehension and almost crippling for her to fathom, just as it had been when Spocatti first had the idea. If they pulled this off-and given the planning and preparation that had gone into this particular job, there was no reason for her to believe it wouldn’t go off-hundreds of innocent people could die and buildings would fall as a part of Manhattan was wiped off the face of New York City forever.