The Betrayer (46 page)

He led them to a dark library, its walls lined with built-in bookshelves that held rows of antique and leather-bound books, its substantial floor space crowded with various sofas and chairs, and tables topped with Tiffany lamps.

John Coyle, Cat, and Smith were standing face-to-face in the center of the room. Haley was seated on one of the oversize sofas, holding a cup of coffee with trembling hands.

She was remembering her morning coffee with Johnny…How many days ago was it? Just two? That didn’t seem possible.

She and Cat had washed their hands prior to leaving the guest room but still hadn’t changed into the clothes the pregnant woman had brought to them. Haley had decided that she would stay as she was till she knew Johnny was going to be okay. The luxury of cleaning herself wasn’t something she could indulge in while he was fighting for his life.

Smith was the first to speak. He immediately reported that Johnny was still in surgery but that his status was unknown.

There was something in the way he announced this that made it clear to everyone that there was other news as well.

And that it was probably bad news.

Without meaning to, Haley held her breath.

Johnny’s father asked Smith what was going on.

“You won’t like it,” Smith said.

“What?”

“Through the Russians Fiermonte had arranged for a witness against Johnny to come forward. A false witness. The Thai police are waiting for word that Johnny has been arrested here, after which they’ll file another request for extradition with the attorney general. Johnny’s the definition of a flight risk, so it’s safe to say he’d be held without bail pending review of the application.”

“Can you prove that the witness had been arranged by Donnie?”

“No.”

“But you could testify that he told you that.”

Smith hesitated.

Johnny’s father looked at his protégé closely. “What is it, Bill?”

“To be honest, it would be better if I didn’t have to take the stand. I did a number of things over the last three years to maintain my cover that could call into question my credibility as a witness. That’s the best-case scenario. The worst is that my actions would implicate me in some very serious crimes.”

“You could get immunity, Bill.”

“I’d still have to admit to those crimes. In open court, if it got that far. Anyway, I don’t think it’s going to come to that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Richter’s men are on their way to Fiermonte’s place right now. With orders to burn it to the ground.”

“Whose orders?” Cat said.

“Dickey’s. He gave Richter several other orders as well. He was talking right up to the end.” Smith paused, then said, “I’m sorry, John. Dickey’s gone.”

It took Johnny’s father a moment to reply.

“How long ago?” he said softly.

“A few minutes.”

“I need you to get Richter right now, tell him to call his men back.”

“It wouldn’t do any good.”

“We could go after them,” Cat suggested.

“I’d leave this one alone, John,” Smith said. “Richter might not be the brightest, and he can be a little single-minded at times, but he’s carrying out his father’s last wishes. If you got in the way, things could get…complicated. Besides, it’s the right thing to do.”

“How is that the right thing to do?” Cat said.

“The evidence that proves Johnny and Haley were there can’t be eliminated without affecting the evidence that proves Cat shot Fiermonte in self-defense. And there’s the matter of explaining Dickey’s blood on the kitchen floor, and the dead woman upstairs. Either all the evidence remains, or all of it goes. There’s no middle ground here.”

Johnny’s father was silent as he considered that. Cat was watching him, a look of deep concern on her face.

He said finally, “Can we trust Richter’s men to do a thorough job?”

“They’re going to remove the bodies first, then dispose of them elsewhere. It’ll be like Fiermonte and his people simply disappeared.”

“They’ll need to erase all the footprints and tire tracks outside as well, including their own.”

“Richter knows that.”

Johnny’s father thought for another moment, then said, “The stove in the kitchen is a gas stove, I think.”

Smith nodded. “I told Richter it should look like a gas leak had built up and that a spark from the refrigerator compressor set it off. The house is old, a lot of the wood is rotted. What isn’t destroyed by the explosion will burn to ash, fast. Plus, the place is so isolated that if anyone even hears the explosion, the fire department will have a hell of a time getting to it quickly.”

Haley thought of the blood she had stepped in with her bare feet.

Blood that was on her when she ran from the house and to the Mercedes SUV.

Blood that was on her still — and now in the fabric of the sneakers she was wearing.

“We’ll need to collect everything,” Johnny’s father said. “Our clothes and shoes, just in case.”

Smith nodded again. “I’ll take care of that. And Dickey’s SUV is already on its way to one of his chop shops. It’ll be in pieces in a matter of hours.”

“But what about Morris?” Cat said. “He can place us all at the house. I don’t think he saw what happened inside, but he had to have heard the shots. And he knows who walked out of the house and who didn’t.”

Smith glanced at Haley, as if he wasn’t sure he should answer.

Johnny’s father told him it was okay to speak.

“He’s in the car with Richter’s men,” Smith said. He looked at Johnny’s father and shrugged. “It’s the only way, John.”

Johnny’s father offered no reaction — none that Haley could see — but Cat was clearly alarmed by this.

“They’re going to execute him,” she said. There was a hint of disbelief — and panic — in her voice. “They’re going to kill a New York City detective. In cold blood.”

“A corrupt New York City detective,” Smith corrected. “Who got a lot of people killed.” He let his impatience show, was exhausted, Haley could see that — eyes red, speech slightly slurred. She wondered how long it had been since he slept. Had he even really slept at all in the past three years?

Cat was exhausted, too, and she and Smith were on the verge of a heated exchange when Johnny’s father cut them off.

“Dickey ordered that, too?” he asked Smith. His voice was calm but full of authority. A take-charge man, decisive — Haley saw hints of her Johnny in him.

His words had the effect of soothing those around him. Cat and Smith both immediately backed down.

“Yeah,” Smith said. “It was his final order. He was more concerned about Morris telling the Russians than he was about Morris telling the cops. The Russians would waste no time taking their revenge. Either way, though, Morris was a threat to all of us. Dickey knew there was no way the man could be allowed to live. He gave that order so you wouldn’t have to, John. He used his dying breath to protect you. And your family. You need to know that.”

Johnny’s father was once again silent. Haley noticed that all eyes in the room were on him.

His eyes, however, were on Smith.

Studying him — the man he had trained, the man who had risked his own life for him.

Haley wondered what it was about Johnny’s father that engendered such devotion from men as different as Dickey McVicker and Smith.

But her thoughts were quickly diverted by what Johnny’s father said next.

“Why do I get the sense, Bill, that you have more bad news you need to tell us?”

“I’m waiting for Richter to get a call from his men.”

“What about?”

“It’s a long shot, but…” His voice trailed off.

“What is it, Bill?”

“The last time I saw Gregorian’s son, he was wearing a ballistic vest.”

Johnny’s father nodded, then said, “What level of protection was it?”

“A four.”

Johnny’s father nodded again.

Smith said, “The woods behind the house are the first place Richter’s men will check. I told them to be careful. Gregorian’s son is an animal, and animals are dangerous when they’re wounded.” Smith paused, then said, “We’ll know soon enough if they found him or not. In the meantime, I’ll start collecting everything we need to get rid of.” He looked at Cat, then Haley. “You’ll both want to take a shower. I’ll get some garbage bags and bring them to your room. Make sure you put everything in them before you shower, and then clean up thoroughly.”

Johnny’s father stepped forward and extended his hand.

Smith took it and looked his mentor in the eyes.

They shook hands.

“Thanks, Bill.”

Smith, frazzled, a bundle of raw nerves, took a breath, then let it out and said, “You’re welcome, John.”

“Do you know where Richter is?”

“He was making some calls. He’s running everything now. But he told me to bring you to him when you were ready.”

Haley thought about that — Richter, the man who had always frightened her, in charge of his father’s empire.

Responsible now for her and Johnny’s safety.

Would he keep his father’s promise and protect them, at least till Johnny was able to move and they could run once again, go somewhere far from here and find off-the-books work and a place to live that wouldn’t require the use of their real names?

If there was even such a place.

Johnny’s father said to Cat, “Take care of Haley,” then left the library with Smith.

Cat was still a little dumbfounded. Haley recognized the look — it was the same look she’d seen whenever she looked into a mirror in the days that followed her return to the States.

The days and weeks and months.

A surreal thing, to run from a killing — even a justified killing.

How much more surreal would it be for an FBI agent like Cat, someone who had taken an oath of fidelity, bravery, and integrity?

And while Johnny had killed three strangers in Thailand, Cat had killed a longtime family friend.

Who also happened to be an assistant federal prosecutor.

It was Haley who ended up taking care of Cat. She led her upstairs to the guest room, started the shower, and gathered together Cat’s clothes after she had undressed.

While Cat showered, Haley waited for Smith to bring the garbage bags. When he arrived with two, she stuffed Cat’s clothes inside one. As Smith stood in the doorway — he seemed to not want to enter their room — Haley recalled him telling Cat and herself to strip back at the farmhouse, then gathering their clothes once they were done.

All just hours ago.

“I’ll come back and get the bags after you’ve showered,” Smith said.

He turned to leave, but stopped when Haley spoke.

“Johnny’s father was carrying an M4, so I’m assuming the rounds were NATO five-point-five-six.”

A little surprised, and then not, as if maybe he knew about her background, Smith nodded and said, “That’s right.”

“Can a level-four vest stop those rounds?”

“It should, but John had fired a burst of three, and at relatively close range. Even if the vest did stop all of them, the transfer of kinetic energy would be enough to cause trauma to the impact points. Damage tissue and internal organs, possibly even break bones.”

“So maybe he’s alive and maybe he’s not.”

“Like I told John, we’ll know soon enough.”

Haley thought for a moment, about the lengths being gone to right now to protect them all, the dangers unknown men were facing.

Richter’s men — not the same ones who had been in the car that Johnny had crashed, she hoped.

The ones who survived, that is.

But had anyone risked more than the man now before her?

“Your real name’s Bill, right?” Haley said finally.

“Bill Kirkland, yeah.”

“Smith’s not exactly an original name for an alias.”

“It was the best identity available. We knew Fiermonte and Morris would look into my background before they tried to recruit me.”

Haley thought about that, then said, “Thanks, Bill.”

He squinted as if he wasn’t exactly sure what she was thanking him for.

“Your sacrifice,” she explained. “Putting your life on the line. Johnny has told me stories about what his father used to do, and what it cost him.” A pause, then she added, “And, I guess, thanks for not looking. Back at the farmhouse, I mean.”

He smiled at that. It was the first time Haley had seen him do so. The man seemed as caught off guard by it as she was.

“No problem,” he said.

They looked at each other for a moment more, then Bill Kirkland nodded and left.

Alone in the strange room, Haley removed the dark-haired woman’s raincoat but kept the sneakers on. She didn’t want to risk transferring the dried blood on her feet to the wood floor. Shoving the raincoat into the garbage bag, there was nothing left for her to do but wait for her turn to shower.

Outside the window, dulled by the low hanging rain clouds, were the first hints of dawn.

Vitali was making his way back to the Chelsea Hotel.

He had watched from the edge of the woods as John Coyle and Smith loaded their wounded.

Two of the M4 rounds had been stopped by the ceramic plate woven into his bullet-resistant vest — a gift from the very man who he’d seen help carry both John Coyle’s son and the man Vitali had mistakenly shot. But the third round had partially penetrated the protective layer, breaking apart as it was designed to do.

Fragments of that slug were now lodged in the thick muscles of his back.

The pain was significant — incredible, really — and he could feel blood collecting in his shirt.

He could also feel the bruises that had been left by the first two rounds.

Every breath he took — he could only take shallow ones — was like a knife in his back.

But these pains weren’t the reasons why Vitali hadn’t attacked the man who had killed his father.

It was the presence of John Coyle’s daughter — the one they called Cat. Armed with her father’s M4, she had kept watch of the surrounding woods for the minutes it took the wounded to be loaded.

The fact that a woman had kept him from taking advantage of this opportunity angered Vitali, but there was no way he could approach the front of the house unseen. And he was certain that despite her injured hand the FBI agent, armed with an assault rifle, would be able to at least hold him off long enough for her father and Smith to bring their weapons to bear and join the fight.

So all Vitali had been able to do was watch them load up and speed away.

He had waited ten minutes — a long time in the rain — before making his way back to the house. He’d thought of going inside to determine who had been killed by the many shots he’d heard.

He had also thought of the possibility of his having left trace evidence behind. He’d worn gloves the entire time he was in the house, and the bloodied rag he’d held to his mouth was in the pocket of his jeans.

The only mark he could have left were latent boot prints, but he would dispose of his boots, along with everything he was currently wearing, soon enough.

He’d decided not to go inside — no, his injuries decided that for him; should he find trouble in there, it wasn’t likely he could do much to defend himself.

A feeling he was not used to.

No, he needed to get away while he could.

Hurrying to the car parked at the end of the dirt driveway, each step spurring excruciating pain, he’d found, as he always did, exactly what he needed — the keys had been left in the ignition.

He had counted the turns that had taken them here, so finding his way back to the parkway wasn’t difficult.

From there he headed south, focused on what he needed to do next.

Get his computer and passport, then gather together the sheets, blankets, and pillowcase.

Everything his body had touched.

Just like he always did.

In the predawn light, in his room in the Chelsea Hotel, Vitali stripped the bedding and laid it on the floor. Removing his outer shirt, which was soaked with blood, he unfastened the Velcro straps of his bullet-resistant vest and dropped it onto the pile of bedding.

He was unable to lift his arms very far, so he couldn’t pull his blood-soaked undershirt over his head, but had to cut it off with his knife.

Standing at the mirror mounted over the bureau, he turned and looked over his shoulder at his back.

He counted four wounds and two bruises. The bleeding had stopped — the vest had held his undershirt to his wound like a compress — but he knew he had to treat the wounds or risk infection. There was no way, though, with his bulky muscles, that he could reach the wounds himself.

He showered, letting soapy water wash down his back, savoring the sting, but that wasn’t going to be enough.

Naked, his back burning, Vitali stood at his window and looked down on Twenty-Third Street.

The rain had stopped, but the clouds were low and a dense fog was rising, as if the two were attempting to meet. Vitali could barely see the street or the tops of the buildings across it.

He was on his own now, but he was far from done.

He had money, and he knew how to hide. He could slip away, keep himself entertained, keep his skills sharp, then come back to the city when it suited him.

The chance to avenge his father would present itself.

He trusted that.

And if he could not kill the man, if he went back into hiding, then he would make the man suffer.

Hurt his children. The one called Cat — he knew where she lived, knew her routine. She had to get back to it sooner or later.

And if not the man’s children, then he’d hurt those his children loved — the redhead came to mind. He’d only glanced at the surveillance photograph of her, and though he could barely remember her face, he did remember thinking it was beautiful.

That she had marred herself with the tattoo of a dragon was something he could overlook.

Better yet, something he could punish her for.

He was overdue for a kill.

And the things he did prior to killing.

Needed to do.

All the symptoms were there. In his mind were images of naked women — women he had stripped, or that he had made strip for him. Humiliation, inflicting pain for his pleasure — his thoughts, despite the pain he felt, were pulled toward that.

And he craved a cigarette, craved one deeply, but had none.

He cleared his mind of images and scenarios long enough to wonder if he could make it down to the store on the corner. Could he even dress himself?

For that matter, could he even do the things he desired to do? Could he control a woman in his current state? The idea of being so weak only added to his frustration and increased his deep need to hurt and kill.

It was then that he heard a buzzing sound.

The cell phone in the pocket of his jeans was vibrating.

He’d left them on the bedding. Stepping to it, he bent to pick the jeans up, had to struggle through the pain just to reach them.

Standing straight again took all he had.

Removing the phone, he looked at the screen. The number displayed on it was the number of his benefactor’s cell.

The text read,
Where are you?

His benefactor had only just recently begun texting — they had always relied on calls because calls were safer, voices couldn’t be faked the way texts could — so Vitali knew that he needed to be cautious.

But he also needed medical attention.

He waited a while, standing there, staring at the phone in his hand, then finally texted back,
Need medical attention.

He got nothing back for a moment, then:
Have medic on standby.

Nothing for a long while after that.

Phone in hand, waiting.

Five minutes, then ten, then fifteen.

This was beginning to feel wrong to him, but finally the phone buzzed again.

Where to send her?

Vitali read that text several times, his eye lingering on one particular word:
her.