Authors: Sandra Brown
“He pissed me off,” Eric said.
God save her from idiot lovers
. “He’s fucking dead, you moron. How am I supposed to pull anything from his bank accounts when we don’t have his goddamn account numbers and access codes?”
The plan had been to get Tom in a hotel, get him tied up, get the information and
then
kill him. Eric would pistol-whip her, fuck her hard and then get himself gone while she called 911. After that, she could draw from the account without having to wait for all the probate bullshit, bullshit that would undoubtedly leave some of
her
money with
his
pedantic, pain-in-the-butt relatives.
Much nicer to be on her own with cash in her pocket, and his too-nice, I-don’t-have-to-work-and-can-stay-home-all-day-and-be-a-pain-in-your-butt body out of her life.
And then the brain trust here had to go and screw it all up.
“You’re still married. You’ll still get it.”
“Think, Eric! Think.” She pressed her hands to her temple, then scowled at him again. “And you smell like a damn brewery. Are you drunk? Are we seriously doing this while you’re drunk?”
He actually looked sheepish. “I was bored. You guys took your damn time.”
“Honestly! And quit waving that thing. You’re making me nervous.” She held out her hand and he slapped the gun into her palm.
“You got a real bitchy attitude sometimes, Liz. You know that, right? Sometimes you just need to chill. Go with the flow. It’s all gonna work out just fine, and we’re gonna be soaking in the sun on some foreign beach by the weekend.”
She drew in a breath, nodded. “Right. You’re right. I’m just a little freaked. I wasn’t expecting the backup plan.”
“That’s why they call it a backup, baby.” He’d been waiting in the truck at the turnoff to Balmorhea. She’d known she couldn’t push too hard, not and be Tom’s adoring little Elizabeth. So Eric had waited, and if they passed the exit, then he was supposed to come after them. Smooth as silk.
And in a lot of ways, so much better.
She smiled. “Sorry. I’m okay. You’re right. The account numbers were just to speed things up. No prenup. I’m his little wifey. I’ll get my share, easy squeazy. My share, and a lot of sympathy. Carjacked on our honeymoon? How fucking rotten is that?”
Eric spread his hands. “I’m the man.”
“That you are.”
“So, I need to get out of here,” he said. “But you gotta be a little fucked-up. Pistol-whipped and all that shit. Just like we planned at the hotel. Gimme the gun back.”
She held it out to him. “Don’t hold back. When you hit me, make it look good.”
“Shit, Liz,” he said, stepping close to take it. “Didn’t anybody tell you about not pointing that thing at people?”
Blam!
Even in the dark, she could see the blood spread across the bright white cotton of his shirt. She smiled as she watched him fall. “So sorry, Eric,” she said. “Nobody told me a thing.”
* * *
She realized her mistake right away. She should have let him fuck her, let him whack her on the cheek a few times to raise a huge bruise. Because now she was going to have to do at least a little damage to herself.
She’d tell the cops the carjacking story, but she’d say that when he was trying to rape her, she got the gun from him. Managed to shoot him, and then escaped in his truck.
Nice and neat, except for the fact that she didn’t have a mark on her.
She turned the flashlight app on and shined a light around the area. She found a rough rock and used it to rip her jeans, then she sat on her ass and dragged herself along the ground, wincing as the gravel and debris cut at her knees and hands.
She’d had a manicure before they left, but now she clawed at the dirt, fighting a pretend assailant who was dragging her off, ripping her cuticles, breaking her nails. Not really a problem, since she could pay for a lifetime of manicures now.
She wasn’t looking forward to messing up her face—much easier to have someone else do it for her. She shined the light at Eric’s lifeless body. No help there. And as for her dear, departed husband… .
Her light found him, too, his shirt stained red, his eyes open in surprise, blood bubbles forming at his moving lips—
What the fuck?
She stepped closer. It had to be a trick of the light.
“
E…za…beth
.”
“Oh, shit, Tom. Why the fuck aren’t you dead?”
His lips moved again, but she couldn’t make out the words.
Dammit all, she didn’t need this shit. “Look, I’m really sorry. I mean, you’re an okay guy and all. But I’d have to slit my throat if I stayed married to you. Nothing personal. Really.”
Again, the lips moved. Again, she heard nothing.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
She got closer. “What is it? You want to tell me the account numbers? You’re probably in a lot of pain. Tell me, and I can make it all go away.”
He nodded. Or she thought he did. Not that easy to tell, really.
She got down close to him, the gun in her hand. She could smell the blood. She’d thought Eric had got him in the heart, but now that she was closer, she could see he missed it. Probably got a lung, though. Poor guy was probably drowning in his own blood.
“
Nine…ven…teen.”
“Hold on, baby. Say it slower, say it louder. Just say it, and I’ll make it all be over.” She bent closer, her ear near his mouth.
“Fuck…you…”
She jerked away, but it was too late. His arm was already up, that damn knife of his already out, and she gagged on blood as he thrust the blade deep into her throat.
Fucker!
She screamed, or she tried to. She was gagging, choking, and with her free hand, she yanked the knife out, tossed it aside and clutched hard at her neck as warm blood pulsed out between her fingers. She was on her knees, swaying, her head like a balloon about to lift off into space.
Dead. He was fucking dead.
She lifted the gun, got it right in his face, and pulled the trigger.
Click
.
Nothing. Just
click.
In front of her, through the haze of gray that was fast overtaking her, she saw her husband smile, and this time she heard his weak whisper. “Rossi’s a five-shooter, bitch.”
And as she tumbled sideways, her blood spilling out onto the warm Texas dust, she heard his voice one last time. The last words she ever heard. “Till death do us part, Elizabeth. Till death do us part.”
* * * * *
EXECUTION DOCK
James Macomber
Macomber moves the action along at a mile a minute but without any sacrifice to the heart of the story. ~SB
“No.”
Refusing to look at the woman lawyer seated across from him, Sarnath Dutta addressed his remarks to the male magistrate. “I have a superior order from the Sharia court of Jessore that I, as father, have all rights.”
“No, Mr. Dutta.” Katherine Price, senior partner with Loring, Matsen and Gould, leaned forward and just as pointedly addressed the dark-skinned Bengali man directly. “You married Mrs. Dutta in the United States. That marriage produced two children, now four and six. The marriage failed and divorce proceedings ensued, also in the United States. For good and valid reasons—we won’t get into the issues of abuse unless we have to—that court awarded sole custody to Mrs. Dutta. You received specific and, under the circumstances, generous visitation.”
Dutta interrupted. “That order—and that court—mean nothing.” He realized he was talking directly to Price and shifted abruptly to the magistrate. “No court can supersede the order of the Sharia court.”
Theodore Warrenton, Magistrate of the Inner London Family Proceedings Court raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He was an elderly man, semiretired from active participation on the bench and meticulously fair in his conduct of this hearing. He transferred his gaze to Price for a response.
“To the contrary,” Price countered, “you’re the one attempting to set aside existing valid orders. After the divorce proceedings, you flew home to Bangladesh to get that order. Then, under the pretense of availing yourself of your visitation rights under the very orders you seek to declare invalid, you took the children and left the United States. Fortunately, you were intercepted at Heathrow on an Interpol watch issued under the Hague Convention on the Civil Aspects of International Child Abduction.”
“Which does not apply to me as a Bengali. Bangladesh is not a signatory to that treaty.”
“Precisely!” Price seized on the point, and turned toward Magistrate Warrenton. “Perhaps the court is familiar with the term
chutzpah?
” The judge nodded slightly. Dutta bristled at the reference.
“The classic example of
chutzpah,
” Price went on, “is the man who murders his parents and then asks for mercy on the grounds he’s an orphan.” Warrenton smiled. Dutta didn’t. “It’s only due to the fact that Bangladesh is not a signatory to the Child Abduction statute that Mr. Dutta isn’t facing a warrant for his arrest,” Price argued. “He should hardly be allowed to use that loophole to justify his otherwise unlawful actions.”
“Unlawful!” Dutta scoffed. “My actions are fully consistent with this order and, most importantly, with Sharia law, which may not be set aside.”
“This is not a matter of setting aside Sharia law, Mr. Dutta,” Warrenton interjected. “As Ms. Price stated, the earlier orders of the United States court take precedence.”
“No!” Dutta remained adamant.
“Yes,” insisted the magistrate. “And this court so rules.” He began to dictate to the stenographer. “In the matter of—” Warrenton stopped when Dutta abruptly stood, banging his chair loudly against the wall. “Mr. Dutta,” the magistrate began forcefully.
But Dutta ignored him and stomped toward the door. The bailiff moved to intercept him but Warrenton waved him off. Dutta yanked the door open and left without closing it behind him.
Warrenton completed dictating his ruling then spoke to Beverly Dutta. “This order will be sent over immediately to Child Protection Service.” He looked at his watch. “It’s now 3:00 p.m. I know it’s difficult to wait another night but arrangements have to be made. I’ll set the time for their release to you at, say, 11:00 a.m. tomorrow. I trust that’s satisfactory?”
“Thank you.” Beverly managed a weak smile as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. The magistrate smiled gently back at her, then rose and left.
“And thank you, Katherine,” Beverly said, leaning over to hug Price. “I could never stand up to Sar on my own.” She looked down. “Maybe that was the problem all along.”
Though few would believe it, Katherine was old enough to be Beverly’s mother—she certainly didn’t look it—and she’d developed a strong maternal feeling for this young woman. She gently pushed Beverly’s shoulders back so she could look into her face, and told her firmly, “No,
he
was the problem all along.” She waved her hand vaguely to indicate the hearing room. “And if this doesn’t count as standing up to him, what does?”
“But I couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” Katherine said. And it was. Dutta was despicable—a bully and serial abuser. It had been a pleasure to knock him down.
“Is it really over?”
“Well, he could appeal,” Katherine acknowledged. “But the judge’s order made it clear that you’re to take custody of the children immediately. Even if he appeals. And,” she added with emphasis, “you’re free to take them back to the States pending an appeal.”
“Will you come with me to pick up Sarah and Josh tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. Wouldn’t miss it.”
“I’m going over there now.” The CPS facility was only a few blocks away from both the court and Beverly’s hotel. “Do you want to have dinner later?”
Katherine reached out and squeezed Beverly’s hand. “Oh, I wish I could. But John’s flying in and I’m picking him up at Heathrow.”
“Your fiancé?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a lawyer in your firm, too?”
“Uh-huh. Also a senior partner.”
“Have you known him long?”
“We’ve been colleagues at the firm for several years, but we just never seemed to get together. I understand it drove the office matchmakers nuts for years.” They shared a smile.
“Will he come with us tomorrow?” Beverly began to gather her things.
“I think he’d like that. He’s the strongest man I’ve ever known, but he’s got a soft side I just love. He’ll probably be as sniffly as we are.”
“How nice that must be.” Beverly’s tone was wistful.
Katherine reached out and took her hand. “Give it time, Beverly. As I said, it’s worth the wait.”
* * *
Katherine had hired a car and driver from an Aston Martin dealership just up Park Lane from the Grosvenor House for the trip to and from the airport to pick up John. As they walked into the hotel lobby upon their return, the striking couple were the object of admiring glances—Katherine tall, auburn-haired and head-turningly beautiful; John handsome, salt-and-pepper hair, a few inches taller than Katherine and a few years older.
They went up to their room and, when the bellman had left, fell into a long embrace.
“Hungry?” Katherine asked after a while.
“Very.”
“For food?”
“That, too.”
Katherine gave a throaty chuckle and turned away to order some wine and appetizers from room service. They settled onto the couch and turned toward each other, spending the next few minutes in an affectionate chat that sometimes bordered on the goofy. Room service arrived and the server arranged the wine bucket, glasses and food items on the low table in front of the couch and left.
“So,” John said after a couple of sips of Pinot Grigio, “the case went well?” He was familiar with the nature of it but they’d not discussed specifics. Katherine filled in the details including Sarnath Dutta.
John shook his head. “A real bastard, hey?”
“Unbelievable, John. Every negative stereotype come to life. He wouldn’t even talk to me directly because I’m a woman.”
“All the more satisfying to hand him his butt, then.” John huffed a laugh.
“Exactly.” She grew pensive. “But more than that…You see men like that, relationships like that…I hesitate to call it a relationship even.” She reached across the back of the couch to caress John’s shoulder. “It makes me appreciate you all the more.”
“And I you.” He raised his glass to her. “So what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”
“Well, I told Beverly I’d—” Katherine smiled “—well, actually I said
we’d
go with her when she picks up her kids tomorrow. Is that okay?”
“Sure,” John said. “Always love to see a happy ending.”
They sat in contented silence for a bit, then John stood. “It’s been a long day,” he said, stretching.
Katherine got off the couch and crossed to him wrapping her arms around his neck. “No rest for the weary, though,” she whispered in his ear.
A smile with just the hint of a leer appeared on John’s face. “I thought the saying was ‘no rest for the wicked.’”
Katherine looked into his eyes, her lips just an inch away from his. “That’ll work.”
* * *
The phone woke John at nine-thirty the next morning. He hadn’t meant to fall back asleep after Katherine had left an hour before to meet Beverly at the Coronet Hotel. Savoring the memory of her goodbye kiss, he reached across the empty bed and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“John. I can’t find Beverly.”
“Where are you?”
“Her hotel. She didn’t answer her door or the house phone. I got the manager to open the room. The bed looks slept in. All her stuff’s there.”
“Maybe she went over to CPS already? Couldn’t wait?”
“I don’t think she would, but I called anyway. She’s not there. Wasn’t at the courthouse, either. She wouldn’t miss this for anything. Something’s not right.”
John had learned time and again to trust Katherine’s instincts. He was already out of bed and pulling on his clothes. “Have you called the police?”
“I did. Of course, they said ‘she’s an adult, maybe went out.’ The usual.”
“Anybody at the hotel see anything?”
“Not so far. I’m going to see if I can persuade the manager to let me look at their security tapes.”
“Okay. You’re right down Oxford Street?”
“Yes. Right on Berwick. Just down from there. On the right.”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll be here.”
* * *
John made it in twelve. He dashed through the front door of the Coronet Hotel and up to the desk. Met with a blank stare when he inquired after Katherine, he requested the manager. A moment later a tall, slender, dark-haired, thirtysomething woman came out a door behind the desk. She spoke with a slight German accent. “May I help you?”
John asked again for Katherine.
“I know who you’re referring to, sir,” the manager replied. “I spoke with her earlier, yes. Let her into her client’s room. But I haven’t seen her since.”
“She told me she was going to try to look at your surveillance recordings.”
The manager shook her head. “She didn’t. As I said I only spoke with her the one time.”
Nothing was making sense. “Might I examine your security tapes, then?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. Privacy concerns. You understand.”
He did, but…he turned away from the desk, punching a number into his cell phone as he walked around the lobby. The call was answered on the first ring.
“Foster.”
“Robbie. It’s John Cann.”
“Robbie” was Sir Robert Foster, a former colonel in Britain’s most elite Special Forces unit, the SAS. Foster had retired from the military and gone on to form one of the premier executive protection firms in the U.K. His lifetime of service to his country as well as his current accomplishments had earned him a knighthood in 2007. Cann had been an honored guest at the ceremony.
“John. How wonderful. Are you in the U.K.? Is the lovely Katherine with you?”
“She is but there’s a problem.”
Foster turned serious. He’d known John for a very long time, well before Loring, Matsen and Gould. And he knew that John Cann did not lightly characterize something as a “problem.” Neither did Katherine. Many of the firm’s lawyers were more than attorneys, recruited as much for their operational skills as their legal acumen.
Like John and Katherine.
John’s background was military; army straight out of high school, Green Beret and Delta Force, operations with DIA, CIA, NSA, etc. And even the SAS. That’s how he knew Robbie. Later he was sent to law school on “Uncle Sam’s nickel” to establish a cover for clandestine work and turned out to be an excellent attorney. Just what Loring, Matsen and Gould sought.
As for Katherine, she was an honors graduate of a small private law school and had gone to the Department of Justice upon graduation. Glynco Federal Law Enforcement Training Center—“Fletsy”—was followed by assignments as “legal attaché,” the euphemism for U.S. agents on foreign soil, before heading to counterterror at State.
They were both very good at what they did. That’s why they were at Loring, Matsen and Gould.
And, Foster knew, they didn’t
have
problems. They solved them.
“What kind of problem?” Foster asked.
John explained about the acrimonious custody proceeding, the abusive Sarnath Dutta, and Katherine’s efforts to find Beverly Dutta. And now, Katherine was nowhere to be found. “Nothing would keep Beverly Dutta from those kids, Robbie. Katherine either.”
“Yes, well, of course, there may be an explanation,” he said. “And Katherine’s an extraordinary woman. I don’t have to tell you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“But there’s clearly cause for concern. The Coronet, you say?”
“Berwick. Just off Oxford.”
“I know it. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Thanks, Robbie.”
Cann paced the lobby for a few minutes then stepped out the front door, looking up and down the street. For what exactly, even he didn’t know.
A few moments later, the manager came out. “Ah, there you are, sir,” she said. “Sir Robert just phoned and explained the necessity for you to see our security tapes. If you’ll follow me?”
As egalitarian and multicultural as the U.K. had become, a knight was still a knight.
* * *
Katherine’s first perceptions on awakening were dampness and darkness, the only light in the enclosed space coming from slots near the bottom of the wall to her right. She was seated, hands tied behind her, ropes around her chest and legs binding her to a straight-backed chair. Beverly was seated across from her, similarly bound. Sarnath Dutta stood in front of her.
“Not so arrogant now, lady lawyer, are you?” he sneered.