The Betrayer (43 page)

Rachel had her orders.

She had been waiting in a dark back room with the troubled kid she knew as Vitali for a half hour, watching him closely as he brooded and tended to his wounds, so she was grateful for the chance to get out of there.

And away from this ticking time bomb.

Away from the man she was certain would do his best to kill her.

She’d taken note of the fact that Vitali didn’t look up when the man in the overcoat — a man she’d not seen before now — had entered the room and told her to follow him.

The fact that her employer and now this man were showing their faces to her so freely was just another indication that she was doomed.

It occurred to her as she followed the overcoat man down the long hallway that this was a chance for her to flee.

Kill him, then quickly return to the dark back room and kill Vitali — this would be easy enough, two bullets in back of the overcoat man’s head, then two more in Vitali’s, after which she would hunt down and kill the man who had hired her, the man whose face she had seen last night in the Saw Mill River Motel.

The face she should never have seen.

That man was somewhere in this house, but she knew he was in one of the rooms on the ground floor; if he had climbed the stairs, she would have heard that. The house wasn’t so big that she couldn’t find him quickly enough by going from door to door. Safe bet was that he was in the small study off the living room.

Once this man was dispensed with, she could kill the two women upstairs, then set the house on fire and escape in one of the cars parked outside.

Somewhere along the way she would pull over, change out of the clothes she was wearing and into the last of the clean clothes in her duffel, then choose her best route back to Detroit — train, plane, bus, or some combination of all three.

And with everyone here dead, there would be no one to report to her boss that she had failed. She would be free to make up any story —
They came out of nowhere, killed every last one of them, I was lucky to get out of there alive.

Her life would resume.

The travel she had been promised would be hers.

All she needed to do was act.

In the end, though, Rachel did none of this. Maybe it was due to the fact that her employer had in his possession the Sig she’d taken from the woman called Cat.

Or maybe it was because Rachel had been trained from an early age to follow orders.

Never said no, never hesitate, did whatever it took to make her boss think he couldn’t live without her.

No, this wasn’t the time, she thought. Not yet.

Her chance would come; she would see it and take it.

And these men would never know what hit them.

She followed the overcoat man into the living room. He was, she noticed, holding a cell phone in one hand and a key in the other. He handed her the key — old, forged of wrought iron — then buttoned up his overcoat. He waited for her to start climbing the stairs, then opened the front door. Before walking through it, he flipped a nearby wall switch, turning on a bright floodlight outside.

Rachel glanced at the door to the study on the far side of the living room.

It was closed, but a light was shining beneath it.

Fiermonte was seated behind his desk. The rest of the farmhouse was in shambles, little more than a ghost of a home, but there were times when he needed to wait for his Russian contacts, who were often late by hours, and better to be comfortable while doing that — and maybe get some work done, too — so this room contained certain luxuries.

The desk was new, as was the chair, and there was a small quartz heater on the floor nearby. It was on now, taking the edge out of the damp chill that hung in every room.

He removed his compact camera from his jacket pocket, turned it on, and scrolled through the photos he had taken of Cat as she slept back at his loft.

He had taken these after their encounter, when her body was only half-covered by the sheet. In later pics, he had uncovered her completely, snapping dozens of shots of her as she had slept on her back.

He knew even then this was a possibility — that he would have to sacrifice her in this manner, never to see her again, and so he had taken the pics to remember her by.

He regretted that it had come to this, but he had done all he could to avoid it.

Drive Jeremy, who would in turn drive Johnny, straight to Dickey.

But this was how the cards had fallen, and there was no other choice.

He’d always been fond of Cat, had thought of her often during his marriage, and even more so as his marriage was failing.

He’d thought of a lot of women, yes — colleagues, women at his gym, waitresses, bartenders, the list went on.

Even the occasional criminal caught his attention, and sometimes a criminal’s distraught wife or sister or mother.

He thought of a lot of women, but he hadn’t lied a week ago when he confessed to having feelings for Cat.

She had a special place in his mind, though if pressed, he probably couldn’t explain why.

Maybe it was the taboo nature of the whole thing — she was the daughter of his one-time colleague, he had seen her grow from an awkward child to an awkward adult.

He had mentored her, stood beside her three years ago, had always done what he could for her, career-wise.

He had feelings for Cat, yes, but this was business.

The Russians have an eye for weaknesses, and a knack for exploiting them.

He couldn’t afford to look weak.

From the desk drawer he removed a pack of fresh batteries and exchanged them for the ones in the camera, then returned it to his pocket.

He waited for Rachel to bring the redhead downstairs, anticipating the sense of control he would feel as he took Cat, made her want him despite herself.

On the dilapidated front porch — rotted wood planks, cracked support posts, and sagging roof — Morris watched as Smith’s car approached.

There was no point in stepping out into the rain before Smith reached the end of the long driveway, which was still a few hundred feet away, so Morris turned up his collar against the damp chill and waited.

The interior of the slow-moving car was dark, but as it got nearer Morris eventually saw something familiar.

The red-glowing tip of Smith’s cigarette.

Rachel’s weapon was holstered; what trouble, after all, could a girl — a naked girl, as delicately built as the redhead — cause her?

Reaching the top of the stairs, Rachel quietly unlocked the door and opened it a few inches till it rested against the toe of her boot. She did this in case the redhead, in a wild panic, rushed the opening door and tried to push her way through. With Rachel’s foot bracing the bottom in this way, the door wouldn’t go flying back and hit her in the face.

Looking through the narrow opening, Rachel saw only darkness.

A blacker darkness than she would have expected to encounter in a room with no shades or curtains on the window — and above the now-lit porch.

Rachel stepped back, opened the door the rest of the way, and stepped inside.

She heard nothing and drew her weapon.

Feeling the wall with her taped-up hand, she found the light switch and flipped it.

Nothing.

She didn’t bother to flip it again. Obviously, the redhead had either removed or broken the light bulb.

Just like I would have done, Rachel thought.

She withdrew her mini flashlight from her pocket with her taped hand, clicked it on, and began to move the beam around the room.

A blanket had been hung over the only window, hooked onto the mounting brackets for the missing shade. And the cot had been turned onto its side.

When Rachel saw no sign of the girl anywhere in the small room, she shined the light on the floor. The bedsheet, which seemed to have been torn, lay on the floor not far from the door.

Rachel’s first thought was suicide.

She took a step farther into the room, then another. The only way out would be the window, but even with the blanket hanging before it, Rachel knew it was closed.

No, the redhead wouldn’t have gone out the window. Not naked. The only sheet and blanket she had been given were still here.

But if this were suicide, who would cover a window and unscrew a light bulb first? And from what would she hang herself? Was there a clothes rod in the closet? Would it support 120 pounds?

The closet was just feet from the door. Rachel moved toward it, stopping a few feet away and saying, “Come out.”

Nothing.

She shined the light on the door. It was closed.

“I know you’re in there.”

Nothing again.

She shined the light toward the cot that had been turned on its side.

Could she be there?

But what would hiding there get her?

That made no sense, and the closet was closer. But before Rachel continued toward it, she noticed that one of the cot’s metal wheels was missing.

“I’m not fucking around,” she warned as she stepped to the closed door.

Still nothing.

She couldn’t reach out for the knob with both her hands full, so she put the flashlight into her mouth, holding it between her front teeth, and went to grab the knob.

She was planning on turning it quickly and yanking the door open suddenly, knew she had to catch the redhead by surprise, that she needed her to be afraid.

It was as she gripped the knob with her taped hand that she sensed something.

Swift, decisive movement from the other side of the small room.

She heard bare feet padding on the wood floor, coming toward her from the overturned cot.

Spinning to face her assailant, she began to bring her weapon up.

She barely raised her hand more than a few inches before she heard a swooshing sound.

The light between her teeth was shining at a downward angle, and at first she saw only the bare legs of the redhead — legs moving fast, scrambling.

Rachel had enough time to determine that the redhead was swinging something in a sideways motion.

A one-handed swing.

Then Rachel felt something strike her.

Something hard, a piece of sharp, heavy metal connecting with her skull just above her ear.

And making a sickening thud.

Rachel grunted, felt her knees buckle, but remained upright. The force of the blow knocked the flashlight out of her mouth. The thing spun in the air, the beam turning like a cop car’s bubble light. For a split second Rachel saw the redhead’s naked torso, then couldn’t, then saw it again.

A tattooed arm, stomach muscles taut, skin slick with sweat.

And then Rachel felt a second blow.

The redhead’s back swing.

Stunned by this one, Rachel dropped to her knees. A third swing came, from high above this time. It landed, and Rachel saw a flash of light — egg-shaped, its burnt-orange core surrounded by a thick, dark shell. She slumped toward the floor.

The girl, however, caught her and lowered her down slowly.

To avoid the sound of the dark-haired woman landing hard on the old planks.

Rachel was barely conscious, could feel nothing as she lie there but a deep, overwhelming nausea.

Then she felt the gun being taken from her hand, and blood rolling down her face.

She felt the pain, too.

Sudden, terrifying pain.

Through this, though, she sensed that the redhead was standing over her.

Straddling her.

Moving fast, the girl dropped her weapon — a flail made of a long strip of bedsheet and one of the wheels from the cot — and began to remove Rachel’s raincoat.

She handled Rachel roughly, possessed a strength Rachel found surprising.

Vitali had heard a noise from somewhere upstairs.

Not directly above, but somewhere toward the front of the house.

He listened for a few seconds, heard nothing more, yet something told him to stand. Placing the bloodied cloth he’d been holding to his mouth into the pocket of his jeans, he moved toward the door.

He was passing the row of three windows that overlooked the woods behind the house when something caught his eye.

Motion.

He ducked and quickly moved past the last window, taking cover at the wall. Standing upright again, he leaned his shoulder against the rotted plaster, then bent his head slightly forward and peeked out.

He was lucky that the room had been unlit, that he hadn’t wanted the dark-haired woman to see his swollen face and broken teeth, otherwise he would have easily been seen by anyone out there — if there was, in fact, anyone out there.

He carefully studied the woods, which were at most ten paces from the house, waiting for his eye to detect that motion — whatever it was — again.

It was only a matter of seconds before he saw something.

Not motion this time, but shapes.

Two men standing at the edge of the wood.

By their silhouettes Vitali could tell that one of them was armed with a rifle.

And holding it expertly, the way a military man would.

It could be any number of men; Vitali was aware of this.

It could be someone guarding the house, someone his benefactor had hired, just in case.

And for that matter, this person could simply be someone who had been trained by a military man, and not former military himself.

But Vitali doubted all that.

This wasn’t a man walking a perimeter; this was a man watching.

Waiting to make his move.

Vitali’s heart was set on one thing, and one thing alone.

It was set on this being a miracle.

Set on the man lurking out there in the darkness being none other than John Coyle.

Here to save his child.

Vitali drew his weapon and held perfectly still.

His eyes were fixed on the silhouette with the rifle.

Could it really be him?

Morris was halfway down the long sidewalk that led to the driveway.

Smith, in his black leather jacket, sweatshirt hood raised against the rain, was moving toward him. He had nothing in his arms — no grocery bags, no cardboard box filled with takeout Chinese food containers, nothing.

“Where’s the stuff?” Morris said.

Smith didn’t answer, just kept on walking, his head bent slightly.

“Can’t you hear me?” Morris said, raising his voice to be heard over the rain.

Smith seemed to be doing something Morris couldn’t understand — positioning himself so he was moving into Morris’s long shadow.

Tilting his own head to one side so that the bright floodlight of the porch was behind Morris and not shining into his eyes.

Morris stopped suddenly.

He and Smith were ten feet apart.

Something wasn’t…right.

Morris had, though, only enough time to think that.

Smith suddenly broke into a run up the muddy path.

Closing the distance almost instantly, he landed the tip of his boot in Morris’s groin before Morris could undo the first button of his overcoat.

The detective doubled over, dropping to his knees. Before he could fall to his side, Smith grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back.

Looking up into the rain, Morris saw a face illuminated by the floodlight on the porch.

It was the last face he had expected to see.

“I want the locations of everyone in the house,” Johnny Coyle said. “Understand?”

Morris was gasping from the pain and shock.

He saw that Johnny was holding a Glock.

And he heard the sound of someone else coming up the muddied path.

Breathing hard.

Like a smoker would.

That man stepped around Johnny and Morris, putting himself between the floodlight and them. He raised his hand and pressed the muzzle of a semiautomatic against the detective’s forehead.

The man was backlit, so Morris couldn’t see his face, but then he spoke, and Morris recognized his voice instantly.

“And I’ll take your weapon and handcuffs,” Smith said.