Kennedy approached her and stopped a foot away. “Why, Elizabeth? Why are you afraid of him?”
“How dare you spy on me.”
“I was…am concerned about your safety. I was sent here to protect you.”
“But you were not sent to look for an unfounded conspiracy,” she said. “All I see is a nosy guard throwing false accusations. If there was any truth to your obscene theories, we’d be up to our noses in officials. Is your employer even aware of all this?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss my employer.”
“But you are at liberty to destroy my life with false accusations.”
“The elevator attack was a setup and you know it.”
“Oh, look. Another crazy theory.”
Kennedy looked dangerously angry. “Is it? Is it? If they wanted you dead, you’d be just that.”
“I was saved by good men who gave their lives for me.”
“Doesn’t it bother you at all that these good men died for no reason?” Kennedy shouted. “They gave their lives to protect someone who was never intended as a target, anyway.”
Where was Kennedy getting all this? It was bad enough she had to live with the deaths of innocent men for the rest of her life, but to have Kennedy rub it in her face was unbearable.
Kennedy continued. “What do they have on you? What are you involved in that can make you justify what happened to those men?”
“Nothing,” Ryden insisted.
“Then that’s very sad, because I wanted to believe you didn’t have a choice. That your life, or someone you cared about, was at risk.”
“Stop it,” Ryden yelled back. “You don’t know anything. I haven’t done anything.”
But Kennedy apparently wouldn’t let go. She took another step closer, until they were only a couple of feet apart. “You are responsible for the deaths of five innocent men, and I want to know why.”
“I would never hurt anyone.”
“I believe that,” Kennedy said. “That’s why I was hoping for your cooperation. I don’t have some death wish. If I had the slightest suspicion you were voluntarily involved, I would have kept my mouth shut. But I believe you were coerced—threatened somehow. Let me help you before more people, including yourself, get hurt.”
The exchange was becoming more heated by the second, and Ryden struggled to come up with a way to get Kennedy to stop this interrogation. “You needn’t concern yourself with my well-being.”
“It’s my job.”
“Then do your job and stop looking for ghosts. Just let it go.”
Kennedy’s expression softened. “I can’t,” she replied.
“Why?”
“Because I know you’re in trouble and I want to help you. There’s got to be a way to get you out of whatever mess you’re in.”
“I’m not in any mess, and I sure as hell don’t play the damsel-in-distress role very well, so I have no need for a knight in shining armor to rescue me. If I were in any trouble at all, I’d find a way to deal with it the way I always have.”
“Why can’t you accept my help?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because…” Kennedy looked flustered. “Because, I just do.”
Ryden wanted desperately to run to her and tell her everything. For the first time, she felt an urgency to talk, and Kennedy was so close to the truth. But neither of them stood a chance against these people. “There’s nothing to help me with.”
“Stop lying,” Kennedy said, clearly frustrated. She shook Ryden by the shoulders. “Who are you protecting?”
Myself was the ugly, honest answer. “Get the hell out of here,” Ryden shouted.
“You’re in my room,” Kennedy hollered back.
Ryden pushed her away and walked to the door. “Leave. Do us both a favor, and leave.”
*
Manhattan Beach, New York
The GPS on Montgomery Pierce’s rental car accurately pointed him to Yuri Dratshev’s red-brick mansion in an upscale neighborhood, though he could have picked out the Russian mob boss’s home on sight. The exterior was a mishmash of garish excesses—a gold cupola topped the structure, six gold Roman columns flanked the front door, and the lawn was full of statues, mostly Italian nudes. Security was also well evident. A forbidding metal fence surrounded the estate, and cameras covered every angle of possible intrusion.
Monty pulled into the driveway and announced himself over the intercom. Half a minute later, the gate opened and he drove in to find a guard with a machine gun waiting to admit him at the front door.
The goon led him to Dratshev’s study, where more kitschy accoutrements awaited: red velvet curtains and animal-skin rugs, mounted trophy heads and a cherry desk inlaid with a massive, colorful, Orthodox mosaic of the Virgin Mary.
He was taking off his coat as Dratshev appeared in the doorway.
“How have you been?” the Russian asked. So many years had passed since they had seen each other that Monty scarcely recognized him. He’d gone completely bald or was shaving his head now, and his neatly trimmed mustache and trademark narrow beard, which ran along his jawline to the bottom of his ears, were more gray than black. Even his demeanor was different. He’d always been the picture of arrogant braggadocio, but today he looked worried. Although he smiled when he shook Monty’s hand, his dark eyes spoke another truth.
“Not relevant, nor do I think you care. I’m here about Jack.” Normally, Monty only referred to her as Jaclyn, but it was no business of Dratshev’s to know Jack’s birth name.
“Jack who?”
Monty suppressed a cringe. “The one you occasionally hire for hits.”
“Have a seat.” Dratshev gestured toward the corner that held a couch, coffee table, and two armchairs, as he shut the door. “Vodka?”
“I don’t drink.” Monty threw his coat over the back of one of the armchairs and took a seat.
“That’s not what I remember.” Dratshev laughed. “I remember you and me putting a whole bottle away, just the two of us.” He poured himself a glass from a bottle on his desk and took the armchair across from Monty.
“I don’t drink anymore.”
“Pity. Life is clearer through the thick bottom of a tumbler.”
“I have glasses for that now.” Monty patted his breast pocket.
“Age, she is a heartless bitch.”
Monty tapped his fingers on the armrest when Dratshev went quiet. He stared at the Russian, waiting for the man’s reaction to his visit and inquiry about Jaclyn.
“So.” Dratshev finally spoke and leaned forward. “I don’t work for you anymore.”
“That’s correct.”
“So, why do you come to me looking for help?”
“Because I can.”
“I don’t owe you any answers.”
“Just because you’re not my CI anymore doesn’t mean I can’t destroy you.”
“You said you would release me after I gave you that fucking crazy arms dealer in Israel,” Dratshev said. “I delivered.”
Monty had pulled any and all strings ten years ago to track down the Israeli bastard who had taken and hurt Jaclyn, and when he found him, he personally buried him alive. “Because you wanted him out of the way. He was taking your clients.”
“But I gave him to you when you said it was personal.”
“And then you gave me another one, and then another one, and then—”
“So, who cares?” Dratshev’s tone was matter-of-fact, but he took a long swig of his drink.
“I let you live twenty years ago in exchange for intel and cartels.”
“We smoked, had vodka together,” Dratshev said. “I bring you girls. We became friends.”
“We were associates.”
“And now you are a middle-aged, boring fuck.”
“Maybe, but I can take you down.”