A Dangerous Affair (26 page)

Blanchart twisted the end of his natural mustache and scrutinized Uri Costa's family photos. He studied the faces of the wife and children; the contour of their lips; the color of their eyes. He knew the family's routine. He knew where the dogs took a shit in the yard. And he knew the guard rotations and the coverage zones for each surveillance camera.

He opened a black briefcase on his lap and reviewed the blueprint of the upstate residence, courtesy of a builder he knew in Jersey. He traced a path with his finger, memorizing the layout of the rooms and the home's primary egress points. There would be no evidence of his involvement, only latent fingerprints and DNA left behind from Leeland Marks.

He rubbed a spot on the window with his gloved hand to clear the condensation. Lakewood belonged to him. He ran the operation with the partners he trusted and no one else—a lesson he taught Vince Parr and Leeland Marks. A lesson Uri Costa and his family wouldn't enjoy.

Thoughts of Jamie kept him warm inside. His wife, his forever partner, had a birthday coming soon, and he wanted to surprise her with something more than flowers or a small gift. The woman he loved more than life itself serviced him to satisfaction. But like any good wife, she needed training, which required patience and perseverance on his part. Lately he wanted more of her than she seemed willing to give. A result of her tattoo surgery, perhaps.

He waited for the black limousine to reach the bottom of the gated driveway. Then he drove ahead a quarter mile to the narrow, one-lane bridge above a rocky ravine and parked in the middle of the road. His plan unfolded on schedule, providing ample time to accomplish his objective and catch the red-eye flight back home.

The limo honked at the empty Pontiac obstructing its path at the narrow bridge.

Blanchart stepped out of the shadows, his outline reflected in the limousine's black lacquer finish.

The driver lowered the tinted glass. "You're blocking the road."

"I'm out of gas," Blanchart said convincingly. "I called for a tow. The guy said he would be here in an hour or so."

"This road is private property," the driver pointed out. "You shouldn't be on it."

"My bad," said Blanchart with his hands in his jacket pockets. "I took a wrong turn and got lost. If you give me a hand, we could push my car far enough to let you pass."

The burly driver got out in jeans and a leather blazer. He stared at the stranger who bore a striking resemblance to himself. "Who are you?" he asked, casually reaching for the 9mm pistol in his shoulder holster.

Blanchart fired the silenced .22 from his jacket pocket and hit his target three times in the chest. "Your replacement."

He shoved the driver over the guardrail and watched the body topple head-long on the rocks twenty feet below. With step two complete, he grabbed his briefcase from the car and climbed inside the Mercedes stretch-limo. He lowered the privacy glass to check for passengers and backed the limo toward a wider section of road to turn around.

He drove to the gated entrance outside the Costa estate and pressed the intercom button. A security camera zoomed on his face.

"What happened?" a voice inquired from the scratchy speakerphone.

"Forgot my wallet," Blanchart mumbled with his driver's cap pulled down to hide his eyes.

"Hurry up," the voice replied.

The tall iron gate opened slowly, granting access to the sloping driveway made of hand-laid stone winding through the lavish grounds toward the home of Uri Costa.

Blanchart drove beyond the second set of hidden surveillance cameras and aimed the gun out his window to silence the Dobermans running toward him.

He approached the circular driveway outside the sculptured double door entrance, where another member of the armed security detail greeted the unscheduled return.

Blanchart waited for the roof-mounted camera to pan away before he jumped out and squeezed two rounds in the security guard's chest. He dragged the body outside the surveillance camera's field of view and checked his watch. He nudged the front of his chauffeur's cap and hustled toward the security operations shack more than two minutes ahead of schedule.

He fired at the set of cameras in the trees to extinguish any view of the driveway perimeter. The effort met with expected results as two men emerged from the security shack to investigate the lost signal.

Blanchart waited patiently behind an oak tree more than thirty feet away until both men stepped toward his line of sight. He squeezed the trigger four times to put two bullets in the back of each man's head before he tossed the weapon with Leeland Marks' fingerprints on the barrel.

He scanned the surveillance monitors in the operations shack and traded up for a dead guard's MP5 submachine gun. He flicked the fire mode selector toward the red "F" to employ the continuous fire mode.

Inside the main foyer, he stood beneath a crystal chandelier suspended from a silver chain, his pulse barely higher than his standing heart rate.

Stepping lightly, he ascended the spiral staircase above the Corinthian pillars separating the formal living room from the rest of the house. Flames crackled in the wood-burning fireplace behind a black mesh screen and a classic assortment of brass-handle tools.

He entered the vaulted master bedroom with the MP5's laser sight pointed at the empty bed. A solid red dot pegged the carved spindle posts and a cluster of down pillows.

Advancing slowly, he found the bathroom more spacious than his first apartment. Moonlight spilled across the marble vanity and the claw-foot tub centered beneath a skylight view.

He checked the rows of walk-in closets and the small sitting room with French doors that opened to a patio balcony. A breeze carried the scent of a Cuban cigar and the rustle of fallen leaves.

The sound of running water drew him back to the hallway and the Jack and Jill bedrooms.

He aimed the automatic weapon at the bathroom entrance and froze when he felt a muzzle at the back of his head.

"Don't turn around," Uri Costa said sternly in an Eastern European accent. "Give me the weapon."

Blanchart surrendered the MP5 to the man in a bathrobe and slippers.

"Now walk back the way you came."

Blanchart hesitated, his perfect plan spinning out of control.

"Move!"

Blanchart stepped away from the railing with a gun at his back.

Costa brought him to the basement that opened to an English garden setting with a brick-paver walkway extending toward an antique Victorian gazebo.

"Who are you to come into my house and threaten my family?" said Costa.

Blanchart maintained his silence.

Costa struck him on the back of the head with the MP5. "Tell me!"

Blanchart fell forward on a soapstone carving. He winced from the steel-on-bone contact.

A guard sprinted from the side entrance. Motion sensors activated a bank of flood lights. "They're all dead!" he exclaimed, nearly out of breath.

"Where's Kenny?" Costa asked.

"He's—he's dead too."

"Miguel?"

"I can't find him."

Costa kept the gun on Blanchart. "Get my family from the safe room and take them out of here."

The guard sneered at Blanchart. "What about him?"

"Just do as I ask."

"What about—"

"Go now!" Costa ordered. He jammed the submachine gun in Blanchart's back and shoved him to the ground face-first. He put his foot on Blanchart's neck and aimed the weapon at his head. "How did you get in here?" He lifted Blanchart's wallet and tossed the empty billfold in disgust. "Tell me, who sent you?"

Blanchart kept silent.

Costa took his foot away and kicked Blanchart in the gut repeatedly.

Blanchart curled himself in the fetal position and reached for the slender knife inside his concealed ankle sheath.

"I won't ask you again," Costa warned him.

"Leeland Marks," said Blanchart, spitting blood.

"Leeland sent you to do this thing? To kill
me
?"

"He has a contract."

Costa kicked Blanchart again. "I have a message for Leeland Marks." He set the MP5 on the brick half-wall and retrieved a machete from a cast iron urn. "And you're going to send it," Costa said triumphantly with the thin, curved blade raised high. "...one piece at a time."

Blanchart rolled on his side and plunged the double-edge pig sticker in Costa's groin.

Costa shouted in his native tongue, spilling blood at an alarming rate.

Blanchart stabbed him again, venting his anger at the man who'd tried to kill him. A man he knew only from pictures, until now.

Bathed in Costa's blood, Blanchart wiped the knife on his leg and replaced it in its ankle sheath. He retrieved the MP5 from the brick half-wall and confirmed the selector was still set to continuous fire mode. Prepared to storm the sprawling residence and finish what he came to do, he saw another guard approach from the side and took cover against the house.

Blanchart balanced the submachine gun in his capable hands and ripped a line of fire at his unsuspecting target, eviscerating the armed adversary with explosive firepower.

Smoke filled the air. A woman's scream filled the house.

Blanchart wiped his lip. Battered and bruised, he marched to the second floor to start a room-by-room search, limping from the beating he took at the hands of the man he came to kill. A man who sought to ruin everything he'd worked so hard to build.

"If you come out now, I won't hurt you," Blanchart shouted. His voice carried in the open foyer. Bloody shoeprints trailed him on the polished hardwood floor.

He started with the daughter's bedroom, inspecting the space beneath the bed and the area at the back of the closet crowded with dresses and shoes.

He exited through the Jack and Jill bathroom to find the adjoining boy's room empty as well. Another sweep of the master bedroom convinced him the upstairs portion was clear.

Fish or cut bait,
he told himself, keenly aware that time was his enemy. If a 911 call went out, the front gate would only impede the local authorities for so long.

He descended the stairs one step at a time, the house eerily quiet, in his hunt for Costa's wife and children.

He searched the main level and returned to the family room, where the furniture seemed out of place near a load-bearing wall at the bottom of the stairwell entrance. The wood-burning fire popped and spat behind the steel mesh screen and the brass handle tool rack with a missing poker.

He moved the sofa and tapped his fist on the sheetrock; the taps produced a hollow sound. He kicked the baseboard. His foot rebounded sharply, accompanied by a muffled whimper.

He pressed both hands near the uneven chair rail to find the pressure sensor that opened the hidden storage compartment beneath the stairs. With access granted, he shoved aside empty boxes and luggage pieces to find Costa's wife huddled in the back with her daughter and son. "It's over," he said in a soft voice laced with bad intention. He kept the MP5 at his side and held his hand out in a token gesture.

"Take what you want," Maria Costa begged profusely. "I'll give you everything. Let my children go."

Blanchart ducked his head and crept forward.

Maria Costa waved a fireplace poker at the armed intruder. Her son and daughter cowered at her side. "Who are you?"

"Your husband sent me."

"What do you want from us?"

Blanchart grinned wickedly. "Your husband tried to take something from me. Now I need to take something of his."

"My children have nothing to do with their father's affairs."

"That's not my concern," said Blanchart.

"I would beg you for mercy, but I see no mercy in your heart."

Blanchart raised the submachine gun at the mother and children.

Maria Costa covered her children's eyes. "You will pay dearly for what you've done and for what you're about to do."

"Not in this lifetime," said Blanchart. He squeezed the trigger to empty the thirty-round magazine point blank and walked away.

Chapter 40