Detroit was there, waiting, large purse on her shoulder, the second bodyguard holding an umbrella over her head. Chic hat on his head, a nine-millimeter in his other hand. The politician looked anxious, angry, terrified. Her hair, dark and shoulder-length, parted on the left side, was dry, not covered in rainwater, not soaked in seawater, not caked with white sand. Unsoiled and unspoiled.
The Lady from Detroit hurried toward her and asked, “Is it done?”
Blouse damn near ripped away. Her skin black and blue.
She faced the woman who had no respect for her existence, the woman who saw her as the weak link. The bodyguard next to the Lady from Detroit held a nine-millimeter in his hand, pointed at the ground. The other, the one who had helped her out of the sea, he held the same type of gun, an SR9.
Two SR9s. Seventeen plus one times two. Thirty-six shots between them. No choice.
She looked at the Lady from Detroit, cringed, panted, answered the question: “It’s done.”
“Gideon is dead.”
She nodded. “Gideon is dead.”
“Where is his body?”
She motioned. “Back there. On the beach.”
“Why didn’t you bring me his body?”
She grimaced. “Do I look like I’m in the condition to carry around a dead man?”
Her eyes went to the shoes on the politician’s feet. The Bottega Veneta shoes. A different pair. She had changed shoes since they were at the Sticky Wicket. While people were dying, she had been changing shoes, like she was Patti LaBelle between songs, this night her concert.
The Lady from Detroit turned toward her, yelled, “I need to see his body!”
“We need to get away from here!” she yelled back, energy low, pain high. “Before the ferry comes back. If the ferry comes back you’ll have to take out whoever is on the ferry, workers and civilians. The damage has been done. The target is dead. Let’s leave before we get careless and sloppy.”
The Lady from Detroit frowned out into the darkness, toward Long Island, paced the edges of the jetty as if getting two feet closer would give her a better view of what hostilities had happened over a mile away, moved back and forth, an umbrella-and-gun-carrying bodyguard moving back and forth with her, doing his best to keep her dry; he didn’t do a good job. The politician’s posh heels clicked and clacked across the concrete and wood, then she paused, stood in profile, stood akimbo, her hands on her hips as if she had super-vision. Pain in the core of her being, she frowned up at the politician, saw the way she looked into the blackness, wrath and panic in her face. She stared into the wind and rain.
When the politician turned and walked back toward her, she saw unadulterated anger and fear.
The politician shook her head, angst and fury unbridled. “I have to see that son of a bitch dead.”
“Matthew stabbed him. But he got to Matthew and killed him.”
The fury washed away, replaced by disbelief. “Matthew is dead?”
She nodded. “Then I shot Gideon.”
“Where?”
“Twice in the head. On the beach.”
The politician paused, her eyes wide. “Matthew failed.”
“But I didn’t.”
“You’re one hundred percent sure he’s dead.”
“Two bullets in the head. The rest of my clip unloaded in his body. Seventeen plus one.”
The Lady from Detroit whispered, “And you are sure . . . Matthew is dead as well?”
“He’s gone. My husband is gone.”
The politician swallowed. “How?”
“Just told you. Gideon killed him.”
“I mean . . . how?”
“He’s dead. That’s all you need to know.”
“The others?”
“They won’t be coming back.”
“All of them are dead?”
“All of them.”
“You are the only one who made it out alive.”
“I’m the only one.”
“Impossible.”
“Get me to a doctor.”
Detroit didn’t move from where she stood. “The woman with Gideon?”
Pain hit her. She panted. Cringed. “She’s dead.”
“Who killed her?”
“One of your men.”
“Who was she?”
“I have no idea.”
“Where did she come from?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was she on the plane or already here?”
“Didn’t I just fucking say that I didn’t know?”
“You’re sure they’re dead.”
“I need to get to a hospital.”
“You’re wounded.”
“Are you listening to me? This is done. It’s over. I need to get to an emergency room.”
“Where are you wounded?”
“I’m bleeding between my goddamn legs.”
“Why? Why are you bleeding?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Pain hit her again. “
Get me to a fucking doctor.
”
“I’ll take you to a doctor I know at Devil’s Bridge. A friend at a resort, the Veranda.”
“Take me now. I’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“After confirmation.”
“I just confirmed the kill.
So get me to Devil’s Bridge.
”
The politician shook her head in disagreement. “After I see Gideon’s dead body.”
“There is only one way to see his body. Wait. You’re going back over there?”
“We’re going.”
“Don’t you see me bleeding to death? I can’t handle another ride across those waves.”
“All of us are going. I want to see his head hanging from its neck. I want to cut his nuts off.”
Agony growing, she shook her head, snapped, “I need a medic. I need a fucking medic
now
.”
“We see Gideon first. Then we get you medical attention.”
“No.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
Detroit stared at her, the cold-blooded eyes of a wayward politician locked on the eyes of an assassin. An assassin in pain, without weapons. An assassin who’d just seen her husband slaughtered.
She fought her pain, said, “Gideon is dead.”
The politician nodded and said, her voice cracking, “Then we should have nothing to worry about.”
“The authorities. Going back to the scene of a crime, only a fool would do that.”
“It will take them a while. We have time. After confirmation, we get you a medic.”
She struggled to breathe.
The politician was unfazed. “I see his body; you get the rest of the money I owe Matthew.”
“I don’t care about the money. You see me bleeding? I’m injured. I’m seasick.”
“It’s a ten-minute trip to get there. You show me Gideon, we come back. Twenty-minute trip.”
“What kind of fool are you? You’re going back to the crime scene.”
“Because you failed to deliver what I asked and paid for. Gideon’s dead body.”
“I’m not a mortician.”
“No, but if Gideon isn’t dead, you will be a corpse.”
Her eyes went to the politician, to the lunacy and determination in her eyes.
Then she looked at the politician’s bodyguards.
Two guns were pointed at her, the two bodyguards with nine-millimeters in their hands. Men with unfriendly faces. She shivered and stood at point-blank range in front of men who were armed and dangerous. Faced a woman who wouldn’t stop at anything to see Gideon dead.
She growled, damn near yelled, “I’m not going back to a fucking crime scene.”
“
We’re going back
. My children have to be safe.”
“The man is dead.”
The politician shouted, her voice trembling,
“I want to see his head hanging from his neck!”
Wounded, she struggled to breathe, shook her head. “I’m going to the hospital.”
“
We’re
going back, bitch. I paid a lot of fucking money and
we’re going back
.”
A big hand grabbed the assassin’s arm, pulled her toward another dinghy. She stumbled; her left shoe came off. The big man never let her go as he picked up the shoe and handed it to her. She held her Blahnik in her hand, hobbled with one shoe on, one shoe off.
She snapped at the politician, “Whatever you say. Bitch.”
“Matthew said you were slipping.”
“He told me a few things about you as well.”
The politician’s voice cracked. “He’s dead.”
“You’re going back to the island, in this rain, after a shoot-out, to see Gideon or Matthew?”
“While we were here last week, Matthew said you were a fuckup.”
“My husband wasn’t here last week.”
“Oh, he was here.”
“He was in South America, then he went back to North America.”
“No. He was . . . meeting with me.”
“Meeting with you.”
“Stupid bitch.”
“He said he used to fuck you when you were married. Before you had your husband killed.”
“Is that what he said? That he
used to
fuck me?”
“Was my husband . . . was Matthew with you last night?”
“I don’t want to see Matthew. Not dead. But I do need to see Gideon’s body.”
“Why was my husband here
meeting
with you?”
“I need to see Gideon’s body. I want the devil decapitated.”
“How long had you been fucking my husband?”
The politician’s voice cracked again, sounded like tears. “Shut her up.”
“How long?”
“Shut that incompetent bitch up.”
A large hand smacked her face, stunned her, bloodied her mouth. A light show went off inside her head, reds and yellows surrounded by an electrical storm. The light show gave way to the darkness of the ocean. Her face felt numb from the blow. The numbness faded and the sting spread from her lips to her neck. She stumbled, fight or flight became flight, but a big hand grabbed her and yanked her up from her fall. Again she dropped her desecrated Blahnik. She tried to pull away from the abusive bodyguard, a bodyguard who was arrogant now that Matthew was dead. She reached for her fallen Blahnik. Burgundy and topaz patent leather damaged by seawater and sand. Crisscross vamp broken when she had struggled with Gideon. Stiletto covered with grit and sand. Unable to grab her possession by its four-inch heel, that bend magnified her misery. Again she stumbled, gravity pulled her toward the concrete. The bodyguard grabbed her, shook her like she was a rag doll, shook her hard enough to rattle her brain and give her shaken baby syndrome, then manhandled her, forced her to face Detroit.
She tried to spit on her employer, her bloody spew getting lost in the pouring rain, not making it to its target.
“
You fucking whore
. You fucked my husband when you were married. And you fucked him while he was married. You’re nothing more than a whore in a nice dress.
You fucking embezzling coward
. Hiding and running from the man who has you pissing in your panties.
You are the incompetent one
. You are the incompetent bitch. You had to get your husband killed so you could get some fucking attention.”
The Lady from Detroit faced her, tears in her eyes. Grieving for another woman’s husband.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up.”
“Living in a city that used to be great but now ain’t shit. What have you done to make it better? Nothing. You’re part of the problem. More people are leaving than moving in. Because of corrupt motherfuckers like you. Stealing taxpayers’ money is the same as stealing jobs from the people. Embezzling, then smiling on television and ripping the fucking city off every chance you get.”
Detroit slapped her, growled and hit her hard, again in the mouth, hit her over and over.
She yelled, “You have spent how much, have tried how long to kill Gideon?”
“Shut your goddamn mouth.”
“You fucking incompetent embezzling corrupt hypocritical cocksucking whore.”
The Lady from Detroit lashed out, hit her over and over, each smack harder than the one before.
She cringed, took every hysterical blow the politician had to give, unable to strike back because the guard held her hands, unable to kick because of the pain in her gut.
The Lady from Detroit had attacked her face, clawed her, made her less beautiful.
Her face was stinging, felt swollen; the scratches ached like ditches had been dug in her face. Then the Lady from Detroit walked away, cringing and holding her hand like it was in severe pain.
She spat at the politician. “Incompetent embezzling corrupt hypocritical cocksucking whore.”
“Keep talking.”
“You need me held so you can hit me. You fucking coward.”
The Lady from Detroit took the nine-millimeter from her bodyguard.
She smiled at the politician, smiled despite the pain and nausea, the gun pointed at the center of her head. The politician held the gun wrong, almost held it sideways, like in the movies.
She didn’t say anything, just waited for the politician to pull the trigger.
She stared in her eyes, saw inside a woman who had paid for death but had never killed before.
She allowed the politician to see inside a woman who had killed many.
She saw the politician’s hand tremble. Saw her eyes widen.
She waited for the coward to find her courage.
Her heart raced as she waited for total blackness.
The politician handed the gun back to the bodyguard, panting, her chest swollen with anger.
She growled at the politician. “Incompetent embezzling hypocritical cocksucking coward.”
“You want to know who is incompetent?”
“Cocksucking bitch.”
“Matthew came to see me. While you slept alone he was with me. He told me you were incompetent. That you couldn’t be trusted, not as a wife. He was going to put you in therapy here. Crossroads.
My suggestion
. He tell you that? If you made it through this contract alive. You surprised him. You surprised me. We expected you to get killed before this was over. Didn’t expect this.”
“Don’t put that lie on my dead husband.”
“Be real. Do you really think he went to Barbados? Do you?”