Hit: A Thriller (The Codename: Chandler) (4 page)

I stashed the lipstick tube back in my purse and filled up my glass. Now all I could do was wait.

The men were inside for only ten minutes, and when they returned to the limo, neither one was carrying a thing.

When Jacob had mentioned a package of lab reports, I’d been envisioning a briefcase or at least an envelope. But judging from their free hands, this package must have been small enough to fit in a pocket. And I doubted Bratton would ever let his bodyguard carry something that was valuable enough to warrant a special trip to Chicago.

I needed to get my hands in Bratton’s pockets. As luck would have it, my cover identity should make that a piece of cake.

Heath opened the limo door for his boss.

“Left your shirt open, I see. Good.” Bratton slid next to me on the seat, his hands immediately going for my nipples, pinching and twisting. “You like showing them off, don’t you?”

I forced a giggle. “I like showing them off to you.”

I had to figure out a way to kill this bastard soon or I was going to have bruises.

I could feel Heath’s eyes on me as he climbed into the seat opposite, and the car started to move.

“How long does it take to get to the airport?” I asked, managing to get a sip of champagne without spilling.

“A few minutes. Plenty of time.” Bratton grabbed my free hand and plopped it on his crotch.

Charming.

But a good opportunity all the same, and I took it, feeling up his package while straying to the sides and checking his front pockets for the package he’d picked up at the bank.

Other than his phone, they were empty.

I set down the champagne flute and climbed astride his lap. As I kissed him, I ran my hands down his sides, over his suit jacket, then under.

Nothing.

That left only his back pockets. If whatever he’d retrieved was tucked into his wallet, I was in trouble. Although I could pick his pocket easily enough, I wouldn’t be able to verify I had what I needed, not in front of Heath. I had to convince Bratton to check into a Chicago hotel for the night.

“Oh yeah, now we’re talking.” Bratton unbuckled his belt and lowered his fly. Placing his hand on the back of my head, he attempted to push my face toward his lap.

I was going to enjoy killing him.

“Wait, my mouth is dry.” Sliding down to the floor space in front of him, I slipped out from under his palms. I reached for his drink and shoved it into his left hand, the glass clinking against his rings. Then I lifted my own. “Cheers?”

He ignored my attempt at a toast, instead slamming back his drink then plucking mine from my hand. Grabbing a pigtail in each hand, he forced my face into his lap. The rings on his left hand rapped me along the cheekbone hard enough to leave a mark.

With little choice but to play along until the syrup of ipecac took effect, I slipped my hands to his ass. His back pockets felt as empty as the rest, only the square outline of his wallet standing out. Out of the corner of my eye, a ruby set in gold flashed in the evening sunlight slanting in from the west.

Had he been wearing that before? All I remembered was platinum.

The car stopped at a light and I could sense Heath watching me. Trying not to be too obvious, I shifted left to get a better look at Bratton’s ring.

A second later, the window exploded.

Pebbles of glass showered me.

I glanced up, recognized Football Face who’d dined with Bratton, focused on the 9mm in his hand. Apparently they hadn’t made a deal at the restaurant, and had chosen Option B. I tensed my muscles to throw myself back out of the way. Then Heath was hurtling over me, knocking the pistol back, stabbing for the guy’s eyes, falling on top of me.

“Drive, drive, drive!” Heath yelled.

“What?” Bratton sputtered, finally releasing my hair.

Tires squealed, and we lurched forward. Horns sounded from all angles. A sharp pop sounded from outside.

I had to act. I had no gun, but that had never stopped me before. Pushing myself up, I felt Heath behind me.

“I suggest you go back to what you were doing,
bonita
. At least then you’ll be keeping your head down.”

Right.

I was Simone the prostitute, not Chandler. I couldn’t respond to this the way Chandler would. I had to remember that.

I looked at him, not bothering to hide my natural fear. “What are we going to do?”

Another pop, this time it sounded as if a round had hit the rear fender.

“Take the next right,” Heath said to the driver.

The car veered, but even with my head down, I could tell the man’s cautious driving wasn’t going to get us anywhere. Unless I wanted to resort to my first plan of hoping everyone died in the resulting car crash except me, I’d have to jump behind the wheel and blow my cover.

Heath beat me to it.

As he crawled through the privacy divider and into the front seat, the driver’s side window exploded, and the car veered sharply to the right. Bratton and I slammed hard against the door in a half-naked tangle of thrashing limbs.

Shit. The driver must have been hit.

Or maybe Heath.

A crunch of metal shuddered the air and ripped along the length of the vehicle, but before I had time to speculate about what we might have sideswiped, the vehicle righted itself and accelerated.

I pushed myself away from Bratton. Glancing into the front, I spotted Heath’s head above the headrest. The driver slumped against the passenger door, clearly injured, maybe dead.

A groan came from the back.

Bratton.

With the waist of his pants binding his thighs and his complexion the color of dried concrete, he’d looked better. “Are you okay?”

Another groan.

I slid onto the backward facing seat Heath had vacated. Keeping my head low, I reached out a hand for Bratton. “Come on.”

He clutched the edge of the seat, not moving.

I glanced out the rear window. From here I could see the car behind us. Football Face was driving, his boss extending a muscled arm out the passenger window, a pistol in his fist.

I looked back down at Bratton— more specifically at his ring, bright gold against pudgy knuckles white from clutching the arm rest.

“Climb up on the seat and put on your seat belt.”

Heath took another turn, the CEO tumbling to the right this time.

Great.

“Belt yourself in before you get killed,” I yelled. It would save me time and effort, since I was planning to kill him later anyway, but my concern wasn’t for him. Riding in the back with him rolling around was like being inside a pinball machine trying to dodge one hell of a heavy ball.

He reached for my outstretched hand just as Heath took another sharp corner. Bratton toppled to the other side, hitting my legs so hard that for a moment, I feared he’d broken my ankle.

Shadow enveloped the car, and I realized we were under the tracks of Chicago’s elevated train.

I unhooked my belt and reached for Bratton. “Let me help.”

He offered a beefy mitt. I grabbed it with both hands and yanked him up onto his seat. Lunging for the shoulder belt, I pulled it across him and latched it into place.

Heath hit the gas, the car surging forward, its motion pushing me on top of Bratton, my chest landing on his face.

“Oh God, I feel sick,” he said, his words muffled by my naked breasts.

Shit. The ipecac.

Sometimes my timing really sucked.

I rolled off him.

The car screeched around another turn, its tail skidding, back tires hitting the curb. I flattened myself to the seat next to Bratton. Grabbing the seatbelt, I pulled it across my chest and secured it just as Heath took another sharp turn.

Now facing front, I could see through the windshield, although a part of me immediately wished I couldn’t.

Heath was gunning the limo up a ramp and onto an expressway…an expressway where traffic was heading straight for us.

He met my gaze in the rear view mirror. “They would be
loco
to follow us,
bonita
, no?”

I said nothing, not sure if I was impressed or horrified.

Cars swerved one way and the other, skidding, crashing into their neighbors. Ahead, a pickup barreled straight at us, the driver either not paying attention, playing a demented game of chicken, or looking for a convenient way to end it all.

Heath veered to the side. Bratton slumped into my shoulder, holding his stomach, groaning.

I pushed him upright.

A screeching roar filled my ears, and almost before I could identify it as semi brakes locking up, I spotted the truck. It veered, jackknifed, then flipped onto its side, skidding toward us like a squeegee blade ready to wipe a window clean.

Bratton made a strangled sound deep in his throat. He slumped toward me, and I pushed him away.

If I was going to die, I didn’t not want to do it covered in puke.

Heath slammed the brakes and cranked the wheel, pirouetting like some punk doing donuts in the high school parking lot.

“Go, go, go,” I yelled despite myself.

He hit the gas and the limo’s eight banger responded, flattening us against the seat, the squeal and smell of burning rubber filling the passenger compartment.

Flowing with traffic now and with an open road ahead, Heath gunned the engine. Sirens screamed, the sound audible above the whipping wind.

“Mr. Bratton?” Heath said. “Call Cullen. Tell him to have the plane ready and take off cleared.”

Bratton didn’t answer.

“Mr. Bratton?” I said.

Bratton leaned over and deposited his steak dinner all over his shoes.

“Take his phone,
bonita
. The number is under pilot.”

I fished the phone from the pocket where I’d felt it earlier and did a quick search of recent calls. He’d taken four in the past two hours: one from Heath, one from his wife, and two noted simply as unidentified caller, one bearing the 631 area code I recognized as being from the eastern portion of Long Island, and one sporting Las Vegas’s 702 area code.

The winning bid?

“You find the number, Simone?”

“Yeah. It’s here.” I quickly memorized the two unknown numbers and Heath’s number. I could call Bratton’s wife and tell her what a creep her husband was, but I was betting she already knew. As long as she was slated to inherit his fortune, I figured I was already doing her a favor.

I hit the number for Cullen.

He picked up on the first ring. “Mr. Bratton?”

“Heath says to have the plane ready and takeoff cleared.”

“Who is this?”

“The entertainment.”

“Let me speak to Mr. Bratton.”

I held out the phone, and Bratton retched again.

“He can’t talk,” I said. “Something’s come up.”

Ditching the interstate just as the beat of police and news helicopters started to pound the air overhead, Heath slowed to a more normal pace, Football Face and his muscle-bound boss nowhere to be seen. I leaned my head back, breathed through my mouth, and prayed the ipecac was out of Bratton’s system.

I was wrong. Before I could turn away, I couldn’t help but wonder what possessed Bratton to eat what had to have been an entire bushel of peas. As I did, the John Lennon song inappropriately popped into my head.

All we are saying… is give peas a chance.

Between bouts of projectile hurling, we reached the airport. As I helped the CEO from the car—which was among the grossest things I’d ever had to do and I’d killed people in horrible ways—Heath spoke to the driver. “You keep Mr. Bratton out of this, and you will be well paid for your trouble. You were carjacked, no?”

“Yes, carjacked.” The driver held his limp arm against his body, blood oozing from between the fingers of his other hand.

“
Sí, sí
. They shot you, raced through the streets, almost killed you, but you don’t know who these men were.”

“I, yes…I understand.”

“And you will drive away from here before you call for help?”

“Yes.”

“Good man.”

Bratton pulled away from me and retched into the gutter.

Circling the limo, Heath gathered two small carry on suitcases from the trunk and stopped in front of me. “And what can I promise you,
mamacita
, for your discretion?”

I had perfected the art of crying on cue. A few thoughts about the death of my parents and desperation of my life in the years after, and the glare of the taillights of retreating traffic grew smeared by tears. “I can’t… I’m… oh jesus, I’m so scared.”

“They will not find you.”

“You can promise me that? I saw them at the restaurant. They saw me.”

“If you’re careful…”

“Take me with you.”

He smiled, as if my request was some private joke. “You want to go to Las Vegas?”

“It doesn’t matter where we go. Please. I don’t know who those men were, but all they’d have to do to find me is ask around at the restaurant. I go there all the time. Please.” I turned up the volume, both in tears and in trembles.

“Very well, but before I take a beautiful woman like you to Sin City, you must make me a promise.”

“Anything.”

“Give me your word we will stay out of the wedding chapels. I fear you will bewitch me, and my heart will never again be my own.”

I sniffled, laying it on thick, and for a moment I wondered who was playing whom.

Heath

Heath had to admit the woman had
cojones
. For her to come out and ask if she could come along to Vegas was not only audacious, it was inspired.

How could he resist a woman like that?

“Do you promise? No wedding chapels?”

Simone smiled through crocodile tears. “I do.”

“See why I have to be careful around you,
querida
? You’re dangerous.”

She reached out to hug Heath. Normally he would have welcomed the contact, even though he knew it was outright manipulation, but this time he held out his palm.

“Later, Simone. As lovely as you are, you are wearing much of Bratton’s supper. We should be able to find you a change of clothes on board.”

The aircraft was waiting for them, an eight passenger Challenger 300, and it took little time to board. Heath led Simone into the back bedroom and showed her closet full of various outfits Bratton kept for his teenaged girls. Normally Heath felt a stab of pity whenever Bratton violated and humiliated a prostitute. Sex wasn’t enough for him.
El chancho
enjoyed the power trip. The debasement.