The woman flaps her hands in distress. “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought maybe Dutch was back.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“No. She left a few weeks ago with two big men. Had suitcases with her, so I thought maybe she was going on vacation. That girl works too hard, you know?” She leans back against the wall, peering up at me. Her gaze sweeps over the black leathers I’m wearing and the tattoos peeking out of my shirt. “Are you a friend of hers? You look like you would be. You young ones with all the black and the tattoos. Did you just wander off the set ofGrease?”
When I was a child, my mamá used to love watching reruns of old tv shows. One of her favorites wasBewitched, which featured a particularly nosy and annoying neighbor. “Let me guess, your name is Gladys Kravitz?”
She cackles and pats my arm. I want to tear it away but remember the manners my mother taught me, so I suffer through the humiliation. “I like you, young man. Not many people are willing to humor us old folk anymore. How about this. You leave me your number, and if I see Dutch come back, I’ll give you a call.”
“What if I’m someone dangerous that wants to hurt her?” I ask.
She waves her hand in a dismissive gesture, a smirk lifting one corner of her mouth. “Psh. I’m an excellent judge of character. Now here, look, there’s a pad of paper and a pen on the counter. Go on now, write down your number.”
My lips twitch. She’s an excellent judge of character, is she? Humoring her, I write down my number, and she snatches it from me. “Bye, bye, now!” she calls, waving her hand in the air as she saunters out of the apartment. This time I close the door behind me, watching Gladys—since she never told me her real name—enter the apartment directly across from Dutch’s through the spy hole.
I leave ten minutes later, my frustration mounting again. Racing down the stairs, I feel my heart thundering in my chest. How am I supposed to find her in a city of over eight million people? That’s if she’s even still here.
It takes me nearly two weeks, but I finally catch a break. While walking past Central Park, I catch sight of a motorcycle coming out of an underground garage. I freeze, not believing my luck, as the bike passes by me mere feet away. I spin on my heel, watching as a feral smile grows across my face. Anyone stupid enough to look at me as they pass keeps a wide distance, their eyes wide at my expression.
Now, there are more than one matte-black Indian Scout bikes in the world. But only one has a driver with an ass that looks like that. My bike is too far away for me to be able to catch up to her, so I crane my neck, searching for the name of the building. The Waverley Building.
Parking my ass down on a nearby bench, I thank God the weather’s good today. The leaves are starting to come in, daffodils are sprouting around trees, and although still cool, the sun brings some welcomed warmth.
While I wait to see if Dutch comes back, I search online for everything I can on the Waverley Building. Hours go by while I keep an ear out for the sound of motorcycles. Nine have gone by so far, but none were hers. Refusing to give in, I spend the time learning about the different companies that occupy the building.
Several I discount. Unless she was going for a massage or meeting someone for a meal, there really shouldn’t be any reason for her to be here.
The Charon Group, on the other hand, is much more interesting. From the outside, it looks like any other normal company. But the more I dig, the more I realize it’s not what it seems.
It’s only when I go into the dark web that I find the true answers I’m seeking. The Charon Group does all sorts of things—assassinations, rescue, hostage negotiations—to name just a few. There’s a niggling feeling telling me the Charon Group is why she’s here. But why?
Searching the city’s archives, I try and fail to find a blueprint for the building. That isn’t at all suspicious. It speaks of someone powerful enough to either have it removed or able to hack into the servers and delete it. This means they probably have at least their part of the building heavily secured.
Sighing in frustration, I sign out and stuff my phone back in my pocket. Leaning back on the bench, I stare up at the very normal-looking building opposite me. It looks back at me dispassionately, almost as if it’s daring me to uncover its secrets.
Twenty minutes later and Dutch is back, quickly disappearing into the underground parking. I wait ten minutes then jog across the street, ignoring honking cars and death threats shouted from windows.
The garage is locked up tight, a biometric scanner controlling the gates. Fuck. Turning around, I slip into the department store but am unable to find anything out of the ordinary. Taking the elevator to the second floor, I quickly stride through the restaurant and bar, brushing aside staff who try to stop me.
Again, I can find nothing. Although I can’t help but notice the cameras—they’re everywhere. This isn’t going to work. I can take pretty good odds; my best is six on one. But I don’t know how many people the Charon Group has on hand, and I can’t go up against them alone.
I leave the building and turn left, heading back to where my bike is. I’m going to have to wait for Dutch to come out again, that’s clear. Luckily, I know her well enough to know she’ll need to get out on her bike again. She needs the freedom it provides her. And once she does, I’ll take what’s mine.
Chapter 25
Dutch
I’vebeenitchysinceI woke up this morning. Notthatkind of itchy, I’m clean. But the kind that makes you want to reach inside yourself and pull out whatever it is that has you on edge. I’ve spilled my cereal, shrieked when Susannah said good morning, and have been looking over my shoulder every five minutes.
It’s like in a movie when the eerie music starts to work its way in and you know something is coming. You move to the edge of your seat, waiting for it, the suspense building before the climax comes and you can breathe again.
The climax hasn’t hit yet, and I’m jumpy, irritable, and about ready to peel my skin off for some kind of relief. Earlier, I tried going to the public gym on one of the lower floors, beating the hell out of the hanging punch bags before running five miles on the treadmill. I treated myself to a massage after, but nothing worked.
Now I’m pacing around my apartment until I feel my brain might fracture under the pressure. When I can no longer stand it, I storm down the stairs, floor after floor, arriving in the underground parking lot a sweaty mess. Racing through the lot, I find my baby, the keys dangling in the ignition, just waiting for me.
I jam the helmet on my head and tear out of there, crawling through traffic to the Lincoln Tunnel, then open her up on the freeways of New Jersey. I leave behind thoughts of my father and uncles, of murder plans and plots, friends and brother, and even this sickening feeling that something’s about to happen.
I forget to be careful, to be on the lookout. And I don’t give a flying fuck.
