Christopher Smith - Fifth Avenue

“Fuck you.”

One of De Cicco’s men lifted his gun and pointed it at Eric’s head.

“This can go one of two ways, Eric,” Mario said. “You can go through that door by yourself or you can have me drag your ass through it by your broken leg. Your choice. One will be less painful. Now choose.”

There was no choice. He let go of the chair, grabbed his crutches and started moving past De Cicco to the door. What De Cicco didn’t know is that just beyond that door was a desk. On top of it was an iron statue of a woman. It was about eighteen inches tall and just heavy enough to do serious damage to a skull.

If he timed this right, if he grabbed the statue, swung it at De Cicco’s head and shut the door before the others could follow, he might have a chance to get to Diana’s room, lock the door, go to her bathroom, lock that door and call security for help.

He knew it was a long shot, but it was all he had.

At Redman International, Jack and Diana left the building, flagged a cab, got one on their fifth try and told the driver to take them to Redman Place.

“There’s a hundred dollars in it for you if you hurry,” Diana said. She opened her handbag, removed the money and dropped it on the driver’s front seat. “It’s an emergency.”

The driver stepped on it, but traffic on Fifth was thick. He tried to maneuver through the clogged thoroughfare, but it was difficult and there wasn’t much he could do. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “But this is bullshit. Look at these assholes. They don’t know how to drive.”

“Just try,” Diana said. She looked at Jack. “We might be too late.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know Eric.”

The driver found an opening and raced through it. Redman Place was a five-minute drive. If this man was aggressive enough, they could be there in three.

“Let’s go, Eric. If you don’t step it up, I’ll help.”

Eric looked at De Cicco as he passed him. He focused all of his concentration on what was beyond that door and where the statue was on the desk. It would be to the far right. He would need to drop a crutch, grab the statue and then turn to swing it.

He moved through the door, shot a sideways glance and saw it sitting there.

And everything slowed.

He dropped the crutch under his right armpit, leaned in to reach for the statue and grabbed it. He turn to swing it so he could bash in the side of De Cicco’s head but instead he was being propelled forward. Somebody had shoved him. He sailed through the air and crashed onto the floor. His head struck wood and for a moment, he blacked out.

He was being shaken.

He opened his eyes and saw De Cicco leaning over him. “Get up.”

His eyes fluttered and he saw movement across the room. One of the men was carefully putting the statue back in place with his gloved hands.

“Get up.”

He made an effort to move, but a searing pain shot through his shoulder, which was dislocated. De Cicco saw the problem, grabbed Eric by the shirt and easily picked him up so he was standing.

Eric’s shoulder was drooping. The pain was unbearable. He was about to shout when one of De Cicco’s men came behind him and covered his mouth with a hand.

“You can live or you can die,” Mario said. “Your choice. To live, you need to tell me who you called to put the contract on Leana.”

Without hesitation, Eric jerked his head away to free his mouth and blurted out the person’s name.

Without hesitation, Mario De Cicco grabbed Eric again and lifted him to the top of the staircase. And right there, on Eric’s face, was the shock of what was about to happen to him. He tried to struggle, tried to get this man off him, but it was useless. De Cicco leaned close to Eric’s ear. “You fucked with the wrong person. Nobody touches Leana Redman. When they do, just look at what happens.”

The cab swung in front of Redman Place. Eric and Diana rushed out. She tossed another hundred through the passenger’s side window, thanked the driver and ran with Eric to the revolving doors.

Across the lobby was the bank of elevators. They hurried toward them, pressed the button and waited for one of the doors to open.

“You told me you’d let me live!” Eric shouted.

“I lied,” De Cicco said. “Ain’t that a bitch?”

“Here’s your bitch,” Eric said. “It’s Leana Fucking Redman. Tell her for me that she can burn in hell. Tell her for me that she can-”

But before Eric could finish speaking, De Cicco pushed him down the winding staircase.

Mario and his men moved forward to watch him fall. They watched his body twist and bend in unnatural angles as he toppled down the staircase, they watched his cast catch on a rung and snap it in half, and they watched what happened when he suddenly flipped over and his neck came down hard on the banister.

It wasn’t the wood that cracked-the banister could sustain the impact. Instead, it was the bones in Eric’s neck that cracked and the sound they made was like wood splintering in the room. As Eric Parker continued to fall, the men noted the difference in how he fell. He now was a rag doll. As he fell to the bottom of the steps, there was no life in him-just momentum behind him. He was dead and lying in a growing pool of his own blood by the time he hit the floor.

“Let’s move,” De Cicco said.

The men hurried down the stairs, Mario placed a gloved finger on Eric Parker’s neck, felt no pulse and joined his men as they checked the room to make certain no trace of themselves was there. They were backing out of the room and looking for any signs of a struggle when Mario brushed against a side table. He looked down and saw Parker’s watch and wallet, and what looked to be a check.

He lifted the check, read the amount, looked at the name of the corporation listed on it and then looked back in surprise at Parker. What was World Enterprises? Who was behind it? Why had they paid Parker $90 million? What had he done to earn it?

Mario pocketed the check. Since there was no asking Eric Parker now, they left the room, found the stairs and began rushing down them just as an elevator door whisked open. De Cicco and his men were three floors down when they heard a woman, her voice high and shrill, call out Eric’s name.

They hesitated.

And then they fled down the stairs when she began screaming.

Carving a path in the evening sky, the plane soared over the Atlantic, hurtling towards New York and JFK.

Michael unbuckled his safety belt, reached for Leana’s hand and squeezed it gently. She had been silent ever since they left Heathrow and he could sense her slowly withdrawing into that part of herself that no one could hurt. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

As he left his seat and walked towards the rear of the plane, the quiet rage that had been building within him since they left Monte Carlo finally struck. He knew his father was behind this, knew that it was he who had Celina Redman murdered. He probably used Spocatti, he thought. Probably got that son of a bitch to do it for him…

The stewardess smiled as he approached.

“Where are the phones?” Michael asked.

The woman motioned toward an area just outside the restrooms. “They’re there, Mr. Archer.”

He thanked the woman, moved in their direction and swayed slightly when the plane hit a pocket of turbulence. An older woman with a shock of blonde hair grabbed his arm as he passed her seat. “You’re Michael Archer,” she said.

Michael released his arm, aware that other passengers were now looking at him. Recognizing him. “No,” he said. “I’m not. But it happens all the time. I’m flattered.” And he moved on, ignoring the woman even as she said to the man seated beside her: “I could have sworn…”