Christopher Smith - Fifth Avenue

He nodded toward Nicky Corrao, who was sitting across the room in the blue vinyl chair, listening to their plans. “Nicky’s driving,” he said. “He’ll be at the 53rd Street entrance, ready to bolt when you two come out.”

He looked over at Mario. “I want her out of his life,” he said. “When he wakes, I want her obituary to be the first thing he sees. If it isn’t, if any of you let me down, I’ll never forget it. Is that understood?”

Perfectly.

“Then I suggest you get moving,” Antonio said. “Call Rubio now and find out what he wants you to wear and where he wants you to meet him. Nicky, you stay here. When Pauly comes, tell him to keep an eye on Mario. If he wakes, I want to know about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Nicky,” Antonio said, a slight edge to his voice. “You make sure you’re parked at that entrance tonight. If you’re not, if Miko and Tony don’t get out safe, you’ll wind up as cold as Leana Redman.”

Nicky watched the men step out of the room. He was thinking what a bastard De Cicco could be when one of the monitors beeped again.

He looked at Mario, then up at the monitor-a green jagged line was racing across the screen. Curious, he stepped to Mario’s side and looked down with naked wonderment at the web of tubes and wires that netted his body.

He had always respected Mario-the man was fair, had class. When Nicky earned his bones, it was Mario who was first to congratulate him, Mario who took him out that night and got them both drunk. Nicky wanted him to live. He squeezed Mario’s shoulder, and was about to say his name when Mario’s eyes snapped open.

They stared at one another. Mario’s eyes crinkled and he managed a tentative smile. “Are they gone?” he asked.

Nicky’s lips parted. He looked quickly toward the door and was about to speak when Mario grasped his hand. “No,” he said. “I don’t want to talk to them. I only want to talk to you. Now, come here. Come closer. And just listen to me, Nicky. I’m about to make you a very wealthy man.”

Spocatti pushed through the revolving brass doors of The Manhattan Enterprises Building and left the searing heat of midtown behind.

He moved quickly across the crowded lobby, took the last hit off his cigarette and tossed it still burning onto the floor. He stopped at a bank of elevators, pressed the already glowing button and smiled at the woman who had moved beside him. She was beautiful, her long, dark hair tumbling down her back in thick waves.

The doors slid open.

The woman stepped inside and Spocatti followed. Again he looked at her. She was wearing dark sunglasses, faded jeans and a white T-shirt. Her lips were full and painted deep red. He nodded at her, smiled when she nodded back.

The door closed and they were alone. Spocatti pressed a button and the car lurched into motion. The woman continued staring straight ahead.

He glanced sideways at her. “Have you found him?” he asked.

“Of course. We nailed him at a travel agency on 40th Street. He’s now at your apartment.”

If Spocatti was relieved, it didn’t show on his face. He looked up at the elevator’s lighted dial and watched the floors tick by. “And where was our friend hoping to go?”

The woman opened her black leather handbag and removed the receipt for the airline tickets. She handed it to Spocatti. “He bought two first-class tickets to Milan. The flight leaves this evening from JFK. My guess is that he was planning to take Leana on a trip.”

Spocatti pocketed the envelope and studied her reflection in the elevator’s brass doors. She was stunning in her arrogance. Her name was Amparo Gragera, she weighed less than 110 pounds-and he had once seen her kill a man twice her size with her bare hands. She was an important member of his organization, had complete weapons training, a solid knowledge of computers and once had been the love of his life. He knew she could be just as deadly as he.

“Is everything set for tonight?” he asked.

“Terry took care of everything this morning.”

“And you know what’s expected of you?”

“Have I ever let you down?”

“Just personally,” he said. “But no, not professionally.”

“What a relief.”

“This is our last night in New York. How about dinner once the job is done?”

The elevator stopped. The doors slid open and several people began stepping inside, reaching in front of them and pressing buttons on the elevator’s control panel. Spocatti left the elevator and turned back for a response.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I’m fucking somebody else now. She’s actually more your style than mine-her ass is as hard as stone-but she does give good head. When I’m through with her, I’ll give her your number. I think she does men, too.”

Spocatti couldn’t help a smile. The elevator doors slid shut.

Louis tossed the airline tickets onto his desk. “Where is Michael now?”

Spocatti was at the bar. He dropped ice into two glasses. He reached for a bottle and poured. “He’s at my apartment, being watched by one of my men.”

“What about Jack Douglas and Diana Crane? You’ve been following them. Where are they?”

Spocatti came across the room and handed Louis his drink. He thought the man looked older. Cheeks a bit hollow. Eyes set deeper into his face. “They should be arriving at Heathrow within the next few minutes. They’ll refuel and fly back to New York.”

“And they’ve telephoned no one?”

Spocatti sipped his drink. “They’ve phoned their parents from the plane,” he said. “But no one else. They’re won’t try anything, Louis. They know what’s at risk. They know the plane is wired. They know somebody will be at Heathrow watching to make sure they don’t get off. By the time they reach New York, it’ll be over.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Louis said. “We’re cutting it close. What are your plans when they arrive?”

Spocatti raised an eyebrow. “What do you think my plans are? They know too much. When they arrive at JFK, they’ll be assassinated. So will their parents.”

Satisfied, Louis stepped to the windows and looked out over the city. It was still hours before the sun would set, but anticipation was building. He listened to the quiet. The only sound was the clicking of ice against glass as he lifted the drink to his mouth.

Spocatti watched him tap the glass against the side of his thigh and sensed a disturbance in the air. He wondered again what kind of woman Anne Ryan had been.

“So, this is it,” Louis said. “The envelope’s on my desk. See to it that Redman gets it by nine o’clock tonight.”

Spocatti lifted the envelope, tucked it in his jacket pocket. “You’re sure he’ll meet me?”

Louis turned away from the windows. “He’ll meet you. Once he reads that journal entry and realizes what I’ve done to his daughter, he’ll be there. You can count on it.”

“What about the police? He might call them.”

“No, he won’t,” Louis said. “Redman is a lot of things, but he’s no fool. He won’t call the police-not if he wants his wife to live. Just bring Michael and him to Leana’s office. Don’t let anyone see you. Use one of the side entrances. Make sure they’re both there by ten. Leana and I will meet you as planned.”

The Learjet glided through darkness and clouds and rain. It trembled in the turbulence and then dropped through the sky as it hurtled toward the lights of London and Heathrow Airport. The captain’s voice came over the speakers: “Should be about ten minutes, folks,” he said to Diana and Jack. “Sorry about the bumps, but it’s pretty wild out there. If you’d keep your safety belts fastened, we’ll land, refuel and begin the trip to New York.”