Broken Angel Page 2

  “Christ, I dunno. It was like a week or two ago.” The brow furrowed. “Lessee. Think it was over in Harlem, mebee right near Uptown.” His smile twisted into a leer. “I seen a lot more ’a her than that, too. She’s a tight little piece.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah, she cost me a coupla hunnerd, that little lady,” the drunk blathered on. “But she was worth every penny, know what I mean?” With a sloppy wink, he tried to nudge him, but stumbled.

  Cold fingers of apprehension squeezed his stomach. Lillith, a prostitute? No. “Are you sure?” He held the picture closer to the drunk’s rheumy gaze. “This woman here. You saw her?”

  The drunk squinted. “Mmph. Mebee not. The eyes ain’t quite right…hair’s wrong too…”

  “So it wasn’t her?”

  Laughter dribbled from the drunk’s mouth. “Hey, wha’s it matter, right? Ya seen one whore, ya seen ’em all.”

  His temper nearly snared his tongue. He drew a deep breath and shook the photo. “Look. Please. Was it her, or not?”

  The drunk lifted the bottle to his lips. After a deep swig, he blinked a few times and stared at the picture. “Nope. Sorry, it musta been somebody else.” The grin resurfaced. “She’s hot, though. How much you want for her?”

  He balled his free hand and launched it at the inebriated smile. His knuckles met the drunk’s jaw with a dull smack. The drunk flew back to land flat on the floor. The crowd shifted away, and the drunk struggled to prop himself onto his elbows. Blood bubbled from his lips. Turning his head, he spat a mouthful of thick liquid along with a tooth.

  He shoved the picture into his jacket. “That’s my sister, you bastard. She’s no whore.”

  The drunk sat up with a wheeze and looked from his recently departed tooth to him, as though he couldn’t quite make the connection between the two. At last he lifted to his feet and swiped a clumsy arm across his blood-smeared mouth.

  “Whassa matter witchoo?” The words tumbled from lips that couldn’t seem to move properly. Pain registered in the drunk’s eyes, and anger lurked beneath. “Why’d you go an’ do that?”

  “Fuck off.” He turned and pushed through the packed crowd toward the outskirts of the room. Behind him, the drunk shouted something, and he glanced over his shoulder. A man had grabbed the drunk and held him back.

  What the hell?

  He broke free of the knot of people, only to walk into a denim-clad, devil-bearded Hispanic who didn’t look happy to see him.

  “You’re causing a lot of trouble, kid.” The Hispanic ran a hand through short brown hair and let out an exasperated breath. “Why’d you go and slug poor Kev there? He’s only having a good time.”

  Frustration sharpened his fury and buried his restraint. “Get out of my way.” He shoved the man with both hands.

  The instant drop in the volume of the crowd turned irritation into cold fear. Even the fighters stopped and stared, as though he had just shot the Pope.

  “You touched me.” The Hispanic sounded genuinely amazed. “You pushed me. First you knock my cousin’s teeth out, then you try to punk me?” His words rang in the silence. Veins popped into relief along his neck. He stepped forward.

  Dull pain exploded in his gut. His breath gasped out, and he landed on his knees. He hadn’t even seen the blow.

  “Out,” the Hispanic barked.

  The floor beneath him vibrated. Murmurs hummed through the departing crowd like water whispering down a drain. He started to rise, but someone behind pushed him down. Something solid planted itself between his shoulder blades. It felt like a foot.

  “Not you. You stay.” The voice belonged to the man he’d pushed.

  “You want his wallet, Diego?” a man behind him said.

  “Yeah. Then let him up.”

  The pressure on his back increased. A hand wrestled his wallet from his pocket. His head throbbed with confusion. They weren’t mugging him. What was so goddamn fascinating about his wallet?

  The foot retreated. He coughed and stood. Another Hispanic, a heavily muscled thug in a tight blue tee shirt, had joined the one called Diego.

  Diego looked from the license to his face. He closed the wallet, held it between two fingers and tapped it on his open palm. A dark smile surfaced. “I’d kill you for free, but right now you’re worth more to me alive.”

  Chapter 2

  Christ. Hadn’t the man seen his empty billfold? At the moment he wasn’t even worth a pound of flesh. “Look, I’m sorry about your cousin. Can I have my wallet back?”

  “Sure.” Diego grinned and dropped it on the floor. It landed with a flat smack that reverberated through the empty basement.

  He looked from the wallet to Diego. “How about handing it to me?”

  “You want it, you get it.”

  “Come on, man.” He glanced over his shoulder. At least only one thug waited to hit him from behind. “I said I was sorry.”

  Diego stopped smiling. “Pick it up, ese. You won’t like how I give it to you.”

  Damn it. He shouldn’t have slugged the drunk. Maybe his father had been right. One of these days, his temper would get him killed.

  Maybe today.

  Diego would probably beat him down if he didn’t go along with the ploy. He bent and tried to stay out of range, reached for the wallet.

  Diego kicked him in the head.

  Pain flared in his jaw. He dropped to the floor and rolled onto his back, momentarily stunned. Blood seeped into his mouth. He spluttered, turned aside and curled inward, shielding his head with his arms.

  “Damn. You still have all your teeth.” Before he could think to move, Diego stomped on his arm and drove it against his face. He yowled and scuttled away. Blood gushed this time, splashing down his chin to streak the floor. With one hand clamped to his jaw, he scrambled to his feet and stood, gasping. His wallet lay where Diego had dropped it. A few drops of blood glistened on the scuffed surface.

  Diego gestured at the floor. “Thought you wanted that. So pick it up already.” The grin remained in place, made him a demented joker minus the jingling cap. Diego could have posed for Satan’s custom card deck.

  When he made no move to try again, Diego said, “Nails, give the kid his wallet.”

  Fuck this. He could live without it.

  He whirled and sprinted for the stairs. The muscled thug gave chase. Followed by Diego’s laughter, he grabbed the rail and propelled himself up, two and three steps at a time. He had almost reached the top when he collided with a wall.

  The wall had hands. They grabbed his arms and held him back. It was the man who’d restrained the drunk earlier.

  “Where’re you runnin’ off to?” The man turned him around and pushed him down the stairs, toward the thug standing at the bottom.

  Another round of laughter rolled from Diego. “Kaiser, you just accidentally did something right. Get him down here.”

  “Sure, boss.” Kaiser’s hand fell on his shoulder.

  He jerked away, walked slowly down the stairs and stopped on the last step. Glaring, he pulled together all the strength he could muster and lobbed a fist at the thug’s face. Nails caught his wrist in mid-swing with one hand, and drove the other into his stomach.

  He bent double with the blow. Nails tossed him headlong away from the stairs. He tumbled once and landed in a heap. Nails strode over, hauled him to his feet and pressed him face-first against the wall, pinning his arms behind him.

  He thrashed in his grip. A knee pounded his spine.

  “Hold still,” Nails grunted. “You owe Diego a couple of teeth.”

  “Hey. Calmate,’mano,” Diego said. His voice sounded closer. “Just give him his wallet. Changed my mind about the teeth. Permanent damage might lower the prize. You know that ritzy son of a whore’s always looking for a fuckin’ loophole.”

  Fear drained the fight from him. This time he couldn’t dismiss the bizarre nature of Diego’s words. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded. “What prize? Whose loophol
e?”

  Nails stuffed his wallet back into his pocket, ground him into the wall, held him there, and released his grip fast. He sagged, but managed to stay on his feet, and turned to meet Diego’s painted smile.

  “Didn’t you know? You’re a wanted man, Gabriel Morgan. If that license is a fake, now’s the time to ’fess up, lose a few teeth, and scram.”

  “W-wanted? By who?”

  “Marcus Slade.”

  “Who?”

  Diego shrugged. “If you don’t know, I guess you’ll find out when we get there.”

  “Wait. Wait a minute.” He closed his eyes. This couldn’t be happening. Why would some thug offer a reward for him? It had to be a mistake. He would have pinched himself, been convinced he was dreaming, if the sharp ache in his jaw and his gut weren’t so real. “There’s eight million people in this city. Has to be more than one Gabriel Morgan.”

  “Maybe. Got a point?”

  “I don’t know anyone named Slade!” He forced himself to breathe evenly. “I’m nobody. Whoever this guy is, he’s not looking for me. I didn’t do anything.”

  “You’re a pain in the ass. Around here, that’s enough.” Diego motioned a hand in the air. Nails and Kaiser moved in. “You aren’t gonna come quiet, are you? Don’t matter to me, one way or the other.”

  “Hold on. I’m telling you, you got the wrong guy.” He stepped back and encountered the wall behind him. “I don’t even live in the city. I’m from Upstate. Buffalo. I’m just trying to find someone, that’s all.” He reached for Lillith’s photo.

  Nails and Kaiser were faster. They produced guns.

  “Damn it, it’s just a picture! Your buddies upstairs already searched me.” His pulse jumped and hammered in his throat. A tremor shot down his spine. These men would kill him without hesitation. They’d shoot him where he stood, and then go to wherever thugs went for a nice dinner, their consciences clean. With a sickening jolt, he realized Diego never said this Slade guy wanted him alive.

  At last, Diego extended a hand. “All right. Let’s see it.”

  Caution tempered his relief. He still had to convince them he wasn’t the right guy, not a criminal or a narc, or whatever they thought he was. Just some guy looking for his sister. He slid the photo out slowly and handed it over.

  Diego took it. His eyes widened briefly. A short grunt escaped him. Shit, somehow he'd pissed the man off again. But then Diego gave a wintry laugh, and his stomach twisted. “Sorry, kid. You’re definitely the right one.” Diego lowered the photo and met his eyes with manic glee. “Nails. Put him out.”

  Nails reversed his grip on the gun, and the butt end smashed his temple. White-hot agony filled his head and faded to black.

  * * * *

  The Marquis-Grant was four stories of understated elegance, situated just off Fifth Avenue in high uptown Manhattan. Close enough to Harlem to qualify the neighborhood as borderline gauche, the hotel and the small but immaculate grounds around it stood unscathed by graffiti and litter. Marcus Slade fancied himself a businessman, and would have no less.

  Diego threw the Rolls into park. He killed the engine and twisted around to address Kaiser in the back seat. “Bring the kid around back. I’ll roust the prick.”

  Kaiser grunted an acknowledgment, slid out of the car and reached back in to haul Gabriel’s limp, bound body toward him. He slung the kid over a broad shoulder and disappeared into the alley next to the hotel.

  From the passenger side, Nails watched him fade into the darkness. “You sure he can handle it?”

  “No sweat. That kid’s not gonna come around for a while.” He faced forward and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Out the window, a stretch limo with tinted windows rolled up, slowed to a near stop, and kept going. Slade’s clientele tended toward the loaded side. This one must have been looking for a discreet drop. Fuck the slick bastard. He wasn’t about to move the Rolls.

  “Do me a favor and stay with the car,” he said to Nails. “It feels like a cop kind of night, and my glove box is full.”

  “You’ll be okay alone?”

  “Please. The day I can’t handle Slade is the day my sweet old abuelita takes up table dancing. You worry too much, ’mano.”

  Grinning, he jumped from the car, circled the back and plodded across the grass, digging his boots in with every step. Four stone stairs led to the glass front doors—locked, of course. Slade didn’t like surprises. The front lobby lay empty and dark. He depressed the buzzer on the intercom beside the door and held it down for a good twenty seconds, then looked up and waved at the security camera.

  “Mendez, what do you want?” Slade’s voice oozed disdain through the speaker.

  “Hola, Chief. How’s it hangin’?” He produced a switchblade and began cleaning under his nails.

  “Put that thing away. And state your business or leave. I haven’t got all night.”

  “What? This?” He twirled the knife a few times.

  “Damn it, Mendez, what are you doing here?”

  “I brought you a present.” He closed the blade, pocketed it. “Check your back camera. I’ll wait.”

  Seconds passed. The intercom emitted a high-pitched whine, and an incensed Slade sputtered, “You’re bringing bodies to my door now? You have five seconds before I get the police here.”

  “Take it easy, Chief. He’s still breathing.”

  “Who’s still breathing?”

  “Gabriel Morgan.”

  The silence lasted longer this time. “You found him?”

  “Yeah. Some shit, ain’t it? You’d better have cash on you, ’cause I won’t take a check.”

  The electronic lock clicked and whirred. He pulled the door open and sauntered into the lobby.

  “You brought the boy. How...interesting.”

  The soft voice seemed to originate from the shadows. He whirled, looking for its owner. At last he made out the slender figure standing in the hallway beside the front desk, backlit by a glow from further down. The face remained in shadow, but he recognized the distinct shape of the Japanese clothing, the sweep of the hair pulled back in a tight braid. Jenner.

  Slade’s freak of a lieutenant did not inspire him to relax.

  “Where’s Slade?” He approached the wiry Bengali with disgust. The creepy mixed-up fucker never had settled on what he was, Indian or Japanese. Rumor had it Jenner wasn’t even human. He didn’t buy it, but he had to admit the old man unsettled him a bit. Only to himself, of course.

  Jenner moved aside. Light struck his cold gray eyes and dappled his stone features with shadow. “He is waiting for you. I will escort you.” He motioned down the hall.

  “You first.”

  “Very well.” Jenner turned and drifted toward the light. A three-foot braid the color of smoke hung down the center of his back. On any other man, it would have looked ridiculous.

  Goddamned thing. One of these days, he intended to cut it off.

  “Perhaps you should not have left your lieutenant outside,” Jenner said. His back was turned, but his voice carried perfectly. “Much as your fear amuses me, it will not impress Marcus.”

  “Please. The only thing scary about you is the way you dress.”

  Jenner offered a shrug and continued onward. He stopped at the end and headed right. A shorter hall lay around the corner, terminating in a single frosted glass door. Jenner gripped the knob and turned to him with a wry smirk.

  “I do hope you have not broken the boy. After all, that is my job.”

  Fucking freak. “He’s fine. Barely scratched.”

  Jenner opened the door and stood back. Imposing a casual stroll on legs that wanted to pick up the pace, he entered the room. The door closed with Jenner on the opposite side. Good riddance.

  A spacious office lay before him with three-by-three rows of monitor screens mounted in a recess on the left wall, and elegant vertical blinds drawn against the night across an oversized window. A solid oak desk stood before the window. Behind the desk sat Marcus Slade, all-Am
erican male. From his blond hair and blue eyes to the slight dimple in his chiseled chin, Slade could have passed for a harmless executive playboy. The only clue to his deviant nature lay in his eyes. Two chips of unforgiving ice challenged anyone who met them to risk his wrath at their own peril.

  He met the expression with a dismissive smirk. Jenner worried him—a little—but Slade was a walking, talking bluff.

  Slade glowered at him. “He’s damaged.”

  “Nah. He’s gift-wrapped.” He dropped into a nearby chair. “It’s all surface shit. He’ll come around in a bit.”

  “He’d better.” Slade hit a button on the intercom phone beside him.

  “Yes, Mr. Slade,” came the immediate response.

  “Sol. Send Apollo to the back. Have him bring young Mr. Morgan downstairs. He’s not to hurt him. Understand?”

  “Yes, Mr. Slade.”

  Slade folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Give me one good reason not to make you wait until the boy wakes up before you collect.”

  “I ain’t gonna play this game with you, asshole.” He yanked a cellphone from his pocket, dialed, waited. “Kaiser, bring the kid back to the car. We’re leaving.”

  “All right,” Slade snapped. “Good enough.”

  “Never mind,” he said over Kaiser’s muttered agreement. “Stay there. Apollo’s coming to get him.” He replaced the phone and glared at Slade. “Don’t fuck with me. Gimme the goddamned money.”

  Slade opened a bottom drawer, came up with a blue duffel bag and threw it across the desk. It hit him square in the chest. “One hundred thousand, cash. It’s all there. Don’t bother counting it.”

  “I won’t. But I am going to make sure you’re not giving me your dirty laundry.” He pulled the zipper open and thrust a hand into banded stacks of hundred dollar bills. “Sweet. Feels like a hundred grand to me.” He closed the bag, stood, and shouldered it. “Oh! Almost forgot. You owe me another fifty bucks, Chief.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Delivery fee. Plus gas and tolls.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  He held out a hand. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”