In The Cut Page 12

  “Stay where you are!” Grace and Olivia heard Byron scream.

  “Mr. Turner, put the gun down,” Saint sounded irritated. The women could hear Byron hitting something.

  “The panic button that you’re hitting under your desk has been disabled,” Saint said.

  “How do you know about that?”

  “The same way I knew about that nickel-plated .25 you’re pointing at me, which isn’t loaded by the way.”

  “It is loaded.”

  “No, I took the bullets out myself.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No, I distinctly remember taking the bullets out, right after I broke into your safe hidden behind the bookshelf.”

  “What—”

  “I didn’t touch your coin collection, but the velvet bag filled with diamonds—”

  Grace and Olivia could hear Byron shifting things, and then opening what sounded to be the safe Saint was referring to.

  “Saint broke into his office the night before,” Glenn said.

  They could hear Byron cursing. “I need those diamonds back, my bank accounts restored, and this warrant dropped.”

  “And I need you to sign this document and have two of your employees witness it.”

  Use their own money to pay them. Olivia remembered what Saint said to her that night in Las Vegas.

  Glenn stopped the recording.

  “That didn’t sound like Clayton,” Grace said.

  “It was him,” Olivia said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know. Just like I know that I will never see him again.” She looked at Glenn for confirmation.

  He looked away. “It’s better this way. Someone found him, and believe me that’s not easy to do. Whoever’s after him, will kill a dozen people just to get to him.”

  “So, what is he going to do, now?” Olivia asked.

  Glenn shook his head. “Someone, somewhere is going to be having nightmares for a very long time.”

  Chapter 10

  It had been three weeks since Saint vanished. Glenn had been carrying around the phone he left behind like a security blanket. Every time he walked into Butta Cutz, Olivia would ask if he called. Soon, she didn’t have to ask, she would just look at him, and he would subtly shake his head. On the outside, she seemed to be handling the situation well, but when she got home, behind closed doors, she would break down. She couldn’t understand how she could be so emotionally attached to a person she barely knew. Right, now, she should be angry with him for lying to her, leading her to believe he was someone he wasn’t, but she couldn’t, because she did know him. Whether he did it intentionally or unintentionally, Saint had revealed a piece of himself to her that night in Las Vegas, and that day in her apartment.

  It didn’t matter if he was Clayton, Saint, or Dr. Whitman. It didn’t matter if she was in his arms or if he was thousands of miles away, she felt connected to him, and she knew he felt the same way about her.

  Love has reasons that Reason doesn’t understand. She remembered him saying that to her in Las Vegas. She had asked him to say something to her in French, and of all the things he could’ve said, he said that. With the new information that Glenn shared about him, Olivia knew that Saint was calculating. There was a reason for everything he did or said. What was he trying to tell her? That he’d loved her? But he barely knew her. That’s a question only he could answer, but he was gone. She knew she would never see him again, but that didn’t stop her from whispering his name every night before drifting to sleep, praying that he would somehow feel her calling out to him.

  Grace tried to remove the blindfold when the Cabbie told Glenn that they had arrived.

  “Hold on,” Glenn said, removing her hands from the blindfold.

  “This is ridiculous, you know I hate surprises.”

  “You’re going to love this one,” he said, helping her out of the cab. When they stood in front of the co-op’s entrance, he removed the blindfold. “Surprise!”

  Grace was stunned. She was staring at an elegant, Fifth Ave home. “Oh my God, Glenn.”

  “Let’s go in.”

  Grace didn’t move.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This place… it’s so luxurious.”

  “You mean expensive.”

  “We can’t afford this.”

  “There’s nothing to afford, it’s already paid for.”

  “How—”

  Glenn looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “Clayton?”

  “I found the contract in the attaché case. It was going to be his wedding gift to us.”

  Grace could hear the pain in his voice, and started to tear.

  “I told you, that’s my boy.” After a few moments, he grabbed her by the hand. “Let’s go in. I can’t wait for you to see our home.”

  Grace stood in the lavished living room, staring out the huge picture windows. “The view is amazing,” she gasped.

  Glenn showed her the two master bedrooms, the gracious dining room, and the state-of-the-art gourmet kitchen.

  “Our maid’s name is Francine.”

  “We got a maid?”

  “And access to the gym located on the first floor.”

  “I know Clayton paid for this, but are you sure we can afford to maintain this?”

  Glenn held her hands and looked into her eyes. “Sweetheart, you know how we’re taught that there are three classes of people, the lower, middle, and upper class?”

  Grace nodded.

  “Well, there’s a forth. A class that the richest of the rich envy. A class whose wealth isn’t money, whose strength isn’t power. People like Saint can have all the luxuries of the world given to them. All they have to do is ask.”

  “Sounds like a secret society to me,” Grace mused.

  “You have no idea. I spoke with the manager, and he told me the name of the man who owns this place. He’s a French billionaire.”

  “Meaning?”

  “A billionaire from France. Saint… France.”

  “Coincidence.”

  “No such thing when it comes to Saint.”

  Grace shook her head. “I can’t get used to calling Clayton… Saint. Is he really that dangerous?”

  “He’s not dangerous at all. You just don’t want to get on his bad side.”

  “Has this ever happened before? Him just up and disappearing?”

  “No.”

  “And you’re certain that he isn’t coming back?”

  “He once told me that he could never come back to a place where his identity had been compromised.”

  “And you’re sure that none of us are in danger?”

  “Positive. You saw me get rid of that gun.”

  “But there are people who know that you know him. People like Petrescu.”

  “Baby,” Glenn said, caressing her face. “Petrescu is in that fourth class, and it took him decades to make it there. He’s in heaven. The last thing he would want to do is come after Saint’s only friend. He would be signing his own death certificate.”

  Grace sat on one of the oversized sofas. “All of this just seems so surreal. I was born and raised in the South Bronx. In projects, surrounded by rats, roaches, guns, drugs, violence. The closest I ever came to seeing apartments like this was on the Cosby Show. And people like Saint, Josephine, Petrescu, and Marion Claude, sound like characters out of a David Morrell novel.”

  “Sometimes fiction is nothing more than an author disguising the truth to protect himself from being sued or stepped to.” Glenn knelt in front of her. “In three months, I’m going to be marrying a beautiful, thick Bronx girl. And by this time next year, my clothing line is going to be in every top-of-the-line clothing store. This is the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. I would’ve never gotten this far if it wasn’t for Saint. He believed in me, he supported me, and he kicked me in the ass when I needed it. I only wish you and Olivia could’ve gotten to know that side of him.”

  Grace grabbed his hands and kissed them. “I
f he’s half the man you’ve described him to be, I believe he will give us the chance to get to know that side.”

  As much as Glenn wanted to believe that, he knew Saint could very well be in Belem, a seaport in Brazil, selling catfish, the size of Great Danes, in one of its many fish markets. Not because he had to, but to learn the culture, language, and who’s who in their underworld.

  The Villa Kennedy, in Frankfurt, Germany, is one of the most luxurious hotels in the world. There are 134 rooms and 30 suites, the ballroom can easily accommodate as many as 450 people, the spa includes a fifteen meter indoor pool, a steam room, yoga and Pilate’s studio, a gym and eight treatment rooms.

  Ninety percent of the world couldn’t afford to spend one night in the $5,000 a night suites. Nine-point nine percent could, but did so sparingly. Then there was Josephine Delacroix, the point-one percent who was able to refer to one of its suites as home. Josephine had many suites, in many different countries. Owning an estate on thirty-six acres of land with armed guards and a high-tech security system, never appealed to her. To Josephine, estates and mansions were nothing more then clumsy shows of grandeur. In her lifestyle, clumsy meant certain death. No, she never liked the idea of being a sitting duck. Mobility and unpredictability saved her life on many occasions.

  She rolled over on her queen-sized bed into the arms of her twenty-eight year old lover/personal bodyguard, Van. He wasn’t Saint, but he was a quick study and obedient.

  She slipped from between the silk sheets and headed for the bathroom. She stood in the shower, letting the hot water beat on her bronze-colored skin. Josephine, looked to be no more than thirty-six, thirty-seven. She had her ballerina physique, dieting, and her personal trainer to thank for that. The only asset she attributed to her fifty-five years of age, was her seasoned intuition. It was her seasoned intuition that caused her to put her men on high alert. After Saint contacted her and told her about his situation, she knew, just as he did, that only two people knew where he was. Claude and Petrescu would have to be taken care of.

  Through the shower’s opal glass, she watched Van’s blurry, naked body walk toward the shower. Without a word, he got in and stood behind her. He lathered up a sponge and began washing her back. He slowly worked the sponge to the front of her body while he inched up on her from behind.

  “I love you,” he whispered in her ear.

  Josephine felt his manhood throbbing against the small of her back.

  “I love you,” he said over and over, as he lathered her breasts the way Saint used to.

  “Get out!” she barked without warning. Van tried nibbling on her ear, but Josephine pulled away from him then turned to face him. Her steel-gray eyes dug into him like claws. Van rinsed off and stormed out. Josephine finished washing up and then returned to the bedroom.

  “Get dressed, I’m hungry.”

  Van didn’t move from the couch. “Did you hear what I said?”

  He didn’t answer. She stepped around the couch and stood in front of him. “What’s your problem?”

  He stood up calmly. “You know what my problem is.”

  “I’m not going through this with you. Either you get dressed or I’ll find someone to take your place.” Josephine walked off.

  Van ran in front of her. “What do I have to do to get him out of your heart and me into it?”

  Josephine caressed his cheek and then spoke to him in French.

  “Saint is not in my heart, he is my heart.” Van pulled his face away from her touch. Josephine grabbed him by the back of the neck. “Remember your place,” she hissed. Her gray eyes seemed to be turning dead black as her grip tightened on the back of his neck. He swallowed his pain and bowed his head.

  “Get dressed,” she said walking away from him. “We’re going to Silk’s.”

  Silk, the highly renowned restaurant was on the east end of town. There were restaurants that were much closer, but Josephine didn’t want close, she wanted Silk.

  Josephine’s three-car convoy arrived. Van watched as a man from the front car and one from the rear car got out and gave the surroundings a quick look over. Both men nodded subtly to let him know the area was clear. Van exited the driver’s side of the middle vehicle, and walked to the back to let Josephine out.

  She took his hand and exited the heavily modified S-class sedan. The maitre d’ met them at the entrance with a smile that could block out the sun.

  “Good to see you again, Miss Delacroix. We’ve been expecting you.”

  Josephine stopped in her tracks and looked at Van.

  “I called ahead to make sure we had a table,” he said shrugging his shoulders.

  “You idiot. Get me out of here.”

  “What?” Van asked, looking alarmed. Josephine spun to rush back to the car. Her quick turn saved her life. Instead of the sniper’s bullet piercing her back and ripping through her heart, it hit her high, dislocating her right shoulder. Van knocked her to the ground while the armed guards exited their cars and drew their guns, searching for a target.

  CLACK!

  A split second later one of the guard’s head snapped back, spraying blood straight into the air.

  CLACK!

  Another guard’s head snapped to the left. As the rest of the guards shot in the general direction of the sniper’s gunfire, Van hit the key pad on his key ring, opening the rear door of Josephine’s car. He dragged her unconscious body into it and slammed the door shut behind them. He heard the screeching of tires. Two SUVs careened around the corner, heading for them. Van hopped over the front seats. The sedan roared to life and he peeled off. The gunmen in the SUV’s hung out the windows shooting.

  The Brabus 6.1 UTV, or Urban Tactical Vehicle, was a heavily modified S-Class. One car, of many, that Saint had outfitted for Josephine. Van remained cool as he heard the clinking of bullets hitting the car. He knew the UTV was lined with lightweight Kevlar padding. And the windows were shatterproof, blast-proof and could withstand multiple rounds at close range.

  Van dipped in between cars, nearly side swiping one. The jostling caused Josephine to become semi-conscious.

  “Saint?” she whispered. “Saint, what happened?”

  Van gritted his teeth at the sound of his name. He took a chance and looked in the back to check out her condition. The front of her shirt was covered with blood. He lifted the armrest and flipped the second red switch. A signal would be sent to Josephine’s, team of backup bodyguards who were on standby at the Villa Kennedy. They would track their GPS signal and meet up wit them. He just prayed he could make it to the safe house before Josephine lost too much blood.

  Josephine cried out. “Saint! My shoulder, it hurts.”

  “Try to relax,” Van cried out. “I’m going to take care of you.”

  Josephine didn’t respond.

  Van’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as it jerked to the right. One of the gunmen’s bullets had shot out one of the front tires. The tires were run-flats. Van was able to quickly regain control of the Mercedes. He was coming up on a hairpin turn. He took a deep breath and flipped the fourth red switch. Just below the rear bumper were dispensers to release the tank full of oil slick contained in the trunk. He growled as he hit the hairpin turn at nearly fifty miles an hour. He barely made it. The two SUVs weren’t so lucky. As soon as they yanked their steering wheels to the right, the SUVs spun out of control. Van heard a loud crash and then an explosion.

  Two black UTVs identical to the one he was driving were heading right for him. The backup had come. He zoomed past them and looked in the rearview mirror. They spun around and caught up with him. One drove in front of him while the other one drove behind him. He grabbed the walkie talkie off the console.

  “Pull over,” he said.

  At the shoulder of the road, Van hopped into the back seat to check Josephine’s injuries. One of the armed guards approached the car.

  “Get in, and drive to the safe house!” The man hopped in, told the other two cars their destination, and then p
ulled off. Van ripped Josephine’s blouse open. The bullet went through clean. He sighed. He used her shirt to cover the wound, as he laid her head on his lap. Josephine winced, he could see that her shoulder was dislocated.

  “We’re almost there,” Van said to her. He saw her lips moving, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. He leaned his head down as close to her lips as he could.

  “Saint,” She whispered. “Kill ‘em alllll.”

  At a monastery near the Dam bulla caves, located in Sri Lanka, India, a taut-bodied monk pours buckets of water over his body. The water mats his curly afro to his head. His scraggly beard makes him look much older and less dangerous than he really is. The kids giggle as the cold water cascades down his body and he shivers. They scatter as he spins around and threatens to throw what’s left in the bucket at them. He uses his hands to wipe the excess water off his body and then unwraps his orange robe from around his waist and puts it on.

  Today, the monk planned on walking the country side, begging for food and engaging in heavy meditation. The character of the soul-searching monk was one that Saint found to be the most fulfilling. He loved simplicity. He got more fulfillment begging for food and helping others than living a life of loftiness. Living high, he believed, made a person arrogant, lazy, and weak. He loved the trenches. They kept him rooted, sharp, but most of all, the trenches allowed him to keep an ear to the ground and his finger on the pulse of people.

  No matter how far away he distanced himself from Olivia, he still couldn’t stop thinking about her. That’s why he traveled all the way to India. He knew for a fact that if he remained anywhere in the Western hemisphere, he was going back to New York. And that was a chance he knew even the Saint couldn’t risk.

  There were only two people who knew he was in New York. Marion Claude and Petrescu. He thought back to a couple nights ago when he had Petrescu dangling off of his penthouse balcony by his ankles. As bad as he wanted to release him and watch him bounce off of the street, he knew he was telling the truth. He didn’t give him up. He didn’t go after Marion Claude, yet. He wanted Petrescu to call him and tell him what was going on. He wanted Marion to stew in the juices of paranoia and flinch at every sudden gust of wind for a while.