“Oh, hi, Carla,” he said, stepping toward her. “I told you I had a little present for you, and I’m here to give it to you.” And with that, he lunged for her wrists, drawing her toward him and then ramming her against the wall.
She could feel his hot, beery breath as his right hand reached down and pulled her skirt up around her waist. He pressed against her, clamping his huge hand over her mouth. She could feel him ripping down the zipper of his pants, and suddenly thrusting his hard cock right between her legs, forcing her to sit astride him, protected only by the thin silk of her panties.
“Let’s see whether little Ray can do this to you,” he grunted, tearing her shirt, groping for her breasts. “Come on, Carla, you’ve been waiting for this. And you know it.”
She leaned back almost submissively as he tried to force her underwear aside. In his eagerness, he did not notice her right hand slipping surreptitiously behind her back, toward the thin, jeweled dagger she carried, holstered in her wide leather belt-the present from Ahmed.
Matt now cast care to the winds and used both hands to tear down her panties, and, as he did so, Shakira Rashood, aka Carla Martin, shoved the lethal dagger directly between his ribs, all the way to the hilt, cleaving his heart almost in two. It instantly went into spasm and then stopped. Ravi had shown her how to achieve that.
Then she let go and twisted away, watching Matt Barker slide slowly, face forward, down the wall. He was dead before he reached the ground. Carla rearranged her underwear and skirt, refastened the only three buttons she had left on her blouse, leaned back, and delivered an almighty kick to Matt’s twisted face. “You stupid little bastard,” she breathed.
And with that, she turned onto the side street behind the Estuary Hotel, leaving the corpse, with the dagger still protruding, lying on its side on the edge of the parking lot. There was blood on the ground now, seeping slowly out into the night.
But there was none on Shakira, who had been well taught that there is almost no risk of a killer being bloodstained if the weapon is left in the body. Knives and daggers betray people, when they are pulled-messily-out. Because they bear DNA samples, not to mention fingerprints. Shakira’s dagger would betray nothing, thanks to her driving gloves.
Those had been Ravi’s idea. “You are armed at all times,” he had told her. “So you must always wear your gloves when you are alone at night. That way, you can eliminate your enemy and leave behind no clues.”
The unlit side street was deserted, and Shakira walked swiftly without breaking into a run. When she swerved onto a piece of waste ground, she could see the Buick, engine running.
Fausi looked up at her and sensed in the dark that she was slightly disheveled. He jumped out and opened the door for her.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing much,” she replied.
“Someone attacked you?”
“Afraid so. One of those local guys tried to rape me in the parking lot.”
“So I’m guessing he’s dead?”
“Correct,” said Shakira. “He was too big for me to fight, so I had no choice. Now let’s get out of here-for good.”
CHAPTER 6
Fausi turned the Buick north. He drove fast out of Brockhurst to Route 17. It was a hot, cloudy night, very dark, and very light traffic. The Buick clocked 80 mph all the way, since Shakira believed a speeding ticket was a lot better than becoming a suspect in a brutal murder.
When they reached Chesapeake Heights, she got out, on the road, and walked to the front entrance, a distance of 150 yards. She moved fast, straight past Fred, the doorman, to avoid his observing her slightly hectic appearance, and immediately took the elevator to her apartment.
Once inside, she grabbed her suitcase and placed it on the bed, wide open. In a blur of activity she hurled her clothes, shoes, possessions, laundry, and toiletries inside. She changed her shirt, forced the suitcase shut, and put on a denim jacket.
She checked every cupboard, checked under the bed, checked the kitchen and the bathroom. Throughout her stay, she had been careful to accumulate nothing. She stripped the bed of sheets and pillowcases, gathered up two damp towels, scooped up a couple of dish towels, and raced for the incinerator hatch, down which residents could get rid of any rubbish they no longer required. She dumped anything that might bear DNA samples straight down the chute. Shakira would leave her apartment carrying only what she had brought with her.
She took her cell phone onto the balcony and dialed the numbers for the house in Gaza. No reply. She had not expected one. She just left the briefest of messages: Evacuating immediately. Cell phone active.
Then she dialed a local number, let it ring twice, and pressed the cutoff button. Downstairs, Fausi pulled into the drive, his headlights off. He parked in the shadows, rendering the car almost invisible.
Then he walked around the side of the building, selected an expensive Lincoln Continental, picked up a stone from the rock garden, and hurled it through the windshield.
The alarm system went off like a klaxon, echoing through the deserted parking lot. Fausi raced back to his own car and swept up to the front of the building. He charged through the door, still in his chauffeur’s uniform, and yelled through to the little anteroom where Fred was watching television.
“Excuse me, sir, I think I just saw two guys break into one of the residents’ cars. I heard a crash and then they ran right past me. I didn’t realize anything was wrong until I heard the alarm go off.”
Fred, a heavyset former Green Beret, came out of his chair like a bullet. This would not look good for him, a professional security officer. “Thanks, pal,” he called, as he raced across the foyer. “I’m right on it.”
The big doorman rushed outside, following the sound of the blaring car alarm. And as he did so, the elevator door slid open. Fausi beckoned Shakira to come out, and she edged her way through the foyer, turning deliberately away from the door and covering her face with a copy of American Vogue. She walked slowly, in a stooped fashion, like an old woman.
Outside, Fausi grabbed her suitcase, and the two of them slipped swiftly through the shadows to the Buick, which was running quietly. Fausi shoved the suitcase onto the passenger seat and climbed in behind the wheel, while Shakira prostrated herself on the backseat.
The black car, displaying no lights, sped off down the drive, swung right toward Route 17, and moments later was hurtling up the highway. No one at Chesapeake Heights, especially the night doorman, knew that Carla Martin was no longer a resident.
It was almost midnight now. Back in Brockhurst, Emily Gallagher was sound asleep, content in the knowledge that Carla would take care of Charlie in the morning. Jim Caborn was upstairs watching television, feeling self-congratulatory at the competence of his latest bar manager. And the undiscovered body of Matt Barker seeped blood, silently, in the shadows of the hotel parking lot.
By 1 A.M., Fausi had reached the junction with Interstate 95, the endless highway that runs north-south down the entire length of the eastern seaboard of the United States.
Once more they turned north, and Fausi asked, “Okay, where’s it to be, Shakira? Washington Dulles, Philly, or New York?”
“Boston,” she replied.
“Wow!” said Fausi. “That’ll take us another eight hours. That’s a long way. I guess you mean nonstop?”
“I most certainly do,” she replied. “And I am sure you understand, Fausi, that right now this car is my best friend in all the world. Every mile we travel is one more away from Brockhurst. Every mile means I am just a little more remote.”