To the Death

Mrs. Gallagher was far too wise to argue with a rowdy group of men who’d been drinking the entire evening, and she nodded a polite sign of thank-you to the garage owner, and then hissed to Shakira, “Don’t you dare put it on his tab.”

Slightly to her surprise, Matt Barker drained his beer, paid his check, and was the first to go. “Early start tomorrow,” he said. “Washington. Again. Still, the new Porsche knocks it off pretty sharply.”

By 10:45, there were just a few residents left. Matt’s crowd had gone, and so had Emily and her friend. Shakira was tired, and she asked the night security man to take over for the last few minutes.

Then she slipped through to the small room behind the bar, put on her short jacket and her driving gloves, and headed for the back door. She ran down the steps and across to the dark side of the parking lot, and there, waiting in the shadows, was Matt Barker.

“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.