From Manhattan with Revenge (The Fourth Book in the Fifth Avenue Series) by Christopher Smith Page A

be impolite, do you?”
    “It’s Philips.”
    “Chloe Philips. Nice ring to it. How old
are you, Chloe?”
    “Sixteen. Seventeen in two months.”
    “One day—before you know it,
really—there will come a time when saying that soon you’ll be another
year older in two months will end. That is, of course, assuming that Carmen
comes through for you. If she doesn’t, you might just top off at sixteen going
on seventeen.”
    “Why are you doing this?”
    He behaved as if he didn’t hear her
question. “Are you from the projects, Chloe? From a poor family? Taken away by
the state because you were mistreated? Malnourished? Wound up at St. Vincent’s
in an effort to turn your life around? Is that your history? Your cheap shoes
say it is.”
    She looked up at him in defiance. “That’s
about right,” she said. “Although you left out the part about my father being a
drunk and my mother running off with any man who’d have her, including the last
one, who beat me. But, yeah, that’s pretty much it. That’s me, cheap shoes and
all.”
    “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you? Is that
Carmen’s influence or does it come naturally?”
    “Carmen taught me to stand up for myself,
but when you come from the streets, like I do, you learn how to deal with
scumbags like you pretty quickly. Carmen just helped me to hone my craft, if
that’s what you want to call it.”
    “Carmen would think you’re being reckless
right now.”
    “Maybe. But it’s obvious what you’re going
to do to me, so why should I give a shit? Why not go out with a bang? My life
hasn’t exactly been wrapped up in some big fucking bow, asshole. It’s been shit
from the start, so why should it end any differently?”
    “I have to say—you are well spoken
for someone so young.”
    “I do well in English.”
    “That should take you far.”
    She ignored his sarcasm and looked around
the warehouse. “Are all of these your cars?” she asked.
    “They are.”
    “They look like they cost a lot of money.”
    “They did.”
    “So, you’re overcompensating for a little
dick?”
    He wanted to reach out and slap her across
the face, because he did, in fact, have a small penis. But if he did, he knew
that would just send her fury into silence, which he didn’t want.
    He found himself unexpectedly fascinated
by her.
    He stood and looked her over. There
certainly wasn’t much to her. Maybe a bit over five feet tall. Probably one
hundred pounds. Pale skin that looked as if it probably turned pink in the
summer sun. Pretty blue eyes now narrowed and looking hard at him.
    When they followed her yesterday on her
walk home from school, there were students in front of her and students behind
her, but Chloe Philips walked alone, her back straight, stride determined,
mouth set, cheap shoes clicking on the pavement.

When they reached a point that one of his
men was able to walk alongside her and ask her to get into the car parked ahead
of them or she’d die, she hesitated for a moment, glanced at him, but then
offered no resistance when he led her to the curb. It was the most peculiar
thing Katzev had seen in years. She simply got in the back of the car, no questions
asked.
    “Yesterday,” he said. “When we picked you
up. Why didn’t you put up a fight?”
    “Why would I?” She nodded toward the man
at her left. “Roid Boy here told me he’d kill me. He also had a gun. I could
feel it when he pressed his jacket pocket against my back. I would have been a
fool to put up a fight, so I did what I was told.”
    “Were you scared?”
    “Are you serious?”
    “But you’re so calm now. Defiant.”
    “I didn’t sleep last night. Instead, I
tried to figure out how this was going to end. And there’s only one answer.
You’re going to kill me. That’s what your two brutes are for and that’s what
that camera is for—to capture it all on film. This is what happens to
people like me. It’s not going to end well. It never has for me, so why should
I