by John Locke
“Only one can be the best. But you’ll never get him.”
“Why?”
“He don’t need the money.”
Lucky said, “You give me the name, I’ll get him to work for me.”
“Things like this ain’t free.”
“You can’t give me a flippin’ name?”
“Not this name. Not for free.”
“Fine. How much?”
“Ten.”
“Ten grand? For a name?”
“Yeah, that’s right. But it’s a helluva name. Someone asks you for it, you can get your money back.”
“Yeah, but ten g’s?”
“Ten. Nothing less.”
“Fuck. Okay, done. What’s the name?”
Carmine’s voice went low. “My part ends when I say the name. You don’t tell no one I gave it to you, capisca?”
“Fine. What’s the name?”
Carmine paused, as if looking around before saying it. “Donovan Creed,” he whispered.
“What’s his number?”
“What? You think I know his fuckin’ number?”
“What’d I just pay you ten large for, if not his number?”
“His name, asshole.”
“How am I going to find his number?” Lucky said.
“That’ll cost you.”
“How much?”
“Five more.”
“You gotta be shitting me.”
“Let me tell you somethin’, Lucky.”
“Yeah?”
“When someone wants this man’s name and number, they’re humpin’ their last chicken.”
Lucky paused. “I don’t have any idea what you just said.”
“Ah, shit. I’m gettin’ old. There’s an expression in there somewhere. I just can’t remember the fuckin’ thing. You want the number, or what?”
“Yeah, fine.”
Carmine gave a number.
“What’s this, his cell phone?”
“No. Sal Bonadello’s.”
“Who the fuck is that?” Lucky said.
“The guy that can get you Creed.”
III
It costs Lucky another ten grand to finally get Donovan Creed on the phone. When he does, it goes like this:
“Mr. Creed, this is Jim Peters, from Las Vegas. My friends call me Lucky.”
Dead silence.
“Are you there?”
“Sorry, I thought you were making a speech.”
“Where are you, Mr. Creed? I mean, are you in the states?”
“Mr. Peters, I’ll be glad to tell you where I am, but it’ll cost you an ear.”
“A…what? Did you say an ear? What are you talking about?”
“You want something personal from me, I get something of yours in return. Since you asked, I’m in—”
“Shit no!” Lucky screams. “Don’t tell me!”
The voice on the other end is calm. “Fair enough. Why are we speaking today?”
“Ever hear of a guy named Connor Payne?”
“I have.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He’s one of the most lethal people in the world. Why do you ask?”
“I have reason to believe he murdered a friend of mine a few hours ago.”
“A close friend?”
“Well…yes. I mean, she was the Medical Director of a corporation I invested in. I’m the majority stockholder.”
“Wow. So Connor Payne murdered your friend.”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Me? I…well…I mean, I’m trying to do something about it right now. By calling you.”
“Did you have sex with her just the two times, or has this been going on awhile?”
“I—what? No. I mean, we did business together. We had a professional relationship.”
“Are you telling me Phyllis Willis was a hooker?”
“What? No, of course not. I mean, wait—how did you know her name?”
“It’s my job to know. By the way, were you able to keep your polyp?”
“My…polyp? What polyp?”
“The one Dr. Gayle cut out of your colon this morning.”
“He…I mean…what?”
Creed made a tsk, tsk sound. “Let me guess: he told you there was nothing in there.”
“His exact words were, I was clean as a whistle.”
“He keeps them, you know.”
“Polyps?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“Makes necklaces out of them. Sells them on the Broomilaw.”
“The Broomilaw?”
“When it ices over. Between bear fights.”
This conversation has completely gotten away from Lucky. He starts over. “Mr. Creed, I want to hire you.”
“You want me to get your polyp back?”
“I want you to protect me from Connor Payne.”
“Whew.”
“Excuse me?”
“Thank God you’re asking for something simple.”
“Simple?”
“Compared to getting your polyp back.”
Lucky was getting frustrated. “Are you sure you’re Donovan Creed?”
“Pretty sure.”
“The Donovan Creed who kills people?”
“Are you recording this conversation?”
“Of course not!”
“Too bad. I’ve been working on my tough guy voice. I was hoping to hear how it comes across over the phone.”
“Mr. Creed.”
“Yes?”
“I’m a wealthy man. I can pay you to protect me. How much would you charge?”
“Depends on what you want. Do I just have to keep you alive, or would I have to kill Connor Payne?”
“You…could kill him?”
“I could. But I doubt I’ll have to.”
“Why not?”
“If he knows I’m guarding you, he won’t come within ten miles of us.”
“If that’s true, I shouldn’t have to pay you very much,” Lucky said.
“That’s a rather odd way to look at it.”
“I’ll pay you twenty grand a week. How does that sound?”
“Paltry.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“A premium hooker would cost you thirty. And offer no protection against Connor Payne.”
“I don’t need a hooker.”
“You might, if you’re right about Phyllis being dead.”
Lucky sighed. “Look. You want the job or not?”
“Mr. Peters?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re a liar, a cheat, and a cheapskate.”
“Based on?”
“You lied about fucking Phyllis. You cheated on your wife. And you don’t want to pay me a fair price to save your life.”
Lucky paused. When he spoke, he sounded dejected. “How’d you know about Phyllis?”
“Carmine told me.”
“Carmine Porrello?”
“You know any other Carmines?”
“He said he didn’t know you! That sonofabitch charged me fifteen grand for Sal’s phone number! And Sal charged me ten for yours!”
“So you’ll pay twenty-five grand to get me on the phone, but only twenty a week to protect you? That hurts, Mr. Peters. If I have to seek therapy over this, who’s going to stop Connor Payne from killing you?”
“I can kill him myself.”
“Now that’s a bold statement.”
“There’s a device. I only need you as long as it takes to find it.”
“Interesting. Tell me more.”
“I can’t. Not over the phone. If you protect Gwen till I get back to Vegas, you and I can search Phyllis’s office together, and find this thing I’m looking for.”
“Gwen?”
“My wife. Her life could be in danger.”
“Why?”
“If Connor Payne thinks I have the device, he might go to my house looking for it.”
&n
bsp; “Or for you.”
“Right.”
“But you don’t have it.”
“No. Phyllis has…had it.”
“Want me to check her office?”
“You can’t. The police are there. You can get me in there tonight, though, right?”
“If I come to Vegas,” Creed said.
Lucky said, “How did Carmine know about Phyllis?”
“Mr. Peters, you may be brilliant when it comes to bookmaking, but you don’t know shit about the people who are scheming to bring you down.”
“And you do?”
“What I don’t know I can figure out.”
“But you won’t help me.”
“Did I say that?”
“You said I was a liar, a cheat, and a cheapskate.”
“True. Nevertheless, I’m in.”
“You are?”
“I’m intrigued.”
“Why?”
“Connor Payne is a one-man army. I want to know how you plan to kill him.”
“I’ll tell you tonight, after I land. There’s a direct flight to Vegas, leaves at five, gets there nine twenty. I need you to go to my house, watch my wife till then.”
“Okay.”
“And bring her with you to the airport to meet my plane.”
“You need to let her know I’m coming.”
“Of course.”
“There’s one problem.”
“What?”
“The police are having a convention at your house.”
“How do you know?”
“Carmine told me.”
Lucky’s heart sinks. “You don’t think something’s happened to Gwen, do you?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Why?”
“No ambulance.”
“Mr. Creed. Are you in fact in Las Vegas?”
“Let’s put it like this: I can be at your house in an hour.”
“And you’ll take the job?”
“If you agree to cooperate.”
“What would I have to do?”
“Tell me everything.”
“Everything?”
“That’s right.”
“About Connor Payne?”
“We can start with him and see where it takes us.”
“Fine. But I can’t divulge any details about my business.”
“Why not?”
“It could ruin me.”
“Let me put it this way. You can tell me what I want to know, or you can tell Connor Payne everything. And he won’t ask nicely.”
1.
29 Hours Earlier…
The chip in my head can be activated by tapping a four-digit code into a device that looks like a wrist watch. When the code is entered, the chip heats up and starts liquefying my brain. Do that to me, and you better have fresh batteries and type in the right code, because if you don’t, I’m going to come for you.
It’s not personal.
I know you’ve got a life, a loving spouse, two apple-cheeked kids, three dogs, four cats and five parakeets. Or maybe you live alone in a basement apartment with a single window that’s half dirt and half sky, and you dine nightly on canned cat food while fantasizing about large, hairy women in boxer shorts who could win the limbo contest if the people on either end would just raise the fucking bar!
Either way, you’ve got a life, and as far as I’m concerned, you deserve to live it without interference from me.
Until you press those buttons.
Do that, and your life belongs to me.
I’m Donovan Creed, former CIA assassin, sometime hit man for the mob. I currently head up a team of assassins who kill suspected terrorists for Uncle Sam. I can be your best friend or your worst nightmare.
But you should know I don’t have many friends.
I’m a tolerant, even-tempered guy who likes the same things you do: long walks on the beach at sunset, holding hands, romantic candlelit dinners featuring great food and premium Kentucky bourbon, making love under the stars with high-end call girls, torturing, maiming and killing bad guys…
I’m not a bully.
Random comment, I know, but God, I hate bullies.
I’ve been told I have a hero complex, which means I feel compelled to help those in need. Personally, I think the world would be a better place if more people get involved when bad things go down. But apparently the fact I feel compelled to help people, instead of choosing to help them—makes me something of a sociopath. Let’s say it this way: if you’re a bully—and that word covers a lot of ground with me—it won’t take long for you to see something no one wants to see:
The man I keep hid.
To prevent that from happening, don’t fuck with the U.S.A., and don’t fuck with me, or the people I care about.
Which brings me to the buzz I felt in my head a few hours ago. The one caused not by alcohol, but by someone attempting to activate the kill chip in my brain.
I’d been enjoying a lovely dinner with Miranda, a particularly attractive young lady of the evening. We were in New York City, had the whole night ahead of us. I didn’t cancel the date, because we’d been looking forward to it for weeks. In the end, we had a great time despite the fact someone was trying to kill me.
Here’s what I know about the kill chip: it was grafted to my brain more than a year ago by the government surgeon who heads the hospital at Sensory Resources, a secret facility in north-west Virginia, where I have an office and a jail cell I sleep in from time to time. By choice. Doc Howard implanted the chip while I was in a coma, under his care. Unfortunately, it can’t be removed without rendering me brain dead. When I found out what he’d done, guess what I did about it?
Nothing.
Crazy, right? But as it turned out, Doc had been following orders from my boss, Darwin, who wanted the means to snuff me at will. By telling me about the chip, Doc Howard did me a favor, though he charged me a hundred million dollars. He gave me a controller, the code, and showed me how to change it. As a plus, he explained that if Darwin ever tried to kill me, I’d feel a buzzing in my head.
But the buzzing I felt at dinner had nothing to do with Darwin. I know, because the device requires GPS, and Darwin was in an underground bunker all night, hosting a Homeland Security Meeting.
Miranda gives me a long, sensual kiss and asks me to stay. I know it’s part of the service, and she doesn’t mean it, but it’s nice to hear, anyway. I mean, she obviously likes me more than she has to, but I maintain no illusions about our relationship. It’s tit for cash. Still, had the attempt on my life not been made, I would’ve stayed.
I love falling asleep in a woman’s arms.
Reluctantly, I leave Miranda’s house and walk to my limo. After getting comfortable, I call Doc Howard, who predictably complains about the time of night. I tell him about the buzzing in my head earlier, and he says he’ll look into it.
I say, “Look into it now, because I’m coming to see you.”
I get Lou Kelly, my facilitator, to book me a jet helicopter. He does, but it won’t be ready for two hours. My limo driver takes me back to the hotel to pack my bags and check out. Then we wait an hour by the private airstrip till the chopper shows up.
An hour after that I land on the Sensory Resources helipad. I have enough time to take a shower and drink a protein shake before meeting with Doc Howard. When he finally arrives, I start right in on him. “Two weeks ago I wired a hundred million to your offshore account in return for a bypass code.”
“Yes.” Doc Howard is visibly nervous, as he should be. Who can blame him? I’m not happy.
“You told me no one else had access to the code,” I say, knowing that’s not entirely true.
“I said to the best of my knowledge no one had it, but if someone did, and tried to access it, you’d feel buzzing in your head.”
“Only problem is, I don’t know who pressed the button last night.”
“I’ve been thinking about tha
t,” Doc said.
“And?”
“There was someone present when I implanted the chip.”
“What? Who?”
“The medical director of the company that manufactured it.”
“And you decided not to tell me this because?”
“I was afraid you’d kill her, to tie up the loose end.”
“I didn’t kill you.”
“No, but at the time, I didn’t know you could be reasoned with.”
“I try to give people a chance, Doc.”
“You would have killed her.”
“Probably. In the end. I mean, I’m walking around with a bomb in my head and she’s got the code that can set it off. She’s a major threat.”
“I didn’t consider her a threat at the time.”
“Because?”
“I thought she had no way to access the code, once we changed it.”
“But that wasn’t true, was it?”
“Apparently not. I think the company lied about the device.”
“You’re quite astute. I hadn’t realized till now.”
“I note your sarcasm,” Doc Howard says, “But yes. There has to be a master device that can reset the code.”
I shake my head.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“That’s comforting.”
Doc Howard is short, pudgy, middle aged, with thick glasses and a kindly grandfather’s face. He’s looking at me with less fear than he’d shown earlier. He knows he’s valuable to me for reasons that would take too long to list.
But I’ll give you one: he does all our body-double surgeries. I’ve got people all over the country guarding other people who don’t even know they’re being guarded. They’re body-doubles for my hit squad, my family, my closest friends. I need Doc Howard, and we’ve always gotten along. I don’t resent him charging me for sharing his secret. Proves he trusts me more than he trusts Darwin.
On the other hand, who wouldn’t?
“I want names and addresses,” I say.
“Her name is Phyllis Willis.”
I look at him. “Don’t make me lose my patience.”
“Swear to God, that’s her name: Dr. Phyllis Willis.”
“And she works where?”
“Ropic Industries, Las Vegas.”
“What do they do?”
“I don’t know. Darwin set it up. I only know about the chip.”
“Is Dr. Willis in-house?”
“No. She’s a plastic surgeon.”
