“No..no, thanks,” mumbled Seb as he stood up. Both of Mary’s bags were empty. She’d just put her entire savings on red. The ball started to head for the inner wheel as Seb watched.
“No more bets,” said the croupier. The ball bounced back up a couple of times, then settled. Twenty-one. Red.
“Woo-hoo,” screamed Mary as the croupier passed two purple $5000 chips back to her. Seb grinned and waved. Mary beamed and waved back. She had obviously forgiven Seb his lack of faith in her system. Then again, she seemed to have forgotten her system, too. Seb looked for the waitress. Perhaps something stronger than coffee this time. Before he had got the waitress’s attention, he was distracted by a shout from downstairs.
“Sebbie?” It was Mary’s voice. Seb had always hated Sebbie. Never been too keen on Sebastian, either. Only Seb seemed to fit and even that never felt entirely comfortable. Maybe because he had been named by nuns at an orphanage, rather than loving parents with nine months to think about it. He looked back at the table. The ball was spinning again and Mary was sliding both $5,000 chips onto red.
“That’s the table maximum, Ma’am,” said the croupier. Mary nodded.
“No more bets,” said the croupier. Seb headed for the stairs as the ball jogged and bounced along the polished wood. As he reached the lower floor, he heard the ball settle in one of the numbered slots, but the angle was too shallow for him to see which one. There was no scream from Mary this time. His view of the croupier’s hands was blocked by Mary’s bulk as he approached and there were no clues in the professionally blank expression. He reached Mary and put a hand on her shoulder.
“You ok?” he said. She turned slowly and looked up at him, the watery blue eyes blinking rapidly behind her glasses. Then she took a deep breath and started to half-laugh, half-cough, the resulting noise attracting the attention of the half dozen customers on neighboring tables as the volume increased.
“Screw the system!” she said, fighting for breath as she held up two black and gold rectangular chips, each bearing the legend $10,000.
“I’m cashing out,” she said, sliding off the seat and making for the cashier cage. Seb shook his head and smiled.
“Good for you, Mary,” he said. “And good luck with changing your life.” She stopped and looked back at him, still puffing slightly.
“You don’t get off that easy, Sebbie,” she said. “You were my lucky charm tonight. I’m gonna buy you the best dinner in Vegas.”
Seb smiled and held up his hands ruefully. His plans for the night certainly didn’t involve dinner with a half-drunk two-hundred pound mid-west woman with a gambling problem.
“Sorry, Mary,” he said, “I have other plans.” Mary huffed and stomped back over to him. Put her hand on his arm, squeezed hard, looked up at him and said,
“I insist you join me.” In Walt’s voice.
Seb stood in the middle of the casino with his mouth open for a few seconds, then followed ‘Mary’ over to the cashier’s cage, where she swapped the chips for $20,000 cash. They left together, Seb’s waitress rapidly reassessing her opinion of him as she watched him follow the older woman to the exit.
“Gamblers,” she sniffed as she cleared away his coffee cup.
20
Albuquerque
The utility pole had taken a heavy impact, One man nudged it with his foot before kneeling and carefully prising away a splinter revealing streaks of metallic black paint. He took the splinter to a tall man waiting by the helicopter. The man frowned, squinting through the heat haze at the tire tracks leading away, then spun on his heel and boosted himself into the chopper. He dropped into a well worn leather seat and nudged the spacebar to wake up a laptop on the drop-down table. The screen stayed blank as it always did on these calls, although he knew the caller could see him.
“Well?” came the familiar, dry whisper.
“Evidence found just outside Albuquerque, sir,” said Westlake. Tracks are heading west. Likely destinations are Phoenix or Las Vegas. Less likely is Tucson, Tijuana, San Diego or doubling back to Los Angeles.”
There was no immediate answer. Just short, raspy breaths.
“He’s in Las Vegas,” came the whisper.
“That’s one of the strongest possibilities,” said Westlake, “but tactically it makes sense to send small teams to-“
“He’s in Las Vegas.” No change in the tone of the voice, no anger, just a precise repetition. Westlake knew better than to press the point.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “We’ll have boots on the ground in just over an hour.”
“No,” said the whisper. “Your orders have changed. For the present, Mr. Varden will no longer be your concern.”
“He won’t get away from me again, sir,” said Westlake. “If I could just-,”
“No,” said the whisper. “You know I admire initiative, Westlake, but I will not tolerate disobedience. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir, that’s clear.” Westlake’s military service had taken him to some of the most dangerous places on the planet. He had been shot twice, knifed once and tortured on seven occasions. Every man and woman he had ever commanded feared him because he never showed the least hint of fear himself, making life and death decisions rationally and calmly. Some would say coldly. And his reputation was well-founded. He had never felt fear, not for a second. Not even when he started working for the man he answered to now. The man with the whisper. The man he’d never met in person and, truth be told, hoped he never would. He might not fear him, but he knew any failure would mean his death. He respected that.
“Good,” said the whisper. “I want you to bring in Meera Patel and Bob Geller.”
Westlake paused.
“Is there a problem?” said the whisper. Westlake knew stating anything other than the facts would be a mistake. A big mistake.
“The surveillance team lost them last night in LA, sir,” he said. “Patel first, but later both targets were re-acquired at a bar near Geller’s residence. Then they somehow managed to get away unseen. They are amateurs, they’re scared and they can’t use their phones or any bank card without us knowing about it.”
“And yet they evaded a team of highly-trained professionals?” The whisper never changed, never gave any indication as to the feelings of its owner. That flat, husky monotone might denote sarcasm, disappointment or psychotic rage, but no clues would ever be given aurally. Westlake wouldn’t have put much money against the final option, though.
“I’ll take over personally, sir,” he said. “They will be in my custody within forty-eight hours.”
There was a dry chuckle. A very disconcerting sound.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said the whisper.
Westlake tensed. “I have the experience and resources to-“
“I do not doubt your proficiency, Westlake. But, as you said, these two are amateurs. And you had a team assigned to each of them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then they had help. The kind of help that meant your men saw only what they were supposed to see. There are only certain parties willing to offer that kind of help in a situation in which I am involved.”
“But no one knew about our involvement, sir,” said Westlake. “There’s no way they could know.”
“But they do know. And they came straight for Ms. Patel and Mr. Geller. They didn’t approach Mr. Varden.”
“We can’t be sure of that, sir,” said Westlake. “Someone may be helping Varden too. It could be the same people.”
“You don’t know, that’s true,” said the whisper. “But I do. I know Mr. Varden is currently in Las Vegas. I am content for him to remain there for the time being. I intend speaking with him in the near future. He’s an orphan, Westlake. No parents, no family. You know what that means?”
“No one will miss him,” said Westlake.
“Wrong,” said the whisper. “He has very little to lose. Very few people he cares about and wants to protect. And you just let the only leverage we had slip throug
h your fingers.”
“I’ll find them, sir,” said Westlake.
“I know,” said the whisper. The line went dead. A message flashed up on the screen. Westlake read his orders before stepping out of the helicopter. He gestured to his two subordinates and they jogged over.
“Prime target has been dropped for now,” said Westlake. “We’ll be focusing on the girl and the old man. Almost certainly traveling together, but very likely to have been joined by an unknown party or parties, possibly dangerous. They know we’re coming after them, continue to track their phones and bank account activity, although I doubt they’ll be that stupid. They saw us watching the station, they’ll assume we’re covering the airport. The most likely scenario is they left Los Angeles by car. Crawshaw, check all car hire shops for cash rentals. Davies, canvass their neighbors, find out if anyone is missing a car. If they have any sense, they’ll split up at some point. Get their photos to all local law enforcement within 1000 miles, but make sure they call it in. They must not be approached. Our orders have changed. When we find them, we watch them. Surveillance only, no contact. Clear?”
Both men nodded.
Westlake headed for the chopper. Crawshaw and Davies started to follow him, but he stopped them with a look.
“There’s a car coming for you,” he said. “Update me face to face in LA in twenty-four hours. I have some work to do.”
The two men stepped back, shielding their eyes from the dust a few seconds later as the chopper’s quiet but powerful rotors started to turn and the machine lifted up, pivoted in the air and headed west.
If the Shit Station had been quiet before Billy Joe’s unexpected departure, it was morgue-like now. Carl and Chad had expected a burst of activity after the dramatic events just thirty-six hours ago, but apart from an initial command to wait for orders (which, translated from military jargon, meant “we don’t have a clue what to do”) they had heard nothing. Even though they had killed a man, then watched him jump to his feet and run away like something out of a cartoon. Neither of them had slept much, or spoken about what had happened.
When George, the retired cop who manned the security gate, buzzed them with the news, they weren’t surprised. Westlake was on his way back. They guessed their jobs were on the line.
When Westlake turned up—in full uniform—with George following, they stood to attention, fearing the worst. They were the only three on duty. The Shit Station had only existed to babysit the alien. With him gone, there was no reason for the government to keep throwing money at it. Better to close it down and pretend it never existed. Both Carl and Chad had spent a considerable portion of the last thirty-six hours looking at worst case/best case scenarios. Worst case, military prison. Best case, laid off with a few years as security guards in the local mall to look forward to if they were lucky. George knew this was his last job - he just guessed he would have to make his government annuity stretch a bit more than he’d planned.
Westlake looked at the three men, then nodded.
“At ease,” he said. They relaxed. He motioned toward the table. “Sit down.”
The three did as they were told. Chad looked quickly at Carl. Carl had always been more of a talker. Carl coughed.
“Sir,” he said, “if I could just explain what happened. We were completely taken by surprise, we-,”
“I’ve read your report, soldier,” said Westlake. “I am not here to attribute blame. You were playing poker?”
The two soldiers moved uneasily.
“Yes, sir, we were,” said Carl.
“Can’t say I blame you,” said Westlake. “You hardly had the most interesting posting in the US army, right?”
Chad swallowed and Carl tried to smile, but failed. This guy scared the living crap out of him.
“I need to complete a report,” said Westlake. “Deal a hand of poker. Show me how it looked.” The two soldiers looked at each other again. Chad shrugged and took a pack of cards out of his pocket, dealing two hands onto the table.
“Three players,” said Westlake, gesturing at George.
“But he wasn’t here, sir.” Westlake just stared at them. He didn’t blink. Chad dealt a third hand in front of George.
“Give me your weapon,” said Westlake to Carl, holding out his hand. Carl gulped and hesitated for a second before unbuttoning his holster. He removed his gun, checked the safety was on, then handed it over. Westlake examined it for a moment, checking the rounds were correctly chambered.
“Looks like you follow the drill, soldier,” he said, nodding his approval. “You look after your weapon. Make sure it’s oiled, checked and loaded. Always ready to fire. Won’t let you down.”
“Yes, sir,” said Carl.
“Good,” said Westlake. He flicked the safety off and shot George in the face. The noise was huge in the small mess room. Blood and flesh splattered the wall. A wisp of smoke came up from the small entry wound in his left eye. Before either soldier could react, Westlake turned and shot Chad in the head, then dropped to one knee and pressed the barrel of the gun hard under Carl’s chin. Westlake pulled the trigger and rolled away. Fragments of Carl’s skull and brain rained down on the table and the floor. Westlake didn’t want to get his uniform dirty. He so rarely got to wear it these days.
He wiped the gun down carefully, then placed it in Carl’s hand. He stood by the door and checked the scene. Three men playing poker. Two shot dead, then a suicide by a soldier whose medical records had been recently amended to contain a schizophrenic episode in his late teens.
“No one likes a bad loser,” he said, closing the door behind him.
21
Las Vegas
The restaurant was small and dark. Nothing on the menu cost less than fifty dollars. Walt ordered about $1000 of food.
“No wine?” said Seb.
“They keep a private supply for me here,” said Walt.
Of course they do.
“So this is how you support the lifestyle?” said Seb. “Cheating casinos?”
Walt laughed. “Hardly,” he said. “I’m their security consultant.”
“What?” said Seb. “Seriously?”
“I cheated them for a while when I first arrived,” said Walt.
The waiter appeared and filled their glasses with white wine. “Best chablis in the world,” said Walt. “Wouldn’t be right to drink anything else, since we’re having King Crab.”
The wine was sensational - crisp, dry. The slight metallic note brought back a memory from when Seb must have been five or six years old. Drinking water from a tin cup at night. The water was really cold; in a tin cup it tasted like the best drink in the world.
“How’s your crab?” said Walt. Seb brought himself back to the present moment. He could only nod appreciatively around his first mouthful of the snow-white flesh. It tasted the way he had always imagined lobster might, though he’d never tried it.
“I prefer it to lobster,” said Walt, doing that mind-reading trick again. Seb guessed when you lived that long, you could make some pretty accurate guesses about what others were thinking. “I have them fly it in from Kirkenes, right at the tip of Norway. The plane came in this afternoon, these are as fresh as you’re gonna get on this continent.”
“So how did you get the security consultant job?” said Seb.
Walt chuckled and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Like I said, I started by cheating them. I went to see the Heads of Security for every major casino. Told them I was going to take them for $500k over the next seven days. Made a follow-up appointment for a week later.”
“How did they react?” said Seb.
“They pretty much laughed in my face,” said Walt. “Not one of them took me seriously for a second. I knew they wouldn’t. But when I walked back in with $500k of chips from their casino, they all experienced a sudden change in attitude. Most of them were angry. A couple of them wanted to hurt me. An unintelligent response.”
Walt waved his wine glass vaguely in the air. The waiter m
aterialized and topped it up.
“The ones who responded unintelligently don’t work in Las Vegas any more,” he said.
“Did they have any idea how you did it?” said Seb.
“Not a chance,” said Walt. “Manna is probably the most closely guarded secret humanity possesses. A lot of our power is only useful because people don’t know it exists. Luckily, the only people who have suspicions and talk openly about them also believe in Big Foot and spend their weekends staring at cutlery, trying to make it bend. Nah, I just showed them what I’d cheated them out of and gave them a month to review their security footage and work out how I’d done it. When the month was up and they were still clueless, I offered to stop anyone else doing the same for a reasonable monthly retainer.”
Walt named a figure and Seb whistled. No wonder he could afford to live in the Taj Mahal.
“Per casino,” said Walt. “I do it for nine of them.”
Seb shook his head slowly, working out the colossal sums coming Walt’s way every month. “They never leaned on you to find out how you ripped them off in the first place?” he said.
Walt nodded. “I expected trouble, so I had a friend stay for a while. Someone whose talent with the source is more attuned to, er…,” he seemed to struggle to find the right word.
“Violence?” said Seb.
“Self defense,” said Walt.
“You had them beaten up?” said Seb. Walt hesitated, shaking his head. “Killed?” said Seb.
“God, no,” said Walt. “I would never initiate anything like that. I genuinely hoped they’d just accept my services and not push me when I refused to reveal my methods. A little professional courtesy. But one casino sent a couple of big guys to follow me and when they figured I was alone, they jumped me. Pushed me into an alley. One had his arm against my throat and pinned me against a wall. The other one slipped a set of brass knuckles onto his hand. They both laughed when my friend stepped into the alley after them. He had been tailing them while they followed me around town.”
The World Walker Series Box Set Page 16
