by Ponzo, Gary
“Well, believe it or not, I need his help. We can’t find any info on the limo that took Phil from the casino last night. Tommy has Vegas connections.”
“With all of the favors you’ve used up at the DA’s office getting him and Silk out of trouble, he’d better help you.”
“He will.”
* * *
Pimlico was the second oldest racetrack in the country. In the 1800s it was considered a nice buggy ride out of town. Since then, it had been swallowed up by growth, all one hundred forty acres entirely within Baltimore city limits, with houses visible all along the backstretch. Nick’s father first brought him to Pimlico when Nick was ten. His father loved the challenge of handicapping the races. He showed Nick how to read the Racing Form and taught him the significance of pace. He’d tell him which horse would be leading going into the first turn and which horse would come with a late charge. Most importantly, he taught him how to figure out which horse fit the race best. His father was merely a two-dollar bettor, but that didn’t lessen his zeal for the sport. His father’s excitement was contagious and even though they went but once a month, Nick cherished each trip.
Nick pushed through the turnstile and headed for the apron in front of the finish line. After his parents’ death, he used to meet his cousin Tommy there nearly every weekend, back when Nick and Phil stayed at Tommy’s house. Nick’s Uncle Victor was his father’s brother and Tommy’s dad. The house was too small for the seven inhabitants, but no one complained. Uncle Victor and Aunt Ruth always made certain Nick felt like he was at home, and for the most part, he did.
Most of Nick’s youth, however, was spent with Tommy Bracco and Don Silkari. The three of them drank and pranked their way through their teenage years with reckless abandon. If someone tried to mess with one of them, the other two were always there to finish the fight. Literally. Eventually they matured and found their lives heading in different directions, but the friendship had always endured.
Nick shook his head in amazement when he saw Tommy standing in virtually the exact spot he’d stood for every feature race at the Pimlico meet for nearly twenty years. Tommy wore an Armani suit, sharkskin shoes, and a pair of large, gold cufflinks that screamed out from the bottom of his shirtsleeves. Next to him, as always, was Silk, using the same tailor as Tommy. Both had colored toothpicks dangling from their mouths.
“What’s with the clothes?” Nick asked.
“Hey, Nicky, what’s goin’ on?” Tommy reached for Nick’s extended hand and pulled him into a bear hug. “Good to see ya. How’s that beautiful bride of yours?”
“She’s fine. School’s out, so she’s taking it easy for the summer.” Nick motioned to Don Silkari. “Hey, Silk.”
“Hey,” Silk said, his head buried deep into an open Racing Form.
“So, what’s with the gear?” Nick asked.
Tommy pulled on his lapels. “Oh, this stuff, well . . . you see we’re stockbrokers now.”
“Stockbrokers? You two?”
Tommy shrugged. “Hey, that’s where the money is these days, Nick. And we gotta be where the money is.”
Nick stuck an index finger in each ear. “I’m not listening. The less I know, the less I can testify to.”
Both men broke out into wide grins. Tommy handed Nick a folded Racing Form opened to the eighth race. “Nicky, look at this race. I can’t understand why the four horse is going off at five-to-one. I mean he just won his last two races at the same price, he oughta be the chalk. You’re the investigator. Tell me what I’m missing here.”
It took Nick less than a minute to see what Tommy had missed. It wasn’t something that was likely to get by his cousin. Tommy had a knack for appearing slow-witted. It went along with the way he talked and his mannerisms. He would lure you in, encouraging you to underestimate him. This was his most prized talent. Like a snake pretending to be slowed by injury, all the while waiting for the right moment to strike. Tommy had no motive to pull something on Nick, it was simply habit.
Nick slammed the form into Tommy’s chest. “He’s not a he, that’s why. The horse is a filly, Tommy. It’s her first time against the boys.”
Tommy didn’t bother to review his alleged oversight. He turned to Silk with pride. “See, that’s why he’s the law. He spots every little detail. That’s why he’s got the cutest wife in town.”
“Hey,” Nick said, “easy with the wife comments. I’m beginning the think you’ve got a thing for her.”
Tommy held up his hands. “Hey, Nicky, don’t insult me like that. I mean you’re like family to me.”
“Tommy, you’re my cousin. We are family.”
“See, you’re making my point for me.”
Nick’s face turned serious.
Tommy said, “What’s up?”
“I need your help.”
“Anything,” Tommy said.
“What I tell you two is confidential and—”
“That’s enough,” Silk interrupted. “We know the drill.”
Nick paused. He was uncomfortable with what he was about to do, but there was still a slim chance he could save his brother’s life. In Tommy’s world, information was a currency, like cash, only more valuable. Las Vegas, limos, and kidnapping were all staples in his domain. If there was a weak link somewhere in the Nevada desert, Tommy would find it.
Nick said, “Phil’s been kidnapped.”
Tommy’s face grew severe. His lip curled up in disgust. “Who done it?”
For the first time since Nick got there, Silk put down the Form.
“A terrorist.”
“Who?” Tommy repeated, his jaw furiously working on a bright orange toothpick in the corner of his mouth.
Nick hesitated, wary of the eagerness on Tommy’s face. “I can’t tell you that right now, but Phil was gambling at the Rio late last night and was taken away in a limo. We’re running into a wall trying to find this limo. Whoever rented it probably paid cash. Lots of cash. The kind of cash that shuts people up.”
Tommy nodded.
“Do you think you could make some calls and find out something about this limo?” Nick asked.
Tommy took the toothpick from his mouth and twirled it between his fingers like a baton. “No problem. But you gotta promise me something.”
Nick winced, bracing himself for the can of worms he was about to open. “What?”
Tommy pointed the orange toothpick at Nick. “When this is over, you gotta promise to tell me who done it. I want a name.”
Nick tossed the idea around in his head. If Phil ended up dead, he’d gladly throw Kemel Kharrazi to the wolves. If his brother lived it would more than likely be because of Tommy’s help. Either way, he could live with the trade-off. “Okay.”
Nick handed him a blank business card with a handwritten name and phone number on it. “I’m flying to Vegas tonight, but I want you to call this number if you find out anything. It’s the number of an FBI agent in Vegas. He won’t ask questions, just tell him anything you can that might help us track down the limo.”
Tommy placed the card in his pocket, “Done.”
Nick saw the horses approach the starting gate. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got rush hour traffic to deal with.”
“Hey, Nicky,” Tommy said, pointing to the Racing Form. “What about this four horse? I got three large on her nose. You think I should change my bet?”
“Nah,” Nick said, “she’s the only speed in the race. She’s liable to steal it.”
Tommy winked. He loved asking questions he already knew the answer to.
By the time Nick reached the parking lot, he could hear the track announcer’s voice rise with excitement as he described the final furlong of the race. The crowd roared as he declared the only filly in the field a wire-to-wire winner.
Nick smiled. Just like riding a bike, he thought.
Chapter 6
“Will you look at this beauty,” Matt McColm said, holding up a magazine at arm’s length. He sat at the window seat while Nick sat
on the aisle, an empty seat between them.
Nick gave a furtive glance for spectators, then leaned toward Matt for an eyeful.
“Oh, baby, the places I could take you,” Matt said, his eyes racing up and down the glossy photo.
Nick followed Matt’s stare. He took a long moment examining the image, finally squinting for confirmation. “It’s a gun.”
“That,” Matt said, “is no gun. It’s a Slimline Glock 36. She’s so sleek, she just begs you to wrap your fingers around her.”
Nick rolled his eyes.
While Matt flipped pages of Gun Magazine, Nick sifted through files of terrorists known to have any link to the KSF. He groped for something, anything that might give him a clue why so many of them were spreading themselves across America’s landscape. Why would they appear to be moving in such a diverse pattern? He found himself staring at pictures of Kurdish rebels as if the power of his glare could evoke an answer from them.
The flight was long and the closer they got to Las Vegas, the quieter the conversation became. Both agents readied themselves as the night closed around them and reduced their world to the few dozen people on board the jet. Finally, Nick broke the silence. He held up a surveillance photo of a grizzly-looking man with bad teeth and wild eyes. “They should lock this guy up just for taking a picture like this.”
Matt placed his forehead up against the window. Flying west at such a rapid pace extended twilight unnaturally, suppressing nightfall as the plane chased the setting sun. Looking down at a tiny sprinkling of lights covering the Midwest, he said, “It looks so peaceful down there.”
“Why can’t we have that?” Nick asked.
“Have what?”
“A peaceful, uneventful life. Go to work, punch the clock, type up a few reports, and drive home. It sounds so calming.”
“You mean boring.”
“Yeah, boring. I like boring.”
“I don’t.”
“That’s because you’ve never tried it. Boring could be good for you. I hear the survival rate at AT&T is very high. A lot less stressful too.”
Matt shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. There’s just as much stress working for a big corporation as there is with the Bureau. Just a different type of stress, that’s all.”
“You’re probably on to something there,” Nick mused.
“Besides,” Matt said, “you had it a lot worse when you were trolling West Baltimore in a cruiser five nights a week.”
Nick knew he was right, of course. He wondered if he would find the world so pressing if he were a bank teller or a teacher like Julie. Her concerns must seem just as pressing to her, yet she rarely showed it. Apparently it wasn’t the profession so much as the professional. He looked over at Matt, who was leaning back in his seat, eyes closed. The picture of serenity. He respected Matt’s composure. He was cool, placid, skillfully poised.
As if Matt felt the weight of Nick’s stare, he said, “I know what they’re doing.”
“Who?”
“The Kurds,” Matt said, head back, hands folded on his lap.
“Tell me about it.”
“Obviously they’re planning a bombing. That’s why it’s so important for them to spring Rashid. He’s the best bomb expert they have. Probably the best in the world. They’re inundating us with enough riff-raff so we can’t cover them all. My guess is most of them are decoys. Spread us thin so we can’t possibly give them the attention they deserve. A good tactic.”
Nick raised his eyebrows. “And all this time I thought you were focusing on your next trip to the shooting range.”
“Hey, I’m not just another pretty face.”
Nick considered the theory. “Then why take my brother? You think Jackson’s right? You think it’s personal?”
“I don’t know. That part bothers me. There are too many other options that make more sense.”
Nick continued studying files until he became weary. He lay back and rested his eyes. It seemed like only a moment had passed before he awoke abruptly to the bouncing of clear air turbulence and the whining of landing gear deployment. When he looked out the window, he saw the lights from the Vegas strip disrupting the Nevada sky like a neon bonfire.
Nick placed the documents into his portfolio and tucked it under his arm. He noticed Matt tapping his heel as he edged forward in his seat.
“Showtime,” Matt said.
It was a smooth landing and as the aircraft taxied to the gate, it stopped momentarily to allow another plane to pass. As he sat there on the tarmac, Nick saw people moving inside the terminal. The gate had a bay window that jutted out toward the runway. He fixed his stare at a familiar face in the crowd. His eyes narrowed to a slit. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone waiting for them. Anxiously, he shuffled through photos from the files he’d been reviewing. He pulled one from a file marked “classified” and examined it closely. When he peered back into the gate crowd, the man was gone.
Matt saw the grim expression on his partner’s face. “What is it?” he asked.
“Probably nothing,” Nick said.
* * *
Abdullah Amin Shah waited impatiently for the plane to arrive. He had purchased a ticket for a departing flight to have access to the gate. The flinty plastic knife, razor sharp, jabbed him from under his coat, reminding him just how lethal his assignment was. He leaned against the wall where the passengers deplaned. He only needed a moment to recognize the FBI agent. His face was burned into his memory, Kemel Kharrazi had made certain of that. He would surprise the FBI agent from behind and slit his throat to the bone. After that, it didn’t matter if he were caught. He would have accomplished his mission.
The agent, Nick Bracco, posed a problem for Kharrazi. It was not good to have an American law officer with strong convictions in Kharrazi’s path. Especially an extremely clever one. Especially now.
Kharrazi spoke of revenge, eye for an eye. He claimed that Bracco had to pay for what he did to Rashid, but Abdullah knew better. For the first time in all the years he’d known Kharrazi, he sensed fear. Something about the American bothered Kharrazi. That’s why Abdullah was at the airport with an undetectable knife waiting to slit Bracco’s throat.
Abdullah saw the first passengers exit the jetway. He blended into the wall so well, they never saw him. Their eyes focused forward, searching for a sign pointing them toward the baggage claim.
Abdullah knew there were seventy-five passengers aboard the direct flight. Eighty, including the crew. There would be no mistakes. No mishaps. Abdullah began counting heads: nine, ten, eleven. A man similar, but no, too short. Thirty-seven, thirty-eight. A businessman in a dark suit—too heavy. Fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one. His hand trembled as he clenched the knife firmly under his coat. Sixty-nine, seventy. Where was he? It was confirmed he had boarded the plane in Baltimore. Seventy-three, seventy-four. One more passenger. He nearly jumped at the next man who walked through the ramp, but it was a pilot. The man wore sunglasses and he strode almost to the corridor before he turned, sat down, and began tying his shoelaces. Strange, Abdullah thought, why would he be wearing sunglasses at night? He had no time to ponder the American psyche.
Abdullah stood motionless, as if his stillness could lull everyone into believing he was harmless. There was one passenger left and it could be only one person. Escape was impossible. His eyes roamed the terminal casually. See Americans, I am just like you. Just another citizen waiting to board the next plane. He sensed the pilot watching him from across the room. Abdullah quickly looked away, but when his eyes returned, the pilot was smiling at him, curiously moving his fingers into a friendly gesture, as if he was waving. Why was the pilot acting so peculiar? While Abdullah tried to make sense of things, a man passed by briskly. It was Bracco!
Nick Bracco was getting away. Abdullah ran up behind him, swung the knife from his coat and with one great lunge he made his move. Abdullah was in midstep when he heard the thunderous clap and instantly dropped to the floor. What happened? He felt a
sharp pain run up his right leg. When he looked down he could see a hole in his pants just above his knee, with a dark-brown stain spreading across his pant leg. He poked a finger into the warm hole up to his knuckle. When he retracted the finger, it was covered with blood.
Abdullah looked up to see the pilot holding a gun. How could the pilot of the airplane shoot him? He was disoriented and becoming lightheaded. As he lay his head down he began to pant. His eyes stared straight up in disbelief and saw a figure kneel over him. It was the pilot and he was talking to Abdullah, yelling at him. What did the pilot want from him? Someone was pushing on his leg, but he couldn’t tell whom? The room was getting dark. The pain began to fade.
* * *
Matt applied pressure to the wounded limb as he shouted down at Abdullah. “Don’t you dare bleed out on me, you son of a bitch.”
Nick unfastened his tie and quickly wrapped it around the terrorist’s leg, high up on the thigh, above the wound. He stretched the silk into a tight knot, trying to stop the flow of blood. He slapped Abdullah’s face, which was losing color rapidly. “Where’s my brother?” he demanded.
Abdullah was unresponsive. A growing pool of blood gathered under his leg.
Matt pressed down hard on the wound site. “I hit the damn femoral. Of all the rotten luck. If he weren’t jumping so fast—“
“Cut it out,” Nick said. “You did exactly what you had to do. Anyone else would have gone for the torso.” He trusted Matt with his life and Matt hadn’t let him down. Nick groped for better words, but settled on a simple, “Thanks.”
Matt ignored the comment. He was busy keeping Abdullah alive.
Nick looked at his watch, then at Abdullah; his chance of gleaning information was draining from the man’s body in dark-red streaks.
Matt looked down at the terrorist who had tried to take his partner’s life. “I’m not finished with you, Abdullah.”
Chapter 7
“You don’t look so good,” Matt said.
The two men sat on the bright, geometrically patterned carpet, between a row of slot machines inside the Vegas airport. It was nearly midnight and they had just finished a futile attempt to extract information from the Kurdish assassin while he drifted in and out of consciousness. Finally, they let the paramedics take him away with a police escort.
