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Continue reading for an excerpt from No Shelter
Holly Lin is living two lives. To her friends and family, she's a pleasant, hardworking nanny. To her boss and colleagues, she's one of the best non-sanctioned government assassins in the world.
But when a recent mission goes wrong causing one of her team members to die, she realizes she might no longer be cut out for the work—except the mission, as it turns out, is only half over, and to complete it will take her halfway across the world and bring her face to face with a ghost from her past.
Things are about to get personal. And as Holly Lin's enemies are about to find out, she is not a nanny they want to piss off.
“No Shelter is part mystery, part thriller suspense, and all kinds kick ass!”
— The Man Eating Bookworm
1
My flight gets in at McCarran a few minutes before midnight. Nova picks me up in a stolen black Escalade reeking of stale cigarette smoke.
The first thing he says to me: “I know what you’re thinking and no, this isn’t stolen.”
The second thing he says to me: “You ready to kill some bad guys?”
He drives us to our temporary base of operations, a cinderblock storage garage on the outskirts of the city. Inside the garage are a table set up with computers, a card table covered with weapons, and what looks like a brand new Lincoln Town Car.
“Like it?” he asks me as we get out of the Escalade. “It’ll be your ride tonight.”
“Can’t wait.” I walk over to the card table, look at the mini-arsenal of rifles and handguns. Then I glance over at Scooter on the computer. “What’s up, handsome?”
He smiles at me, chomping away at his Bazooka Joe. “Hey, Holly, how was th-th-the flight?”
“Too short. They didn’t even serve me one of those little tiny bag of peanuts I like so much.”
Nova walks up to me, holding a manila folder. “So you want to know who the target is?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
He clears a space at the table and pulls up two stools. I take one and he hands me the manila folder. Inside are surveillance shots of a middle-aged man in a suit, balding with bushy eyebrows and glasses.
“Where’d you take these?”
“Those were taken just outside the MGM Grand.”
“That’s where he’s staying?”
Nova shakes his head. “He’s staying at the Bellagio, but he’s been making stops at all the major casinos the past week.”
I look up from the pictures, glance at Nova, then at Scooter. “Just how long have you guys been here?”
“Week and a half.”
“Walter never mentioned anything to me.”
Still typing at the computer, his back to us, Scooter says, “Th-Th-That’s because we weren’t sure yet whether we’d need you.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel special, Scooter.” I look back at the pictures. “So who’s the woman—his girlfriend?”
In almost every photograph there is a tall thin blond woman beside the target, carrying a briefcase.
“That little hottie right there,” Nova says, “is Delano’s personal assistant. Her name’s Alayna Gramont. Believe it or not, she used to be a model.”
“Is that right?”
Nodding, he says, “You better believe it.”
“Do I need to worry about her?”
“No. She won’t be there tonight.”
I nod once, give Nova a serious look. “So what’s the deal?”
He clears his throat. “The deal is he and his associates are having a party.”
“And?”
“And they’ve requested girls.”
“Of course they did,” I say. “And I just bet this guy right here—what’s his name again?”
“Roland Delano.”
“I just bet Roland Delano has a thing for Asian chicks.”
“Actually,” Scooter says, his back still to us, “the guy with the Asian fetish isn’t the target. It’s the target’s buddy.”
Nova hands me another manila folder. Inside are more surveillance shots, this one of a large black man, his head bald, wearing wrap-around shades.
“The bodyguard?”
Nova nods.
“And he’s the one that likes Asian chicks.”
He nods again.
I glance once more from Nova to Scooter, Scooter to Nova. “I’m going to be completely alone on this thing, aren’t I?”
Nova says, “At least on the inside, yeah.”
“Great.” I cross my arms, take a breath. “So what’s the plan?”
2
Nova thumbs through the photographs of Roland Delano until he finds the one he wants. He sets it on the table, taps his finger on a specific place.
“See this?”
“The guy wears bling.”
“It’s not bling,” Nova says, keeping his finger on the spot just beneath Delano’s neck, where a golden coin hangs off a chain. “It’s a flash drive.”
“A flash drive,” I say.
“This is a two-part job, Holly. Taking Delano out is part one. The second part is ensuring you walk away with this flash drive.”
I look up from the photograph, glance at the two incongruous men, Scooter small and thin and wearing glasses, Nova big and strong and gorgeous. “What does this Roland Delano do again?”
“Your run of the mill terrorist.”
“And what does he specialize in?”
“Arms.”
“Big arms or small arms?”
“Massive.”
Nodding, I say, “So security is going to be tight.”
“Very,” Scooter says. He waves me over to the computers. “Delano’s st-st-staying in the Chairman Suite of the Bellagio. Apparently he’d wanted one of the villas but th-th-they were all booked and he got very pissed. As you can imagine, th-this is a guy who always gets what he wants.”
Scooter opens up a window on the screen, types rapidly and brings up the Bellagio’s website.
“Wow,” I say. “It’s impressive all the footwork you’ve accomplished in the past week and a half.”
“Keep laughing, keep laughing.” He clicks and clicks until he brings up the page for the Chairman Suite. “You have to keep in mind this isn’t a George Clooney movie. Infiltrating a casino is pretty much impossible, especially with my limited supplies. The best I could do was determine his floor, his suite number, and tap into his room phone. Th-Th-That’s how we know about the party tonight and the girls he requested.”
“And how did I get my invite?”
“He requested an Asian from one of the agencies,” Nova says. “We called a few hours later, giving them all the same information, told them to cancel the order but that we’d still pay in full.”
“An Asian,” I murmur, shooting a glare at Nova. “You guys are so racially sensitive.”
“Anyway”—Scooter moves the mouse and clicks something else—“th-this is the basic floor plan. You have the foyer leading into the living and dining area, the wet bar and conference room on the right. Two bedrooms, one on the left, the other on the right, both with His and Her Baths.”
“You sound like you’re pitching me an advertisement.” I stare at the screen a moment, then ask Nova, “How much more security does he have?”
“At least a half dozen.”
“And I’m walking in there with no weapons.”
Nova says, “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
“So if I break a nail and need backup, how long before the cavalry arrives?”
Nova looks away, scratches the back of his neck. “That’s kind of another issue we need to discuss.”
“Kind of,” I say.
“The suite elevato
rs are exclusive. You need a key to use them, and unfortunately, we don’t have a key.”
“It’s not something I can easily override either,” Scooter says. “Not with th-th-the Bellagio’s level of security.”
I cross my arms, scowl at them both. “Okay, so let me get this straight. I’m going in there with no weapons, no protection, no backup. Does that sound about right?”
Nova looks away again, gives a short nod.
“So where are you two going to be?”
“After I drop you off,” Nova says, “I’m going to park the Town Car in a garage, change, and start working the casino.”
“Great. So while I work you play.”
“I’ll be in radio communication the entire time. So will Scooter.”
Scooter nods. “I’ll be in the parking garage, in the Escalade, monitoring their security.”
I glance back at the screen, thinking about the “at least a half dozen,” the fact that I won’t be seeing Roland but his bodyguard.
“How many other girls are going to be there?”
“At least a half dozen,” Nova says. “Maybe more.”
“Oh, I see. A boss who likes to share his wealth.”
Nova gives his head a little shake, keeping his gaze on me level. “No, they’re all for him.”
“Oh. So he’s a selfish bastard.”
“From what we hear,” Scooter says, “he’s more th-than just selfish.”
Nova pulls a pack of Camels from his pocket, offers me one. “You know I’m trying to quit,” I tell him, but take one anyway. Once he’s lit both mine and his, he looks down, looks back up, but before he can even open his mouth, I beat him to the punch line.
“He likes to play rough, doesn’t he?”
Slowly Nova nods. He doesn’t break his stare with mine.
Scooter pulls a fresh Bazooka Joe from his pocket, unwraps it, places the piece of bubblegum in his mouth. He’ll keep adding to the same piece he’s already chewing until he gets eight pieces, sometimes ten, before spitting the large ball of gum out and starting over with a fresh piece. The comic inside he’ll save and add to his collection. Now he leans back and glances up at me, and I see the same thing in his eyes that I see in Nova’s.
I let the moment pass a beat, then say, “Don’t worry about it.”
“Holly—” Scooter starts.
“I mean it. I’ll be cool.”
“Walter knows this isn’t going to be a clean hit,” Nova says. “But he doesn’t want it to get out of hand.”
Right. If I were a United States general in charge of a non-government sanctioned mission, I wouldn’t want things to get out of hand either.
“What’s his definition of out of hand?”
“You know it changes with every job. But I believe his exact words this time were something like if it’s going to be news, he’d rather it be local than national.”
“I can’t promise anything.”
“No, but you can promise you’ll at least try.”
“How does he want me to take out Roland anyway?”
“The way we figure it,” Scooter says, “th-th-the bodyguard might try to play rough with you too. He tries to slap you around, you fight back. Simple self-defense.”
“I don’t know,” I say, glancing back at the photographs spread out on the table, “he’s a pretty big guy.”
His cigarette finished, Nova drops it on the ground, grinds the cherry with the heel of his boot. Doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring back at me.
I realize Scooter is staring back at me too, leaning back in his chair, and then it hits me.
“Roland’s not here strictly on pleasure, he is? He’s here on business.”
“Some people are flying in from Argentina tomorrow afternoon,” Scooter says. “They’re going to make the deal then.”
“Do we know what for?”
Nova says, “Most likely what’s on that flash drive around his neck.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding again, “and I’m guessing this is the kind of the deal that can’t be made.”
“Of course not.” Nova reaches out to pat me on the shoulder but pauses, his eyes lighting up. “Oh shit, I almost forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
Grinning now, he glances at Scooter. “Want to give it to her or should I?”
Scooter is already jumping out of his chair, starting over toward the other end of the garage.
Nova says, “The guy that requested you, he requested something else.”
Scooter comes back, a cardboard box in his hands. He sets it down on the table, pushes it toward me. “Happy birthday.”
Frowning at Scooter, frowning at Nova, I reach out and open the box. Glance at what’s inside. Start to shake my head. “No fucking way.”
“Yes,” Nova says.
“No. I’m not wearing that.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
Scooter pulls out his Blackberry, points it at me. “Can I get a picture then?”
I just stare back at Scooter, than glance at Nova when he finally pats me on the shoulder.
“So,” he says, “you ready to party or what?”
3
Nova drives me in the Town Car to the Bellagio. He doesn’t speak once. He just drives and I sit in the back, watching the bright lights and the people still awake at two o’clock in the morning, finding it hard to imagine how just five hours ago I was at my mother’s place for family dinner. It’s her monthly excuse to get me and my sister and my sister’s husband and their two boys together, so she can learn what’s new and interesting in their lives and subtly hint at her disappointment in my life, what with me being almost thirty with no boyfriend or solid job or even secure future.
God how I hate those family dinners.
As Nova turns up the long drive to the casino, I close my eyes and take a breath. Then we make it to the front and he stops and one of the attendants hurries over to open the back door.
I step out into the cool dry air of the Las Vegas desert. I smile and nod at the attendant, and in broken English say, “Tank you.”
I’m wearing a thin cashmere overcoat that comes down to my knees, and as I walk toward the entrance, as I enter the hotel and make my way toward the elevators, I transform myself into tonight’s character: a Japanese working girl, limited high school education, speaks very little English. Just the type of girl who knows what guys like to hear and feel and is willing to give it to them for the right amount of cash.
At the elevators a man in a suit approaches me. I can tell at once he’s not hotel security. The suit is Armani, much too nice, and the look he gives me is intense.
“You here for the party?” he asks, and I nod, my lips pouted, like I only understand half of what he’s saying. “Okay then, follow me.”
He leads me to one of the farther elevators. He has a keycard which he swipes and the shiny, spotless doors open.
“Go on up, honey,” he says, “have a good time,” and as I walk into the elevator he gives me a quick pat on the ass.
My first impulse is to spin around and pop him one in the face, break his nose, send him to the ground with his eyes watering and blood dripping into his mouth. But I let this impulse slide, remembering that I’m a professional, and I only turn, smile at him, give him a half wave until the elevator doors close completely and then the smile fades and I turn my hand around and drop all my fingers except the middle.
As the elevator ascends I step back and look at myself in the shiny doors. I open the cashmere overcoat to reveal tonight’s requested outfit. Black three-inch high-heels, white knee-high stockings, a green and blue plaid miniskirt, a white button up top that’s opened at the chest to reveal my cleavage. Not at all what I was planning on wearing tonight, but if a Japanese schoolgirl is what this bastard wants, a Japanese schoolgirl is what he’s going to get.
In my ear Scooter says, “You alone?”
I’m wearing a wireless transmitter in my ear, a tiny thing smaller than a pebble
.
“In the elevator, yeah. What’s up?”
“Listen to th-th-this Bazooka Joe comic I just opened.”
“Scooter, I don’t have time for this.”
“But I th-think it’s a good omen. It’s my favorite one, comic number twenty. Joe’s grilling and he says to his buddy, ‘Hey, what happened to th-the hot dogs? Who took the hot dogs?’ And in the next panel Joe’s dog is leaning against a tree, a toothpick in his mouth, and says, ‘It just proves it’s a dog-eat-dog world. Get used to it, kid.’” He pauses. “What do you th-th-think?”
Nova’s voice comes over the line, saying, “I think you need to quit bothering Holly so she can concentrate.”
“Yeah, I know, but don’t you two see the life lesson in the comic? It’s brilliant. And the fortune says it all: We know what goes around, comes around—if you send it, you better duck.” He laughs. “Isn’t th-th-that just perfect?”
The elevator begins to slow before I have a chance to respond. I look up at the numbers, see I’ve made it to the thirtieth floor. The elevator stops completely. I close the cashmere overcoat, take a deep breath. Then the doors open and I start to step forward but stop when I see the gun pointed at my face.
ALSO BY ROBERT SWARTWOOD
NOVELS
The Serial Killer’s Wife
Five years ago Elizabeth Piccioni’s husband was arrested for being a serial killer. Her life suddenly turned upside down, she did what she thought was best for her newborn baby: she took her son and ran away to start a new life.
Now, living in a quiet part of the Midwest with a new identity, Elizabeth is ready to start over. But one day she receives a phone call from a person calling himself Cain. Cain somehow knows about her past life. He has abducted her son, and if Elizabeth wants to save him she must retrieve her husband’s trophies—the fingers he cut off each of his victims.
The Inner Circle (Man of Wax Trilogy) Page 40
