The Razor's Edge

by David Leadbeater

  “You get a plate?” he asked when she paused for breath.

  She reeled off the details.

  “Most likely come to nothin’, miss,” he drawled. “Story is, this was a well-executed operation. People like that – they don’t make mistakes with their license plates.”

  “What are you doing about it?” Anna couldn’t keep the panic out of her voice. She feared for Monika’s life and didn’t dare wonder about what might be happening to her.

  The cop raised his eyes from her chest for just a second. “You legal, miss?”

  “What? Of course I’m legal. I was born American. And no – I don’t have any ID on me at the moment.”

  “Guess we’ll find it in your bag.” He flicked a thumb in the direction of the bar.

  “Yes. You will.”

  “And your friend Monika . . .” he paused, unable to remember the full name. “She legal?”

  “Yes.”

  “The kids?”

  Anna pushed Patryk and Artur further behind her, suddenly aware that she had no idea how the legal system worked regarding kidnapped mothers. Could the cops take Artur from her?

  “I’m Patryk’s mother. And Artur’s godmother.”

  “And you both work,” he paused.“in there?”

  Anna saw what she was up against. The cops regarded girls like her as sad victims, little more than hookers. Many of them believed they deserved the hardships wrought upon them, that they chose the life they led. That they were not worth saving.

  She shook her head at the cop. “So you believe – what? That Monika brought this on herself? That your time is best spent elsewhere?”

  The cop regarded her honestly. “Not to say your situation ain’t a predicament, miss, but we do have a few critical cases ongoing. The good news is nobody died, not even the man who took three rounds to the stomach. He still has a life . . . of sorts.” He hurried on, eyes again downcast. “Maybe the hookers went freely?” he suggested. “Money has a way of changing a certain type of person’s priorities.”

  Anna clamped her teeth on her lower lip, drawing blood. Whatever she said right now, it would be taken the wrong way. It just wasn’t worth it. The harsh brick wall of authority had well and truly built up around her.

  “They’re not hookers,” she said quietly after a while. “And they were kidnapped. At gunpoint. Don’t you have any other eye witnesses?”

  “Well, that’s another thing, miss.” The cop was starting to look bored now. “People with the wisest eyes round these parts, well, they tend not to see much. You get me?”

  “I get you.”

  “There will be an investigation, miss. I assure you of that.” The cop took one last look at her cleavage before turning away and drifting over to a group of colleagues. Anna felt her hatred of the man evaporate for a second when she thought of Joey and that he would live, and how the bouncer had saved her. Then the cop burst out into laughter, slapping one of his colleagues across the back, and Anna tried in vain to blink away the tears from her eyes.

  What next?

  2

  “I love you, Mikey.”

  Aaron Trent watched his eight year old son walk away, unable to keep the crushing sorrow from his heart. At one time he’d thought he would get used to it. But even after four years it seemed the end of his weekly visit with Michael would always end the same.

  In deep regret and desperate longing.

  Trent had experienced many things in his time. He was an ex-CIA operative. He had seen the worst kind of criminals as well as the subset that existed below them – the depraved villains, the ones who took pleasure in the misery they wrought. He wondered if there were many things worse than watching your own son walk away, hand in hand, with a male stranger. To be fair, Ricky seemed like a decent sort, which surprised Trent no end since he knew what a bloodsucking bitch Victoria Trent really was.

  So, as the hot sun waned over Los Angeles, and another balmy Californian day drew to a close, Aaron Trent held up a hand in the hope his son might give him one last wave. At that moment his cell phone began to ring, and by the time he’d fished it out of his pocket, Mikey had turned, seen his dad answering the phone, then turned away again. It was a sight he’d gotten used to over the years.

  Trent sighed, face set as hard and serious as granite. “Trent here.”

  The voice that greeted him was unabashedly cheerful and, for now, offered Trent the distraction that he needed. “Doug here. How’s the high life maturing in your part of sunny L.A.?”

  “Good.”

  “Ah, still the same hilarious, easy-going, longwinded old man I know and love.”

  “We spoke three weeks ago, Doug, at the end of the last case. Not a lot changes in three weeks.”

  “Well, that depends on your circumstances. I know a friend who knows a lady in LV whose life has changed a whole lot. Overnight, in fact.”

  “A new case?” It was just what Trent needed right now. And then, if it took him out of town for a few weeks, it was exactly the opposite. Damned if you do . . .

  “Potentially. We should meet. All of us.”

  “Alright. When?”

  “Now.”

  “Now?” Trent regarded the lowering skies, the swollen sun, the extending shadows. “It sounds serious.”

  “As a heart-attack, brother. As a heart-attack.”

  *

  Mulholland Drive snakes its way through the eastern Santa Monica mountains for over twenty miles, following the ridgeline of the Hollywood Hills, bestowing the most stunning views over the Los Angeles Basin and the San Fernando Valley. Millionaires and movie stars keep homes there. In parts it is two lane highway or relative dirt track, dropping through canyons and past the Hollywood sign, but it also offers a profusion of rough stopping areas where people can meet and go about their business in relative anonymity.

  Trent collected his two associates and friends, Adam Silk and Dan Radford, on the way. Silk’s jet black hair was slicked back with gel which, along with his whip-thin body and small ferrety eyes, gave the impression that the man might be a bit of a trickster – and a wily one at that.

  The impression wouldn’t be far wrong. Silk had been the finesser of their team – a little word they had made up to describe the larger part of their job description.

  Damn, that term goes back a bit, Trent thought, momentarily distracted as he followed the snake that was Mulholland. Too far. It made him feel fifty years old.

  Radford occupied the passenger seat. “The Trout seem nervous to you?”

  “Doug?” Trent blinked in surprise. “Not really. Have you ever known him to be nervous?”

  “Nope.” Radford never took his eyes away from the spectacular view. “The urgency seems a little odd to me.”

  “What’s the problem? Wooing a new girl?” Silk cut in. Radford was the pretty boy of the team, the man with a girl in every port. His wife, Amanda, didn’t mind a bit. She was a book publicist, and had a guy in every town. But somehow, they were still married. “The Trout wants to meet immediately after he gets a call from an old colleague. He wants to meet here.” He nodded at the window and its sprawling panorama. “You know the drill, Silk. If something starts off feelin’ wrong, it usually ends up a disaster.”

  “Doug has his reasons,” Trent said gravely. “It’s important that we respect them and hear him out.”

  He didn’t have to add that they owed their new, vastly unofficial status to Doug. They all knew the risks he took for them.

  Trent pulled off the road, ambling up to the back of a parked Cadillac. His tyres crunched along the gravel as he came to a stop. Radford was out of the car first, followed by Silk then Trent, a thoughtful frown occupying his face. In addition to being the prettiest member of the team, Radford was also the youngest, still prone to the odd wayward judgement call, which Trent always called him on. Were they heading for another difference of opinion?

  Trent climbed into the back of Doug’s vehicle. The Trout immediately met his eyes in the rear
-view, acknowledging the team leader first. “Good of you, Aaron. Damn good of you.”

  “What’s going on, Doug?”

  “A friend of mine in Vegas, name of Gerry, has requested a little favour. Now, be assured, Gerry ain’t no ordinary friend, know what I mean? He’s like me. You know me, you know Gerry.”

  “So he’s a good guy, Doug. We get you.”

  “I owe him more than a few. Now, a woman he knows, name of Anna Borstein, has the kind of problem only guys like you can help her with.”

  “Well,” Radford stepped in immediately. “Do you have a picture? I guess I could take a look—”

  “Not that kind of problem.” The Trout sliced his rhetoric in half. “Anna’s friend, a Monika Sobieski, was kidnapped today, straight out of the place she worked, by armed men. And in front of her six-year-old son.”

  The car remained quiet. The men didn’t move. But the mood had abruptly turned hard.

  “Anna and Monika worked as dancers at a gentleman’s club. They were saving enough money to start a better life. Gerry vouches for Anna. He knew she worked at the club and used to go there and pay just to talk to her, just to save her a few hours of having to swing her ass for the local lechers. I think they met after he gave a self-defence exhibition at the kids’ school. Anna and Monika both took their kids to his dojo.”

  “Is he sweet on her?”

  “No. Nothing like that. Gerry gets her. She’s doing right by her boy and her friend, and Gerry admires her for it.”

  “Any leads?” Trent evaluated Doug’s comportment as he spoke. His loyalty was without question. His way of presenting the case, however, spoke of anxiety. Trent thought about the two little boys involved, and wasn’t surprised.

  “The cops are investigating. I wouldn’t knock a single man in law enforcement, you guys know that, but when weary cop eyes read strip club and strippers in a report they tend to move on to cases they feel are less low key.”

  “I assume no one was killed during the kidnapping?”

  “Correct.”

  “This Monika. Was she the only one taken?”

  “Anna saw four girls taken. But there could be more. We don’t have the police report.” Doug paused, grinned and then added, “Yet.”

  Silk leaned forward. “I smell a finesse coming on.”

  The Trout half-turned in his seat, trying to eyeball all three men and failing badly. But probably just as well. The Trout hadn’t come by his nickname for nothing.

  “You guys are the best. Were the best, sorry. Your way of doing things – best I’ve ever seen. This case was made for you.”

  Trent sat back. That kind of praise, coming from Doug, was a major accolade. Doug himself had been a top-end CIA spook before retiring several years ago. The story went that he had had forty years of success and no failures. His wealth of connections, his list of contacts, was unimaginable. And he knew where all the secrets were hidden. The ones that counted.

  “Thanks, Doug. We owe you. Again.”

  “You guys owe me nothin’. You took a hit for your country, that’s all. You were well compensated.” The older man’s bulging eyes twinkled. “But a hit is a hit, nonetheless, especially one that destroys three careers. I may be retired, but there’s no clause in my pension that says I can’t help out a few of the disavowed.” He pushed a thin manila envelope through his headrest toward Trent. “Here are the details of the club and Anna’s cell. The rest is up to you.”

  Trent took the envelope and exited the car. They stood in silence, watching as Doug drove away. To their left, the basin of Los Angeles shone; a beacon of hope, a dazzling deception, a den of iniquity, a land of dreams. Silk ignored it and pointed at Trent’s car.

  “Take us to my place. Jenny’s invited you both back for a barbecue. And you know what that means.”

  Trent nodded, and a faint hope burgeoned in his chest. It would most likely come to nothing but he would at least try. “Your wife cooks the best food I’ve ever tasted. How the hell do you stay so trim?”

  “Metabolism.” Silk walked around the car and slid inside. “I’m blessed.”

  “Shame you missed out on the looks.” Radford jumped into the passenger seat again.

  “Trent,” Silk complained. “Why do we keep him around?”

  “Well, let me see.” Radford hit back as Trent shook his head in resignation. “Rugged handsomeness and smooth talking aside, I guess there’s the technical brilliance, honed and developed since MIT. There’s the number wizardry. The eidetic memory. The awards in the field of electrical engineering. And, of course, the humble nature.” He hung his head.

  Silk grunted. “I’ll call Jenny. Tell her you guys are coming.”

  “And straight after that,” Trent said grimly. “We get moving on this case.”

  *

  There was nothing like a barbecue on a balmy Californian evening. Jenny Silk, their hostess, worked the big grill with expertise. A cookout at the Silk house was an entirely different prospect than your standard affair. Jenny had spent most of the afternoon dreaming up culinary delights and now worked a steak knife, a spatula and a bottle of A1 sauce faster than a Samurai might swing his swords at a grand master exhibition. Silk and Radford were already seated, napkins tucked in, beers at hand. Radford’s wife, Amanda, had joined them and was sharing a joke with her husband. Trent watched through the window, musing that it could be about one of the TV shows they habitually watched, or it could be about her latest lover. Those two were odder than a gypsy travelling circus.

  The sentiment didn't reach Trent's eyes, nor his heart. A sick tension ate away at his soul, the like of which he never experienced in harm’s way. He pressed the telephone handset to his ear, listening to the monotonous ringing. Maybe they had gone out.

  Then a woman’s voice picked up. “Hello?” It was Victoria.

  “Hi, it’s me. I just—”

  “It’s late, Aaron. What do you want?”

  It wasn’t late. And he had been about to explain, but let it go. “Jenny’s having a barbecue out at her house right now. I just wondered . . . if Mikey could come round. I'd collect him and have him back to you by eight.”

  “You’ve seen Michael this week. You saw him today.”

  “I know, but—”

  “It’s too late, Aaron. He’s watching that show he likes, with Ricky.”

  “It’s just a barbecue, Victoria.”

  “What the hell does that mean? I said no. He’s happy. Why disturb him again? He always gets upset when he sees you.”

  Trent closed his eyes. When he has to leave me.

  “Good night, Aaron.”

  Victoria put the phone down. Trent hung up and stared at the walls for a while. Then he made his way back outside. The look in his eyes, the set of his shoulders, told the others the outcome of his call. Trent sat down at the table and reached for a napkin.

  The empty seat at his side, the place at the table already set for Mikey, expressed more meaning than any voice could articulate.

  3

  The contrast between the Vegas of 9:00 am and the Vegas of 9:00 pm was mind-boggling, Trent mused as he walked the length of Fremont Street. He imagined that twelve and a half million lamps projected across a screen the size of five football fields might upgrade the experience a little, but at this time there really wasn’t much to see. Netherworld sat a few streets over. The three men huddled together in a closed casino doorway for a last confab.

  “You bring the right IDs?” Silk asked Radford, smiling.

  “You bring enough hair gel? Jeez, man. It stinks.”

  “What? You don’t like coconut and pineapple fusions?”

  Radford turned to Trent. “Who’s the finesser on this one?”

  “Not much of a job initially.” Trent knew the IDs would be perfect, and were backed up by the best secure online verification. All the IDs had been built for jobs they’d undertaken during their official CIA careers. The IDs themselves had been finessed from under governmental lock and key, co
pied, and later replaced; the details forever kept live by the CIA and NSA because some current ops still fed off old work and old disguises. The fictitious backgrounds needed to remain in progress to protect every United States operative, past and present, even though the characters represented by the IDs had obviously lapsed. “We’ll all go in.”

  “Won’t they see it as overkill?” Radford nodded at the few cops who still milled around the entrance to the crime scene.

  “I doubt it’ll bother them much.” Trent plucked his ID from Radford’s fingers. “You’re kidding. Agent Abercrombie?”

  “Could have been worse.” Silk chuckled. “I could have got Fitch.”

  Some years ago, when Radford was much younger and had been involved in designing the team’s many different and diverse character backgrounds, he had purposely allocated them all names of designers or movie stars.

  “I got Pitt. Go figure.”

  The trio moved into the open, Trent glad of his suit that helped deflect the brisk morning breeze. They covered the ground to the front of the club and Silk moved ahead. Trent listened with pleasure as the man stepped without pause into the shoes of an intense FBI agent; changing his accent, his body language and his image in the space of a second. Even now, even though Trent himself did it with ease, to watch it happening was unnerving.

  “FBI.” Silk flashed his badge, having already singled out the freshest looking officer. “Are you familiar with this joint?”

  The cops widened. “Well, not before it got hit, sir. And, sir . . . FBI? We had no idea—”

  “Who the hell are those people?” A lazy voice drawled. Trent locked eyes with a grizzled veteran headed his way. Ahh, he thought. The gloves are off.

  Silk immediately stepped past the younger cop, squaring up to the veteran. “FBI.”

  “You guys ain’t needed here. Show me your damned badge.”

  “I would advise.” Silk made a show of reaching for his badge. “That you drop the attitude, Officer.” Silk addressed him with the lowest rank, not deigning to verify his status. “The FBI, as I’m sure you know, have a mandate to combat corruption at all levels and a federal statute that gives them the authority to investigate specific crimes.”