“Corruption?” the cop stuttered. “Federal? Look Agent Kors, you sure you got the right place? This here’s a strip club. See . . .” He pointed at the sign. “Netherworld.”
“Take their badge numbers.” Silk looked quickly back at Radford as he strode past. “Gentlemen, I sincerely hope we don’t have to record them in our report?”
He left the question hanging. Radford sent a questing hand towards an inner pocket but the old cop shook his head. He waved them through.
Once inside the club, Trent spoke under his breath. “We should be quick. I trust that old cop about as much as I trust Vic with my alimony check.”
Radford sniggered. Trent was serious about everything except his ex-wife. It seemed surrounding her image with sarcasm and humour helped blunt the dreadful reality that she represented.
Netherworld lay in ruins around them. Tables and chairs, loungers and barstools had been smashed apart or shot to pieces. The bar itself, once the nucleus of the club, had been reduced to a misshapen mass of shattered pulp. Each individual segment of stage lay in ruins. In fact, the shiny poles themselves were all that stood intact. Trent eyed the floor. Radford moved off toward the bar area, and Silk took the performers’ stages and the gaming section. Working apart, they still acted as a team, covering every inch of the place with an experienced eye in record time.
“A lot of different weapons were used here,” Silk reported. “Nothing unusual.”
“It presents itself as a competitive hit,” Radford said. “A neighbour trying to put Netherworld out of business perhaps, but—”
“The kidnappings don’t fit,” Trent finished. “Agreed. Anything else?”
“I’ll go do what I do best, and examine the CCTV recorder and the computer.”
“Blood back here.” Silk stood by a smashed door. The man with the best eyes for ingress, egress and other security points was busy checking them out. “Looks like this leads to the dressing rooms and the side exit.”
Trent made the door his goal, sectoring the floor area out as he went. After another few minutes his eyes lit on a gleaming object and he bent down to pick it up. Radford noticed immediately and headed over.
“What you got?”
“Shell casing.”
“They’re everywhere.” Radford leaned in closer. “What’s so different about that one?”
Trent held the small object up to the light. “This one's custom made.”
Silk was still busy checking all the hard-to-find nooks and crannies. “Nothing to see here kids. We’re done. Let me give the bar one last going over.”
Trent heard a commotion at the front door. “No time.” The three men drifted through the smashed door and out the side exit, re-entering the light of day and taking an alley that led them away from Netherworld and the curious cops.
Trent fiddled with the casing in his pocket. “We may need some help tracking down a distributor of custom casings in Las Vegas,” he said. “But first, the woman. Anna Borstein.”
Radford manipulated his smartphone. “Got her address on GPS. I’ll Bluetooth it to the car and we’re golden.”
“Don’t forget. This woman experienced the worst event of her life last night.” Trent’s voice was harsh and sober. “And so did her kid. The kidnapped woman’s kid is also with her, so let’s keep it low key.”
*
Trent had reasoned that the meeting would impact Anna Borstein less if they visited her at home. It was safe ground for her, familiarity for the kids, and wouldn’t add to the upheaval they were already suffering. Anna was expecting them and opened the door before he could press the buzzer.
“Are you Gerry’s guys?”
Trent’s countenance remained stern. “We are. May we come in?”
“Yes. Please.” Anna closed and locked the door behind them, then ushered them into the small living area. Anna’s place was basically one large room, partitioned off into three different areas – living, kitchen and bedroom. Trent noticed that the sofa was a foldaway, and guessed that was where Anna spent her nights.
“You guys want something to drink?”
“No, thanks.” Trent spoke for them all. He caught a glimpse of wide eyes staring out of the bedroom and steered Anna away toward a window. “I have to ask a few questions.”
“Sure. Anything. Please tell me you can find Monika. It’s a damn nightmare.”
Trent nodded at the bedroom. “How are they taking it?”
“Distractions help. They have video games. Comics. Television. I don’t know what else to do.”
“And school?”
“They were understanding.” Anna planted hands on her hips. “So what do you need to know?”
“First – does Monika have any enemies? An unhappy boss? Ex-boyfriend? Siblings?”
“No. She's a lovely woman. As for her past – I don’t know. We only met about a year ago.”
Silk asked for her address and other details, jotting them down.
“And the boy’s father?” Trent pressed. “Where's he?”
“Long gone. Monika hasn’t heard from him since the day he found out she was pregnant.” Anna stared out the window. “Story of both our lives.”
“Alright. On to the club. What do you know about the people who own it?”
“It’s owned by a guy called George Raymond. I've never met him. I just hear what the others girls say, but they reckon he’s okay. Well off, but not rich. Likes the baccarat tables in the Bellagio and Mandalay Bay. The money he makes from the club,” she shrugged, “he spends in the casinos.”
“Way to support the local economy,” Radford said and gave her his best smile. “How many clubs does Raymond own?”
“Just the one, I think.”
Trent laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “This is important. Have you heard any stories about rival clubs? The owners being unhappy with each other? Any kind of tension?”
Anna pursed her lips. “There are always stories. They usually involve Raymond winning big, or losing big and pissing some rival off or making the asshole's day. Nothing ever came of those kind of stories.”
“Do you have names?”
“No, sorry.” Anna ran a trembling hand through her hair and sighed. “Look. None of this is going to bring Monika back. Artur . . .” she stumbled. “Artur is heartbroken. And, truth be told, so am I. Please, please, find her. I dread to think what she’s going through.”
“We’re on the case,” Radford assured her.
Anna continued as if she hadn’t heard him, “A dozen times I woke last night. Half of them to comfort Artur and Patryk. The other half after a nightmare of what might have happened to my best friend. I need you to help me. Us.”
Trent made sure he caught the woman’s eye. “I have a child of my own. He’s a bit older than Patryk and Artur, but believe me I understand what you’re going through. We never want anything bad to happen to our children. But sometimes life and its darker elements puts that choice out of our hands. We will help you, Anna. And we're good at what we do. Just give us time.”
“And what if Monika doesn’t have time?”
“They didn’t kidnap her and the other girls just to kill them straight away. We have to believe there's another angle to all this. Otherwise, what was the point?”
Anna closed her eyes as tears ran down her face. “She stayed for me,” she whispered. “Poor Monika. She had enough money to quit that fuckin' place and she stayed until I could go with her.”
Trent put an arm around the woman and fixed Silk and Radford with a severe face. “It won’t be long, Anna. We’ll wage war on these bastards if we have to.”
4
Radford put the phone down, the smile on his face fading fast.
“Well, that was Toni. My Vegas girl. Good news is – she wants to see me. Fast.” He shrugged modestly. “Bad news? She can’t help us this time.”
Trent narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”
“She works in the transport department, man. What the hell doe
s she know about guns and bullet casings?”
Trent rolled the casing across the table. They had left Anna’s and headed straight for a coffee shop. The windows to the side and behind them offered a panoramic view of the famous Las Vegas strip. The counter area was far enough away that they could talk without being overheard. The morning was still young, the shop’s patrons mostly passing workers who ordered take-outs.
“Somebody in Vegas ordered and sold this casing to one of our shooters,” Trent said. “Only a pro would use a custom casing. A pro would know that a special casing like this alters the way a bullet fires. Your standard shooter wouldn’t want to deal with that shit.”
Silk sipped a hot black Americano. “Which narrows the field considerably. So how do we find the supplier?”
“Well they don’t exactly shout their wares over the Net.” Trent grimaced. “And the ones that do aren’t likely to be the ones we’re looking for. And the cops.” He sighed. “They must know this already. No doubt they recovered similar shells.”
“We don’t have access to police information,” Radford pointed out unnecessarily, then added, “Unless we’re in New York, Miami, or Manchester UK.”
Trent nodded. “I realise that, Dan. You know, there can’t be too many of these shops about. Maybe we should try ‘em all.”
“Ball buster.” Silk said, always happier to be breaking into the place they were searching for rather than looking for it.
“The Razor’s Edge?” Trent mused. “More like the blunt tool. Are we losing it, boys?”
“We just don’t have the resources that we used to,” Radford said.
“We have all the resources we need. We just need to utilise our brains to adapt them.”
It wasn’t that long since the three-man team had been considered essential to the front line of the United States’ war on evil. Their prowess, cleverness and ability to work as a team had earned them a nickname – the Razor’s Edge. The best of the best in the intelligence gathering and covert infiltration field, sought after by every US agency and field office.
Then the biggest op of their careers went south. At the time they hadn’t been told how vital it was. Trent still had nightmares about it. Still went over every tiny detail in his mind, searching for that elusive moment when everything went to shit. But he never found it. No matter how many times or how carefully he tried, he had never found fault in any of the team’s operations. There had been four teams working that day, four different perspectives. And then the real truth came out. The enormity of the loss the Americans had taken. The untold heights to which it reached.
In the end, no one actually made a mistake. But the Razor’s Edge took disavowment for their country. It was the least they could do, and the only way they could help the sole survivor.
“Utilise our resources.” Radford snapped his finger. “Amanda.”
Silk paused with his paper cup half way to his lips. “What? Your wife, Amanda? Or some other contact?”
“Amanda Radford.”
Trent laid a hand over his friend’s cell as he swiped at the screen. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Call my wife for help? Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”
“You know very well why.”
Trent leaned forward to express his deep concern in silence. The reality was that Radford had recently confided a very harsh and possibly devastating truth to Trent. It was between the two men alone, and not for Silk’s ears. But it had great bearing on what Radford was about to do.
Radford hesitated, but then persisted. “We have to try. Anna’s right. Monika could be going through hell right now.”
Silk glanced from one man to the other. “Am I missing something? In any case, what can Amanda do?”
“Not her,” Radford said. “But her man in Vegas. I remember her saying he won a shooting contest. Or ran a shooting contest. Or she met him at a shooting contest. Whatever. Maybe he can help.”
“Maybe he boned her at a shooting contest,” Silk suggested. “That won’t help.”
Trent winced. “Dan?”
Radford ignored him and hit the speakerphone. Amanda answered the call immediately. “Hey.”
“Hi. Your boy in Vegas. What’s he do?”
“Carl? Why do you want to know that?”
“Does he sell guns?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
Trent listened to them fence. It was always this way between them. It never failed to astound him that Dan’s and Amanda’s relationship was actually great. They were the best of friends, confidantes in pranks and shared pursuits, partners who loved the same TV shows and movies, soul mates. But they saw other people. Not only that, they talked to each other about the people they saw. It was quite normal for Amanda to bring her new beau to a friendly gathering and introduce him to Dan.
And in the end, after the latest passions died and the beaux and sweethearts were gone, they still had each other. They consoled. They ate ice cream together. They linked arms, shared popcorn and caught the latest blockbuster together.
It hadn’t always been that way. Of course it hadn’t. But Trent knew only half of that story, and had never pushed to hear the rest.
Now Radford finally had his wife where he wanted her. “Carl Dodds? Ah, he’s a gun enthusiast. Well, worth a shot. Ha.”
Amanda’s groan was audible. “Don’t hurt him. I’m plugging a few new titles at the Vegas Thrillerfest next month and I want Doddsy in tip-top shape.”
“Doddsy?” Radford’s grin might have been a grimace. “I’ll be sure to tell him that.”
“Please do.”
Amanda signed off and said she would email the guy's address. Trent tore pieces off a napkin as he thought aloud. “To be clear then. We’re looking for a pro out of Vegas who uses custom casings. Someone must know this man. He’s flashy. He wants people to know his work and where he’s been. If Dodds comes through, I suggest a proactive, aggressive approach at the gun shop. The man that this pro buys off – he'll know his business too.”
Silk had also been thinking. “Moving a few steps ahead. It’s unlikely that the pro will collect his own casings. He'll use some kind of a dead drop system. At least, that’s what I would do.”
“Come up with a scenario,” Trent told him. “The cops, if they’re doing anything, will lose precious time chasing that down. We sure can’t afford to.”
Radford’s phone dinged. “Got it. Carl Dodds, you’re banging my wife and I know where you live. Better watch out.”
Trent watched his old friend carefully. “You ready for this?”
“Always.”
*
Trent felt the urgency of the moment hanging over him like a guillotine. It was move or die. Or rather, it was move or Monika Sobieski might die. Carl Dodds furnished them with two addresses. The most discreet of the Vegas gun shops, whilst also being of the highest quality. It was the type of place their unknown pro would exploit.
Now, they were down to one. Silk, posing as a Mr St John, had struck out at the first, the owners betraying no sign of openly or secretly supplying any custom casings, let alone a batch to a local pro.
Trent walked through the heavy double-doors of the second shop, the background for the severe, secretive Mr Abercrombie, running through his mind. He'd used it countless times before, but it didn't hurt to keep it refreshed. Most of these guys didn't even test the background, but again, thorough preparation and constant rehearsal were what gave the team the ability to react instantly in whichever character they were playing. It was what kept them alive.
A grizzled old-timer was bending behind the counter. He stood up quickly when Trent walked in.
“You got me working, bub. What can I do you for?”
Trent hung his head a little to appear less of a threat. “In the market for something special. Custom made. Was told you were the man for the job.”
“Oh yeah? Who went and told you that?”
“A friend.” Trent knew secrecy was king between these
men. Fortunately, it also fitted his own agenda.
“Alright, well I don't got no friends. I got associates. Colleagues. Customers. Contacts. Which type he come under?”
Trent made a point of appraising the shop. “Customer, I guess.”
“Ah, ain't you a smart one. So tell me, see anything you like?”
The old guy was testing his gun knowledge. Trent scowled and eyed the nearest case. “I’d say that’s a pretty fine Ruger Redhawk you got there.”
“Sure is. That’s the reinforced .44 Special. Handles the hottest loads with ease.”
“Sure it does, old timer. Maybe your eyes are fading in your old age. That’s the .357 Magnum variant. Rare beast.”
The old man made a non-committal grunt, but Trent knew he'd passed the first test. “You want something special, you say? And what might that be?”
Trent approached the counter. “I guess seeing is better than hearing.” He placed the spent case on the recently polished glass surface with a little click.
“Looks expensive.” The shop owner made no effort to touch it.
“I can live with that to a reasonable limit.”
The man finally reached out to pick up the casing and twirled it around his fingers. “So, Mr . . . ?”
“Abercrombie.” Trent never flinched.
“Why have I never seen you roun' here before? You just came to town, that it?”
“You got it.” Trent kept his mouth shut. There was a fine line between offering a titbit to extend the authenticity, and shutting a potential target down by going a sentence or a word too far.
“I need to see some ID.”
“I got ID.” Trent finally met the man's eyes. “You got the shells?”
“Maybe, bud. Maybe I can get 'em. Won't keep shit like that on the premises.”
It was as close as he was going to get. Trent showed the man his ID. No way would anyone spot it as a fake, not even a law enforcement agent.
Because it wasn't fake. Mr Abercrombie, Mr St John and all the others were fully fleshed out real people, at least digitally. Like old forgotten balloons, life was rebreathed into them on occasion.
The Razor's Edge Page 3
