Chiefly, they needed to know how he would react to certain situations. Then they could plan their next move.
The downside to this and most of their undertakings was – it took time. Trent couldn’t reasonably expect a target to take him into his confidence in two days, which was the longest period they could afford to wait. Even that was too long, but Trent had to trust his experience. So, his only ploy was to provide a familiar face. Their job was made easier when they learned Ned Malloy didn’t miss a night at his favourite blackjack table. The team joined him that very first night, following him to the Strip and Caesars Palace. Individually they played alongside him, sipped cocktails at the sensual and eclectic Shadow Bar whilst watching the expert bartenders juggle and toss bottles and slices of lemon and lime as they performed back-flips behind the bar, and even scared the hell out of the team when Malloy enquired as to whether he could attend that night’s Celine Dion show. As Radford put it, 'stunning she may be, Shakira she wasn’t'.
Trent pushed it hard at the blackjack tables. By the end of the first night he wanted to be recognisable to Malloy and his men. The next day they spent scoping out the man’s home, business undertakings and all information available through the Net, Radford’s Vegas contact in transport and any other medium they could think of. It never takes long to start to build up the profile of a new target, and so within twenty four hours they had a sketchy, gritty picture of Ned Malloy.
The man was a weasel, a low-key lowlife who fed off the needs of others, employed a few musclemen who’d fallen on hard times as ‘bodyguards-come-friends', and gambled away all his earnings. Trent reasoned that a man like that would keep dirt on his associates. A man like that would think he had to. Just in case. The sum total of his life would be deciding which shoulder to look over to check if anyone had found him, and how many layers he should wear to cover his own back.
So there would be records. Silk suggested they finesse a way into the guy’s workplace or better still, break in, but Trent had seen this man up close. He’d seen the cowardly gleam in those eyes, the spineless way he hedged at blackjack, his lily-livered penchant to hide behind his men when eye contact was forced.
“Records won’t be at his work.” Trent felt sure. “They’ll be at his home. Buried deep in some hard drive, I’m betting.”
“No safe?” Silk sounded upset. “Not even a locked desk?”
“Just my gut,” Trent admitted. “But we need to make time to check all possibilities.”
Radford was smiling. “I got the hard drive covered. Of course.”
“That’s your way in.” Trent devised a plan with them. That night they returned to Caesars, making sure Trent passed a couple of words with Malloy’s friends and even the man himself, and then the day of the op dawned.
“Too early,” Silk stated the obvious. “This op is doomed to fail, Aaron. A finesse like this takes over a week to safely put into place.”
“All we need is the information.” Trent agreed but could see no other way. “So these guys find out . . . it doesn’t matter. If we take all the info, they’ll never know which part we want. The plus side? Malloy will become even more paranoid than he is now.”
Silk smiled at that. “Still too many variables. I might be a thief at heart, but I’ve always been a careful one."
“It has to happen.” Trent thought of Anna, Artur and Monika. “It has to happen tonight.”
As if in support, Trent’s cell chimed to warn of incoming email. When Trent read it he shook his head. “Ah, crap. That’s Doug. Anna Borstein’s having major issues with Artur, Monika’s son. The poor kid’s hysterical.”
Silk clamped his mouth shut. Radford began to inventory the equipment he would need. Trent worked out his best approach.
The day passed quickly. Radford described it in the best Vegas parlance as they set out to go their various ways.
“Showtime.”
*
Trent weaved his way through the slot machines, surrounded by the twitter and tweet chorus of intelligent machinery, slightly mesmerised by the flashing lights and incredible volume of people. He passed the table where Malloy and his associates were camped out. He made a show of double-taking, catching Malloy’s eye and then continuing on to the next table. He made a show of losing badly.
“Son of a bitch.”
Trent stood up fast, grinding his chair back, and strode off to get a drink. When he returned, he hovered near Malloy’s table and an empty seat.
“You guys mind a little company? Lady Luck ain’t on my side tonight and that’s a fact.”
The greedy light entered Malloy’s eyes. “Take a seat.”
One of Malloy’s colleagues, a surly heavy-browed individual moved to sit between his boss and Trent at a not-so-subtle command.
“Deal, dealer . . . deal.”
Trent used his stream of losses to start the small talk.
*
Silk and Radford finished their full reconnoitre of Malloy’s house. They estimated three to six people inside, all male, all of the primitive skulled variety. No surprise there. Silk voiced the unasked question as to who was capable of manufacturing the man’s bespoke shell casings, but then Radford pointed out the probable legitimacy of that particular business, it was the other murkier businesses these men protected.
No mind. Tonight, there was one goal, and it needed accomplishing in record time. Both Radford and Silk knew the game – if you couldn’t gain access cleanly, you gave them something else to check out whilst you forced an entry. Tonight there was a ranked Mixed Martial Arts title fight on CBS Sports. Trent had heard the men discussing the schedule. That was one distraction.
Silk would provide the other.
Radford scaled the short wall and crawled across the exposed grounds until he was up against the house wall, rucksack secured to his back. As expected, no one patrolled the grounds. We’re being overcautious, Radford thought, but extra vigilance never killed anyone. He counted down the seconds on his wristwatch, thinking now how untrue that statement probably was. Vigilance was embraced from a distance, through a computer hook up that bypassed the firewall, jumped on the guy’s IP address, and barricaded his transmissions without him even knowing it. That was vigilance.
This was a crazy risk. Radford watched the luminous edge of his watch hands tick past the thirty mark on his bezel, and heard the sound of a firecracker going off on the other side of the property. As soon as the commotion began, Radford blew out a window frame with a small, controlled explosion. It was unlikely the alarm would be triggered, the household wasn’t exactly sleeping. And it was the most direct way of entry. Before the dark oak pieces smashed on the floor, Radford was perched on the shattered sill.
“Silk? I’m in.”
*
Trent laughed and hung his head after another humiliating defeat. His forehead accidentally brushed one of the cards, forcing the dealer to caution him.
The naturally sober man spread his arms wide, grinning in a slack-jawed kind of way, affecting a coarse accent. “Man, I don’t got no luck. No Lady Luck, not tonight.” It was about the eighth time he’d mentioned Lady Luck. Even Malloy, the man with a heap of chips sat before him, was looking tired of it.
Malloy leaned over. “Friend, I think you should bow out.”
Trent glanced at his watch. If all had gone well, Silk and Radford would have just made their move. “Three more.” He shifted his remaining chips. “Then I’m out. You staying in with me? Aw, c’mon! We just got acquainted.”
Malloy shook his head. The neanderthals around him flexed their foreheads and pushed out of their seats. Trent made to put a friendly hand on Malloy’s shoulder and suddenly found his wrist in a grip of iron.
“Hey! Take me outta the damn vice!”
Malloy grunted. “Sorry, friend. They’re overprotective. And the fight’s started.”
“Some friends. What fight? There ain’t no title bout here tonight.”
Malloy smile was indulgent. “MMA. It’s s
howing on cable.”
Trent made his face brighten. “Oh! Well, the Sports Book, then. They got one here that makes the Venetian’s look like Treasure Island’s.” He frowned. “If you know what I mean.” He guffawed and ran a hand through his slicked back hair.
One of the goons put a rock-like forehead in his face. “Beat it, pal.”
Trent danced around the obstruction. “Sports Book? I got money to bet yet!”
Malloy wavered. The Sports Book clearly sounded appealing. Before the weasel-faced man could make a decision, Trent’s cell began to chirp, and it wasn’t the standard ring tone, nor the pacey beat he had programmed for Doug the Trout or the distress tone he reserved for Silk and Radford.
It was much worse.
In the middle of a mission, a dangerous op, Trent would never answer his cell beyond the call of related business. At first, he fully intended to reject the call. But then he saw the caller.
His son, Mikey.
*
Radford dashed across the room, then paused and listened at the door. A television blared out from a distant corner, no doubt the title bout showing to itself. Above it all, Radford could still hear Silk’s firecracker chorus keeping the natives happy. In seconds he had slipped into a darkened corridor and started to check rooms. The dimly lit study was the third, sporting an enormous desk and what Radford now considered to be the caveman’s computer – a desktop model. A black-framed painting hung on the main wall with smaller ones to the sides.
With so many options, Radford immediately booted up the computer and laid his custom flash drive by its side. He hopped over to the walls and checked carefully behind each picture. No safe housings, just dust, indicating that the pictures had most likely been there before the house's current inhabitants.
Radford slipped behind the desk, his sharp mind working overtime. He hadn’t spent all those years in computer science for nothing, and when the desktop had booted up, before the password prompt screen appeared, he slotted home the customised flash drive and copied the entire contents of the hard drive in seconds. Once done he removed it, pocketed it, then ran an eye over the desk.
One huge lump of mahogany. Four drawers, two with locks. Without ceremony, he took a crowbar from his rucksack and jimmied open both drawers. The first revealed a glass bong and a packet of an unknown substance sitting alongside a half-empty bottle of Scotch. The second revealed piles of action movie box sets. Lethal Weapon. Terminator. Die Hard. Guy was a junkie in more ways than one.
Radford rifled all the drawers, but turned up nothing. He walked around the desk. The floor was uncarpeted. His watch gave a discreet beep. It was time to go. But Radford wasn’t finished yet. To be sure, he needed to quickly run through each room. There might be more than one computer, a laptop. He turned toward the door.
And stopped as the man with the gun walked into full view.
“You picked the wrong house to rob, scumbag. Drop to your knees.”
*
Trent turned away, knowing Malloy’s attention was on him, but physically unable to ignore this call.
“Mikey?”
“Dad . . . Dad, is that you?” Trent’s heart did a somersault on hearing fear in his son’s voice.
“What’s wrong?” Trent spoke in his real voice for Mikey’s benefit, snubbing his audience.
“It’s him . . . him. I can’t stop him—”
Trent took a deep breath, trying to quell the anxiety that inflamed him. Many years ago, not long after Trent and Victoria had split, Mikey had suffered from night terrors. It was a manifestation of his inner pain – the hurt he felt at his parents break-up being the disease, the terrors the symptom. They hit sporadically, but when they did strike Mikey needed his father’s calming presence. Nothing else helped. It was the one concession Victoria had made him, allowing Mikey the cell phone programmed only to Trent’s number.
The terrors came in the form of a shadowman, an indistinct figure that grabbed Mikey in his dreams and tried to smother him. Mikey fought, both in his dreams and in reality, twisting and writhing in his bed covers, trying desperately to stop that terrible thing from happening, striving to prevent disaster, but always failing. Dying in his dreams. Dying in his heart. Broken. Torn to bits, a boy stretched thin and too young to understand why.
Trent would always talk to him, the sound of his voice and calm reassurances soothing the troubles and locking the terrors back in their box, at least for a little while.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m here. I’m here.”
Behind him, Ned Malloy spoke up, his voice the whiney pitch of a persistent fly. “Hey buddy, what the hell you trying to pull here?”
Trent held up a finger. “Wait.”
Mikey sniffled. “Wh . . . what?”
Trent walked a few steps further. “The man’s not real, Mikey. He’s a dream. A nightmare. He can’t hurt you when you’re awake.”
“Daddy. My neck hurts.”
Trent’s fists clenched. Mikey sometimes got the sheets twisted around his neck. Trent had told Victoria to monitor that, to listen for the grunts and the cries, to reinstall the monitor they had when he was a baby.
But they didn’t sell baby monitors at Victoria’s Secret, he thought. Or Tiffany’s. Or Prada.
After a whispered conversation, one of Malloy’s goons appeared at his side. “We’d like to talk about who you pretend to be, bud, and who you really are. Door’s this way.”
Trent followed them through the casino gaming area towards the exit doors, and the travelator that led to the street, all the while trying to calm his son and ignore his own peril, which intensified with every step.
*
Radford eyed the man with the gun, calculating distances. The desk before him would probably take a few bullets, but then what? Could he lift it? Hard to say. The good thing was that the man was on his own.
Radford stepped forward. “Aye, lad.” He hadn’t tried the Scottish accent for a while and needed the practice. “Calm y’self doon.”
The gunman stepped forward too, as hoped. Now only six feet separated them. “Travis!” he called. “C’mere, man.”
Within seconds another figure pushed his way into the room, gun dangling by his side. “Who the fuck’s this?”
“Sounds like that Irish dude we scattered out by Red Rock.” The first man chortled. Radford felt a rush of annoyance.
“Irish?”
“He’s a thief,” the first man continued, grinning. “Caught ‘im wit’ ‘is stash.”
“Watchagot?” Travis elbowed his way past his comrade, waving his gun like the stars and stripes.
Radford stepped forward, holding his palms up. “A wee piece of nothing. I dinnae know what he’s talking about.”
“Check his pockets,” the first man said. “I know he a thief, Travis.”
More footsteps in the hallway. Two more men came through the door, one of them needing to duck beneath the door frame. Radford blinked.
Shit.
If you can’t control your situation, change it.
Travis gasped in agony when Radford chopped the gun out of his hands. The second man grunted hard when Radford spun off Travis, feet flying, and kicked his weapon away. With the two weapons neutralised and the men in shock, Radford drew his own small calibre pistol and shot out the nearest window. Not a man among the Razor’s Edge was a true killer, though Silk was the closest, and Radford didn’t even try to wound his enemies.
He ran and dived through the newly made hole, catching his jacket on a shard of broken glass, ripping the fabric and gouging a chunk of flesh from his stomach. Searing pain arrowed straight to his brain. He landed in a heap, cricking his neck and grunting as he felt grass and dirt scrape his exposed flesh.
He rolled, then came up and hugged the side of the house.
The first man through met a haymaker. He went down without a sound, but Radford heard the click of his knuckles and a second sharp dagger struck him.
Broke a goddamn finger on h
is friggin’ head.
No time for that now. A second and third guard leapt after him. This was a big property. But where were the goddamn trees? He spotted one, about a hundred yards away. Maybe not. But if he ran they would just gun him down, shoot him in the back.
Only one chance . . .
Radford followed the wall of the house, sprinting for the first corner. The goons behind him might be strong, pumped up on steroids, and with heads that hit harder than a pissed off CIA field commander, but fleet of foot they were not. Radford made the turn as a bullet glanced off brickwork he’d already passed. The pounding of heavy feet spurred him on.
He ran along the back of the house, a fair distance to be sure. He was at the half way point, still outpacing his pursuers with ease, when a rear door opened and two more guards stepped out.
“Hold up, Michael Phelps.”
Radford applied the brakes. Michael Phelps. Wasn’t he a swimmer? “Do you mean Usain Bolt? Or Michael Johnson?”
“Whatever. Just hol’ your damn horses.”
Radford hopped from foot to foot. This wasn’t his kind of deal. The running, the fighting, it wasn’t him. Put him in front of a computer or ask him to build a tricky new surveillance device. Put him in front of a beautiful woman. That was him.
Not this.
Pounding feet and ragged breathing filled the space at his back. He turned to see four men with their hands on their knees, heads down, panting like they were giving birth.
“You lassies should eat more energy foods,” he said. “E doesn’t just stand for Ecstasy, chuckles.”
A hammer was drawn back near his right ear. “Empty your pockets, chuckles.”
Radford went very still. This situation was serious. Where the hell was Silk?
*
Trent spoke his last words to Mikey as the moving walkway deposited Malloy and his men onto the sidewalk. His son sounded calmer, the tears gone, but the catch in his voice spoke of deeper troubles.
Only eight, he thought. And already burdened by the weight of the world. The things we do to our children.
The Razor's Edge Page 5
