“That way.” One of Malloy’s goons pointed toward East Flamingo Road. Trent considered his options. He could bluff it out, try and save the situation. But with everything he knew about Malloy, it wouldn’t work. The man was a paranoid freak on his best day. He could run now, make a break for it across Las Vegas Boulevard, but a move like that would attract attention. Not only from locals and plain clothes security officers but, more significantly, from the thousands of cameras situated around the Strip, every one of them linked to a geek who had access to facial recognition software.
It wouldn’t do for a disavowed CIA operative to be seen getting into any kind of fight in the middle of Las Vegas.
Trent decided to see where the men took him. His team had been trained to take all necessary measures to avoid making a public scene in the first instance. If you had to fight, choose your own ground and keep it low-profile.
It took several minutes to reach East Flamingo. Trent was herded westward, by which time Malloy was at his side, still covered by his guards. The group looked like any other out for a night on the famous Strip.
“Who are you? A competitor? A cop? Goddammit, I hope you’re not a cop. I got a good thing going on here, man. Why’d you have to spoil it for me?”
The whining grated on Trent. He decided to feed the man’s fears. “The man found out, Malloy. He found out and he’s not happy.”
“Man? What man?”
“The man,” Trent said forcefully. “You know.”
Malloy stopped and looked around. This was a busy street, but there were still a few quiet spots where a man might conduct some business. He pointed toward a large patch of tree-studded ground where Caesars ended and the blue and red coloured Rio Casino began to loom in the near distance.
“In there.”
Trent called it. Street cameras or not, he wasn’t about to get dragged out of sight. “Last chance, Malloy,” he said. “Let it go. Say the word and I’ll report back that you’re cool.”
Malloy’s pocket started to belt out a heavy rock tune. AC/DC. Trent braced himself.
“What? I’m in the middle—”
Bad news. Trent guessed instantly that the op had gone wrong. Without a second’s hesitation he drop-kicked Malloy’s phone into the middle of the road, turned, and ran hard back toward Las Vegas Boulevard. When he heard pursuit he spun and tripped the first man with a well-placed trailing foot. There was a surprised scream, and the man sailed over the edge of the sidewalk, hitting the front fender of a parked car pretty hard. Trent didn’t pause. He rammed a stiffened palm straight into the next man’s solar plexus, doubling him over, and skipped aside as his impressive bulk toppled and hit the concrete hard. He was about to despatch the third guard when Malloy screamed.
“Stop! Stop now.”
Trent allowed a nasty smile to twist across his face. “Scared to be alone, Malloy?”
“Just stop,” the weasel-faced man spluttered. “And go. Tell the man I’m good. Alright? Just tell him. It’s all good in Vegas, brother. What happens here, stays—”
“Spare me the bullshit. Just remember, Malloy. We’re always watching you.”
Trent turned on his heel and walked quickly back toward the bright lights and Palio Pronto. They served the best French fries in the world and he felt like he needed a top-up of comfort food right now. How on earth had Radford and Silk blown the op? Breaking into a third-rate criminal’s house wasn’t exactly rocket science.
*
Radford froze, feeling the cold barrel against his ear. The numbers were not good. Four men in front of him, including Travis and the big dude, two behind, all armed. Not a time for a witticism, but then Radford had never been able to help himself.
“Seriously guys, you could rent some of those foreheads out for advertising space. Do you take pills or something?”
The barrel struck his ear hard. Radford doubled over, grunting, and made himself small.
Silk launched his attack.
Dropping from the balcony above, the true combatant of the crew made his move. Landing on the shoulders of the big guy, he allowed the handle of his gun to strike the top of his head, inertia doing the main damage. As the big guy crumpled Silk pushed off, landing cat-like on his feet, sending an elbow hard into Travis’ face and ducking under the swing of another man.
Silk didn’t hesitate. They were secluded here, up against the odds and most definitely in harm’s way. He came up firing, shooting the first man in the stomach and winging the other who had remained standing.
Radford didn’t just stand and watch. He flung one man over his shoulder and broke the wrist of the other.
Silk stepped in and winged them both in their good arms without hesitation.
Radford grimaced. “Shit, man.”
“You can thank me later.”
Radford’s eyes widened as the man-mountain struggled to his feet, holding the top of his boulder-like head where Silk had hammered him. “Adam,” he warned.
Silk spun and shot first. The man-mountain toppled again, blood pumping from his throat. Radford grabbed Silk's arm quickly, and the two men ran hard for the front of the property.
“You didn’t have to kill him, Adam.”
“Guy’s a fuckin’ criminal,” Silk hissed. “Bastard chose his own bed.”
Silk had been a boy-thief. Trained by criminals. Owned by criminals. He had run away from an orphanage as a youth, hurtling straight from the flame and into the heart of fire. They had made him earn his keep by stealing on the streets, explaining it was either that or selling his body. One way, they said, or the other. Your choice.
No choice.
The CIA had saved him after he came to their attention during a particular job, finessing his way past their best. After that they recruited him and turned him into an agent. But Silk never forgot his past, and what uncaring and bad men had turned an innocent boy into.
“You get the contents of the hard drive?”
Radford fingered the shape of the flash drive through his jeans. “It’s what I do. Of course I got it.”
8
Since the day of their disavowment, money had not been much of an issue for the Razor’s Edge. An off-the-books payment had been enough to keep all three team members comfortable for life. The money had never been part of the deal. A payment had never been mentioned, not until the last few days. And then a second payment, probably from the girl herself. Her family had been rich. Then she had been rich. But she knew what they had done for her – sacrificed any chance of a future career in law enforcement. In fact, in any kind of career that required a security check.
In the end the money helped. When Victoria found out, she and Trent were already divorced, but that didn’t stop her from turning the emotional screws. She came at him with a plan of attack that could have been designed by Genghis Khan. For Jenny Silk it had signalled the procurement of a top-notch, brand new kitchen. She had started to throw statements at her husband that he didn’t even understand, Cassiopeia White Gloss and Wave Curve, Molteni cookers, LA Corneau ovens and a Menenghini fridge. Most of it didn’t phase Silk, but the Menenghini was stupendous.
And then there was Dan Radford. No amount of money would change him now. He would always be the paradox – MIT genius, computer engineer, womaniser. His wife – merely the female version.
They chose a suite at the Mandalay Bay, partly because it stood way up the Strip, away from Malloy’s haunts, and partly because the place was friggin’ amazing. But this wasn’t the time for snoozing an afternoon away by the wave pool or the beach. Time was getting away from them, and that meant Monika Sobeiski’s fate and the future of her son, Artur, faded into deeper shades of black by the hour. Trent didn’t even have to force Radford behind his laptop, but the man did complain profusely about his broken finger.
“Feels like I punched a wall. Just my luck, picking on a rockhead.”
Trent had apprised them of his own adventure. “Maybe you need to hit the dojo, Radford. Sounds like you’re goi
ng soft.”
“I ain’t hitting anything for a while.”
Trent watched him load up the flash drive, feeling a little out of place in the elegant Sky View suite. His thoughts were centred around his son, and why he wasn’t even now on a plane back to LA, speeding to Mikey’s side. Trent didn’t need to work at all, so why keep putting himself through this?
The answer came easily. It always did. To help those who couldn’t help themselves. To help ordinary people out of bad situations. A need, no a requirement, that stemmed from his childhood. Trent had once been the victim of a particularly vicious bully. As he grew and learned how to fend for himself, he vowed to always stand up for the little guy.
Always.
And good intentions led to bad decisions, to friction, to nights away that should have been spent with family. Just ask Victoria. Or, at least, the woman she used to be.
“Here we go,” Radford’s words snapped him out of it. The entire contents of Malloy’s computer cascaded across the screen, separated into various folders. Radford wasted no time clicking on the folder titled ‘M. Foundry’, and scrolled quickly past a number of pages devoted to the business's website, advertising and employee details. A sub-folder existed called ‘Specials’. Radford opened it.
“There.”
Trent pointed. The name of the Las Vegas gun shop stood out in prominent bold. Another sub-folder, password protected, took them to the names of the gun shop's clients. Radford ran an easy algorithm that took a few minutes to attack the admin levels of the password, then overwrite them.
“Morgan,” Radford read out loud. “Johnny Morgan. Sounds like a whiskey.”
“I’m sure of one thing,” Trent said. “From what we learned of Malloy, it'll be the guy’s real name.”
Radford tapped the screen. “Let’s find this scumbag.”
Trent nodded. “Time to call Doug.”
*
The Trout sounded relieved to hear from them. Trent imagined him fielding two calls a day from Anna via her friend, Gerry. He imagined what she was going through. He quickly reeled off the name of their Vegas pro.
“Johnny Morgan? I’ll run a check right now. Wait there.”
Trent waited. When Doug told you he would run a trace, it meant he was calling up a contact and asking for a favour. Nine times out of ten, the favour was granted. This was one of those times.
Four minutes later Doug was back. “Johnny Morgan is an ex-army sniper. Disabilitied out back in ’03. You know, the custom shells? Most likely a superstitious thing. These snipers, after skill they rely on habit and familiarity. If he ended up using these shells in or just after he quit the army, it would explain why he still uses them now. Morgan always wears his army dog tags and uses the same weapon and shells.”
“What starts off as showmanship becomes need,” Trent said grimly. “So he’s one dangerous bastard.”
“You could put it that way. These men that the army throw away because of a leg wound or whatever? They’re trained killers. They’ve just spent ten years learning mad skills on how to delete some mook’s data, permanently. They got no other skills. Where are they gonna go?”
“The underworld,” Silk said. “I’ve seen dozens of them.”
“Exactly. And believe me, there are thousands of bosses out there who would sacrifice an appendage to land one of these guys as a bodyguard.”
“Which brings us to the next question,” Trent grated. “Who is Morgan’s boss?”
“Donny Lockley. He’s a property tycoon. They have a profile on him.” Doug paused. Trent moved over to the bar and poured himself a strong black coffee. Beyond the picture window the bright lights poured their multicoloured glitz over a dark underbelly.
“Here we go. The title ‘property tycoon’ pretty much defines him. Wants to own everything. Type of guy, if he sees Len Wiseman’s bought a new vehicle with, say, custom kick plates – Lockley has to go out and buy the same. Only his will be inscribed Donny. Or let’s say—”
“We get the idea.” Trent sipped from the china cup. “What else?”
“He’s a greedy bastard and has a need to own things. What else ya need?”
Radford sat back. “He took Monika?”
“Lockley’s a shady prick,” Doug went on. “But there’s no concrete evidence that he’s a criminal or involved in any criminal enterprise.”
“So why does he need a bodyguard like Johnny Morgan?”
“He took Monika,” Trent said quietly. “The question is, what did he do with her?”
“Another thing,” Doug said. “The way they busted that club – Netherworld – up? Neither Morgan nor Lockley has ever been tied to anything like that before.”
“Could have been a lesson,” Silk suggested. “In retaliation for a slight or an insult. You know what these narcissistic types are like.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Trent shut them down. The Edge had a saying. Always revisit the problem. The main problem. It meant, when things got hazy or complicated, always start with the basic reason they were here. “Revisit the problem – where’s Monika?”
“Lockley has her.” Radford fell into the old routine of quick question and answer.
“No. Some of his men took her. How do we find her?”
“Not through Lockley. Through his men.”
“One man,” Trent said. “Morgan.”
A silence fell across the room. Morgan might once have been ex-army, but that was a lifetime ago. Now he was a criminal, and one who seemed to enjoy his work. It wasn’t particularly the thought of going after the man that made the team hush up, it was what they would almost certainly have to do to get information from him.
Doug knew it too. “I’m coming down there.”
“No,” Trent said. “We can handle this.”
“I want to help.”
“I know.”
Radford let out a forced laugh. “Doug, we never had a case where you didn’t want to jump right in and help.”
“I just miss the field action,” Doug reminisced.
“Count yourself lucky,” Trent said. “This one’s about to get bloody.”
9
Three nights a week, Donny Lockley took himself and three ‘aides’ out on the town. One of these aides was always Johnny Morgan. The other two tended to vary.
“Maybe it’s some kind of bad guy treat,” Radford ventured. “Doesn’t seem fair somehow. Back at MIT, we got awards and trophies and a raised eyebrow. These assholes, they get the Venetian.”
Silk grunted. “You got me beat hands down, Dan. My treat used to be, I got to eat that night.”
Information bought can never be relied upon. It had to be tested. The only problem was, they didn’t have time to wait around for Lockley to reveal his pattern. It was time to embrace the spirit of Las Vegas and gamble.
They started with a three-man approach, tailing Lockley and his goons one Wednesday night. The man’s pattern proved to be that he didn’t have one. His decisions were as haphazard as his wardrobe, as chaotic as his hairstyle. He seemed to be one unique, flamboyant figure, but it wasn’t Lockley who the Edge were interested in.
Johnny Morgan was a show-off; the kind of man who wanted everyone to think he was the coolest guy on the planet. When he bragged, he did so loudly. When he admired a passing lady or a passing car, he did so loudly. When he thought one of his umbrella-speared drinks was 'jammed', 'redonkulus', or 'slammin'', he praised it loudly. When he lost badly at the tables and slots, everyone within a three hundred yard radius knew it was just 'cool beans'.
Radford pulled the other two over after about three hours of this. “Play’s pretty clear to me,” he said, wincing as Morgan fired another high-pitched verification into the air. “We hit him with the ‘Steve Tyler’ factor.”
Trent’s solemn countenance didn’t alter, but a softer light entered his eyes. The 'Steve Tyler' was one of their favourites. It would be a one-night finesse. An all out display of brashness and brilliance.
Trent nodded
. “Our next chance should be Friday. Bring your A-game, Radford.”
*
With Friday night fast approaching, they decided to leave Radford in Vegas, practising his character, and allowed Trent and Silk the luxury of a day back home. Silk surprised Jenny in the middle of concocting a batch of coconut macaroons. His wife stopped what she was doing and asked him what he’d like for a snack. Silk took a deep breath, savouring the homely smell of baking. Before Jenny, he’d never had the experience.
“Finish the macaroons, Jen. I can actually fend for myself, you know.”
Her mothering instincts came into full play. “Go sit down, Adam. I’ll fix us a nice decaf filter coffee.”
“I’ll do it—” he began.
She laid a hand on his wrist. “Go sit down.”
He sighed. “You’re like the parents I never had.”
“That’s why you married me.”
Silk wandered into the front room, took in the neatly arrayed cushions, immaculately polished wooden floor, and gleaming mirrors. “Just once,” he said aloud. “Just once, I’d like to see a speck of dust.”
“Head over to Amanda Radford’s. That girl’s never home.”
“She has a demanding job.” Silk liked Amanda. Despite her one obvious flaw, he thought she was good people.
“And more than one demanding boyfriend, I’ll bet.”
“I guess.” Silk looked up as Jenny entered, laden down with a plateful of macaroons and two steaming mugs. She landed in the space next to him.
“There’s a rerun of Magnum on the tube.”
Silk settled his arm around her.
*
Trent had a theory. Thursday night it may be, but Vic was always more engaged in her son’s welfare following a case of the night terrors. He called her as soon as he landed and received an invite right to the front door.
Within thirty minutes he was ringing the bell.
She answered quickly, presenting a hard face already made up with mascara, eye-liner and lip gloss. It wasn’t for his benefit, he knew. It was just another morning past 11:00 am. He noticed her hair had been styled since the last time they met and the jacket she wore sported the Neiman Marcus tag.
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