Ah, the prestige!
“Mikey’s home now?”
“Why else would I say you could come round? I kept him off school as a treat. The more treats he gets, the easier my life gets.”
She opened the door wider. Trent stepped inside. He’d been here before of course, but each time he expected to see a new addition to the household. This time was no different. A brand new lampstand with a tiered, diamante shade dominated the passage.
Trent scowled at it.
“What?” Vic laughed. “You don’t like Pottery Barn?”
“Where is he?”
“You’re the ex-detective. Take a guess.”
Trent heard a noise above. He looked up to see Mikey sat on the stairs, watching his parents bicker.
Damn.
*
Radford spent Thursday kicking back in the suite at Mandalay Bay, his thoughts almost purely centring around his throbbing finger and the 'Steve Tyler' he was going to have to pull off tomorrow night. The Aerosmith front man wasn’t as blessed in the looks department as, say, Chris Hemsworth, but what he lacked in one area he more than made up for in another. That was charisma, likeability, enough character to come across as larger than life. The kind of guy Morgan would like to be with and, crucially, only if the pro thought he was top-dog. It wasn’t an easy gig to pull off, but three times now the Edge had fulfilled the role with consummate ease.
Radford would be Mr Hollister. The loser with the likeable personality, the loudmouth with the affable disposition. He’d done it before, he would nail it again.
And, pondering on the subject of ‘nailing’ something, Radford spent the late afternoon wrestling with the new dilemma that had recently entered his life. Toni James – his Vegas ‘contact’ – was a mere flick of the speed-dial button away. His wife, on the other hand, was swanning around New York with her East Coast boyfriend.
Why then did he want to talk to Amanda and not Toni? What in hell was wrong with him?
In the end, he fought through it, found his manhood, and called Toni. She was there within sixty minutes, naked inside sixty-one.
Still . . .
10
All government agents rely heavily on their underworld contacts. A low-key drug dealer, a mid-level enforcer, a petty car thief all prove useful tools in the acquirement of vital information. It’s why they're allowed to exist. To use them to help catch the big boys.
With that in mind, Trent was encouraged when Lockley, Morgan and two of his goons hit Vegas right on time that Friday night. At the very least it proved their shady contacts were as solid as they had ever been.
Radford was fully prepped and in place. All Trent and Silk had to do was sit back and enjoy the show.
Radford started out by using Toni. He bought her a drink at the bar, shouted about it, took her for a few hands of blackjack and complained about the spread of the cards. He pulled Toni away from the table, placed a hand low on her skirt, and received a full-on slap in the face. He stared in shock as she walked away.
“Bitch.”
Johnny Morgan, sitting at the next table, guffawed like a donkey strung out on heroin. “Dude, you played her all wrong. Ain’t no excuse for not doin’ the groundwork.”
“Of all the girls in Vegas, I tried me a lesbian.” Mr Hollister sniffed.
Morgan brayed again. “Brah, you’re hopeless.”
Radford watched as Morgan won a lucky hand.
“Hey, man, you’re good.”
“Watch and learn, bro. Watch and learn.”
Invitation no doubt unintentional, Radford accepted nonetheless, sidling next to the wiry man. This close, Morgan smelled like a fancy soap shop, day old bristle artistically trimmed rather than neglected.
“Me too.” Radford informed the dealer before anyone could say otherwise. With a flourish he placed a tall stack of $100 chips before him. “Maybe my luck will improve now I’ve cut the lesbian loose.”
From his peripheral vision he could see Morgan pulling fish faces, torn between telling him to get the hell away from their table and taking his money. Mouth open, the ex-army pro finally shrugged and settled in.
Phase one – complete.
*
Over the next two hours, Radford played the likeable loser to the hilt. Men like Morgan, they loved meeting characters that reminded them of themselves, especially when they came across as that little bit inferior. Radford stroked Morgan’s ego to the point where the man was told by the pit boss to keep it down.
At that point Morgan’s demeanour changed, becoming sly and mean. Radford could see Morgan about to get himself into real trouble.
“Asshole,” Radford breathed after the pit boss. “You know, I could use a change of scenery. How about we head out?”
“Treasure Island?” Morgan belched.
“That place is sooo misnamed. How about this side? Paris?” Radford didn’t want anyone heading into Caesars for fear of seeing Malloy.
Morgan seemed to consider it. His boss, Lockley, intruded at that point. “You and your new friend gonna get a room, Johnny? Or are you joining us at the MGM?”
Morgan’s eyes glowed. “Yeehaw.” He turned to Radford in a moment of uncertainty. The contents of his boss's words hadn’t made it clear if Radford was invited.
So Radford did what he did best. He saved the day.
“You guys. You sure picked us the right fookin’ joint. That place, I can get us comped, man. I know the trick. I know the guys on the private tables too. And . . .” he let it hang, thinking hard.
“All free. All night.” He played his part hard, dropping his voice to a whisper. “A complimentary buffet pass. It’s just a rumour, man, but I heard they got turkey legs in there, could’ve dropped right off a T-Rex.”
Lockley, not exactly destitute, didn’t have to play the part of the greedy millionaire. He almost shoved Morgan aside in his excitement. When he moved, his gold chain clunked against his gold watch, the ruby studding catching the light and changing glitter to the colour of blood.
“Lead the way, friend.”
Trent and Silk, listening through an open cell phone connection, stared at each other in disbelief.
“Fuck!”
They had about ten minutes to make it happen.
11
Trent opted first for the phone call and anonymous credit card sale. The funds were always in place, and Radford carried the card with him. Patiently, he played the casino’s tricky telephone ‘options’ game, following a circuitous route before finally threading his way through to a real live person.
“I need a private table. I have a credit card. I’m on my way now. Can you accommodate?” He spoke quickly, counting down the minutes and hoping desperately that Radford was slowing them down. Even a toilet break, in a large casino, could buy them an extra ten minutes.
A quick volley of regret and apology made him exhale fast. “Shit.”
It was up to Silk now.
*
Silk ran hard, like a lone man trying to save a risky operation. First the Casino Royale, then Harrah’s and three more casinos shot past. The enormous Paris casino flashed by in a blur, the golden Eiffel Tower lights and the two thirds replica of the Arc de Triomphe were not even a distraction. What did confound him were the wandering bands of tourists. Like nomads, or spinning tops out of control, they flitted in a dozen different directions at the same time. They stopped dead in their tracks, they marvelled and they gawped and they did everything they could just to get in his way.
Planet Hollywood followed, and at last he could see the magnificent golden lion rearing its proud head above the Strip. Silk answered the call from Trent, confirmed what they had both thought, and patted his pocket to make sure the wads of cash remained in place.
Trent had initially lost Radford whilst dealing with the MGM Grand’s electronic customer determent system, but managed to pick him up again after listening to his shouts of wonder as they passed various landmark sights. Well done, Radford.
Silk pushed his way into the Grand, shivered as he was immediately bathed by the shockingly cold AC, and headed over to the main desk. A clerk directed him to the private gaming tables, a dealer to the area's pit boss, the pit boss to a quiet corner.
“Sure it’s short notice. Sure,” Silk cajoled. “I just wanna set up a nice surprise for my buddy, man. That’s all. Hey.” He dug out a wad. “I got the cash.”
The pit boss stared as if he’d spotted a rare green-backed bird in flight. Silk quickly dug out a second wad.
In Vegas, money talked. It always had. The pit boss relented. “You be sure to leave a friggn gratuity, ya hear? And don’t be cheap.”
“You got it.”
“His name?”
“Mr Hollister.”
“Like the brand?”
“Just like it. Hey, man, can’t thank you enough.” Silk described Mr Hollister, but his job still wasn’t done. Through Trent’s communications he knew exactly where Radford was leading his new acquaintances. He backed away, promising endless gratuities, and mooched over to intercept his friend.
*
Radford spotted Silk rounding one of the livelier roulette tables and made a bee-line. Silk guided him in.
The pit boss came out of nowhere, glad-handed him and led the way to a raised platform. He was about to draw the curtains when Morgan stopped him.
“Leave them bad boys,” the pro said. “We don’ wanna stop the herd from seein’ us now, do we?”
With the hard part out of the way, Radford settled in to make a new friend whilst losing big, but not to a degree that would make anyone suspicious. Even Lockley warmed to him after a while, and Radford began to worry about being invited back to ‘their place’. The dealer smiled and shrugged off thinly veiled insults that made Radford inwardly cringe. The waitresses all had stress lines around their eyes, but were made up to draw the eye in other directions. When groups of tourists wandered close, Morgan’s voice rose to an even higher pitch, choosing those moments to gamble big and let the world know. Thousands of people may have drifted through the MGM Grand that night, wending their way around the curving walkways that never seemed to lead to any exit, but Dan Radford only had eyes for one.
His target. The man he laughed and joked with. The man he clapped on the back. The man he shared ludicrous stories with.
Monika Sobieski’s kidnapper.
*
In the early hours, Lockley declared he had had enough. The question of Monika’s fate loomed nearer an answer when Morgan agreed to stay on with Radford, liking the sound of crossing the road bridge and trying the New York, New York casino. Radford had Morgan believing this was one of those nights that came only once a year, awarded only to the best and the most deserving, and even better than a vacation.
“Better than Hawaii!” Morgan burst out for no real reason other than to mention an expensive vacation destination, Radford assumed.
“'specially after those recent terrorist attacks, eh? Glad they got that asswipe.”
“Russkies for you, man. Every third one’s linked to the fuckin’ mafia.”
Radford steered Morgan away from his pals and headed towards the next casino. From that moment on it was easy, but Radford couldn’t keep the beating of his heart below a racehorse gallop and wished he hadn’t downed so many vodka tonics.
The alcohol made him queasy. No, he thought. It’s not the alcohol. It’s what has to come next.
12
Trent drove. The great landscape of desert and mountains that surrounded Las Vegas may be its own cliché, but it still offered thousands of square miles of empty wilderness. The stories were true. There were enough bodies buried out there for the ghosts to sell out an open-air pop concert. One more wouldn’t make a difference.
He'd read a story once where the gangster bosses of old Vegas had chosen different days of the week to bury their dead in the desert, just so they didn't cross paths – or shovels – with a powerful rival.
The stars glittered overhead, the glare of the casino lights beginning to fade as the car left central Las Vegas. But all the while in the rear view mirror, Trent could see the piercing white shaft of light that shot up from the apex of the Luxor, travelling vertically for miles and eventually vanishing into the disorderly clouds.
Darkness washed over them, and with it, silence. Johnny Morgan was trussed up in the trunk; duct-taped and roped into a harsh, ungiving shape that, by now, would be sending jolts of agony through his joints. Trent pulled the car over and let it roll into an area of straggling bushes and scrub.
“Anyone ready for this?”
No answer.
“Just remember Artur.” Trent sounded like he was trying to convince himself too. “The little boy is without a mother because of the monster we're about to question. And Anna is without her best friend. Monika didn't ask to be kidnapped.”
“It's not a kidnapping.” Silk pointed out as he cracked the car door. “There's been no ransom demand.”
“I know.” Trent stepped out into the cool night air, breathing in a crispness you never got in the city. “Are we alone, Dan?”
Radford three-sixtied the thermal imaging device once more. “Still alone, Aaron. Now's the time.”
“Alright. From here on in, no names, no familiarity. No unnecessary chatter. Morgan must feel isolated, tricked, stupid, and most of all – in peril. He's ex-army, remember that.”
Trent crunched across the gravel-strewn landscape, his steps loud in the great star-vaulted cavern of silence. He used the car key to remotely unlock the boot, keeping well clear with weapon drawn, even though he was certain Morgan could not have escaped his bonds.
Sure enough, the professional killer stared up at him, his hard as nails gaze not quite masking the pain behind his eyes.
Trent purposely hefted him without help, the act further demonstrating his strength to the captive. Trent let the tied and helpless body freefall to the ground where it hit hard. Trent kicked the man in the ribs.
“Time to talk, fucker. What's wrong? You been talking all night. Couldn't shut you the fuck up.” Trent dragged the man round, finally dumping him with his back resting against the stump of a dead tree. He ripped the duct tape away. Silk and Radford stepped round the car and came into view.
“What the fuck you got me mixed up in, dude?”
“So, Johnny, you think this is someone else's fault? Of course you do. A man like you – can't take responsibility for his own actions.” He turned to Silk. “I'm sure there's a medical term for that.”
“More than one,” Silk agreed. “'Murderin' psycho' being the most common.”
“I ain't murdered no one.”
“'About to be dead' being another,” Silk went on.
Morgan stared at them. He knew they hadn't brought him out to the middle of the desert to trade insults and accusations.
“Getting to the point,” Trent said. “You probably guessed this already, Johnny-boy, but it's all about information. What I know helps me next week. What Phillipo here knows helps him next month. What you know—” Trent let the small pistol dangle down the length of his leg. “Helps you now.”
“Ain't no one coming to save you, rifleman.” Silk prodded, filing the Phillipo comment away for later. Even with the Edge's history, that was definitely a WTF moment. Trent wasn't known for his humour, and no one blamed the man for his severe personality. Trent had always been the one who took the responsibility for missions squarely on his shoulders. Always the one designated to come up with the plan that worked, and at the same time he kept them all safe. Trent had saved their lives more times than Jenny had cooked spicy jambalaya. He was allowed his serious countenance. Besides, it made the odd, rare outburst of humour all the funnier.
Take the Phillipo incident of ten seconds ago.
Legendary Trent humor moment.
“You guys know I was army?” Morgan took another angle. “You know the shit you could stir up? Hustling a highly ranked army man like me?”
“I nev
er mentioned hustling.” Trent fired into the ground an inch from Morgan's right knee. “I'm just gonna kill you if you don't start talking. How'd ya like those cool beans?”
“Christ, man. Do you know who I second-in-command for?”
“Donny Lockley.”
“Well, yeah. He might seem like a nice guy.” He glanced up at Radford. “You met him. He seemed cool, yeah? Did I say I'm his second in command? Shit, you don' wanna go after Donny. He . . . he's the . . . demonic rapper. Jay-Z from hell. He rapped wi' the Devil and brought himself home some crispy fried chicken. Know what I mean?”
Trent blinked hard and then turned to stare at his friends. “I have no idea what he means. Do you?”
“Never heard that song.” Radford was a big Jay-Z fan. “Must be one of his new ones.”
“What I'm saying,” Morgan hissed. “Is the dude's bad. Real bad. Not pretend bad. Real bad.”
“Ah, and is Jay-Z a friend?”
“No! He's just a rapper. Donny Lockley – he owns people, man. Seriously.” Morgan's eyes were bigger than the saucers they kept under wraps at Area 51. “I ain't sayin' no more.”
“Are you sure?” Trent waved the pistol in his face. “She may be small but she still packs a punch.”
“Lockley would kill me.”
“Jesus, Johnny, this ain't a fuckin' Big Mac.”
“I'll take my chances.”
Shit. “I thought you'd say that.” Trent fixed Anna's face firmly in his mind; then little Artur crying out for his mother at night, clutching to the hope that she might one day walk through that front door; Monika, wherever she may be, and the hell she could be going through. All these so called little people who couldn't help themselves, the ones who were preyed upon, set upon, bullied into submission.
They had people like Trent, Silk and Radford to stand up for them.
The muffled sound of the gunshot was lost beneath Morgan's screams. A gout of blood erupted from his right knee.
The Razor's Edge Page 7
