They completed the drive – about one thousand seven hundred miles – in a little over a day. Darkness had cast its furtive net over the sprawling city, but Trent had counted on that.
“We’re thirty minutes out,” he said, the first words any of them had spoken in hours. “Get ready.”
“We sure this is gonna work?” Silk asked. The man with the crazy hair and even crazier gel questioned everything, but Trent didn’t mind that. It helped keep both of them on their toes.
“Lockley hit a rival's nightclub just because he lost a bet.” Trent ran through their reasoning, reminding them of how all this got started. “The Poles will believe he might do the same to them, especially . . .” he nodded toward the trunk. “In the light of hard evidence.”
“So the Poles go after Lockley . . .”
“Giving us the chance to finesse our way into the battle and question a couple of Poles with no one being any the wiser.”
“We sure they’ll go straight at him?”
“That’s the one unknown,” Trent replied, still thinking, still fine-tuning. This kind of question and answer routine was something they had developed over the years, a ‘last-check’ device that occasionally exposed flaws in a plan.
Radford fielded the answer. “Oleg Roth was a fighter. A champion fighter at that. He’s proud. He’s aggressive. He won’t stand to be made a fool of. Chances are, even with time allowed for his goons to work out who hit their club, we’ll have a hard time beating Roth back to Vegas.”
Trent stopped the car a few doors down from their destination. It was coming up to 6:00 am, the area was in darkness. Rubbish littered the sidewalks, blown halfway up the walls and rolling down the road like an urban version of tumbleweed. Discarded bottles and cans, some half full, dotted the sidewalk like little sentries, patiently awaiting the clean-up crew. Roller shutters and cages covered every window and door. Armed alarms blinked near the rafters of every building. CCTV cameras sat silently, offering no clue to their functionality. Trent surveyed the street through the car’s mirrors. Not a soul stirred.
“Let’s do this.”
*
The more layers that were added to an operation, the harder and more time-consuming it became. When a team hit a bad guy’s lair and tried to pin the hit on another bad guy, the risks and the potential for mistakes grew exponentially. So it was always best to allocate your jobs well and get in and out within record time. Slick, swift and scrupulous. They pulled on ski-masks. Radford planted a little package of C-4 and blew the lock. The alarms started to shriek. Now, speed and skill were imperative. Silk carried the body of Johnny Morgan and crashed through the side-doors in a hurry. Both he and Trent surveyed the bar area and agreed on positioning. From outside, Radford blew in the front doors of the club by remote detonation, just a small package that barely even blew apart the locks, but enough to open the doors invitingly. Silk placed the body and its identifying markers. Trent sprayed some accelerant around the body and behind the bar.
Silk checked his watch. “Now we wait. Let’s hope the goons get here before the cops.”
“They will,” Trent said grimly. “Of that I have no doubt.”
Two minutes passed. Radford would have the car hidden by now, waiting for his chance to return. Trent held up a finger as tyres squealed outside the open club doors. Both men took out their guns.
“They’re Polish mob,” Trent said.
“I know. No criminal gets any quarter from me, boss.” Silk was careful not to use names whilst still stating his feelings. He struck the match to start the fire and upended a table to crouch behind.
Every variety of the male physique stumbled in through the club’s front doors. Some half-dressed, some wearing suits, many bleary-eyed from sleep and drunkenness. But they all had one thing in common – they all carried guns.
Trent opened fire, but intermittently. They didn’t want a bloodbath, just a few minor injuries. Enough to assure instant retaliation. He winged two and scurried back toward the side-doors. The fire blazed into life as the goons finally started to shoot back. Silk backed off now. The body of Johnny Morgan burst into flame. Trent was confident that Roth and his men would know enough about Donny Lockley to tie the Vegas man’s bodyguard to him. After that, events would unfold naturally, climaxing with Roth’s strike back.
Bullets pounded into the table behind which Trent sheltered. Two of the projectiles punched through close to his head. Shit. Now that’s bad workmanship . . .
Silk fired around the circular rim. The fire blossomed, shooting out a wall of heat as if in competition with the bullets, its searing heights already licking the ceiling. Trent listened as the alarms cut out. The Polish mafia were here. No cops required.
“Time to go.”
Moving fast and using the deliberately placed curtain of flame to obscure their getaway, Trent and Silk darted smoothly for the side exit. As they prepared to leave, a great roar sounded out behind them and they turned to see an enormous figure literally leaping through the raging flames.
“Are you kidding me?” Silk shook his head. They hadn’t counted on Rambo being part of the gang. “What do they pay these guys? A hundred bucks a day? One-fifty? Why would you . . .” He gestured at their attacker.
“Dedication. Testosterone. Brain-freeze.” Trent only winged the individual. “Don’t knock it.”
“More like brain dead,” Silk muttered as they passed from heat to cold and out into the approaching morning. “C’mon, c’mon.” He waved at Radford. “Stop texting your latest one-nighter and get the—”
Bullets shattered the frame behind them, fired blindly from inside. Silk fired back until a look from Trent stopped him.
“Indiscriminate action can cost lives.”
“They did it first.” Silk sulked even as Radford pulled up, engine roaring. “About friggin’ time!”
“Stop yer whining.” Radford pulled away smoothly before Silk had a chance to settle. The sudden movement sent him sprawling across the back seat. “Hey, you alright, man? Clean getaway, I know, but this ain’t no time for sleeping. Not losing your touch are you?”
“Can it.”
“Never ‘dis the driver,” Radford quoted. “The driver can hurt you.”
Smoke rolled through the wrecked doors behind them, billowing into skies that began to take on a lava flow appearance as morning fast approached.
18
They didn’t expect to stay long in LA, but the team wanted to spend at least a short time there before the next and most dangerous phase of the operation flared up around them. They ditched the car and weapons and took a flight from O’Hare to LAX. The rest and most valuable parts of their equipment were still hidden away at the Mandalay Bay. Inside five hours of the plane lifting off, they were entering their real lives, spy work tucked up and tidied away for a short while.
Real life? Trent thought as he stared at four bare walls, a gleaming fridge lacking even a single cheap magnet, an empty kitchen table with no felt-tips or pencils, no untidy school bag, and a floor devoid of even the merest sign of toy cars, race tracks or remote-control dinosaur robots, and found it hard to make himself believe.
How could this be his real life?
And, as if in spite, he now realised what day it was – Sunday. Of course.
He dialled Vic’s number and was surprised when she put Mikey on the phone without argument. “Hey, Son, sorry about yesterday. I got caught up at work.”
“Mom says you don’t work. Not anymore.”
Trent let it go. “Did you miss me?”
“I guess.” Mikey hurried on, “Mom took me out in the Porsche. She took me to Ghirardelli’s and then to the Pier as a treat cos you never showed.”
Of course she did.
“I’m sorry, Son.”
“It’s okay. I had fun.”
“Did you meet some of Mom’s friends?”
“Nah. She gave me some money to try out the rides whilst they got lunch.”
She gave you, an e
ight year old boy, money to wander around Santa Monica Pier whilst she preened in front of her friends.
Trent cleared his throat. “Good talking to you, buddy. Put your mom on.”
Vic must have been hovering. She spoke straight away. “Where were you?”
“Are you fucking kidding me? You gave him money to go on the rides?”
“He was fine. I was watching the whole time.”
No. No you weren’t. You were too busy showing off your new Cartier. Anger rose inside him, choking the words in his chest.
“My God, Vic, what if someone took him?”
His ex-wife laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You know your problem, Aaron? You’re always the cop. Always the job. Things like that don’t happen to us.”
He almost said, I would kill you. I would . . . literally . . . kill you. The words formed on his lips, his mouth opened, the raw emotion burning a hole from his chest to his throat, but then the call-waiting beeped loudly in his ear and startled him out of his fury. In that instant, he realised words were useless, and would do more damage than good.
“I’ll call back later.”
“Don’t bother. We’re taking Mikey out.”
Vic hung up and Trent transferred immediately to the new call, refusing to dwell for the moment.
“Yes?”
“Doug here. The nectar connector. I put the best . . . in touch with the best. No worries.”
“Why so happy?”
“Gee, why so sad? Did one of Radford’s gadgets blow up again?”
Trent tried hard to focus. “What do you want, Doug?”
“Have you told them yet?”
“Haven’t found the right time. Maybe later. Why?”
“My contact has, shall we say . . . devoted more time to our little problem these past few days? My contact reports continued whisperings, Aaron. Whisperings in high places.”
“There’s low life in high places,” Trent quoted an old song. “How high are we talking?” He took note of how careful Doug was being to give nothing away about his source.
“I can’t say yet. My contact has to be very careful.”
“Why are they doing this? Your contact, I mean.”
“It started out as a passing comment. Now, as these things tend to do, it has escalated to the point where it could turn into an enormous shitstorm. Like everyone else, we want to be prepared. Especially . . . my contact. They're well-placed.”
“I’ll talk to the boys.”
“Good. Oh, and Trent?”
“Yes?”
“I've spoken to Anna directly. Earlier today. What can I tell her?”
Trent knew Doug was being ultra-diplomatic. The very fact that he had spoken to her directly attested to the frenzied nature of her call. The fact that Doug was even asking – knowing the Edge would be out there doing their very best – attested to his depth of concern for the girl.
“Progress is good,” Trent said. “We should know much more in the next two days. One way or another, Doug, we're nearing the end.”
“Just remember, spies or no, you don’t finish like James Bond or Call of Duty – blowing shit up. You have me. Say the word – I’ll call in the troops.”
“Thanks, Doug.” Their friend was not boasting, not even a little. “Be in touch.”
It was time to call Silk and Radford.
*
Radford arrived home to a nice surprise. Amanda had returned a few hours earlier and was taking a siesta out on their wide, wooden deck. Their house in the Hills overlooked a stepped landscape of other homes and twisting roads and, to the far right, one of the canyons that was said to be part home to a famous movie star as well as a bestselling author. This fact seemed to be upheld by the amount of paparazzi Radford and his wife often saw congregating, at least outside the movie star's home.
Reese Witherspoon? Amanda had speculated.
Jason Statham, Radford had countered with some conviction. He was sure he'd spotted the star's supermodel girlfriend once.
Now Amanda looked up at him, smiling behind her wraparound shades. “You could be right about Statham.” She laughed. “I just saw Vin Diesel going in there. Aren't they making a new movie together?”
“How could you tell it was Vin Diesel? Was he walking?”
“Big dude. Shades. Dodge Charger. Who else could it be?”
They laughed together, Amanda's mirth infectious. Within minutes, Radford had shaken off the last forty eight hours, relaxed and was sipping from a glass of white wine. “How long are you home for?”
Amanda unclasped a hairband and let her dark hair fall free. “A whole week.” She grinned. “What are you doing?”
Radford almost swore. “We have a case,” he said with some reluctance. “Just about to hit boiling point.”
“Aww.” Amanda pouted. “And here I am hoping for some quality time with my hubby.”
Until recently it was nothing he had ever needed, but now it was all he wanted. “I do want to talk to you about something,” he said.
“One of your floozies not giving it up?” Amanda raised both eyebrows. “Want some tips?”
Radford sighed hard. “No. Nothing like that. It . . . it's serious.”
“Well, I'm here, Dan. I have time off. Whenever you're ready.”
Radford wished he'd already come up with his opening gambit, wished he'd talked the whole thing through in his head. Truth be told, he was scared to.
Time to man the shit up, a voice inside told him.
But not today.
He leaned against the deck rails, and stared out across green hills and the black snakes of roads at the industry beyond. Amanda sidled up beside him, pressing her hip to his and draping a long arm around his neck. “You okay? You didn't blow up another gadget did you?”
“I'm good and no, that only happened once.” He paused. “Twice. You wanna go inside and check On Demand? I wanna see if the new Game of Thrones has started.”
“Me too!” Amanda laughed and skipped ahead before him.
Radford watched her go. As friends and soulmates, they were perfect. Outside those parameters, they were dynamite waiting to explode.
*
Sunday night had begun to wane into Monday morning by the time Trent called them and asked to meet in the car park of an IHOP off Sunset Boulevard. Silk brought a Tupperware box full of Jenny's homemade brownies and the only sound in the car for five precious minutes was the sound of happy eating.
When they had finished, Trent laid it all out for them. The high-level whisperings regarding their disavowment. The loaded word – staged. The fear and caution with which Doug's contact and even Doug himself was treating the news.
Silence greeted Trent's last word. He left the two men to their thoughts and entered the IHOP, buying three take-away cups of coffee and carrying them back to the car.
Questions and statements were fired at him like bullets from a Glock.
It might not be true. How good is Doug's guy? It might be a smoke-screen. Where the hell is Blanka Davic these days anyway? We saw the bodies, man. They're on to the contact and feeding him lies to gauge his reach. Did anyone talk to Emilia? Is she okay?
All good thoughts. Plenty to feed on.
But thoughts for another day.
Radford's Chicago contact called. A young lady who worked at Homeland. “Red flag just came up,” she told him over the speakerphone. “Roth's at some local airport. He has to file a flight plan but they don't usually follow these things up. Too much else going on.”
“I understand,” Radford said. “I owe you one, Kim.”
“Sure you do. One I will be collecting. With interest.”
Radford hung up and shrugged. “We're on guys. We'd best get moving.”
Silk scowled. “I don't get it. What is it with you? What do they see in you?”
“If I knew I'd bottle it. And make millions.”
“You already have millions. That must be the pull.”
Radford didn't have to point out tha
t these were his old contacts, from before they were disavowed. Silk knew. “What do you say?” he said aloud. “One more night in Vegas?”
Trent nodded. “Time to get down and dirty with the bad guys. Y'know, we haven’t seen this level of action for a while. I'm kinda looking forward to it.”
19
Trent, Radford and Silk were already in position by the time the Polish mafia arrived.
Not surprisingly, Donny Lockley lived in an immense, brazen number on Olympia Hills. A quick reccy revealed a sports court, a resort pool with more than fifteen fountains, three-level living, outdoor spas and great views of the mountains. A stately porte-cochere led into a home equipped with a multi-level movie theatre, enormous wine cellar and more bedrooms than even a rap artist could pretend to need. More importantly, there was cutting-edge security, a panic room, and at least a dozen guards. Thankfully, though extensive, this was still a residential area. The guards didn’t walk around with machine guns strapped to their backs.
But they wouldn’t be too far away, the Edge were sure of that.
Two men continuously patrolled the grounds, making no pretences. Silk questioned it, but Trent pointed out that the average home in this area cost upwards of ten million dollars. A few guards would be expected.
The three men had made use of the thick shrubbery and palm trees to climb up to the higher roof level. The surface up there was covered with tiny pebbles, and every time Radford shifted he complained about another sharp edge digging into a tender part of his abdomen. Trent reminded him they were spies, not cheerleaders. That kept him quiet for a while as he thought about another one of his ‘contacts’ in the Florida Wildcats cheerleading team.
They spotted Lockley early on and wondered if he had replaced Johnny Morgan yet. A trusted second was hard to come by in the criminal world, so probably not. As his time ticked down, the Las Vegas born gambler, kidnapper, murderer and all-round asshole moved unknowingly towards his fate. From on high, Trent and the others mapped the grounds and identified two easy escape routes and a tough one. They also had to factor in the arrival of the cops and zero civilian casualties.
The Razor's Edge Page 11
