The Razor's Edge

by David Leadbeater

  A rough-faced giant appeared, nose broken three different ways, arm muscles bulging beneath a variety of multicoloured tattoos. Eyes half covered by a rubber mask, lips mashed and teeth missing from too many punches, he stomped into the centre of the pool, arms raised.

  “Bear!” the announcer cried. “You may remember this man from the TV—”

  Trent let it wash over him. The spectacle was crass, unprofessional, and somewhat irregular for what they knew of Roth. Maybe it was what the audience demanded these days – the exhibition was as important as the fighting.

  “Shiiiiit.” Silk’s whispered comment drew him back. The last fighter had now appeared – Roth’s man – a fighter named Carnal. This man jumped from the top of the ladder, landed on two feet hard enough to make the camera shake and grunted through a mouthful of jagged teeth. His face was oddly shaped, as if his cheekbones had been broken and never properly reset. But the hardness, the roughness of his body, his hands and his legs, attested to the fact that this was one mean warrior. No tattoos were in evidence. No mask. No bravado of any kind. All he wore was a grubby pair of cut-off jeans.

  “That guy,” Silk said. “Is serious shit.”

  “He’d have to be,” Trent reminded them. “Being Roth’s number two.”

  The two behemoths came together. The crowd roared, drunk and ecstatic and probably high by now. Trent would have cut the feed – they had all that they needed – but left it rolling in case something else presented itself. He didn’t watch as the bloody battle played out. Silk commented as a cut-screen popped up, offering live betting. Radford cupped his broken little finger and slid along the couch to prepare his next device – a top-end PC running on the house’s hard-wired system.

  Carnal beat down his opponent in three rounds, ending with a head stomp that sent the crown into frenzy. The man’s huge, corded arms reached for the air, strange grunts emitting from his mouth.

  “Carnal!” the annoying announcer cried. “Still unbeaten. Is there no one out there who can beat this man?”

  The screen flickered, a new graphic appearing advertising Saturday’s fight night. Trent grunted. “Turn that shit off. Radford – do your stuff.”

  Radford was already loading the software whilst importing the recording he had made of the night’s proceedings. When both procedures were complete, he sat back.

  “So who do you wanna start with?”

  “The first two fighters,” Trent said. “They could be local. Plus they both came out of it relatively unscathed.”

  Radford flicked through the recording until the faces of Jimmy ‘the Tank’ Gonzales and Joe ‘Killjoy’ Johnson appeared. “We only have the power to compute one face at a time. How about we start with Johnson? The crowd liked him.”

  “Do it.”

  Radford started a secondary program. The PC, his ‘master’ computer, was installed with a watered down version of a crime lab’s facial recognition software, the kind any security firm might use to protect sensitive buildings. It wasn’t CIA standard, it wasn’t even CSI standard, but, in time, it would get the job done.

  “Now,” Radford said. “Now we wait.”

  Silk called Jenny and asked her to recite a recipe for what he called her 'Flaming Hot Gumbo' on speakerphone whilst he cooked. Trent left him alone to talk happily to his wife and wandered the house. They had already reconnoitred and secured the place but a second walk-through never hurt. Trent exited the living room, paced the long hallway to the back of the house and entered the darkened dining room. Looking on to the high-walled rear garden, this room adjoined a library. Trent stared up at the rows of leather-backed volumes, wondering if any of them had actually been read. This house wasn’t a real home, it was a trophy house, nothing more. It sickened him when he realised that Victoria would love a place like this. And she’d be the first to order Mikey to play around the furniture and stop running free. She would be the first to find a tidy upstairs corner for his jumble of toys.

  Two pantries, an enormous cupboard, and the kitchen where Silk was still busy cooking up some magic followed, and then he was inside the front porch. The word 'porch' was surely used with a sense of irony, Trent assumed. The area was as long as the house and as wide as any of the rooms. Trent still remembered his parents' old house, where the 'porch' was an area large enough to store your shoes. Come to think of it, he thought. The hall wasn’t much bigger.

  Was he stunting Mikey’s development by not introducing the luxury lifestyle? Or was he teaching him the right ethics? A child’s early upbringing was the foundation from which his entire character would develop. But did that foundation need to be grounded in life lessons, education, or simply a happy childhood?

  Trent’s views landed on the latter. If the child was happy, the rest would follow.

  He stared out of the vast porch window. Their vantage point was a high one. They overlooked a couple of sprawling properties, their privacy largely secured by stands of trees. A ridgeline obscured the rest of the view, itself facing on to the unfinished part of the development.

  Silk called out that the meal was ready. Trent stared into the blackness a moment longer, thoughts of Mikey and Victoria making a mess of his head, then turned back to the house, instantly snapping back into work mode.

  “How we doing, Dan?” he asked as he passed the living room.

  Radford was getting up. “Still flicking through. We’re at about thirty percent.”

  The table was set. The three men sat down and began to eat. Trent’s mouth filled with delicious flavour and, for a moment, he couldn’t speak. Silk grinned at him.

  “Oh yeah.”

  Trent brought their focus back to the job. “Jacko lands tomorrow,” he said. “We three go in as spectators, not fighters.”

  “Easier on the ribs,” Radford quipped.

  “First we infiltrate Roth’s circle.” Trent nodded toward the front room, indicating the role of the facial recognition software. “Then we find Monika and whoever else has been coerced into these fight nights. We take Roth down.”

  Radford scratched his stubble. “We’re gonna need help to do that.”

  “Doug has the cavalry prepped.”

  “Is that the same cavalry that staged the reason for our disavowment?”

  “If you don’t trust Doug—” Trent said. “Speak up now.”

  Radford heaved a sigh. “It’s not that, Aaron. Doug’s as straight as they come. For a spy,” he added quickly. “But who’s to say they’re not playing Doug too? This new superbitch – Collins? Where the hell does she even fit in?”

  Trent shrugged. “I have a feeling we’ll find out pretty soon.”

  “She can go twirl on the director’s twizzler for all I care,” Silk muttered. “I served my country faithfully for twenty years. No way do I dance to her song.”

  “Twenty years?” Radford echoed. “Adam, you’re thirty-five.”

  “I know how old I am, bud.”

  Radford looked genuinely puzzled. “One day—” he said. “You really are gonna have to explain your past to us. All of it.”

  Silk rose and started tidying away the dishes. “Sure.”

  Trent raised an eyebrow to Radford’s exasperated shrug. At that moment, a loud chime echoed through the house. Radford looked excited.

  “Success.”

  Trent followed his friend back into the living room. There, life-size on the screen, frozen in time, was the face of the fighter they had seen in action tonight.

  “Joe ‘Killjoy’ Johnson is in fact named Geoffrey Bean. Hmm, I wonder why he changed his name?”

  Trent touched the screen with his finger, drawing out a groan from Radford. “Look at his last known address.”

  “Wait until I clean off your finger grease. Oh, yeah, that’s in Dallas.”

  Silk padded up behind them. “Time for one last finesse?”

  “The last and biggest of this operation.”

  *

  Geoffrey Bean – aka Joe ‘Killjoy’ Johnson – worked by
day as a forklift driver at a packaging plant in north Dallas. The job paid the bills and the habit, nothing more. The Edge had already gathered as much intel on the man as was possible through civilian means. The secret behind a good finesse was to pitch it right first time – there were rarely any second chances when it came to infiltrating the lives of criminals.

  When work kicked out, the three men followed him to his favourite drinking hole – a rag-tag, nondescript bar, nestled away from the major roads, named The Academy. Trent kicked his way across the hot, rubbish strewn parking lot, the blazing sun blasting down on his exposed neck.

  “Mr. Kunis?” he mumbled at Radford under his breath. “Where do you get these from?”

  “Usually the night’s best show,” Radford admitted.

  The bar was cold, the AC blasting. Trent allowed his eyes to adjust before moving to the bar and ordering a full bottle of Jameson. When the bottle came, Trent took four glasses and walked over to Geoffrey Bean’s table.

  “Killjoy,” Trent drawled, effecting a big, fake grin. “May we join you?” He wiggled the full bottle and the glasses.

  Bean’s eyes locked on. “You know me?”

  “Big fans.” Trent took his chance to sidle into the booth. Silk and Radford followed, taking care not to box Bean in. At this stage the last thing they needed was the fighter to feel threatened.

  “So what? You want an autograph or something?”

  “Jus’ wanna chew the days dirt off wi’ a bottle of the good stuff.” Trent grinned again. “Name’s Kunis.”

  Bean made no effort to speak, nor reach for the bottle. But his eyes drank it in all the same. Radford spoke next. “Saw you fight, man. Two years back, maybe. That shit was raw.”

  “Still is.” Bean laughed. “Fighting ain’t no easy fix, man. Takes years of dedication, training, suffering. You guys see a big muscle-bound dude prancing about on stage you either dis’ ‘im or spout something ‘bout him using his size to get along.”

  Trent poured whiskey.

  “That kind of guy? He don’ last long. Not where it counts.”

  Bean threw the shot back. Trent poured another and drank it with him. Radford poured yet another. “Where it counts?”

  Bean made a face and smacked his lips. “On the circuit. You put yourself out there, you’re either found out quick or you man up big time. No other way.”

  “Get in the ring.” Silk nodded with him. “That’s what you’re saying.”

  “Toe to toe. Head to head. Blood to blood. There ain’t no other way.”

  Trent saluted him, throwing back another shot. “We got a fighter would light that circuit o’ yours right up. Don’t we guys?”

  Bean placed his glass carefully on the table, suddenly wary. “I thought you guys were fans.”

  “We are, Joe. That’s why we came to you first.” Radford spoke fast. “We know you’re a straight-up guy. We know you don’t take no shit. How else are we supposed to do this? We want our fighter in the ring.”

  “No ring roun’ here,” Bean said, eyes on the table. “Bullshit is what you been hearin’.”

  Trent paused, bottle of whiskey half-raised. “You’re kidding?” He glanced at his companions, laughing aloud. “He’s kidding, right? Haha. You’re fast with the jokes and the fists, Joe. Why’d they call you Killjoy?”

  “Long story.” Bean meandered off the subject as Trent had intended. “Short version – I always started out as the underdog. The whipping boy, you know? Crowd loved the other guy. I killed their joy,” he crowed as he emphasized the nickname, eyes faraway for a long moment.

  “So you guys,” he said at length. “You’re lookin’ for a fight. You got the dead presidents?”

  “We got stacks of ‘em. More than we could ever spend!” Trent expressed his amusement again, pouring shots until the bottle ran dry. “Another?”

  “Yeah, man. How’d I know you not cops or nothin’?”

  “Cops?” Radford repeated the statement as if shocked. Trent nodded. “Good question, Joe. I like your caution. Y’see, this is why we came to you.”

  “We can’t prove it,” Silk admitted. “But we can do this – we can show you our licences. You can copy the details, get ‘em checked out. We can agree to meet away from the venue and let you take us in. We don’t wanna know your boss. The other fighters. The location. All we wanna do . . .” Silk smiled and spread his hands wide. “. . . is watch a goddamn fight.”

  “And one other thing,” Radford added. “Our fighter. When you see her – you'll know we’re not cops.”

  Bean picked up on that. “Her?” Trent watched the cogs turning in the man’s brain, probably seeing dollar signs and respect as he thought about bringing his boss something new. “Top billing?”

  “She goes the whole way.” Radford grinned.

  Trent knew the fact that they were seeking no information about the fight or its location gave them considerable authenticity. He added the bonus, “We’re happy being checked for wires too,” as a sweetener when Bean’s calculating expression wavered.

  “It ain’t my decision,” Bean said.

  “We know that. Here.” Trent slid their licences over with some folded C-notes. Any inspection would lead to three businessmen who ran a trucking business over in California. Family background, credit checks, banking history, everything was online, barely secured, and up to date.

  “I don’t write so good these days.” Bean slid only the licences back, glancing ruefully at his knuckles. “You copy down the names, addresses and license numbers. I’ll see my boss gets ‘em. I’ll let you know.”

  Trent added a cell number to the bottom of the sheet. “We only have four days.” He gave Bean the chance of only Saturday’s fight night. “Hope you can swing that, Joe.”

  “Maybe.” Bean grabbed the new bottle of whiskey as the barman put it down on the table and nodded at the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Trent stood, only too happy to be out of there. Amidst whooping laughter, calls of admiration and promises of a hefty cut they left the bar, stepping out once again into the blistering heat.

  “After that,” Silk breathed. “I need at least a half-rack of ribs.”

  Radford strode toward the car. “Jacko will be landing,” he said, a bit nervously. “Best not keep her waiting.”

  23

  Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport saw a lot of foot traffic, but Radford doubted it had seen anything quite as unique as Jacko for a while. Jacko was a big girl – in all areas – and always draped her figure in some kind of multicoloured tracksuit. Her hair was tied into double pig-tails and several layers of lipstick were her only form of makeup – bright and glistening enough to pass for fresh blood. In the way of all serious fighters, she wore no jewellery and nothing around her neck. No bracelets. When she emerged from customs amidst an outpouring of other passengers most eyes swivelled in her direction.

  Radford stepped forward, waving.

  Silk gasped. “That is one big specimen. You say she’s a fighter?”

  “Wrestler.” Radford stepped into a bear-hug, feet coming off the floor and kicking as he was twirled around.

  “Danny!” The woman was surprisingly soft-spoken, her face caught in mid-grin, not unlike the smile a 'gator gives its lunch. “I’ve missed you.”

  Radford felt ribs shift. “Urrgh. Put me down.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  He stepped back. “Missed you too, Jacko. Thanks for doing this.”

  “Doing what? All you said on the phone was ‘someone needs crushing.’ Of course, I hopped on the next flight.”

  Trent stepped forward. “No bear-hug for me thanks. Call me Aaron.”

  Jacko shook his hand gently. “Janice Myers. And don’t worry, I only crush my friends.”

  “Janice Myers?” Silk extended a hand next, almost cringing. “Dare I ask where the nickname comes from?”

  Jacko smiled as if she’d heard it a thousand times before. “Well, I can’t sing. Can’t dance. And I wasn�
�t once black. But I can do this.”

  And the big woman in the garish tracksuit started moonwalking, perfectly, across the polished airport floor. People stopped to stare. Her feet stepped forward but the girl moved backward. Applause broke out from a group of nearby students. A businessman walked up and offered money. Silk’s mouth dropped open.

  Radford clapped. Silk leaned close to him. “This is really one of your contacts? You and her . . .?”

  “What?” Radford gave him a crooked smile. “Are you being a little size-racist, Adam? Beauty is on the inside, bud.”

  Silk fell into line as Jacko moonwalked them out of the airport. “I just didn’t think she was your style. But she sure is a beauty, I’ll give you that.”

  *

  Trent woke to the sound of the ringing phone.

  It wasn’t Mikey’s ringtone. Or Victoria’s. It was, in fact, not his phone at all. It was the burner they had purchased. Only one person had the number.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry it’s late, man. I just left. You . . . you check out. You’re alright. Oh, this is Joe by the way.”

  Joe ‘Killjoy’ Johnson – aka Geoffrey Bean. Trent shook sleep away. “That's good news, Joe. Are we in?”

  “They don’t trust anyone, man. Not even me.” Bean laughed at the incredulity of it. “They say I have to bring you all in. Blindfolded. And you have to deposit a fifty grand draw into their account two hours before. Don’t worry, it’s your money to draw from. It’s betting money. But they see it as a sign of good faith.”

  And they'll check the source, Trent thought. But that was good. Radford’s digital tracks were seamless. It all gave validity to their characters.

  “When?”

  “Saturday night. I’ll pick you up at the bar at six. You and your female fighter. She is a woman right?”

  “Our female is a woman, yes.”

  “Good. I had to check, man. That’s what sold it to them. They like something different.”

  Trent thought about the abducted and intimidated civilians in Roth’s depraved hands. “I guess so.”

  “See you then, man. Don’t be late.”