by Dale Wiley
He liked all of this. They always did.
“What a surprise,” Red said when she got into the bathroom. There were two girls doing lines on the bathroom sink. She rolled her eyes and pretended like she didn’t notice. “Your plan didn’t turn out perfect.”
He simmered. “One loose end.”
“I’m guessing the girl. They’re the only thing that gets a man like you killed.”
Britt didn’t want to admit this, but he had to. “I can’t find her. She figured out that the phone she was given was bugged. Or she’s visited every Oriental sex parlor and jack shack in the last two hours.”
“She’s a smart girl, too smart to stay with you.” Red was beholden to Britt, but she still wasn’t going to kiss his ass. “Where do you think she is?”
He paused. “I think she’s at the casinos. The bigger, the better.”
“Tony can’t find her?”
“Last I saw, Tony was heading for Los Angeles. He apparently thinks I’m stupid.”
“So you’re two for two. The one you knew was smart is smart, and the one you knew was dumb is dumb.”
“He doesn’t know he’s being followed.”
“That sounds easy. Why don’t I take Tony?” She didn’t think Britt knew about her relationship with Tony. She was sure Tony wasn’t going to shit in his own nest.
Britt laughed. It sounded forced as if he were trying to hide his fear from his formidable friend. “Tony’s under control.”
This made her heart sink. She didn’t want to see Tony hurt.
The girls walked out of the bathroom, sniffing up the party favors and preening. She had the place to herself.
She dug the knife in. “And you want me to find the one who’s in the wind in a casino. That really narrows it down.”
Britt said nothing. He knew she would understand. They hung up.
Red checked the iPhone clock. There was still time to have a little fun before heading out.
She texted Steve. Meet me. Ladies room. Second stall.
The smiley face was only seconds behind.
Fifty-Three
Naseem, now by himself, had time to ponder the day. He woke this morning thinking this was his last; that had been a freeing experience most of the world would never know. Now, he was once again caught in an earthly narrative, no matter how short, and it weighed him down in a way he couldn’t have expected.
He wanted to find Yankee. He wanted to kill him. Grant and Mandy did not want to know the lengths he was willing to go. Whether the rest of the plan was carried out or not, his motive was strictly revenge—making Yankee pay for perverting his mission, or that’s what he tried to keep telling himself. There was part of him that wondered if he wasn’t really okay with what happened, this endorphin rush, or his life somehow restored. He wasn’t sure.
Naseem saw that Grant and Mandy were slightly wary of him. Grant tried that weak bluff of kicking his ass, but, overall, the Americans treated him with more kindness and respect than he ever could have hoped or deserved given the horrible things he meant to carry out. They would have both been killed by his hand if he hadn’t reached out. That was a trait that his people didn’t share. They would never have saved their potential killer. Even if it were to their great detriment, Naseem, had he done the same thing in his organization, would have been killed by the rules of his own people.
This weakness was Americans’ greatest strength, he thought. They sometimes did a horrible and misguided job, but they thought they cared about right and wrong, and they wanted to see right done. Moreover, they wanted to believe they had done right. At least, this was true of the people themselves; their organizations sometimes lacked their people’s vision.
He doubted that Yankee was still in Las Vegas, but he knew where to look, and he hoped something there would give him some insight. Yankee fooled him; only his last interaction prior to going to Missouri and his sanguine nature gave him any more than a slight pause. He believed this was the only time as an adult this happened. He always judged people well. He knew it would not happen again.
He had spent his last several years waiting for this, for the day he would no longer exist on this planet, only in the welcoming arms of Allah. He knew the scriptures, chapter and verse. He thought he could end this ringing pain of existence that everyone suffered and fall away. He would be a part of something bigger than himself. That feeling of loneliness that enveloped him every morning would no longer touch him.
Now, he couldn’t say for sure that was what he wanted. He told Grant he wanted to die, but he knew it was highly unlikely that an American, who foolishly valued life too greatly, would do this. He still wanted this, maybe more, now that he was drowning in the consequences of his actions that day. Could he do it himself? He knew enough to not know that answer. What was worth saving? What was worth fighting for?
He knew one thing: Yankee’s death and humiliation was worth almost any price. That was worth living for. He would see him flinch. He would hear him scream—no matter what. After that was anyone’s guess.
Fifty-Four
There is no one more vulnerable on the planet than a naked male.
Red learned this long ago. She remembered her two years waitressing, during a series of poor decisions, at a place where the men smelled like their bad habits and treated her like a pincushion.
She learned how to turn that situation around.
Step One: appeal to their ego. This was the easiest. For all the talk of women falling for the slightest compliment, Red found that men were much easier to bring down. A wink and a nice word followed by a gentle touch on the thigh could bring any heterosexual man as far as she needed to get, which led to …
Step Two: appeal to their organ. Even when a man can control his sex drive, this becomes the primary focus of his life. Here is a man who can control his penis—those men, Red learned, are all famous for this ability. Everyone else needed to rub one out on or near her, no matter any age difference. This led to …
Step Three: get them naked, keep them naked, and you can have whatever you want.
On this evening, Red opened the door to the ladies’ room slightly, crooked her finger at Steve, and shut the door behind him. She grabbed his tie and practically threw him into the middle stall. She kissed him violently, her tongue like a dagger, giving him no ability to control anything. She took her time to bait the trap, no matter how much she hated kissing these ciphers. She put her mouth against his ear, said nothing but breathed often, and then ripped his shirt apart, sending the buttons flying across the room. She bit his neck, hard.
He started to unzip his pants.
She laughed. “No, take ‘em off.”
“Can’t I …?”
She grabbed him and bit his neck like she meant it this time. “Don’t be a pussy.” No man ever has ever liked being called a pussy. “If you’re going to ride this, you’re going balls out. I don’t play.” This half-concocted line never failed. No man could see the lack of logic on the other side. There had never been a bankroll yet big enough to keep the pants from being kicked into a heap.
She teased her short skirt up her thighs, showing him she was not wearing any underwear.
He could see the tattoo over top of her pubic bone, but couldn’t read what it said.
She turned around and raised her ass and moved it back toward him. Then she turned suddenly again and grabbed the shirt and threw it over the stall. She winked at him and then changed her expression to a more serious look. She put her finger on his lips. “Hold it.” She looked down to sell it. “Shit, let me grab a little friend.” Red winked at him, and he bought it.
They always bought it. This man, who was probably good at his job and not terribly reckless and most likely good with other people’s money, left all of that self-control at the sight of her thighs. That man didn’t exist for the time being.
She left the stall with Steve thinking she was grabbing a condom.
How wrong he was.
While Steve
had his dick in his hand, Red gathered up all of his clothing, with the exception of his socks, which he was still wearing, and without saying a word, left the restroom. She stuffed the clothes in her oversized purse and told the first bouncer she saw with a dramatic flutter that there was a completely naked man in the ladies’ room. She looked shaken. She made a vaguely Scarlett O’Hara gesture that just seemed right. This sent every bouncer into chivalry mode, and this one was no different. He strode toward the problem, and she left the premises and grabbed the first taxi she saw.
“7710 Constanso Avenue,” she said and reached into her purse to count the money as the cab sped away. This was sport; now, she had work to do. She was going to pay her dear friend Caitlin a visit.
Fifty-Five
The girls scattered, but there was nowhere really to run. He had the gun. Priscilla was fully nude while the other two were in bras and panties.
Priscilla was the brains. She edged up the wall to her full height from the crouch she was in. “What do you want from us?” She asked like a seasoned hostage negotiator. “I’m sure we’ll do it. We’re easy.”
Britt felt the waves of emotion. They poured over him. It wasn’t her fault. He was so ashamed. He was so helpless. Everything had gone. He worried that someone heard the shots. But if anyone came, he would shoot them, too. He thought he was far enough away that any noise would be excused—such was the power of privilege.
Then he felt the stirrings. It was working. The killing was returning his masculinity. “Come over here,” he said to her. She was so much sexier, prettier, and smarter than the others. “Make me hard.”
“Then put the gun down.” She inched toward him.
He didn’t call her out.
She decided to continue. “Use your other gun.”
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
She pulled his pants down. Didn’t look like he was working with much. She looked back to Jilly and Tilly and motioned them to join her.
Priscilla used her calmest voice. “Ooh looky here girls,” she said, motioning with her eyes to the door. “Look at this.”
She turned her head and bit his scrotum—hard and fully. She pulled down with her teeth and yanked with her mouth just to make sure he was hurt very badly.
He screamed like a three year-old, and blood spurted everywhere.
“Run girls,” Priscilla spat, knowing the chances of anyone getting out alive were slim.
Britt figured out the play mid-scream: she wanted him to deal with her first, giving the other two time to escape. The pain returned him to his senses. The FBI training kicked in. He wheeled and shot both of the women in the head.
They didn’t have time to make a sound. They didn’t reach the door.
He looked down and saw the blood. It was bad. He turned back to Priscilla. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“But I’m glad I did,” she said. Her face was covered in his blood.
He thought about shooting her in the kneecaps, making her pay for the pain he was feeling. But he needed fewer loose ends, not more. He overcame the rage and shot her once but deadly enough. She was no longer a problem.
Britt went to the bathroom to see what he could do about his wound. He jumped in the shower and watched blood pour off him. The wound wasn’t as bad as he expected. He had some bandages in his overnight bag and luckily a change of clothes. This would hurt like a mother, but there was nothing that wouldn’t heal.
He couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t right. He was concentrating on all the wrong things while so close to the payoff for all his hard work. He was obsessed with his dick. What was wrong with him?
He sat on the bed to fix his dressing. Oh, did it hurt, but the bleeding was almost stopped. If she moved left or right an inch or two, it would have been much worse. He thought of Monty Python—only a flesh wound, indeed.
Britt found a pair of dark jeans and a red shirt. It was the best he could do about hiding the bleeding if it were to restart. He would just have to take his chances and soldier on.
He turned the air conditioner down all the way and put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. He hoped this would buy him enough time. He needed to be out of Vegas very soon.
He called his driver and told him to meet out front.
Fifty-Six
Mandy had about five minutes to think this through. The plane was taxiing, and she would be met by other Fibbies as soon as they deplaned. She dispatched Naseem and Grant to the front of the plane fifteen minutes earlier to give her a moment by herself. She caught a knowing glance from Naseem that made her very uneasy. She could sense that the initial horror of his double-cross was wearing off, and his resolve was likely setting in. She didn’t know if that led him in a different direction, but it was yet another thing that weighed on her.
Grant was being set up. She received an e-mail a few minutes before indicating that ten million dollars was transferred into his account this morning. Knowing what Naseem said, this fit perfectly with someone trying to hang the blame on him. He was part of a plan and either bungled the St. Louis explosion or was double-crossed, and now he was dead. The financial impact of this plot was obviously huge if someone could spend ten million dollars just to frame someone.
She spent half an hour e-mailing with Vanessa Jones about what to do. After giving her the go-ahead to make this crazy trip, Jones wanted to question Naseem and Miller separately—in custody. This seemed insane. There was no time to waste if Grant actually had a connection to someone who knew this villain and had spoken to him recently. Vanessa said other agents could check that out. Mandy knew how well that would work. Caitlin wanted and needed her connection with Grant. They had a shorthand, the way lovers and good friends do. Caitlin would become very unwilling to cooperate once she knew she wasn’t working with Grant.
At one time, she was interested romantically in Grant. Who wasn’t? He was an asshole, but all women love a rich, talented, good-looking asshole. They fight over them. She never acted on it, realizing it would be career death. Instead, she developed a buddy-buddy, frenemy thing that lasted until his famous public swan dive. Of all the things she had to reconcile, especially now, her complete Judas kiss of Grant was right up there.
Only three minutes to go. The airport was clear of departing flights, so it might be sooner.
They were arriving at McCarran Airport, private terminal, gate 7. She texted the agents to meet her at stall 17. It would buy them five minutes. With these two, she was sure that was all they would need.
She walked straight at Naseem and Grant, who were steeling for whatever was ahead.
“Boys, they think they’re onto something. They’re wrong. They can’t hear ya, but they can see ya on that camera directly over the pilot’s door.” She made no motion.
They knew.
“I’m gonna sit down and look at my phone while you disable it.”
Naseem stood and made a single gesture, putting his right thumb painfully into the center of the camera. He winced from the pain.
Grant saw blood, but there was no more camera.
“Tie me up, Miller. Stick something in my mouth. Wanted to say that for a long time.” She winked at him.
He deftly obeyed her.
“They’re coming from 17. They think you two are somehow in cahoots. Head the opposite direction. They’ll let me go in an hour or two, and I’ll text my phone.” She motioned and Grant took it.
“Anything else?” Grant asked.
“Nope, give it to me.”
Grant took a heavy blue dinner napkin from a serving tray and stuffed it into her mouth.
“Thanks,” he said, knowing how much she was risking.
She winked at him again, knowing she might well be kissing her career goodbye. At least it wasn’t another Judas kiss.
Fifty-Seven
The revelation that big money had transferred to Grant Miller bothered the president. He knew it shouldn’t, that Miller might have been bitter or worse for many years, considering the way
he was treated, but it did bother him. He wanted to see Miller persevere and win; he did not want to see his name trampled any further.
He went back and forth with Vanessa about this several times. He believed they could bring Miller in, trace the funds, show he had nothing to do with this, and quietly take him off the case. He believed that whoever was responsible found an easy target in Miller, and, frankly, even if it was something worse than this, he did not want another scandal. Give the man a chance to walk out a side door and away from this drama.
Vanessa believed this was the president interjecting too much of his personal feelings. Miller was an agent and, at one time, a good one. He knew the pitfalls of doing the wrong thing; if he did so, let his ass hang out in the wind. This White House needed no more issues right now.
There was just over an hour until Sabotage’s deadline. Bomb squads and other crews were scouring the grounds of Kenner Industries for any signs of foul play or possible explosives. The president was not interfering with the stock price and not closing the markets, but the American people propped the stock up at thirty-seven. If this was Sabotage’s goal, he would have his short-term victory, but Vanessa was going to make it a personal goal to bring him down. If this was all about money, she would never let it go. Good people, including children, died today in a painful and indiscriminate manner. She would do whatever necessary to see him swing.
Vanessa had expected to hear something from Mandy by now. The separate interrogations should be underway. It had been over twenty minutes since she got word they landed. She palmed her phone and checked the e-mail again—nothing. She thumbed the antenna on and off just to make sure it was still working. Cell phones sometimes did strange things even one belonging to someone in her position. Still, there was no sign.
