by Dale Wiley
“Ladies and gentlemen, citizens in the United States of America, I’m coming to you tonight. It is different from any other moment that I’ve had with you. For a couple of reasons.”
He looked out at the press corps and noticed just how different the mood was. These men and women were normally jaded, bored, barely following along. Now they were riveted.
“As you know, I generally have a large hand in writing my own speeches. That is important to me. But I still get some help, and I still use a teleprompter. I don’t think that’s any surprise, but it’s true.”
Even crusty old Marnie Teeter, always a critic, looked at him like he imagined the press had looked at Kennedy.
“But tonight, I’m not speaking with either a prepared speech or a teleprompter. I did the same thing this morning. Want to know why? Because I have no idea what to say. None.”
He paused for emphasis.
“To anyone affected by today’s attacks, nothing I can say will make it better. I love you, I feel for you, I want to help, but that’s all meaningless to you right now. I know it.”
Gazing straight into the camera, he spoke to the viewers.
“To those of you who sit in your homes now not knowing whether it’s safe to come out, I understand that. And I don’t know what to say to you. But I know this: we have to go on. We will go on. John Wayne said that courage was being scared to death but saddling up anyway. That’s where we are. This is scary. But we ride, because that’s who we are.”
He sensed he was hitting the right notes. So he carried on.
“And for those who are responsible for this, whether it is one or one million, let me tell you: we will come at you with our best people—from Alabama to Boston and South Central, LA. You will see us coming. You will look us in the eye. You will pay for what you have done. We outnumber you. We will outsmart you. We will defeat you.”
He hoped he believed these words. He thought he did. Then he caught himself. He still believed in America. He nodded and finished it up:
“We have grown used to prosperity and peace in this land. For most of our times, we were in a war as often as we were out of one. But now, we have come to expect peace. Expect freedom. This may make for some trying days ahead, but that’s when we’ve always banded together and made our greatest strides. This will not defeat us. That is the one thing I can tell you tonight. This will not defeat us.”
He released the podium and gave a nod. “Thank you.”
The small audience stood and applauded. He did the impossible: after this awful day, he made people believe, which was almost more than he could say about himself.
Seventy-Two
Tony was down. Flames licked the house. Sirens would soon pierce the air, and Pal Joey headed for the body.
He walked straight-up gangsta. This was his scene now.
Tony tried to crawl from the scene, scarred, burned, and whimpering. He edged toward his phone.
Joey got there first.
“What’s this, bitch?” He held up the phone and clicked on the home screen. It was locked.
“Please,” Tony managed.
“You fuckin tried to kill me today. Recognize me? It’s Pal Joey.”
Tony closed his eyes and made a sound.
The most pain-filled thing Joey had ever heard.
Joey took his $1,000 gator shoe and raked it across Tony’s arm. A piece of flesh came off.
Tony screamed in a tone that made both of the other men wince.
“No! No!”
“What’s the code, bitch?”
“Please?”
Joey pulled his foot back up, bluffing, because he couldn’t stand that sound again. It was not human.
Tony made a smaller version of it anyway, afraid of the pain that would follow.
“What’s the motherfuckin’ code?” Joey demanded.
“3383. Please.”
Joey punched in the code. It worked. He nodded and gazed back up at the car. No sirens yet. He smiled. He had time.
He unzipped his pants, stood over to Tony, who started whimpering again, and pissed on him—full flow—on his back and face where the burns were. It would make Tony feel better. Tony stopped whimpering and was quiet. Joey turned and walked back to the limo.
On his way, he was almost sure he heard Tony thank him. Damn, it was bad to be that bitch.
Marvin started the car. Joey was about to get in when Tony’s phone got a text from Red:
B KNOWS. I HAVE STRONG LEAD ON C IN LAS VEGAS. AT HARRAH’S. HEADED THERE NOW. TURN AROUND AND JOIN ME.
His luck had turned. This sounded promising. He got into the limo and told Marvin, “Take us to John Wayne Airport. It’s the closest.”
He looked at Raylon and said, “Call our boy and get us that helicopter back. We goin’ to Vegas.”
Seventy-Three
Red sounded like a serious woman. It helped her many times in the past. She had the voice of a badass but professional bitch. She thanked her lucky stars that it was a fill-in working the human resources desk, and she imagined that the general panic of the day didn’t hurt. The woman rolled over fast.
She knew she was dealing with Tonya Jamison. She told the fill-in she was wanted in connection with the terror attacks today; that she wasn’t to speak to her or let her know anything about her coming.
“Tell me about Ms. Jamison,” Red said. There was no room for questioning.
“Single. One child, a boy. She pays support on him. It’s deducted.”
“How old?”
The woman didn’t stop to ask how this was germane in a terror attack. She did the math. “Six.”
Red murmured approvingly. “Is there a name?”
“No, but …”
Red cut her off. “Thank you. Please ask Ms. Jamison to come to HR. Have her meet me there, and please do not tell her why I am there.”
The fill-in said nothing.
Red said a stern thank you and ended the call.
Traffic was now lighter than usual, but it bunched up ahead. She hadn’t heard from Tony. She hoped he was all right. The last block to Harrah’s took forever.
Finally, the cabbie pulled up front. Red gave him a healthy tip from Steve’s money, and she hurried inside. She also tipped him Steve’s clothes in the back seat, although he didn’t know it yet.
She nodded at the doormen and fished out the old and out-of-date FBI badge that had once been an incredible find. With some help from some of Vegas’ most seedy characters, she turned this into her image—a really nice fake. She hoped she wouldn’t have to do any more than flash it.
Luckily, fill-in wanted the terrorist out of his room. She grabbed Tonya roughly by the arm, said only “FBI,” and headed to the small room they provided her.
Harrah’s was helping nicely.
She threw Tonya in the chair and made sure the windowless door was locked.
“Ms. Jamison, I’m not with the FBI. That was bullshit.” She pulled a long, thin knife out of her bag and moved it toward the woman.
“You probably will wish I were with the FBI. They have rules they have to live by.” She sat on the table.
Tonya clearly knew what this was about.
“I hate rules. Don’t you?” Red wanted to get this done, but she took her time. She knew there was a cadence to this, a rhythm that yielded results.
“We have your son. I know you’re a shitty mom because he’s with his fucking dad, but even shitty moms generally love their kids and don’t want to see them tortured and killed, right?”
Every bit of color drained from Tonya’s face.
“Now, let’s talk. I think you know why I’m here. I think you know exactly where my little party bitch is. I’m on a short time schedule. I need to know where, and you’ve got just enough time to start talking before I start cutting and making fucking phone calls.”
She knew from Tonya’s look this wasn’t going to take long. To make things better, she heard the chirp of her cell phone. Tony texted her. He was on his
way to Vegas. The night got better in just a few brief moments.
Seventy-Four
Red wanted to be free of Britt. She depended on no one, but, when her father ran into a problem with embezzlement, she only knew one person who could loan her the quarter of a million dollars that would keep him out of jail. Since she hadn’t been able to pay it off with the princely interest rate of twenty percent, she was still working it off little by little. Knowing what was at stake for Britt, she thought she knew how to make things right.
She called Britt. “I have a surprise for you.”
“A good one?”
“A great one.”
“What is it?”
“First, a question. If I could bring Caitlin to you alive, what would you make of it?”
“How quickly?”
“Within an hour.”
Britt thought about this. This was his original plan after all, but Red wouldn’t think anything about killing for him. Would he like to finish her off himself, or would he like to give her a shot at redemption?
See? There he was, talking all silly again. Caitlin couldn’t be redeemed. She couldn’t be brought back into line. That was for certain. But Red? She was another story. He knew she saw him for what he was but was less sure of what this meant to him. She was a woman who could be fierce and quiet at the same time. She was as cold-blooded as he. He could tell she admired him. Whether she liked him romantically seemed quite a jump.
He stopped himself. Why was he even talking about frivolous things at a time like this? He needed to be calm and collected and just worried about getting away.
“I don’t know,” he said coldly. “Capture her first, and then we’ll talk.”
Finally, he thought. He was thinking straight again. But, he admitted to himself, he really hoped she could pull this off.
Seventy-Five
Red could tell Tonya was not going to be a problem. She handcuffed the maid with her bondage handcuffs and paraded her right in front of the employees, moving her arms so it looked like they were lesbian lovers in lockstep.
Tonya didn’t make a sound.
Good girl, Red thought, that would make it easier to kill her when the time came.
Red led her to the end of the hall, checked to see that her audience left, and turned to the right. She threw Tonya onto the first elevator she could find, and she followed her to the right floor.
She saw Tonya’s look many times before, the look of someone who was trying to decide whether she could or would make a move. Red punched her hard in the back.
Tonya’s knees buckled.
“I can tell you’re thinking bad luck thoughts, Tonya. I can get out my phone. Do you want me to get out my phone?” She wielded the phone like she would a knife, moving it in front of Tonya’s face and smirking.
“No! I’m not thinking anything!”
Red smacked her across the face.
“That was for lying.”
Red was taught that by an old mob boss years ago. She thought Tonya was lying, but she didn’t know for sure. To hit her meant she could read her mind if she actually had those thoughts, and it made her think she was crazy if she hadn’t thought them. Either response was helpful to Red.
“Let’s not make that mistake again.”
She saw the contorted look of utter fear on Tonya’s face. It worked perfectly.
The elevator opened. They walked ahead.
She could tell Tonya was thinking. She stopped in front of the room.
Red gave her a death stare.
Tonya nodded at the right room.
Red signaled her to stay quiet.
Tonya was going to.
Red knocked on the door and then moved back so only Tonya would be seen.
The door opened—amateurs.
Red swung into motion, gun drawn, and then her jaw dropped. There were more people here than she expected. That was a very good thing.
Seventy-Six
The body was wheeled into the third bay of the Las Vegas City Morgue. Both officers were there and arriving just in time from her embarrassing endeavor at the airport was Mandy LaPierre, with whatever dignity she could muster. She had risked a whole lot for Naseem and Grant, and she hoped her career didn’t end up in a place like this. The smell, the cold, the clammy feeling the place gave her … it was too much. She needed to get this over quickly and get on to something that didn’t feel like death.
Nick had his money on homicide. It was theoretically made to look like a suicide, but this didn’t seem like their killer’s style. Had he been the set-up man, too important, or known too much to keep around? Was there someone even bigger leading the charge?
Gates thought it was a decoy.
Mandy had her mind elsewhere, still thinking about Grant and Naseem and what was yet to happen. At some point, she was going to have to go to someone over her head and at least give her suspicions about the possibility of a frame-up. But she wanted to give them a chance to find out what Caitlin knew and make this whole career-risk worth her time. She hadn’t eaten all day and couldn’t imagine eating now. She was scared. She had a feeling she was wasting her time here. She was sure some of the higher-ups were suspicious about her charges’ escape.
The doctor began the dictation, and everyone hushed. “My name is Dr. Charu Rahima. I am in charge of this forensic exam. As we begin, I would like to ask each person in the room to state their name and credentials.”
Nick just started giving his details when they heard the sound. It was a dull whirring coming from the table. He thought it was possibly a tool warming up until he saw the look on Mandy’s face. This was not normal.
Mandy yelled, “Get out of the way,” but it was too late. The flesh-covered bomb exploded, flashing brilliantly and sending a whole new style of medical shrapnel flying far down hallways and high above them. It didn’t matter. By the time those objects landed, they were all already dead.
Seventy-Seven
Red got everyone in the room. She couldn’t believe her luck, and she was so surprised she nearly didn’t react well. It was clear Grant was going for a piece, but she released Tonya and made her intentions clear. Grant smartly backed off.
Oh, this was rich. She would tell Britt she owed him nothing further. She could tell him to go to hell. And for once, he would have to listen.
She motioned for them to sit on the floor.
They did without a whimper.
She grabbed her phone out of the bag and dialed Britt.
He answered after one ring.
“Britt, if I had another enemy in the room as well as your piece of ass, we’d call the deal with my dad even, right? I mean, I’ve covered my end.”
Britt was silent. Miller was there. He could still hope.
“Who?”
“Well, your golden boy. Thought dead. Grant? Miller?”
He was speechless for a long time. Red finally felt the need to speak. “They’re both here. Caitlin and Grrrrannnt. With me. That would take care of it, right?”
“Yes, indeed, but …” He was really rattled. That was a first.
“Well, I’m gonna send you a picture in a minute. You need to get here. It’s going to have your bitch and Caitlin in it. Ha! Get it? And it’s going to have a dead Mexican-looking chick in it. Because I need them to understand that I mean business.”
With that, she shut off her phone. She smiled, reached in her bag, and screwed on a silencer. She aimed the gun at Tonya’s head and perkily said, “Say cheese!”
Seventy-Eight
Britt had a very short window of time to make his decision. He could walk away, having made a thousand men’s fortunes, and live with relative safety and security. He didn’t need to run any more of the Sabotage protocols.
He could quit while he was ahead—quit while he was alive. He had been paying off people around the world for five years. Now, he had the money to do it for five hundred more.
But he had failed on such a basic level—all of the most important people i
n his strategy still walked and breathed. Grant could outlive him—could he ride away knowing that his enemy and his lover would most likely be reunited?
This would not be a win. This would be torture knowing that his enemies frolicked while he was away from the action.
He asked the driver to take him to the airstrip. It was the dumbest thing he could do and the only one that could make him smart again.
Seventy-Nine
Joey now controlled the phone, the code, and the luxury of the entire texting history between Tony and Red. First off, this bitch was fine. She had sent Tony two pictures, but they were enough. Long legs, nice, real titties, and a real hand-spanked white-girl ass. She looked good—real good. Joey was embarrassed he was thinking of a thing like pussy at a time like this, but he was. Even with a helicopter, it was a long ride to Vegas.
Joey was corresponding with her, almost exclusively using Tony’s own words, copying things he said, changing them slightly, sending them to her. He told her he was on his way and then tried to make sure she told him where to meet in a way he could fully find without using too much shorthand.
She told him she had new hostages she could use in negotiating with “B.” “B” was obviously the mastermind or close to the top. It seemed as though “B” hadn’t cleaned up his mess. This couldn’t be better if Joey were writing the script.
Where should we meet?
Meet us at the Heritage Air Strip.
Tony would know. Joey responded with a simple, K. He had enough time to google that shit. Then he could meet his new friend in person.
