by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric
I shut the blinds, moved to the interior of the room, and—to take my mind off the wallpaper pattern—went through my mental checklist one more time.
We were in battle mode, and I had things wrapped pretty tight. Callie was still in West Virginia keeping an eye on Janet and Kimberly. Quinn had spent the night at the burn center and had been relieved early this morning by two of our guys from Bedford. Kathleen was at her office, and Lou Kelly had put a guy on her just in case. Victor and Hugo were assembling the assault team and working out the final details for hijacking a government surveillance drone.
Sal Bonadello was on the seventh floor of the Beck Building with his bodyguard and two attorneys, hatching a plot to kill me. The attorneys were Chris Unger, whose private suite was located there, and Chris’s younger brother, Garrett, who had formerly represented Addie’s parents, Greg and Melanie Dawes.
Normally attorneys wouldn’t be involved in discussing—much less planning—a criminal activity. But because I am known by the underworld as a counter-terrorist, Joe DeMeo wanted to be extra careful with the hit, wanted everyone to be on the same page. The attorneys were deep into organized crime but they couldn’t afford to be seen meeting with Sal Bonadello and his bodyguard Big Bad—as in Big Bad Wolf—that is why I thought we had a good chance of pulling off the plan I had hatched the night before.
Sal had gotten the call from Joe DeMeo to oversee the hit on me, but Sal claimed my status with the government required a sit-down. DeMeo refused, wanting to lay low until he knew I was dead, but he sent his emissary from New York City, Garrett Unger. Since Sal lived in Cincinnati, and Garret’s older brother, Chris, had his own law practice here, they decided to meet in Chris’s private suite on the seventh floor.
The Beck Building tenants and customers were well aware of the four parking levels attached to the building, but they’d have been shocked to learn that the double-wide garage door labeled “Emergency Exit” actually led to a private parking area for the law partners and their underworld guests. The partners changed the access code before and after every meeting with their criminal clients.
Sal Bonadello was the key to my plan working. He and Big Bad had been met by Chris Unger’s bodyguard and escorted to the private suites moments earlier.
The suites were soundproofed, surrounded by empty offices. No one who worked at the law offices knew of the existence of the private suites, nor could they access them from the occupied offices. The walls of the suites were heavily concreted to provide a high level of safety and privacy.
When a driver dropped off a mob client, the protocol was to stay put, in his car, until the meeting was over. The only other person in the suites during this or any other meeting was Chris’s secretary, whose job was to keep an eye on the private parking area from a monitor at her desk.
The way I’d planned it, Sal would create a diversion and signal his driver, who would pop the trunk. Quinn would get out and call me with the access code. Then I would join him and put the plan into action.
My cell phone rang. I answered it, and the lady on the other end said she’d thought about me all night and wanted to know if I’d been studying how to be a better lover. Then she laughed.
“I confess, I haven’t had time to bone up on the subject yet.”
Kathleen laughed again, and I pictured her eyes crinkling at the edges. “That’s perfect,” she said, “because I can’t wait to teach you!”
“I’m still trying to recover from the exam you gave me last night.”
“Well, be forewarned,” she said.
“Why’s that?”
“The next test is oral!”
“Wow! You promise?” I said.
“Mmmm,” she said.
I could have gone on talking like this a bit longer, but not without putting on a dress.
I flipped on the TV, found the headline news channel. They were hitting the hotel bombing four times an hour, so I couldn’t help but see it again. For the millionth time, they dragged out the footage showing rows of body bags lined up on the sand, waiting to be loaded into ambulances that were in no hurry to leave. There were mangled men and women, family members sobbing for loved ones, expressionless children with bloody faces—all the typical crap you’d expect from the nightly news crews that made shock and horror a dinnertime staple.
When they’d sucked every ounce of pathos from that story, they turned to Monica’s husband, Dr. Baxter Childers, surrounded by shouting reporters as he made his way to a car.
Until recently, Baxter had gotten a free pass from the press, but I knew that wouldn’t last long. Murder-for-hire speculation gives fresh legs to stories that have run their course. For this reason, some talk show hosts had begun digging into possible connections between Baxter and the kidnappers. One moron was even trying to make a connection between the names Monica and Santa Monica. Maybe the next victim would be Monica Seles, he speculated. Yeah, I thought, or maybe Santa Claus.
Even more delicious to newsrooms across the nation, rumors were circulating about a possible love triangle involving Monica Childers and a yoga instructor.
I already knew what was coming for Dr. Childers, it had all been prearranged. Abdullah Fathi and his son had gotten their money’s worth from Monica until there was nothing left to enjoy. Then either she died or they killed her, and now Victor’s people would plant enough phony evidence to get Baxter convicted. In the end, Baxter would get a life sentence and Victor would have his revenge.
News crews were standing by in Washington, waiting for Special Agent Courtney Armbrister’s press conference, during which she planned to name persons of interest to both investigations. I suspected Courtney was delaying her press conference in order to build interest for a future career in broadcast journalism.
Mercifully, Quinn sent me the access code, which meant he was in position. I took the stairs to the lobby and crossed the street to the Beck Building’s parking entrance. I walked to the end of the ground-floor parking lot, looked around to make sure I hadn’t been observed, and entered the code. The big garage door opened slowly. Quinn was inside, waiting for me by one of the elevators. I joined him, and up we rode.
39
The elevator doors had barely opened before Chris Unger’s secretary let out a blood-curdling scream and jumped below her desk.
“Poor dear,” said Quinn. “I should comfort her.”
“That work for you in the past?” I asked.
The muscle head who was obviously Chris Unger’s bodyguard suddenly appeared. He looked at Quinn, did a double take, and said, “Jesus H. Christ!” There was something about the guy I couldn’t place. Up close, he looked familiar. Perhaps he came to earth with powers far beyond those of mortal men, at least that’s how he comported himself. In any event, he was a big, heavily muscled guy, built thick like a fireplug. His head was shaved completely smooth and on his forehead, above the bridge of his nose, someone had carved XX.
Quinn sat his duffel on the floor.
“What’s in your purse?” asked Muscle head. “A tampon?” He pursed his lips and smacked a kiss in Quinn’s direction.
Augustus noticed my left leg had buckled. He shot me a look.
“I’m okay,” I said.
He nodded. Nobody moved. The muscle head kept his voice calm. He said, “Miss, come on out and get behind me.”
She scrambled out from the desk well and shielded her eyes as she ran behind Mr. Muscles. From what I could tell, she had a nice enough figure, but I wasn’t a fan of the tight, angry bun she wore in her hair. She was hyperventilating, and her voice made a funny huffing sound as she struggled to get herself under control.
“Your severe reaction toward my associate suggests poor training,” I said, trying to be helpful.
To Augustus, she shrieked, “You keep away from me!”
The muscle head whispered something, and she backed up a few steps and slowly circled around us and disappeared through the elevator doors. I could have stopped her, but I knew Sal’s driv
er would handle it.
Now that he was alone in the room with us, the body builder let us hear his street voice.
“Who the fuck’re you turds and what do you want?”
“We’d like to see Garrett Unger and his brother Chris,” I said, trying to be polite about it.
“I work for Chris Unger,” he said, “and you don’t talk to Chris Unger without my okay. You got something to say to Chris Unger, you say it to me.”
“Very well,” I said. “Tell Mr. Unger his body guard is a pussy.”
The muscle head kept a watchful eye on my giant and the space between them. Then he said, “Okay, so you know who I am, right?”
I looked at Quinn. He shrugged.
“We don’t know,” I said, “but you look familiar to us.”
“You always speak for the dummy?” he asked.
I noticed that he noticed my limp as I took a step toward him.
“I’m Double X,” he said, as if that explained everything.
Quinn and I exchanged looks again.
“You carve that in your head when you turned twenty?” asked Quinn.
Double X frowned. “It’s my nickname. On the circuit.”
“The circuit,” I said.
Double X sighed. “Hello-o, the UFW circuit? Ultimate Fighting Warriors?”
“Oh, that circuit,” I said.
I took another gimpy step toward him. He shifted his weight into a fighting stance and said, “I’m the former heavyweight world champion.” He said that part with a healthy measure of pride. “How nice for you,” I said. “Maybe we can talk about it after I see Mr. Unger. Would you be a good little warrior and take us to him?” Double X sneered.
I’ve had tough guys sneer at me lots of times, but I was pretty sure not many had sneered at Quinn. I glanced at my monster. He didn’t appear to be offended.
Addressing me, but pointing at Augustus, Double X said, “I don’t know your boyfriend, Mr. Ass Face, but I know who you are. You’re the guy who kidnapped Monica Childers.”
Quinn said, “Ass Face?”
To me, Double X said, “You’re pretty tough when it comes to assaulting skinny, middle-aged women, but in me you’ll find an unbeatable foe.”
I said, “They teach you to talk like that in the UHF?”
“That’s UFW, asshole.” He appraised me as if he were sniffing an onion. “You got some size on you, and you may have kicked some untrained butt in your day, but you can’t fathom the stuff I’ve seen. You wouldn’t last thirty seconds in the quad.”
“Quad?”
“That’s right. They stick you in a cage with a world contender and you don’t walk out until one of you is basically dead.”
He let that comment sit in the air a minute, and then added, “You guys are going to stay right here till I say you can move.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Mr. Unger’s secretary is at this very moment talking to a member of organized crime about you. You guys are already dead; you just don’t know it yet.”
A good martial artist will always attack your weakness, and Double X didn’t disappoint, rushing me the way I knew he would, leading with his right leg to sweep my gimpy leg out from under me.
Unfortunately for Double X, I didn’t have a gimpy leg, and I easily moved inside his kick before it could do any damage. Double X suddenly found himself in a strange position, slightly off -balance, vulnerable, his leg still rising toward a target that wasn’t there.
Before he had a chance to regroup, I punched the former quad cage heavyweight champion of the world in the neck, with full leverage behind the blow. I followed it up with a left hook to the other side of his neck, and his eyes went white. He tried to fall, but I caught his Adam’s apple between my thumb and index knuckle and crushed it until his mouth formed a perfect O shape. When I released my grip, Double X fell in a heap and grabbed his throat. He made an attempt to speak, but the effort proved too great. He rolled onto his side, and his legs began twitching involuntarily, like a sleeping dog dreaming about chasing a rabbit.
I looked at Quinn. “Just before I crushed his larynx, he patted my shoulder several times. Why do you suppose he did that?”
“I think he was tapping out. It’s what they do in the quad cage when they’ve had enough.”
“Oh. He should have said.”
I stepped over him and went through the door from which Double X had appeared a moment earlier.
Quinn found Double X’s gun and put it in his duffel. Then he grabbed Double X by the collar and dragged him and his twitchy legs through the door and down the hall until he saw me enter Chris Unger’s suite.
First thing I noticed going in, Chris Unger was at his desk, his back to the windows. Three client chairs faced him. The first was occupied by Chris’s brother, Garrett. The second chair was empty. Sitting in the third chair was my favorite crime boss, Sal Bonadello.
Sal nodded in my direction and said, “Hey, this is—whatcha call—serendipity. We was just talking about you!”
I recognized Sal’s bodyguard, leaning against the far wall.
“I guess Joe said it’s okay to bring Big Bad.”
Sal nodded. “I was takin’ a leak just before you got here. Takin’ a leak always makes me think of Joe. So I called him.”
Big Bad had his hand inside his jacket.
“You still use the 357?” I asked.
Without changing the expression on his face, Big Bad glanced at Sal through reptilian eyes. Sal said, “It’s okay; they’re with me.”
Both Ungers gave him a look. Then they looked at each other. Garrett seemed more nervous than his older brother.
All eyes suddenly turned to the doorway as Quinn entered, dragging Double X behind him. Double X continued to hold his neck with one hand while pawing the air with the other. Still trying to tap out, I figured. Quinn released his prey, and Double X hit the floor face first. Quinn locked the door behind him.
Sal jumped to his feet, suddenly excited. “Wait a minute!” he said. “I seen this before! At the movies, right? Weekend at Bernie’s, right?” He pointed at Double X. “You’re the guy! You’re Bernie!”
From his post across the office, Big Bad watched with amused ambivalence.
By contrast, Chris Unger was outraged. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded. Unger stood tall, assuming the defiant stance befitting his status of legal heavyweight. His hair was silver and gelled, and he wore it combed straight back. He had on a navy Armani suit, a crisp white broadcloth shirt, and a bright red silk tie.
Those who fear attorneys would have been shaking in their boots at the sight of him, but this was a different crowd. Unable to get the reaction he’d expected, Unger sat back down at his desk, which probably cost more than the house I grew up in. It wasn’t just the desk that was intimidating—everything in his office exuded power, from the dark cherry paneling to the trophy wall littered with photos of Unger posing with presidents past and present, not to mention the Hollywood elite. Clearly, this was a man willing to pay the extra fee at fundraising events to secure the vanity shot.
“I need to speak with your brother,” I said. “It’ll just take a minute.”
Chris Unger opened his mouth to protest, but saw Double X trying to tap out and changed his mind.
Chris obviously spent a lot of time admiring Double X’s fighting ability on the circuit in the quad cage, because he was visibly shaken to see the former baddest man on the planet reduced to his current state.
Double X must have caught a glimpse of the disappointment in his employer’s face, because he tried to form the words “sucker punch.” It sounded more like “suction pump.”
Chris Unger suddenly found his voice. “Garrett, don’t say a word. I’m calling Joe DeMeo.” He reached for the phone.
“Augustus?” I said.
Quinn picked up the unoccupied chair and used it as a battering ram to smash the window. He put the chair down and picked Chris Unger up like a rag doll and ca
rried him to the window.
Garrett Unger jumped to his feet.
“Put him down!” Garrett yelled.
Chris waved his brother off, tried to keep the calm in his voice. “Let’s all just relax,” he said. “Look, gentlemen, we’ve all seen this a hundred times in the movies. You can threaten me all you want, but in the final analysis, we all know you’re bluffing. You have no intention of throwing me out the window, so let’s just sit down and—”
Quinn threw Chris Unger out the window.
40
Sal raised his eyebrows and said, “Holy shit!”
I addressed Sal while keeping my eyes glued to Big Bad. “Are we going to have a problem with you over this?” I asked.
“Fuck no,” said Sal. “Tell him to toss Bernie, too!”
Double X’s eyes went wide. He stopped gasping and lay perfectly still, trying to make himself as small as possible in the room. I wondered if this type of behavior was acceptable in the quad cage.
Garrett Unger, Greg and Melanie’s former attorney, remained where he stood, ashen-faced, dumbstruck. He grabbed the corner of Chris’s desk for support and stared at the window, his mouth agape. This was a man whose source of power derived from thoughts and words—which might explain why his lips and mouth were moving a hundred miles an hour as he mumbled sentences none of us could understand.
Garrett Unger slowly eased himself down. Though his body quickly conformed to the contours of the chair, I wasn’t convinced his mind was suitably focused.
Quinn turned to face him.
“Wh-wh-what do you want to know?” Garrett asked.
“Think about it,” I said.
“B-But … I c-c-can’t.”
I looked at Quinn. “Augustus?”
Quinn took a photograph out of his pocket and tossed it into Unger’s lap. The picture had yesterday’s date stamped on the lower right-hand corner, along with the time the photo had been taken. It was a simple photograph, depicting a typical family scene: an afternoon lunch at Denny’s, a small boy sitting at the table playing Nintendo DS while his older sister sat beside him, lost in her teenage thoughts, their mother talking to the waitress.
