by Alan Lee
They crashed into the sliding windows and Manny got hold of a boot. The man kicked at Manny’s fingers and ripped free. He aimed again, and Manny shoved them once more into the airy black. As though they floated and flailed in outer space.
Another splintering crash against glass, Manny’s grip slipping for an instant.
The man shouted again. An English accent?
Nearly at the zenith, judging by rooftop lights. His arms ached and the muscles in his hands complained.
He increased pressure on the rope with the fingertips of his left hand. He released with his right and drew out the small .22 pistol from his belt, only one shot left.
Aiming upward as the man in black aimed down.
Manny shot first, a crack of fire.
The bullet entered the man’s gun hand, disintegrating the joint where his pinky phalange met the metacarpal bone. The bullet continued into the fleshy palm and lodged there. His hand was immediately ruined.
Manny registered dim shock—the guy lost his grip on the pistol, but he didn’t cry out in pain and he didn’t release the rope. The man in black had significant fortitude.
Then he was gone, pulled over the lip of the roof.
Hauled ever upwards, Manny released the pistol and gripped the rope with both hands. He was tugged up and over the roof’s parapet—a short fall and he landed on his feet.
Immediate darkness. No lights blazed here. No illuminated helipad. Only roaring black.
His eyes adjusted quickly enough to warn him of the danger. A man sprinting his direction. Taller and more muscular than the man in black. He carried no weapon, intending to catch Manny off guard and railroad him into the short parapet. At the last second, Manny ducked his shoulder. The big guy’s momentum went over Manny instead of through him. His weight on Manny’s shoulder. Manny raised and threw upwards with his hands, cartwheeling the stranger over the protective wall and into the dark night.
A strangled cry, rapidly diminished. The big guy would make quite the crater.
Where was the man who had the gun?
Manny moved carefully forward, palm itching for a weapon. Nearby HVAC fans howled, camouflaging all other noise. He stumbled on steam pipes and banged his shin. Cursing, he proceeded slower, hands up protectively.
He rounded a corner in time to see a figure finish strapping himself into a small black hang glider. But it wasn’t exactly, thought Manny, on second look…more like a futuristic aerofoil contraption.
The man saw him. Keeping his right hand gingerly tucked to his waist, the man raised and saluted. “Well done, Mr. Sinatra.”
“It was easy,” said Manny. “The British are awful. At everything.”
“You climb a rope well for an accessory salesman.”
“I’m not a salesman.”
“No?”
“I’m the owner. And you just killed an American police officer.”
“Who? Me? I was never here, sir.” The guy took one step and fell face first into the atmosphere. Manny skidded to a stop at the parapet in time to see the wings of the glider catch the air, swooping its rider up and into a graceful arc east. Despite himself, Manny was impressed—gliding wasn’t easy with both hands, much less a ruined one.
He watched until the black dot disappeared over the vacant Tanger outlet mall.
Gone.
Manny arrived on the seventh floor to find the hall empty. Inside 707, however, a surprise—Beck holding Rocky Rickard hostage. At gunpoint.
Benjamin Curtis was in a ball on the bed. His arms were over his head, like trying to block out noise. Beside him, legs stretched, ankles crossed, taking his ease, was Rocky. Beck stood at the foot, her Glock held steady.
She visibly relaxed at the sight of Manny. “I thought you were dead.”
“Dead? You’re lucky I’m too tired to scold you, señorita.”
“They came for the governor. I threatened to kill Rocky and they backed down. I forced him to call security and assure the worried hotel guests that the Aerosmith concert had gotten out of hand, the gunshots were really fireworks, and all is calm now. Fortunately, at a casino, no one really seemed scared.”
Manny was amazed. She’d handled it perfectly, like a veteran. He placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Well done, Beck.”
“I had hoped Miss Beck would invite me into her bed,” said Rocky. “And it’s more fraught with excitement than I anticipated.”
“You could do better,” said Manny.
“I could?”
“I was talking to her.”
“Ah.”
Beck was too stressed to smile but she did anyway.
Manny knelt beside poor Kristen Terry and felt for a pulse.
“She died quickly,” said Beck and the governor released a moan.
“Make man shut up. Man is coward and baby.” Varvara sat in the room’s swivel chair, swiping at her phone. In her towel.
He closed Kristen Terry’s eyes, still crouching beside her. And then closed his own. “The man in the window. He was British. I think it was Oliver Wright, the assassin, though I never saw his face. I shot him in the hand but he escaped. He came for the governor, intending to abduct him.”
Beck said, “Kristen pulled her gun. The man in black warned her not to but she did anyway, so he shot her. Why are the British after the governor?”
The governor groaned again. Manny debated kicking him. “Long story. They want to kidnap him, though. Not kill.”
His hand was still on Kristen’s cold neck. Maybe it wasn’t politically correct or maybe it was overly macho, but he didn’t care—he hated violence against woman, even a woman in uniform.
Rocky’s voice was soft. “Reconsider my offer, Mr. Sinatra. Take the money and go home. Don’t let the British get him.”
“He’s an American governor. Neither of you get him. Our deal is still on.”
“You alone will stand between him and the might of both mobs? You think you’re Superman?”
“No. Just pissed off.”
Beck asked, “What deal?”
“I win the poker tournament. Give the winnings to the Kings and they back off.”
“And what about the English?” asked Rocky. “It’s their pride and not their pocketbook he ruined.”
“They never won a war against us. They won’t win this one either.” Manny picked Kristen Terry up and carried her to the window. He placed her gently on the floor and covered her with a blanket. “Weaver can pick Kristen up tomorrow and deal with the Maryland police. We need to stall the investigation until… Rocky, what time do we leave for the poker tournament?”
“Ten in the morning.”
“Ay dios mio, this day is long.” Manny tied one of Rocky’s hands to the bed using plasticuffs, and he pushed the governor out. “You sleep on the floor and you think about how many ways you betrayed my country. Beck, you take the bed.”
“No way, Sinatra,” she said.
Rocky used his free hand to pat the mattress.
“No,” she said.
“I need you fresh tomorrow, Beck.”
She shrugged. “I’ll take the floor.”
“Maybe I sleep between you two? That better?”
“I think you’re kidding, Sinatra, but I can never tell. No.”
“Gentleman’s honor,” said Rocky. “I won’t touch you. And you may build a protective wall of pillows between us.”
Beck arched an eyebrow at him. “You touch me and I’ll break your finger.”
“Might be worth it. But I won’t.”
“And me? I am tired too. I want bed,” said Varvara.
“Put that on.” Manny tossed her a robe and then he slid down a wall into a crouching position. Rested his head on his knees. “Caramba, my brain is tired.”
“I suggest calling for two cots,” said Rocky. “They might just fit. And I’ll comp you.”
“Cot? I sleep on cot?” said the Russian. “No. Come, Sinatra, we go to my room. We have fun. We sleep in big bed.”
“No,” said Beck, a little too loud. She picked up the phone to order cots. First she glared at Manny and indicated the room full of people. “This is ludicrous. Our plans never work.”
But Manny didn’t respond. Already asleep in a sitting position.
Part II
“That last hand, it nearly killed me.”
-James Bond. Casino Royale
20
Manny woke at first light before the others, tense but relieved to find everyone whole and intact. Everyone except the governor’s security detail, Kristen Terry. He stood and stamped his feet to restore circulation.
They were sitting on a powder keg, ready to blow. The brazen British hitman was still at large. The Kings had armed thugs somewhere in the hotel, he knew, kept at bay by Manny’s reputation and Rocky being held hostage. Plus, Maryland police had been called to the casino but then told to wait—he spotted cruisers through the broken window. All because of a selfish and stupid politician, and his own selfish and stupid pride in America.
Slowly the rest of his motley crew woke and he called the supervisor for JFIC and updated her.
“This is madness,” Weaver muttered through Manny’s speakerphone. “I’ll send up a squad and we’ll escort the governor to safety.”
Benjamin Curtis, sitting on the floor and watching the sun rise, shook his head. “Won’t work. There is no safety.”
Rocky nodded, still tied to the bed and yawning. “The governor is correct. His life is forfeit. There’s nowhere he can hide.”
“Are you threatening an American official, Mr. Rickard?”
The man grinned as a sly fox would. “Of course not, Special Agent. I’m a businessman in the wrong place at the wrong time, entrapped by the wiles of your field agent, Ms. Beck. Or is her name Annie Doyle? I’m merely expressing concern over the man’s well being.”
A long pause from the phone. Weaver knew what they all knew—if the underworld wanted to find the governor, it would. The American government didn’t negotiate with terrorists, but if a quiet and mutually beneficial truce could be reached peacefully…
“This is a damn mess, Sinatra.”
Rocky waved his own phone, “Making matters worse, I’ve been told that a small Russian hit squad is on the prowl for the missing wife of Anatoly Petrov.”
“Of course they are,” said Beck.
Varvara was the only one still asleep.
Weaver said, “Beck, Sinatra, how long do you think you can keep up this game?”
“One more day. I’ll win the tournament and free him from the Kings by nightfall.”
“And then?”
“And then Varvara goes into U.S. protection and maybe I’ll kill the stupid governor myself. Because it’ll be American justice then instead of a mob hit.”
“If the media gets wind of this shit show, we’ve all lost our jobs,” said the phone.
“The media won’t get wind. I think maybe I can safely say,” said Rocky and he spread his arms to indicate Varvara, Sinatra, ‘Annie Doyle,’ the disgraced governor, the dead body of Kristen Terry, and himself, “that it’s in all our best interest if none of us were ever here.”
Rocky Rickard rang for breakfast and he also ordered new outfits for himself, the governor, and Varvara. “Rush it,” he said into the receiver. “You’ve got one hour.”
Three men and two women inside the small hotel room with one bathroom, and they all needed to get ready. The only person who maintained a shred of modesty was Beck, through sheer force of will, slipping into one of her new dresses.
Had she gotten more attractive, wondered Sinatra. Or were his eyes playing tricks? He was struck by Beck’s resemblance to Jennifer Garner, the girl from the spy show he used to like.
Amazing what a little danger and confidence can do for a person. All Americans should participate in live fire exercises, he surmised.
“Would you like a tuxedo, Mr. Sinatra?” asked Rocky, adjusting his own in the reflection of the television. “Many of the players will have them. You might be under dressed.”
“On me, a bespoke sports jacket is a tux. Or better. I’m never underdressed, Señor Rickard.”
“You do not lack for confidence.”
“Never had reason to.” And he winked.
They took an elevator together. Varvara clinging to Manny’s arm. His hand was inside his jacket gripping the compact Glock 27—Rickard had been told he’d die first if the Kings made a move.
Manny had extra magazines hidden under his belt. His beloved .357 sat at home in Roanoke, useless, and he cursed his lapse in readiness.
The doors slid open. Their heels clicked across marble floors and they moved through the hotel’s wide front entrance. Manny felt the glare of a thousand eyes. Moving outside, Manny expected resistance but they met none. A stretch limousine waited, white and gleaming. Manny pushed Benjamin Curtis in first, then Beck, and the rest followed.
“The tournament venue is an hour away, near Baltimore. Make yourself comfortable,” said Rocky. “You should find whatever drink you like in the various refrigerators.”
Varvara was impressed and she helped herself to champagne. “Where does money come from, Mr. Rickard?”
“I made my first million buying fish from Europe and selling it to restaurants around Washington D.C. I move oil and natural resources now with my shipping companies. As with everything, life is about who you know. And I’ve made it a pursuit to know the right people. But my true passion is real estate. Such as the MGM.”
“How much of your business is legal, Mr. Rickard?” asked Beck.
“It’s Rocky.”
“Not to me.”
“What changed?”
“Everything,” she said.
“You don’t approve of my friends.”
“Nor anything else. And stop smiling.”
“How often do you bend the rules in your profession, Noelle Beck? Personally I’ve witnessed a dozen occasions.”
Beck turned her glare forward. She was wounded and humiliated that she’d allowed herself to flirt with a man who turned out to be a criminal kingpin. And yet…
“I honor your profession, Noelle Beck. Or Annie Doyle. I respect the need for national stability and security. But sometimes human progress must circumvent unnecessary rules. My business is legal as often as possible.” His phone beeped and he skimmed the message. “Good news. The powers-that-be have accepted your proposal—the governor has been granted a reprieve until midnight.”
“I thought they already agreed,” said Beck, alarmed.
“Oh no. I half expected a gunfight in the lobby.” He smiled and patted Beck’s hand. Manny noted she didn’t jerk her hand away. “Isn’t that terrific news, Mr. Curtis? Fourteen more hours to live.”
No response from Benjamin Curtis. His red eyes continued to watch the landscape whisk silently by, thinking about poor Kristen Terry. How long could an American governor disappear before it was noticed, Manny wondered. When the death of his security detail was reported that would make news, certainly. Could he have this fiasco wrapped up by then?
Manny adjusted his collar. Hell yes he could.
Varvara pressed a flute of champagne into his fingers and clinked it with her own. “Toast. To money.”
He raised his glass to her.
She pressed her bare toes into his leg. “Do you care? If governor lives or if governor dies?”
“I care a lot if an American is assassinated. Especially if I’m not the one doing it.”
“But him? Curtis? Do you care about him?”
“No one is past redemption.” He kicked the governor’s shoe. “Keep your chin up, amigo, you jackass. We’ll win this yet.”
Rocky Rickard squeezed Beck’s fingers. “Hear that, Noelle Beck? No one is past redemption.”
“Are you trying to redeem yourself?”
“I could, for the right woman.”
She scowled.
Well, thought Manny, she mostly scowled. A smile was hidden in there somewhere, t
he lush.
Rickard held up his phone. “Since I lost yesterday, I’ll be acting as one of the tournament officials today. Would you like to hear your competition, Señor Sinatra?”
“Por supuesto.”
“You know the first three, of course. Yourself, Phil Ivey the poker professional, and Oliver Wright from England.”
“The assassin. He won’t be there.”
“Why not?”
“I shot him in the hand last night,” said Manny. “He was the man in black in our room.”
“He hasn’t dropped out. Adds a new level of intrigue, doesn’t it. From what I know of Oliver Wright, it would take more than a minor wound to stop him.”
“I don’t cause minor wounds.”
“He’ll be there and he’ll have something to prove. A score to settle with the common salesman.”
“Common?” said Manny, like he’d heard wrong.
“Don’t underestimate Oliver Wright. He’s renowned for what he does.”
Beck saw Manny bristle at the warning, at the idea that any other man alone was a threat to him. The last thing she wanted was for Manny to make this personal. She said, “We’re always careful. Sinatra and I are professionals and we put the mission first. Who else is playing in the tournament today?”
Rickard returned to his phone. “Also playing is Louis Bernard, a French maniac. Man’s a butcher. I’m surprised he’s here; he hates America. Miami Tyler won yesterday, a restaurant heiress and minor celebrity in New York. Hinata, the Japanese poker professional. He only goes by the name Hinata—isn’t that presumptive. A few names I don’t know…oh-ho, what’s this. The Prince!”
Manny sat up a little straighter.
Beck said, “The Prince? That’s his title? Or a nickname?”
“He’s not royalty. At least, not officially. He’s revered in the underworld, specifically Italy. I don’t know his real name. Goes by O Principe, or The Prince.”
“He’s a mob boss?”
“No,” said Manny. “He’s a mob knight. A mercenary, on sale to the highest bidder.”
