KILLER T

by Robert Muchamore

  ‘Your mum almost died when she got shot, and again when she got blood poisoning in Zimbabwe. And then the ultimate nightmare happened. By which time your dad had pissed off back to Russia, and I wind up with a poor heartbroken seven-year-old to look after.’

  ‘Mum died of a heart defect,’ Harry pointed out. ‘She’d be just as dead if she’d become a librarian.’

  Kirsten jabbed the finger into Harry’s chest. ‘When you turn eighteen, you’re free to take that stupid bloody Nikon your dad bought you and do what you like. But while I’m your sole guardian you don’t take stupid risks.’

  ‘It wasn’t risky,’ Harry said, imagining how crazy she’d be if she knew about Charlie and the explosives.

  ‘You climbed back into your school when it was locked down. Some psycho cop might have shot you, or another bomb could have gone off. There could have been a gas leak, or a live electricity cable …’

  Harry felt the tear that streaked down his aunt’s face. All he could do was stare dopily at his feet.

  ‘It happened at my school,’ he said gently. ‘It’s not like I ditched uni and jumped on a plane to Malawi like Mum did.’

  ‘You edited the videos, and put them online. Found an agency to syndicate the photograph and sell the exclusive on the video. Maybe the explosion just happened, but you knew exactly what to do after. You must have put thought into this.’

  ‘It’s what I want to do,’ Harry said. ‘Probably …’

  ‘You’re fourteen,’ Kirsten said. She seemed about to add something like, you don’t know what you want, but instead she took the last step forward and wrapped her arms tightly round his back. ‘I just … Don’t get hurt.’

  Harry was slightly taller than his aunt, and felt loved as he craned his head and caught the crisply laundered smell of her chef’s coat. But he kept thinking about the gun and the explosives. And saw a horrible mental image where they were still hugging, but he was dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit …

  ‘I love you, Auntie,’ Harry said.

  ‘I’ve got the family heart defect,’ Kirsten reminded him. ‘Too many shocks might kill me off.’

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ Harry said softly.

  ‘Love you too,’ Kirsten said, looking at the sweat-dripped tiles around Harry as she backed away. ‘I remember when you were little. You had that warm milky smell and when nobody was looking I’d pick you up and sniff because I loved it so much.’

  ‘Not now, eh?’ Harry said, raising one soggy armpit close to his aunt’s face.

  ‘Gross!’ Kirsten said, laughing as she backed off and grabbed sheets of kitchen towel out of a dispenser. Harry took his phone off the counter as Kirsten dabbed her eyes, then used the tissue as a foot rag to mop his trail of sweat. ‘Now go shower, and you’re grounded. Obviously.’

  Harry wasn’t shocked. ‘How long?’

  ‘At least until Monday. Then we’ll see what your school says.’

  Harry’s room was upstairs. He’d used his bathroom to clean the gun and he whacked the air-con up to clear a lingering bleach smell. After peeling off his sweaty shirt, he sat on the lid of his toilet and unlocked his phone.

  ‘You have one new message, received at nineteen thirty-six hours.’ Then after a beep, ‘Harry, this is me … Charlie, from earlier …?’

  11 GOON SQUAD

  Charlie chased sleep. She lay on the shiny green mat, hearing fragments of the things that went wrong on a Thursday night in Vegas: A cocky pickpocket chatting to the custody officer like some long-lost sister, a weeping college kid and drunks banging their doors and claiming they knew their rights. Charlie suspected they were all in less trouble than she was.

  ‘Croker, ya goin’ upstairs,’ someone yelled through the door.

  Charlie got handcuffed this time. The clock over the custody sergeant’s desk said three-fifteen and the third floor was a dead zone. Empty desks, and the only light coming off exit signs.

  She was marched down a hall, past a basketball-tall guy working a mop and into a big office. A Nevada state flag and a big stuffed fish hung on the back wall. The unbarred windows had a vista over a lot filled with cop cars.

  ‘Sit there.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ Charlie asked.

  The custody officer left wordlessly as Charlie settled on a spongy office chair, cuffs scraping the desktop. The only light was a triangle from a side door, where she could hear piss spraying into a toilet bowl. Charlie heard the faucet run, hands getting dried, then a gong crash from the lid of a pedal bin.

  ‘Charlie Croker,’ a stooped figure said as he came out, silhouetted by the washroom light.

  He was bulky, with a man bun, biker jacket and stubble. Blue cop car light flashed the dark office walls as he settled across the desk.

  ‘How’s your day been?’

  ‘Had better,’ Charlie said as she tried to place the voice. ‘Are you JJ’s lawyer, Edelmann?’

  ‘Well recognised,’ he said, casually drumming a fountain pen he’d taken off the desk. ‘Not my actual name.’

  ‘Man of mystery,’ Charlie said, stifling a yawn as one of her disposable slippers dropped off. ‘I’m guessing you’re not a lawyer either.’

  ‘That would be a smart guess,’ he said, jamming the pen in his ear then studying the blob of wax stuck to the end. ‘I describe myself as a person that can fix things in this town. For instance, I can arrive at a police station at three in the morning and get a suspect taken from her cell for a private chat. And when you look at the custody log in the morning it won’t be written down. And if you ask around nobody’s gonna remember a damned thing.’

  ‘Is that the same guy who hacked my laptop and put Deion’s shirts under my bed?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘And slipped your brother the laxative, so you couldn’t leave the trailer,’ he said, clicking his fingers. ‘Don’t get your hopes up about data recovery on the Rock Spring High CCTV, either.’

  Feeling vulnerable in the paper suit with nothing underneath, Charlie pulled one knee up to her chest and wrapped her cuffed hands round it.

  ‘Are you working for my sister?’ she asked warily.

  ‘If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t be gifting Fawn this Christmas,’ he smiled. ‘But my services come above her price bracket.’

  ‘Jay Janssen Senior?’

  ‘Do you think?’ the mystery man said, but nodded as well.

  ‘So two people half burnt to death and my life gets wrecked, all so some rich guy gets to see his son play starting quarterback?’

  He stroked his man bun and smiled. ‘Crazy messed-up world we live in.’

  ‘But you’re here at three a.m.,’ Charlie said thoughtfully. ‘Haven’t you got me already?’

  ‘Got you for sure, Charlie girl,’ he said. ‘But I sleep better when all the loose ends are tidied away. And Fawn said she wanted your wings clipped, rather than lock you up and toss the key.’

  ‘Isn’t that nice …’ Charlie said.

  ‘Here’s the deal-a-roo,’ mystery man said as his drumming pen slipped and hit the carpet. ‘O’Banyon will come into your cell tomorrow morning and you’ll cave.’

  ‘You think?’ Charlie spat.

  ‘We’ll get you a lawyer. You don’t need a superstar if you’re not going to trial, but I know a lady who’ll fight your corner and cut a deal with the justice department. She’ll big up that you could have used a lot more explosive if you wanted to, that you’re a good little orphan kiddie who looks after her retarded brother, and lives under a lot of emotional stress, yada, yada.

  ‘The Clark County attorney’s office will want a high-profile case like this tied up fast and neat. If you play ball, they’ll settle for an assault beef. Your plea will be three to five years, and if you behave, you’ll be out in two.’

  Charlie looked suspicious. ‘Is what you’re saying now any more reliable than when you told me JJ was about to confess?’

  ‘It’s a plea bargain,’ he explained. ‘It’s how ninety-five per cent of criminal ca
ses get settled in this country. Say nothing to O’Banyon until I get that lawyer in the room with you. There will be a tussle over your sentence and exact wording of your confession. Then it will get rubber stamped by a judge.’

  ‘Just a few years of my life, eh?’ Charlie said airily. ‘How do you sleep at night?’

  Mystery man laughed. ‘I sleep soundly, on a mattress stuffed with hundred-dollar bills.’

  ‘Money …’ Charlie said, shaking her head. ‘What if I don’t cave? What if I happen to have some principles?’

  ‘You seem fond of that brother. I’m sure me and a pal could pay him a visit.’

  Charlie put her leg down and shot forward in the chair. ‘Leave Ed the hell alone.’

  ‘Or what?’ he teased as he stood and moved round the desk. ‘You’ll come get me, Charlie? Do you think that drooling gimp brother of yours will squeal like a piggy when I tenderise his face with this diamond ring on my big ol’ fist?’

  Charlie shuddered as he loomed behind, planting a hairy hand on each shoulder.

  ‘You’re sweating through that overall,’ mystery man noticed as his stale breath hit her face. ‘It’s not leaving much to my imagination.’

  Charlie felt sick as the hands slid to the base of her neck, two fingers putting a slight squeeze on her windpipe.

  ‘Are you going to make this harder than it has to be, Charlie girl?’

  She wanted to bite or fight. She wanted to be the mighty hero, like the white-grin tweens in the Disney shows she watched with Ed. But the mystery man’s wrists were as broad as her neck and Charlie had a head for numbers.

  One of me against Janssen’s whole organisation.

  My eighty-three bucks versus his hundred million.

  Out of lock-up when I’m barely sixteen, or adult prison till I’m thirty.

  You can only play the hand of cards you’ve been dealt and these people own me …

  A chill went from head to curled toes as the pressure on Charlie’s throat made her croak, ‘I’ll speak to your lawyer.’

  ‘Nice,’ he growled, taking one hand off and edging a slight grin. Then he pushed out his tongue and licked from the base of Charlie’s chin to her earlobe. His breath was like rot and she could hear the spit slosh around his mouth as he spoke his final words.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure breaking you.’

  12 ONE-LEGGED GRANNIES

  How much bad stuff can you ignore? Harry kept asking himself. The world’s full of hungry babies and one-legged grannies who stepped on landmines. But is that my problem? Is Charlie my problem? Would I give a damn if Charlie was fifty and had five chins?

  If you wanna be some big-shot journalist, you can’t give up easy. But you’re fourteen. The helmet picture is everywhere. It’ll be the first thing in your portfolio if you apply to journalism college. And you’ve already taken crazy risks for this girl.

  This train of thought ran through the night. When sleep seemed impossible, Harry grabbed his laptop. He found stories about Charlie’s family. Court orders $6.9 million-dollar lifetime settlement for brain-damaged boy. Rock Springs mom of three found hanged. QB prospect steps out at Janssen Golf fundraiser.

  The last story was from the Facebook page of a local kids’ hospice, and came with a photo. Harry had imagined Fawn Croker as an older, meaner version of Charlie. But she looked like a swimwear model, six feet tall in borrowed golf shoes, blouse tied at the waist to emphasise a huge bust. JJ had propped himself on a pricey Callaway driver and smiled with the easy confidence of a good-looking kid who’d won the lottery by being born.

  JJ, aged 17, shot an excellent 79 off a five handicap, while companion Fawn Croker said she was ‘thrilled’ to break 100 for the first time …

  Harry yawned, skimming the rest of the article, then moving on to research the Janssens. The Janssen Corporation website showed happy gamblers and mall shoppers. The Wikipedia page on Jay Janssen Sr had clearly been curated by a public-relations company, with lots of details on Janssen’s business success and charity work, while cocaine dealing and jail time was kept to three short sentences under the Early Years tab.

  But it didn’t take much searching to find a darker side. There was a recent TV news story about Janssen casino workers complaining that they weren’t being paid all their overtime and getting threatened if they spoke out or tried to join a union.

  Harry read about a $30,000 fine for breaking hygiene regulations at a twenty-four-hour diner inside the Janssen Riverboat casino, a family-run construction company that went bust after Janssen’s property business refused to pay bills and a senior employee who claimed staff were ordered to turn a blind eye to drug dealers.

  Clearly the Janssens weren’t the nicest people in town, but Harry couldn’t see how any of these facts could be used to help Charlie. He tried to think of a strategy, but he felt as if he’d skipped ten chapters ahead in his math textbook, staring bleary-eyed at a problem he had no idea how to solve.

  When Kirsten woke Harry up, he was sprawled bare-assed over his bed.

  ‘School’s closed,’ he said, stretching into a yawn and knocking his still-open laptop off the edge of his bed. ‘Shit!’

  ‘Matt’s in the kitchen. Says you arranged to go for a run before it got too hot.’

  ‘Aww,’ Harry said dozily. ‘Forgot that …’

  He slathered sunscreen, and rushed down to Matt with Nikes hooked over his fingers. They did some stretching outside in the courtyard, but Harry would never normally run in the evening and straight away the next morning. His tanks were empty and after less than a mile he faked an injury.

  ‘I’m slowing you down, mate,’ Harry told Matt. ‘Thigh is really tight. I’m sorry …’

  Harry’s head was full of the stuff he’d been thinking about through the night. He wanted to help Charlie, but self-preservation had blossomed with the new day. The kid who’d flushed explosives and wiped the gun seemed like an aberration.

  Harry walked stiffly through the Sinatra’s main gate. He’d gone past reception and was waiting for the elevator up to four when a fist smashed the back of his head.

  His brow smacked the metal elevator door and two guys bundled him into a side room. It had originally been the sales team’s office when the Sinatra was first built. Now the windowless space had two parked housekeeping carts and stacked drums of bathroom cleaner and pool chemicals.

  ‘Harry?’ one guy asked, throwing the teenager’s slender body over a cart, as a much bigger dude with a man bun elbowed him in the back.

  ‘Friendly warning, kiddo,’ the first guy said, grasping Harry’s hair and yanking his head back.

  Man Bun punched him again.

  ‘We know Croker called you last night,’ Man Bun shouted, sliding his hand between Harry’s legs and grabbing his balls. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Charlie groaned.

  ‘Don’t lie to me,’ Man Bun shouted, squeezing Harry’s balls. ‘She asked for help, didn’t she?’

  ‘We heard the recording,’ the smaller guy added. ‘Lying to us is not a good idea.’

  ‘Please,’ Harry begged. ‘I barely know her.’

  ‘Keep your nose out and keep your balls,’ Man Bun said. ‘And your auntie, the la-de-da chef? We’ll work her over too. Understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ Harry moaned as Man Bun let go and the little guy shoved him violently off the cleaning cart.

  The goons backed out as Harry crashed into empty chemical drums, tears streaking his face, sure he was about to pass out from the pain.

  • • •

  Harry snuck into the apartment, back pain, rib pain and half doubled over. Kirsten would freak if she knew he’d been beaten up, so he was grateful that she was up in her room, and that she’d left for a meeting at her restaurant when he emerged from a hot soak.

  The pain was mild as Harry hobbled downstairs, but his nerves were fried. He half expected the goons to crash through the door, and jerked with fright when a kid squealed in the communal pool outside.
r />   Harry strapped an ice pack to his back and listened to a message Ellie had left while he was out. The take from the video and photos was now thirty-one grand, but thinking about his share made him feel shitty because it was earned at Charlie’s expense.

  There was another call as he read the instructions on an Ibuprofen bottle.

  ‘Harry,’ Charlie said.

  The phone felt like molten lava.

  ‘Harry, are you there?’

  What if this is a test. Will the bad guys come back if they know I spoke to her?

  ‘Hey,’ Harry said warily.

  ‘You sound off,’ Charlie said.

  ‘I’m good,’ Harry said, unthinkingly trying to sit on a kitchen stool and getting a jolt of pain.

  ‘My call last night? It doesn’t matter now. I signed my life away. Felony assault and two charges of manufacturing an explosive device. I’ll be out in two years if I behave. JJ gets to be quarterback, Fawn gets her annoying sister off her back. At least I’m not one of the poor saps who got half their skin burnt off.’

  Harry acted like he was speaking to bad guys listening to a recording, instead of to Charlie. ‘I didn’t take any steps to investigate,’ he said stiltedly.

  Charlie sounded sore. ‘Thanks for the sympathy, pal.’

  ‘I …’

  Harry’s head was all over the place. He was keen to help Charlie, but getting jumped had turned him into a wreck.

  ‘I’m sorry this is so messed up,’ he said.

  ‘I should never have dragged you into this,’ Charlie said slowly. ‘I just wanted you to know it’s over. Have a nice life, Harry.’

  ‘Wait,’ Harry said. ‘Don’t go.’

  Part of him was terrified of what might happen if he stayed involved, but Charlie needed him. And though they’d never had a normal conversation he’d felt a connection when they hugged.

  ‘Yesterday, you said you didn’t have a single real friend,’ Harry said. ‘I’m not exactly fighting pals off since I moved here. So, I could write you, or send stuff you need like chocolate, or deodorant?’

  ‘Are you saying I stink?’