by Jim Heskett
Seven days. Hopefully sooner. His daughter and her mother would be back from Paris in eight, and he’d prefer to have a couple days of buffer.
As Layne zipped up his jacket and threw the hood over his head, he lumbered out into the deeper snow to forge a path to his bungalow. Unlike Colorado, the snow here was wet and had a certain satisfying crunch to it. Chunks flew up behind him, kicked up by his boots as he trudged across the campus.
And, as soon as he ventured out into the open, he felt eyes on him. In the blinding white light of the snow, he couldn’t see much of anything to corroborate the notion.
But he could feel the eyes.
2
When Layne pulled back the door to the bungalow, he caught Harry Boukadakis in a fluffy bathrobe, running a towel through his mop of brown hair. Surprised expression on his face.
“Comfy?” Layne said as he shut the door behind him and shed his heavy coat.
Harry sniggered as he folded the towel on the back of a chair. “Just because we’re here for a thing doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself.”
“And, you got a head start on it.”
“Housekeeping let me in early.”
Layne crossed his arms. “How did you manage that?”
“I’m charming and relatable. Service workers look at me, and they feel a kinship that goes beyond words. They can see the lack of managerial experience in my eyes.”
Layne dropped Harry’s passport on the bed, the one that claimed his name was Harvey Brown. “Well, you’re all checked in now, Mr. Brown.”
Harry frowned at the passport as he smoothed his hair. “Thanks for doing that. You didn’t, um, tell them we’re a… couple, did you?”
Layne smirked. “Would that be a problem?”
“No, no, of course not,” Harry said, shaking his head vehemently. “It’s just that, you know, I’m not sure how my wife would feel about it.”
Layne pulled a plastic tube from his pocket and popped a nicotine lozenge in his mouth as he slid into a chair. “I’m not going to tell them.”
“Okay.”
“How is your wife, by the way?”
“Good, good,” Harry said. “Ups and downs, you know?”
When Layne raised an eyebrow at this, Harry said, “I’ve come to understand that the problem with relationships is this: men have no filter when they speak, while women say everything through a filter.”
“That sounds about right.”
“But, I’ve been married long enough to know that love is doing the dishes.”
“That’s true. But, don’t worry. I didn’t tell them we’re a couple. I mean, I didn’t tell them we’re not a couple, but I didn’t tell them we are. There’s nothing in our operation parameters that says we have to convince people we’re here as a couple.”
Besides, Layne didn’t think anyone would assume they were together. Layne was forty, north of six feet, about two-fifty, with nary an ounce of fat on his bulky frame. Fair-haired and square-jawed. Harry was barely pushing 5’8”, a few years older and about the same weight as Layne, but he kept it in entirely different places on his body.
Harry looked like he hadn’t graced the interior of a gym in twenty years. And that was fine with Layne because Harry hadn’t joined him on this operation to display his wealth of martial arts skills.
Shaking the snow off his boots, Layne said, “As far as anyone knows, we’re two white American guys here for a little R&R up north of the border.”
The pudgy hacker cinched his bathrobe tight and slid onto the bed. “It’s good to work with you again, Boy Scout.”
Layne scowled, which made Harry chuckle. “No matter how much you shy away from it, that nickname is yours, from now until the end of time. It’ll be even more pronounced, now that you’re back.”
“I’m not back,” Layne said, “if that’s what you were thinking. This is a one-time thing.”
“Another one?”
Layne sighed. “That’s right. I’m not twenty-five anymore, willing to rush into a fire just because I’m ordered to do it. My life has different priorities.”
“Sure, I get it. Now, check this out,” Harry said as he tilted his head toward the window in the back of the living room area. Layne followed him to a large window overlooking an open expanse of snow that ended in a line of trees a few thousand feet away. He pointed toward a small building to the rear of the main lodge. A log cabin adorned with a red plus sign. “There’s an infirmary here. Does that seem a bit strange?”
“Yeah, a little. Could be necessary if the roads get too snowy to travel. I mean, being injured up here with no way to travel down the mountain could be a problem.”
Harry crossed the room and picked up the passport Layne had dropped. He slid it into the back pocket of his pants, splayed out next to him on the bed. “Tell me why we’re here, Layne.”
Layne wandered over to the front window, looking out on the retreat center campus grounds. A couple dozen bungalows, a spa building, conference center, smaller classroom buildings, tennis courts, and lots of open space covered in pure, mushy snow. All of it set against the craggy snow-capped peaks of the Brackendale Eagles Provincial Park.
Layne pointed at a man and a woman, swathed in coats and hats, trudging through the snow. Wind whipping against them, their faces scrunched up to protect their exposed skin from the elements. “Two of the most recent people indicted in this whole mess were guests at this retreat center.”
“You think we’re going to find the ringleader among the staff?”
“The staff and owners were vetted and came back clean. We might find something to point to another guest, or a clue about how to find them, or something. A piece of evidence left behind, maybe. Our op guidelines are wide-open at this point since we don’t know what kind of evidence we’re going to uncover.”
“Seems shaky.”
The couple out front still fought against the snow. The woman almost slipped, and the man’s hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist. He managed to keep her from sinking to the ground, barely. In a flash, three retreat center employees were on them, one helping the lady regain her balance, the second speed-shoveling snow in front of them, and the third spreading salt across the area to provide grit on their newly shoveled walkway.
Layne’s thoughts drifted to his daughter Cameron, playing in the snow near his cabin in South Fork, Colorado. Just down the street where the road curved back around a cul-de-sac, they would go sledding. She wasn’t big enough to occupy a sled by herself, and that was fine with Layne. He liked being able to hold her, how her little mittened hands clenched his pant legs as the sled coasted down the hill.
“While Serena does her thing down in Seattle,” Layne said, “this is what we’re doing here. Our part.”
“In near-freezing temperatures and never-ending snow. I don’t want to sound too complainy, but I didn’t picture myself playing hippie games on a mountaintop this week while my family is a thousand miles away.”
“Their gym is nice.”
Harry scoffed, and Layne rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie, exposing the tattoos blanketing both of his arms. He looked down at two cherubs, one on each forearm, mirroring each other. “Well, Harry. It’s what has to be done. If that’s what it takes to expose these bastards.”
3
Serena Rojas ran her hands down the sides of her evening gown to smooth out the wrinkles above her hips. Not only was she not an evening gown sort of woman, but the cold and wet Seattle winter night reminded her how little coverage it provided. But shivering wasn’t sexy, and she needed to project oodles of sexy, above all.
The smell of the ocean wafted in front of her face like smoke. That, however, she did enjoy. The air here was a lot cooler than the South Texas beaches she’d grown up around, but ocean was ocean. The sand and waves reminded her a little of home. All of it was good.
She closed the taxi door behind her and accepted a credit card receipt from the driver. Then, she turned to the unmarked, nondescript black
door wedged between the Lenora Street Bodega and Renny’s Fish Market. This late in the evening, both businesses were closed.
She whipped out her phone and turned on the selfie camera for one last appearance check as the taxi slinked away into the night. Serena ran a hand through her long brown hair to work out a few kinks, and she also adjusted the thigh holster to ensure the Glock 26 didn’t produce a noticeable bump under her gown. Another way this attire seemed inconvenient.
But, if the shit hit the fan, the inconvenience of the concealed pistol might be the only way out of this building alive.
The evidence leading her to this venue had been thin. A photo of an Asian man with some known traffickers, an alleged big player in the industry. No name, though. Along with the photo, Serena had acquired flimsy intel that the clandestine card game on the second floor of this building was frequented by such a man.
But, with how often witnesses and evidence went missing in this particular industry, flimsy was as good as she could hope for.
Serena rapped the side of her hand against the door, exactly five times. Ten seconds later, the door opened a crack, and a pair of dim eyes appeared in the darkness on the other side.
“Can I help you?”
Serena took a step back, moving under the light of the street lamp. She pulled her shoulders behind her and pressed her chest forward, to ensure the doorman got a solid look at her cleavage. She also put one foot in front, letting a leg slide through the slit running up the side of her gown.
It worked. The eyes flicked up and down her body, and the door opened a little more. Now, his nose and chin moved into view.
“I’m here for the party,” she said.
“What party?”
“You know the one I’m talking about. Mr. Thompson sent me.”
At the mention of the passphrase, the man opened the door a little further. Serena studied him. Tall, wide, like a box with ears. He leaned out a few inches and checked their surroundings. A handful of pedestrians milled about on the far side of the street, but none of them paid any attention to Serena and her new friend.
“Come on,” he said, waving her inside. The door opened into a stairwell, with only a small space at the bottom, barely big enough for both of them to fit. Lit by a single hanging bulb above. He smelled of pickles and cigarettes, and each breath he exuded made her nostrils clench tighter.
“Hold up, sweetheart,” he said, gripping her by the elbow as she tried to skate past him. Instinct and training told her to jerk her elbow back to pull him off balance, then deliver a swift kick to his nutsack. But instinct was not the best master at a time like this. Instead, she adopted a confused look, batting her eyes at him.
“Purse,” he said.
Serena raised her bag and unclasped it, then held it up to the light. The doorman leaned over and grunted as he picked through the contents. Lipstick, tissues, compact, condom, ten thousand dollars in a tight roll, and a few other bits and pieces.
He flicked his head up the stairs. “That won’t get you far, you know. Your little wad of cash.”
“Don’t worry, darling,” she said in a light and playful sort of voice. “I’m planning on leaving with a lot more than I came here with tonight.”
He scoffed and chuckled, and she took that as her cue to ascend the stairs. She let out a breath as soon as she was beyond his reach. Even the most cursory of pat-downs would have revealed her Glock.
Serena wasn’t used to throwing her sex around on jobs. She’d had only the most basic courses in seduction training. Maybe fifteen hours total, and even then, she’d never enjoyed it enough to give it her full attention.
But, she’d pulled it off. Distasteful, yes, but it had worked.
At the door at the top of the stairs, she reapplied her lipstick and blotted it with a tissue from the purse. Ready to go. She spent a couple seconds smiling, but she couldn’t make it feel as natural as she would’ve liked.
Serena opened the door into a smoke-filled room, large and open. A dozen card tables lined the space, dark, with lights hanging low enough to obscure the faces of most of the suited men at those tables. Like something out of a 1970s movie.
The gender makeup of those playing was entirely male. A few pieces of arm candy stood beside those men, but none of them were seated at the tables. This irked her. She wanted to rip the place up just out of principle.
There were eight armed guards in the room, barely bothering to hide their weapons. Each wore an armpit holster. Suit coats unbuttoned to make sure the guns were visible. The guards were spaced out along the boundaries of the room, each monitoring two tables, given how their eyes swept back and forth like surveillance cameras.
With the low lighting, no way could she play wallflower and hope to spot her target. She’d have to make a sweep through the room, which would seem too suspicious. She could ask a guard how to find the restroom to position her closer to a table, but that would also look suspicious. Either way, she would encounter risk.
So, she held her head high and strutted across the room, pretending like she knew exactly where she was going. But her eyes darted left and right, seeking the Asian man with the bright blue eyes. The alleged power player in the trafficking game. The money man.
At least, if the flimsy intel of a single photograph and some confidential informant rumors could be believed.
Passing the first guard, he paid no attention. The second guard, though, cocked his head and followed her steps, hovering a few feet behind. Damn. Serena did her best to avoid looking at him, but he didn’t immediately lose interest, as she’d hoped.
His eyes tracked her. She tried to shift her face away from him so he couldn’t catalog her features.
Then, he lifted his sleeve to his mouth and whispered something.
Shit.
She kept slinking forward, rapidly glancing left and right. Running out of time. White guy, white guy, black guy, white guy. Not a single Asian in sight. But he was supposed to be here, wasn’t he? Was the intel bad?
Two guards from opposite sides of the room approached her, marching diagonally on a path to intercept. She considered pivoting and walking away, but it was too late.
She mentally practiced whipping back the side of her gown to unholster the Glock, but she hoped beyond hope she wouldn’t have to.
The target was in this room. Had to be. Serena could feel it.
If she turned this place into a shooting gallery, it might ruin everything. She didn’t want to kill the Asian, she wanted to find him.
“Ma’am,” said one of the guards, a man so young he still had pimples. Barely out of his teen years. Not that Serena was too much older, but he looked like a baby to her.
“Yes?” she said, adopting the most innocent look she could convincingly portray.
“Come with us, please,” said the other one, a grim-looking short guy.
She considered refusing. Making a scene. In the chaos, her target might come forward, emerging from the shadows of these dimly lit tables. Or, the drama might make everyone shuffle toward the door.
With no clean way out of this, she opted for quiet. Maybe there was still a way to salvage what was left of the situation.
“Okay,” she said, keeping her head down to make her face less memorable. “Whatever you say.”
They escorted her toward the back of the room, and she continued her sideways glances at the patrons as she went. But nothing useful appeared. Too many of those present were impossible to see. With the smoke and the low lights, everyone could hide behind the perfect amount of camouflage.
The two guards ushered her into a room beyond the main hall. An office. Serena quickly mapped the room, noting where the guards were standing (one in front of her, one behind) and alternate exits (no windows, one door behind a desk), and filed it all away for later use.
“Is there something we can help you with, ma’am?” asked the young guard. “Something you were looking for in the card room?”
“Mr. Thompson sent me.”
She held her tongue.
"Who referred you?” asked the short guy. “Who in that room behind us can you name?”
Serena moved her foot forward, enough to expose her knee through the gown slit but not enough for the guards to see the thigh holster.
She flexed her hand.
But, before she could make a move, the air changed near her. The short one behind reached out and tried to snatch her by the hair. She jabbed her elbow back and felt it crackle against his nose. He stumbled, bumping into the door with a thunk. But, even worse, he yelped.
That would bring the rest of the guards running to investigate the disturbance behind this closed door. Crap. This kept going from bad to worse.
Time to blow it up.
She reached her other hand down to snatch the Glock from her thigh holster, but the front guard was onto her. He slammed the palm of his hand into her solar plexus, and the air rushed out of her lungs like a balloon deflating. He plucked the gun from her holster and tossed it aside. She could hear it skitter across the floor.
Serena jabbed a fist up, into his chin, which barely seemed to phase him. Then, she drove her knee into his crotch, and that got his attention. His eyes bugged out as she grabbed his shoulders and pushed her knee against his testicles.
By now, the guard behind had recovered, and fingertips latched onto the back of her gown. She pulled forward, tearing the material.
With a shove on his shoulder, she knocked the forward guard out of her way. Her eyes flicked around the room, trying to find where he’d tossed her Glock, but with all the clutter in this office space, she couldn’t see anything.
The door opened behind her. It was too late, anyway. Leave the gun. They wouldn’t be able to tie the pistol to her or the team. And, without a weapon, she only had one choice left to avoid total collapse.
Serena sprinted forward. Gown ripping, purse flapping, she leaped over the desk, sweeping her legs over it. She knocked over a stack of papers and a bowl full of pencils. They clattered to the floor as she slapped a hand on the door and flung it open to find another stairwell, this one leading down into darkness.
