And now, finally, after several blown attempts at winning Victoria’s affection, he was nearly there.
Because Joel had once again discovered his princess’s location.
And this time, he would not fail. He would put everything he had learned from his past attempts to good use.
Joel switched on the radio and sang/rapped along with Eminem as his battered Le Mans entered the Las Vegas city limits. He had never before visited this city of sin and decadence, but had already decided it was the perfect backdrop for everything he had planned for Victoria Welling. He would enjoy her, oh yes he would, but she must also pay for all that she had put him through over the years.
All the suffering.
All the time spent under lock and key, jailed like a common criminal.
He rubbed his eyes and yawned. He was dog-tired but justifiably proud of himself. He had made it from Brooklyn to Vegas in less than three full days. It was an impressive accomplishment made even more so by the fact that his car seemed constantly on the verge of giving up the ghost.
None of that mattered now, however. Joel wheeled into the parking lot of his chosen motel and nosed into the nearest spot. Killed the engine and shuffled into the office. He had selected the Cactus Motel not for its amenities—there didn’t seem to be any—but rather for its proximity to his sweetheart’s apartment.
That physical closeness was all he cared about. The place could have been a cockroach-infested shithole—and by the looks of the place, it probably was—but as far as Joel was concerned it was the fucking Taj Mahal.
All he needed was a place to lay his head and catch up on his rest, so that he could begin putting his plan in motion. It was well past time he reintroduced himself to Victoria Welling. He couldn’t wait to get started.
8
Jack had learned long ago that there was never any shortage of people who wanted someone dead. Never any shortage of people willing to pay someone else to make that someone dead, either.
And while many of The Organization’s potential assignments were things Jack wouldn’t have touched with a twenty-foot pole, that still left plenty that fit his criteria. He knew it was probably the ultimate in self-deception for a hired assassin to claim any sense of morality, but nevertheless that was exactly what Jack did.
He limited the practice of his unique occupation to those in society who fit a set of stringent personal criteria: men and the occasional woman who had demonstrated in no uncertain terms—and usually many times over—that they possessed zero regard for the welfare of other human beings. People like the drug dealer in Somerville Jack had sent on to his ultimate reward a few days ago. Jack hadn’t learned the man’s name because he hadn’t cared to know the man’s name.
In his long career dealing with the lowest forms of societal detritus, Jack had learned that the old saw about murders being committed for one of only two reasons—money or sex—was an old saw because it was, in fact, almost always true.
Thus he was utterly unsurprised to find that his latest assignment would take him to Las Vegas, the American shrine dedicated to the pursuit of both money and sex. Jack had worked a couple of jobs in Vegas in the past. It seemed unsavory people were forever doing depraved things to other people in that city, thereby dooming themselves to anonymous desert burials.
This latest assignment involved a low-level mobster slated for elimination by his own gangland family thanks to a messy scenario involving sexual indiscretions with the wife of a rival family’s head man. That suicidal bout of lunacy had been followed smartly—or, to be more accurate, stupidly—by the woman’s brutal murder at her lover’s hands.
In an attempt to avoid an all-out gang war, the Vegas family was hoping to distance themselves from the murderous letch in their employ by contracting the hit out rather than performing it themselves. According to Mr. Stanton, their request to The Organization had been for a death that appeared accidental, or at least one that avoided directing any unnecessary attention at them.
When packing for his flight, Jack had not even considered attempting to smuggle a gun aboard the airplane. That would have been risky prior to September 11, 2001 and was simply out of the question now.
But it didn’t matter. He wasn’t yet sure how he would arrange for the completion of his task—he would have to wait until arriving on-site and accomplishing some research and reconnaissance to figure that out—but if he changed his mind and decided he needed a weapon, acquiring one would be a simple matter. The Organization had contacts in every major city, at least in all of the ones Jack had ever worked, and he knew he could have virtually any firepower he might need in his hands within a matter of hours.
With that in mind, he packed light, as he always did when working. Better to carry a small bag onto the airplane and then buy clothes on-site, destroying or discarding them when the job was done, than to have to wait for checked baggage at the destination and possibly bring evidence of felony murder home in his luggage.
Jack worked at his computer, finalizing travel plans that would take him though an intermediary destination—in this case, Pittsburgh—rather than direct to Las Vegas. Flying through at least one stopover city and sometimes more was a simple way to avoid leaving a direct trail for the authorities to follow, and Jack always planned his travel carefully.
Also critical to an operation’s success was the judicious use of false identities. Mr. Stanton had always provided as many credit cards, driver’s licenses, etc. prior to the start of an assignment as Jack thought he might need. Money was no object. Nor should it be, Jack thought, given how much The Organization was charging clients for their services.
For this assignment, Jack’s plan was to use one identity to fly to Pittsburgh, and then a second to complete the trip to Vegas. Upon (hopefully) successful completion of the job, Jack would use the same method to return: two entirely separate identities and a different intermediate city, then a flight into Logan to be followed by the drive north to New Hampshire.
Jack used one of his disposable credit cards to purchase the ticket for the first leg of his trip, and then he powered down his computer and tossed a change of clothes and some personal items into a carry-on bag.
After agreeing to work for The Organization, it had taken him a long time to get comfortable with the idea of planning felonies on his personal laptop. But, as with all areas of its operation, The Organization spared no expense to protect its operatives—and itself—from unnecessary risk. Jack was provided a unique and highly secure Internet service that bounced off servers on four different continents, the signal scrambled and then re-scrambled, rendering the electronic footprint anonymous.
Additionally, a cloaking device, so top secret it was supposed to be available only to select NSA and CIA operatives, had been stolen or purchased or otherwise acquired by The Organization. It shielded the information on Jack’s hard drive from even the most skilled forensic computer analysis, and once a day eliminated all traces of his electronic activity from the laptop.
Everything.
After a career spent working in the ultimate risky business, Jack Sheridan knew he was as safe with his current employer as it was possible to be. He knew also that The Organization didn’t provide their people with such support because they gave a damn about their welfare. It was strictly a matter of self-preservation, so if Jack eventually screwed up and was caught or killed under suspicious circumstances, his link to The Organization would be untraceable and forever hidden.
Jack knew all this; he just didn’t care. He was a businessman, after all, and understood the unspoken agreement implicit in relations between an independent contractor and his employer. Each side must bring an item of value to the table, and when that stopped being the case, the arrangement would end. The ultimate symbiotic relationship.
Now ready, Jack picked up the carry-on and walked to his truck. He figured he had just enough time to make one quick stop before heading to Logan and boarding his flight to Pittsburgh.
***
When he hired on with The Organization so long ago, Jack had felt that his wandering days were over. He would have to travel for work, of course, but in between jobs he wanted some stability. He wanted to put down roots for the first time in his life since childhood, so he bought a tiny ranch house in a tiny town in southern New Hampshire that was close enough to Boston via Interstate 93 to make meeting with Mr. Stanton convenient, but isolated enough to provide Jack with the solitude he craved when not working.
And that arrangement had satisfied him until very recently. Lately, though, Jack had begun feeling his age. Thirty-six was considered young in most occupations, but the skills critical to the success of a hired assassin—reflexes and stamina, among others—tended to be most abundant in youth, and lately Jack had begun to feel less like a thirty-something than a sixty-something.
He was starting to feel the first nagging sensations of doubt in his own ability, the first inklings that perhaps it was time to close up shop and begin looking for another career. Maybe it was time to think in terms of life span and quality of life.
He was lonely.
Jack Sheridan had been recruited into the highly secretive military organization that had served as the springboard to his current career shortly after his eighteenth birthday. In the nearly two decades since, secrecy and isolation had formed the overarching principles of his life. There had been relationships, but all had been short-lived, and all doomed to failure, as Jack was forced to guard his privacy zealously.
And there was another factor to consider. What kind of man could subject any woman he cared about to the danger and the constant, unrelenting stress of the life of a professional killer?
So the few romantic relationships he had tried to cultivate over the years had fallen apart quickly, leaving him with a sense of loneliness and bitterness that had only grown with each failure. He guessed he couldn’t hope to find a soul mate until he had effected a career change. Even then, maybe it was too late.
Jack chewed on these issues as he climbed into his truck and drove downtown. He had intentionally purchased a seat on a late-morning departure out of Logan so that he would have time to stop for breakfast at his favorite restaurant, the Three Squares Diner.
The food at the Three Squares was mouth-watering, the atmosphere warm and inviting, and the diner was located conveniently close to Jack’s home. But none of those factors explained why he was such a devoted customer.
He loved the Three Squares for one reason: its owner, Edie Tolliver. Edie had owned the Squares for as long as Jack had lived here, and he found the longtime owner/cook/waitress enchanting. She was strong and independent, friendly and beautiful. She carried a few scars from her past—who didn’t by the time they reached their mid-thirties?—but those imperfections only served to make her more attractive to him, not less.
Jack walked through the front door and smiled as Edie spotted him immediately from behind the cash register and sent an enthusiastic wave his way. He guessed she was a few years younger, maybe early thirties. She was petite, with blonde, shoulder-length hair and a shapely body that suggested long hours working out at the gym, although Jack knew Edie spent virtually all of her spare time at home with her young daughter.
There was no Mr. Tolliver. Edie’s husband had run off with one of the diner’s previous waitresses years ago, shortly after Jack’s arrival in town. “And good riddance to him,” was all she would ever commit to on the subject. Her husband had left the little restaurant on the verge of bankruptcy, but over time, Edie brought it back from the brink through hard work and sheer force of will.
Edie Tolliver was beautiful and friendly, but Jack had no doubt she could be as tough as nails when she needed to be. She had what the old-timers called “pluck.” Jack was fascinated by her.
She finished ringing up her customer and then stepped out from behind the register to seat Jack. He knew there was a hostess somewhere in the place, but even if she had seen Jack enter, she wouldn’t have bothered to come over. Edie always insisted on serving Jack herself.
“So, Mr. Big Shot Businessman, how long are you going to be in town this time before you go running off again?” All she knew about Jack was that he was some sort of “corporate fixer,” which was as much as he was comfortable letting anyone know. And the job title was reasonably accurate, all things considered.
She led him through the diner and as he followed he took full advantage of the opportunity to watch her walk. It was mesmerizing. “I’m actually on my way out of town even as we speak,” he said.
They reached an empty table and she turned to face him. She moved with such quickness and grace he didn’t have time to lift his gaze from her butt without her noticing. She grinned wickedly but said nothing.
For a second.
Then she handed him a menu and said, “Let me know if you see anything you like.”
She winked and walked away and Jack shook his head, embarrassed and pleased at the same time. He slid into the booth and a moment later Edie was back, carrying a steaming cup of coffee. “Since you’re as predictable as the sunrise, and I assume you’re in a hurry if you’re on your way to an appointment, I took the liberty of putting in your order for you.”
Jack accepted the coffee gratefully and returned the menu. “Oh, really? What am I having today?”
“The usual: a three-egg ham and cheese omelet, side of home fries, white toast and coffee.”
Jack nodded and Edie said, “Well? How did I do?”
“Perfect, as usual.”
Edie grinned and said, “Be sure to let me know if I can do anything else for you.” Then she walked away, leaving Jack with wide eyes and his mouth hanging open.
He wasn’t so surprised he didn’t watch her walk away, though. He just couldn’t help himself.
He was half-expecting it when she whirled and winked at him again. Then she disappeared into the kitchen and Jack dug into his food.
9
Twelve miles south of Las Vegas, in the dusty suburb of Overton, Nevada, Victoria Welling was preparing for work while her overmatched window-mounted air conditioner fought a losing battle against the blast-furnace Nevada heat. A piano player at a small lounge on the outskirts of Vegas called Tequila Mockingbird, Victoria knew she had to be on the road within twenty minutes or risk being late. And her manager—a pasty-faced kid named Paul, who looked as though he should be roaming the halls of a local junior high rather than running a tavern—hated tardiness more than just about anything else.
Victoria stepped out of the shower and wrapped a threadbare Elton John towel around her body. The towel had been a gift from her parents more than six years earlier, as she was leaving home in Reading, Pennsylvania to attend the prestigious Juilliard School of Music in Manhattan.
In the beginning, playing piano had been a chore. She was strong-armed into taking lessons at the age of eight by her mother, who believed firmly in exposing children to the benefits of music. Despite her initial reluctance, Victoria quickly became spellbound by the world of beauty her instructor was able to create out of thin air using only her fingers on a keyboard.
She was hooked.
Victoria practiced every day on her own, without being told, and soon her instructor was telling Victoria’s mother that she had a real, live prodigy on her hands. Victoria had no idea what that meant, of course; all the eight year old girl knew was that she intended to devote her life to music.
And that was exactly what she had done.
She finished drying off with her Elton John towel, the ratty piece of cloth so old it did little more than push the moisture around Victoria’s body. She knew she should have thrown the thing in the trash years ago, and in fact had rarely used it upon her arrival in New York. The idea of Elton John’s face being pressed into her naked body had seemed more than a little weird at the time.
But after the accident that had taken the lives of both her parents, that same towel had instantly transformed into one of Victoria’s most prized possessions
. It was the last gift her mom had ever given her, and one she was determined to keep as long as she possibly could.
She dropped the towel to the floor, feeling her eyes fill with tears as they nearly always did when thinking of her parents. Why the heck do you torture yourself like this? Just get rid of the damned towel; Mom and Dad wouldn’t care!
The thought had barely flashed through her mind when she knew she would do no such thing. Ever. At least not until the day the cheap cotton simply disintegrated in her hands and fell to the floor as a bunch of thread.
Victoria shook her head, angry with herself at her emotional fragility even now, years after the accident. She dried her lustrous riot of red hair, the ringlets of curls cascading over her shoulders almost as if by magic as she shook her head. Then she slipped into her work uniform: a traditional black-and-white tuxedo. She hated the thing, was certain it made her look like the world’s tallest, skinniest, reddest-headed penguin, but there was no alternative, short of quitting her job and moving on.
She liked it here. She didn’t want to leave. But Victoria knew the day was coming when she would have to do exactly that.
And soon.
Because yesterday, driving home from the grocery store, she caught a glimpse of her worst nightmare on the outskirts of the city. She had done a double take at the sight of the man walking along the edge of the road, unable to believe her eyes at first glance.
She looked again, more closely, and then a third time as she drove past, willing herself to see someone else.
But it wasn’t someone else.
It was him. Joel Stark. He had found her again.
This day was inevitable, one she had known for months was coming, and she had convinced herself she was ready for when it arrived.
She had been wrong.
A shudder ran through Victoria’s body, shaking her tall, slim frame from head to toe as she pictured him, on the prowl again, lurking somewhere in the desert like a coiled rattlesnake. He was ready to strike, ready to flush her out of hiding once again.
The Organization Page 5
