‘Hello, I was trying to locate Captain Roger Sumner,’ he said.
‘Yes? There’s no one here with that name.’
The woman’s voice was reserved, and Jack could almost feel the mistrust over the phone line.
‘Oh, damn. I wanted Roger’s forwarding address.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to call up in the morning, then, sir.’
‘What time is it there?’
‘It is past eight thirty,’ the voice told him rather primly.
‘Oh, God, I’m sorry,’ he said, smiling. He had heard that smiling while talking on the phone could be heard in a man’s voice. ‘I’m a fool. I’m here in Nevada, you see, and was hoping to see Roger while I was here. We served in Afghanistan together, you see. He was a great guy. Such a shame about his injuries – he lost his arm. Anyway, I wanted to see him again, but I cannot find his name anywhere. I suppose he’s staying in a hotel.’
‘Are you with the press, then?’
‘Christ, no! I’m a salesman now. I got out when I could. You know, after seeing all my mates injured I couldn’t cope with it any more. And it was partly Roger who helped. He put me in touch with my company, so, well, I owe him a lot.’
He could sense the thaw.
‘I’m very sorry, Mr…?’
‘My name is Rod Avon. I was a lieutenant back then, though!’
‘Well, Lieutenant, I am very sorry, but I cannot see what I can do.’
‘It was just a try. I wanted to see him again, like I said, but if I can’t track him down, that’s it. Thanks for your help, anyway.’
‘It was terrible how they ruined him,’ she said.
‘He tried to help so many,’ Jack agreed, waiting. She was making a decision.
Then: ‘Look, if you don’t tell anyone…’
‘I won’t,’ he promised.
‘He did write to us when he left the hospital, and it’s on the notice board. Can you wait a mo?’
Jack waited with the excitement thrilling in his blood. He heard footsteps disappearing, and in his mind’s eye he could see slim legs marching purposefully along a linoleum-covered floor, and then he heard them returning.
‘Mr Avon? I have an address. Do you have a pen?’
Friday 23rd September
17.42 Las Vegas; 01.42 London
Ed Stilson flew into McCarran late in the afternoon, and he was in a bad mood, not that it was obvious to the casual observer. His blue eyes were as calm as ever – there was a coolness about them – but it was more an appearance of aloofness, rather than an indication of coldness in his soul. The steel grey hair gave him the look of a manager, but one who had succeeded and was an achiever. It was smartly cut and unfashionably long, for many, but it suited him and his square, rugged features.
He strode purposefully along the terminal’s walkways, his eyes noting with humour the three pensioners who sat at their slot machines pulling the handles, before walking through to the baggage claim. Soon he was out at the entrance hall, and hailing a cab.
Ed Stilson had been in the CIA for as long as Amiss himself. He was a firm patriot, and there was nothing that made him so angry as the thought of any man trying to harm his nation. He believed in the superiority of American culture with every fibre in his being, and he had dedicated his life to the protection of it.
It was good to be back in Vegas. He tried to get here once a year for a weekend, and each time he would bring a thousand bucks to lose. He never expected to win at the tables, but over a weekend he could live like a king. He enjoyed that.
It was a shame that this time he didn’t have money to burn.
He took the cab to the car rental, and hired a Chrysler with his company card. Soon he was on the highway heading towards Paradise Valley. He had an urgent meeting to conduct before he could go to Sumner, and he dialled the number as he drove.
The phone rang four times, and he clenched his jaw. Bing was a lazy, useless prick at the best of times, but he wouldn’t dare to cross Ed Stilson.
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s me. I need something from you.’
‘You know where I am.’
The line went dead.
Ed smiled to himself without humour. This should take little time. He gunned the motor and the car shot forward.
Paradise Valley was a good neighbourhood, or this part was. Ed drove up to the driveway, a series of concrete slabs in front of the three car garage, shut off the engine and climbed out, pulling his jacket on as he went. Ed’s was a modern, bright, house in Spanish style, with the thick corrugations of the tiles on the roof. Palms dotted the road, and Ed looked about him as he walked up to the door. This place was good – far too good for a cheap punk who made his way to this street via drugs and gun running. But then, most of the men who built Las Vegas made their money from drugs and prostitution so Bing was in good company.
‘Hey, come in, Ed. Good to see ya.’
‘Hi, Bing,’ Stilson said, as he crossed the threshold. The hall was wide, with tiled floors and plants in large vases giving the impression of coolness. From the Mediterranean decoration Stilson would have expected to see a Grecian woman appear clad in a linen tunic, but instead there was a brunette who appeared in a doorway, wrecked. She had large brown eyes, but they were bruised from drugs and lack of sleep, and any beauty she might once have claimed was long gone.
‘Get back inside, Ruth,’ Bing snapped and, as she turned away, he jerked his head to the patio. ‘Come and tell me what you need.’
Bing was so called because his surname was Crosbie. That was as far as any similarity went with the singer. He was short, with a head of dreadlocked hair that was constantly moving about his face as though it was alive. His complexion was sallow and unhealthy looking, and his eyes bloodshot. Ed was convinced that he took drugs too often to be entirely free of them. Now he had a slight twitch about him, as though he was desperate to dispose of Ed and return to ingesting whatever it was that he and Ruth had been trying. His fingers flicked and twiddled as though he was rolling an imaginary joint, and he leaned forward with enthusiasm as he sat, as if on tenterhooks to satisfy whatever Ed needed.
‘I need a throwdown piece.’
‘Right, right. Throwdown piece.’
‘Something can’t be traced back to me,’ Ed continued.
‘Yeah, right. Like, you want to have a gangbanger’s toy? Big piece or little?’
Ed had been thinking about this.
‘A Saturday night special would be fine. Something like a Mauser HSc or Walther PPK, or small calibre Beretta.’
‘Man, got nothin’ like that,’ Bing said, his head shaking slowly. ‘No, but, like, you need it to be a real old one?’
‘Just something that is impossible to trace.’
‘Got the thing, man. Just the thing. You wait there, while I get it, yeah?’
He was up and away so fast, Ed knew full well he was off to test some more drugs as well as fetch the gun. Ed settled in his seat. He could wait.
It was almost five minutes when he returned, an old shoebox in his hands.
‘Oh, this is sweet! Sweet!’ he crowed as he passed the box to Ed.
Taking it, Ed was pleased with the weight – clearly not a heavy gun. He opened the box and pulled out a revolver. It was much like the police .38s of the last century. Shit, some of the old arses still used them now in New York. But this wasn’t a Smith & Wesson or Colt.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s had all markings taken off, hasn’t it?’ Bing grinned. ‘It was taken from a Mex bringing in some friends to work over here. I reckon it’s a Brazilian, you know, a Taurus. Kinda looks like it, eh? Fires .357 or .38. No serial, no registration over here, no traces. Use it and lose it!’
‘Good. Do you have any others? A spare would always be useful,’ he said.
‘Sure. Same deal?’
‘No. This I want as a reliable piece. What autos do you have?’
It took only another thirty minutes to find what he need
ed. A post-war Springfield manufactured Colt in .45.
‘Ammo?’ he asked, eyeing both guns on the table.
‘How much?’
Ed considered. He didn’t want Bing to have any information that could implicate him. ‘Make it fifty each; a hundred,’ he said.
A hundred rounds would be plenty, he thought.
*
17.46 Las Vegas; 01.46 London
Roger Sumner’s home was not pleasant.
Jack had rented a car, and now he climbed from it and stared about him. Ahead there was a trailer park, filled with statics that must have been there forty, fifty years. It looked like the builders of Las Vegas could have used them when the city was first being planned. With the dry atmosphere, the most that could be said of them was that they had not rusted too much, but that was the best that could be said – by a long way.
The address was scribbled on a shred of paper he’d ripped from a note pad, and now he studied the place before him. There was a low bungalow nearby, and he walked to it, tapping on the screen door.
‘Yeah?’
It was an old man who spoke. He stood at the side of the house, bare-chested, but with cut off blue jeans. On his head was a baseball cap, and the peak shielded his grey eyes from the sun as he peered at Jack.
‘You from IRS? You don’t look like you’re from the IRS.’
‘No. I’m from England. I’m looking for Roger Sumner.’
‘He ain’t here.’
‘I can see that. Could you tell me where he is?’
The old man glanced up at the sky.
‘Reckon he’ll be out near the Strip, probably round the Sahara. Getting some food in before he plays.’
‘When will he be back?’
‘This is Vegas. He’ll be back when he’s broke or it’s daytime.’
Jack nodded. He glanced about.
‘You know which casinos he prefers?’
‘Get to the Sahara and ask the guys. He likes it there.’
Jack thanked him and began to walk back to his car. There was a small group of teenagers near it, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling at the sight of them. They were taking elaborate care not to watch him, he saw, and that diverted his attention from them to his car. There was no obvious damage. The wheels were still on it, but even as he approached it, his thumb on the lock release, he knew something was about to happen.
He moved away from the driver’s door and peered at the car. There were sniggers from the group, and he knew someone was behind him, walking slowly and quietly. He span around, and found himself confronted by three youths. All had baseball caps on at an angle, the peaks turned away, and they had grins on their faces that said they knew he had no chance against three.
Without hesitating, Jack stepped in close. The first youth was surprised, and reacted too slowly. Jack thrust his arm forward, fingers locked, and the youth grabbed for his throat, gasping painfully as he hurtled backwards. The second was pulling something from behind his back, and Jack grabbed his elbow, snapping it forwards with all the force he could muster. There was a dry snapping as the shoulder was dislocated, and a scream came from him as Jack continued pulling the ruined arm, taking the little pistol from his holster, and pointing it at the third youth.
His eyes took in the handgun with eyes that widened as Jack dropped the second sobbing youth and walked forward until the barrel was resting on the lad’s forehead.
‘Drop your gun.’
‘I don’t have one,’ the boy faltered.
‘Turn.’
He did, and Jack made sure he was telling the truth. All he had was a switchblade, and Jack threw it hard to land some thirty yards away in the scrubby soil. Then he walked back to his car, paying no attention to the group of teens. He pressed the key to unlock it, climbed in, and drove off, tossing the pistol from his open window when he was some yards away.
*
17.47 Las Vegas: 01.47 London
Frank Rand went to the local FBI office as soon as he had landed with Debbie and two other agents from his team.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked him as they pushed through the glass doors into a cool atrium.
‘First we’ll request all the assistance we can get, then we’ll check all the casinos, all the bars, everywhere until we find this British prick!’
‘He’s kinda got under your skin, hasn’t he?’ she chuckled throatily.
‘I don’t like guys who run around causing trouble.’
‘But looks like he’s the one being run around.’
‘Yeah. And that itself makes me wonder what the hell’s going on here,’ Frank said. They were at the lifts now, and he pressed the button, glancing down at her. ‘Look, if all these guys want to whack him, why is that, do you reckon? If he’s innocent, what’d they need to do it for? He’s just a poor bum with a face that looks like one of their enemies or something? I don’t buy it. No, he’s got something on them, whoever “them” are, and if he was legit, he’d have told us, wouldn’t he? So he’s dirty too. That’s how I see it. And since the Brits say he’s a murderer over there, well, I guess I’ll take their word for it.’
‘Right, right, Frank. Sorry I asked.’
He grinned at her.
‘What do you think, Debbie?’
‘Me? Since you ask, I think he’s defending himself. But he’s, like, a loose cannon. We should shoot the fuckwit as soon as we see him. He’s attracting risks all the way and soon some innocents will get killed. He killed two guys back in Seattle when they were both carrying. The only gun he had, you’d taken from him in Anchorage. So I reckon he’s pretty dangerous.’
‘Yeah,’ Frank said. He remembered the face sitting opposite him in the bar at the Hilton. But the eyes he saw there were not the cold, calculating eyes of a murderer. He could have sworn that Jack Case was not a murderer.
But anyone could kill given the right set of circumstances. They all knew that.
The lift opened and they went up, Debbie staring at the dial as the numbers changed.
‘So?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘You don’t think he’s a threat, do you? You reckon he may be a good guy stuck in trouble, but he’s not a threat.’
He frowned, eyes narrowing.
‘You repeat that sort of bull and I’ll have you…’
‘In your dreams, Frank. In your dreams.’
*
18.42 Las Vegas; 02.42 London
Stilson drove to the address he had for Sumner. There was a whole load of traffic today, and he was forced to sit with his teeth clenched, his fingers angrily tapping at the wheel as he kept a close eye on the car behind. Should be OK, but he couldn’t take any risks. The sun was a problem, too. He hadn’t thought of that, but now, sitting in a line of cars, there was a risk of the heat making more trouble for him.
There was nothing he could do. He was committed now. Bing had tried to threaten him with exposure, and he had to make it clear blackmail wasn’t going to work.
The ammunition was good. Bing had brought him jacketed hollow-point Hornady FTX in .357 Magnum and .45 ACP. The shells had nickel-bright cartridge cases, with copper-coloured bullet heads. Each had a small red polymer insert in the hollow of the slug itself. Bing swore that they’d expand well and penetrate even through denim or leather, and the little polymer plug made the lead swell more reliably each time. Sure looked like they worked. He was tempted to buy some back home and test them on the range at fifty and seventy five yards, just to see what they were like over distance.
In front the vehicles were moving again, and he gave a grunt of satisfaction. On the passenger seat he had his satnav, and the voice gave him the turnoff warning. In ten more minutes he’d passed onto the slip road and was trundling along at a good speed again. There was a set of lights at the bottom, and he looked around carefully before stepping on the accelerator and heading off to Sumner’s.
It was a shabby dump. He had always hated trailer parks. The rednecks and
bitches living here ought to be shot at birth. Half were druggies, and the ones who weren’t spent their lives drinking beer instead of working. This wasn’t the American dream; this was a human garbage tip. He’d be happier when he was out of it. Pulling on his sunglasses, he stepped from the car, slipping into his lightweight suit jacket and tugging it over his holstered Springfield. The revolver was in his pants pocket.
Stopping in front of the entrance way, he decided the bungalow was the best place to start, and walked to the door and banged.
‘Anyone home?’
There were some kids out in front, and he smiled at them. Two looked sullen and dangerous, while a third kicked the rear tyre on his sedan. Two girls were nearby. Screw them.
The door opened.
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m looking for Mr Sumner. You know where he is?’
‘How many more a you assholes goin’ to come here botherin’ me about that prick?’
‘Look, I’m just trying to find him, is all. How many others have been here already?’ Stilson said, putting his hand to his inner pocket.
The old fool whipped out a .38 revolver. Stilson saw it, and his training kicked in. He wouldn’t let an old fuck like this shoot him. He pushed his left hand out, grabbed the gun hand as it came up, and shoved it to the side, past his body, while his right hand drew his Springfield smoothly and rested the barrel on the old fart’s temple.
‘You wanna die?’
Stilson took the .38 from the old fool and reholstered his gun. This was going to be easier than he’d thought. He forced the man backwards into his sitting room. It was worse than he would have expected, a fetid square room with plastic-covered sofa and chairs facing an old TV. A rug with black burn marks where cigarettes had been stubbed. At the side of the TV was a series of VHS tapes with porn films, from the look of the covers, spilling over the rug. All reeked of old tobacco and sweat.
The old man stumbled, and fell into a chair.
Act of Vengeance Page 26