Mirage Man

by Trace Conger

  "I got what I wanted," she said. "Sorry you didn't."

  "How in the hell am I supposed to find Victor now? Eddie was my best lead."

  "He didn't know where he was, Connor. There wasn't anything he could do for you."

  "You don't know that." I returned to Eddie's body and searched his pockets until I found his cell phone. Perhaps there was something in there that would help me locate Victor, or maybe he would call when he was ready to come up for air.

  My only next step was to start down the list of hotels Gretchen gave me and hope I got lucky. Unfortunately, luck hadn't followed me to New York, and I doubted she'd show up now.

  30

  Plan B

  It didn't make sense that Eddie hadn't heard from Victor since Nicky's execution. In this line of work, when people stop returning calls or don't show up for something important, it usually means they're dead. According to Porter, Victor had taken all the right steps not to end up that way. He secured approval from Spiro and Napoli before moving on Nicky, so they wouldn't be behind his sudden disappearance. Sontag had a shorter reach in custody, and while he might be able to orchestrate a takedown against Victor eventually, that was going to take some time. The FBI was another possibility. Valerie didn't mention him when we met at FBI headquarters, but she was unlikely to show her hand even if he was being held in the next room.

  That left Porter.

  I slipped Zoe’s loaner cell phone from my pocket and dialed. Porter answered on the third ring.

  "Where are you?" he asked.

  "I'd rather not say."

  Zoe shifted her ear, trying to catch both sides of the conversation.

  "Eddie Nash is dead," I said. "But he wasn't able to give me anything on Victor's whereabouts before—"

  "I know where he is," said Porter. "I can take you to him. Tell me where you are and I'll send a car."

  Less than twenty-four hours ago, I shoved a .45 in Porter's face and knocked around two of his men. Whatever professional courtesy I’d racked up with Porter over the years had evaporated.

  "Why don't you just tell me where he is? You sending a car doesn't give me a warm feeling. No offense."

  "Then you're in a bit of a jam, because I'm your only way to get to him."

  "Where is he?"

  "Nope. Tell me where you are and I'll send a car."

  Zoe kicked the metal suitcase with the toe of her burgundy stiletto.

  "There's an access alley behind the Gramercy Park Hotel. The loading dock."

  "Fifteen minutes," he said and hung up.

  We walked to the rear of the hotel, next to the commercial trash bin where I had waited for my shuttle to see Dr. Dresden.

  "Why here?" asked Zoe.

  "Because that trash bin will provide some good cover for you."

  "For me?"

  "That's right. I figure I'm worth a million to you alive and nothing dead."

  Zoe didn’t know her duffle was still in the back of my car.

  "You forgot the two hundred I slipped the maid."

  "Still, you've got a financial interest in keeping me alive. Porter doesn't."

  "So what's your plan?"

  "When the car gets here, I shove a gun in the driver's face and demand to know where he's supposed to take me. Then I haul his ass out of the vehicle and drive there alone."

  "And I'm what? Supposed to hold the driver at gunpoint until you come back?"

  "That's right. But more importantly, if the driver isn't alone, and things go south—"

  "They're going to go south, Connor. Your plan is shit."

  "If they do, you'll be in position behind that trash can with that street sweeper to even the odds."

  "It's a shit plan. Let's get out of here and think this through. It'll take some time, but I'll find someone to locate Victor."

  "I don't have much more time. There's a net closing in around me, and the longer I stay in New York, the more likely I am to wind up dead or in federal custody. I have to move now."

  "I don't like it."

  "Noted."

  Zoe rolled her suitcase behind the dumpster and started assembling her assault rifle while I removed the suppressor from my .45 so it would fit inside my front jacket pocket. When I finished, I stuffed both hands in my pockets, leaned against the dumpster and waited like a field mouse scanning for hawks.

  A black sedan with tinted windows eased into the alley a few minutes later.

  "You ready?" I whispered.

  "Uh-huh," said Zoe from behind the dumpster. "Hope you are."

  The car stopped about fifty feet away from me. The driver parked so that the passenger side of the vehicle was perpendicular to the garbage bin. To get in the driver's face, I had to walk around the car, putting the sedan between Zoe and me. I didn't like it, but I didn't have much choice.

  Keeping my hands in my pockets, I walked around the rear of the car to the driver's door. Nitty Ford, Porter's longtime driver, rolled down the window.

  "Get in," he said.

  "Where are we going?"

  He scanned the loading dock. "Get in, Connor."

  I was about to repeat myself when I heard gravel crunching behind me. Another vehicle had pulled in. This one was a navy-blue SUV. It rolled to a stop and two men with MP9 submachine guns stepped out of the back and took cover behind the SUV's rear doors. Had they been with the feds, they would already have me on the ground and would be ordering Nitty out of the sedan. Had they been with a rival clan, they would have already opened fire and Nitty and I would be footnotes in New York's criminal history. But they hadn't arrested us nor opened fire, which meant they were Nitty's backup.

  While I had never fired one, I'd seen MP9s in the Army, and they were nasty weapons. I looked back at the garbage bin. Zoe's assault rifle didn't have a scope; it wasn't meant for long-range work. If she fired at either of the men near the SUV, she'd likely miss. She'd also reveal her position and they'd cut her to shreds. And there I was standing directly in the crossfire.

  Zoe was right. The plan was shit.

  The rear door of Nitty's sedan opened and a man stepped out gripping a double-barreled shotgun. Before I had a chance to recognize him, he slammed the shotgun butt into the side of my head, dropping me to the ground.

  When I came to, I was leaning against the rear passenger window staring at the highway blowing by. My hands were still in my pockets, but my .45 was gone. So was my cell phone. I sat up and rubbed the side of my head.

  "Sorry mate," said the man next to me with the shotgun.

  Nitty watched me in the rearview mirror.

  "Are you taking me to Porter."

  "That's right."

  "Is he going to kill me?"

  "No idea."

  My brain throbbed and my right arm was tingling—possible concussion. I looked out the rear window to see the navy-blue SUV trailing us. The man next to me sat against the other door, the shotgun trained on me.

  I leaned back against the window. The cold glass eased my headache. From the mile marker we passed, I knew we were traveling north on I-95. Even with my cloudy head, our destination was clear—Sontag's beach house.

  I must have blacked out again, because the next thing I knew Nitty was opening the rear car door and catching me as I nearly fell out onto the paver-stone driveway. He helped me up and motioned me toward the front door. I staggered ahead, concentrating on my feet to see if I was walking in a straight line. I wasn't.

  The front door was unlocked. I didn't have to turn around to know the double-barreled shotgun was still aimed at me. Once in the house, I walked down the main hallway toward the back. Porter's bodyguards, the two men I'd jumped at the club, stood in the hall flanking the dining room. One of them rubbed his closed fist, waiting for the order to wreck me.

  It's not often you get to march down the same hallway to your probable death twice. The last time Porter and I were in this house, I was reflecting on my life, convinced I was going to die. This time was different because I knew something Porter d
idn't. Regardless of what he thought was going to happen, I wasn't going to die today.

  I stepped into the dining room, where I saw Victor Tan on his knees in front of the long walnut table.

  Porter leaned against the back wall.

  "Look who I found," he said.

  Victor teetered on his knees, his hands tied behind him.

  "What am I doing here?" I said.

  "You came to New York to find the person who tried to kill you. Here he is."

  "You planning on killing us both?"

  "No. I brought you here so you could finally get what you came to New York for."

  Nitty Ford walked into the dining room and handed Porter my .45. Porter pulled the slide back, checked for a round in the chamber, and then ejected the magazine. He gave the weapon to me with one shot.

  "You brought me here to kill Victor?"

  "That's right. And to discuss your future."

  I thought back to Porter's explanation about Victor asking him to stand down while he orchestrated a takeover of the Sontag Clan. Porter said he agreed because he knew he'd be a liability if he opposed him. But that was all bullshit. He wasn't standing down; he was just delaying his own promotion. He'd let Victor execute his plan, remove all of those soldiers still loyal to Sontag, clear a path to the throne, and then Porter would step in, off Victor and take what he wanted all along. There was just one part that wasn't obvious to me.

  "What about Spiro and Napoli?" I asked.

  "What about 'em?"

  "Aren't they going to be pissed you took out the horse they backed?"

  "Victor was never their frontrunner. When Victor first came to me and pitched his plan, I went to Spiro and Napoli and pitched mine. They never backed him. They backed me. So, no. They're going to be just fine with all this. In fact, they're expecting it. Now, go ahead."

  I shook my head and handed the .45 back to Porter. "Kill him yourself. I'm not your triggerman."

  "You came for revenge. Go ahead and take it."

  "I did come for revenge, but you're not going to play me the way you did Victor. If you want him dead, do it yourself."

  Porter grabbed the weapon from my hand. He placed it to the back of Victor's head and fired. The slug exited the front of Victor's skull and lodged in the baseboard. I stepped back as Victor's body slumped to the side, blood leaking from his head.

  "Now, let's talk about you."

  "There's nothing to talk about, Porter."

  "Sure there is. You handled a lot of shit for Sontag, and now I want you to handle it for me."

  "That's not going to happen."

  "And why not?"

  "Because I liked Sontag. I don't like you."

  "I don't think you understand how this works. Remember back in my office, when you asked me why I didn't give you up to Sontag? About you working for the FBI? It's because I need your talents. I didn't need Messner. That's why I kept you alive. And it's the only reason you're still alive. Understand me?"

  "I don't care what you want. I'm not sticking around. I'm done, Porter. I don't work for Sontag, and I don't work for you. I'm going back to Boston. I'm out."

  Porter slid the magazine back into my .45, racked the slide, and raised it to my head.

  "You're not going anywhere."

  "That's where you're wrong."

  The man with the shotgun was still standing in the corner. I motioned to him.

  "Give Porter my cell phone," I said.

  He looked at his boss, waiting for the okay. Porter nodded and the man handed over my cell.

  "Check the outgoing text messages," I said. "There's only one there."

  Porter fumbled with the cell phone for a moment. "What's this?"

  "It's your confession, asshole. I recorded our conversation in your office. The one where you admitted to torturing and killing a federal agent."

  Porter tapped the button and we all listened.

  "You'll see I sent that message to three email accounts. Don't bother trying to figure out who they went to. They're all encrypted accounts. If anything happens to me today or any other day, that message finds its way to the FBI, and you're done."

  Porter stopped the recording.

  "You're not the smartest person in the room, Porter. You never were."

  Porter looked down at Victor and then to me. "You think you're going to hold this over my head forever?"

  "I'm not holding anything over your head. I'm saving my neck. As long as you don't move on me, that recording goes nowhere. You don't have to worry about it."

  "What if someone else pops you? I'm sure there's a growing list of people who want to put you in the ground."

  "Probably. That's why it's in your best interest to keep me nice and safe. That reminds me. Alfie O'Bannon wants me dead. You're going to want to call him off. He won't like it, but as long as he's part of Sontag's Boston network, he'll abide by it."

  "Son of a bitch."

  "I have no interest in sending you away. Just to keep breathing. But right now, what I want is to get the hell out of New York." I snatched my .45 and my cell from his hands and stuffed them back in my pocket. "And I want Nitty's keys. I'll leave the car in Gramercy Park."

  Porter stood there thinking. He was trying to figure out an option where I didn't walk out of there. Nothing came to mind, because he motioned to Nitty, who tossed his keys my way.

  I walked out of the dining room, passing a half dozen men who minutes earlier were all ready to kill me. I opened the front door, climbed into the black sedan and rolled off the driveway with a smile on my face and a massive headache.

  Then I dialed my phone.

  31

  One Final Deal

  Porter would never rest knowing I had evidence against him. Once he calmed down, he’d realize he only had one option. He’d send someone after me. Then he would torture me the same way he tortured agent Werner. He’d demand to know who had the recording, and if he used his pressure washer, he’d likely get an answer out of me. Then he would kill me.

  Mr. Fish and Albert were right. Consequences, they always catch up to you. I had made one final deal that I hoped would get me out of New York alive and guarantee my safety wherever I settled down, at least temporarily. I dialed Spiro.

  “I’m on my way out of the city,” I said. “I’ve got your money.”

  “Bring it by.”He started rattling off an address.

  “No. We do it in public. Meet me at Grand Central. The Campbell Apartment.”

  “When?”

  “I’m on my way there now. Better hurry before I blow it all on scotch.” I hung up.

  I stashed Nitty’s car at Gramercy Park and exchanged it for my Jeep. I checked that the duffle with Zoe’s cash was still in the back. It was.

  I parked a block away from Grand Central Terminal, tossed the duffle over my shoulder and headed to the Campbell Apartment. A million dollars isn’t as heavy as most people think. Stacked in hundred-dollar bills, it only weighs about twenty-five pounds.

  Despite its name, the Campbell Apartment isn’t an apartment. It’s a bar tucked deep inside the terminal. Close to three-quarters of a million people walk through Grand Central Terminal every day, but only a few lucky souls know this place exists.

  I arrived to find an attractive woman in a long coat sitting alone at a table. She was reading a newspaper and enjoying a cocktail. Next to her was a small group of businessmen in suits. A few other tables were occupied too, but half of the others were empty. I ordered a Balvenie Caribbean Cask Scotch from the bar and took a seat at the back of the room.

  Alfred Spiro arrived before I finished my drink. He had four men with him. Spiro sat on the red sofa across from me. His men remained on their feet. He nudged the duffle with his black wingtip.

  “That for me?” he said.

  “That’s right.”

  Spiro leaned over, unzipped the duffle and riffled through the stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Satisfied, he leaned back on the sofa.

  “You square up with Na
poli too?” he said.

  “I did.”

  That was a lie. I never contacted Napoli, but that would have cost me another million, which I wasn’t about to ask Zoe for. I only needed to get a meeting with one of them.

  “Then I guess we’re square.”

  “One more thing,” I said. “Why did you back Porter over Victor?”

  “Victor’s a hothead. Doesn’t think, just acts. He would have created a lot of trouble for everyone. Porter is more stable. Knows how to run things.”

  “And what about Nicky? Why kill him?”

  “Nicky had to go. We didn’t need another Sontag at the helm. Porter seemed like the best option.”

  “So you, Napoli and Victor planned Nicky’s death, and then threw Victor under the bus, so Porter could take over the operation?”

  “It’s a messy business.”

  “Sure is.” I stood up. “I appreciate the deal. I assume we’ll never cross paths again.”

  “Don’t see why we would.”

  I nodded, slipped a hand in my pocket and walked passed Spiro’s men toward the exit. The men in suits didn’t pay me much attention, but the attractive woman looked my way and smiled.

  I tossed her the USB drive from my pocket.

  “Hope your transmitter worked,” I said. “Check the drive too. Declan Porter had some interesting things to say about your dead FBI agent. It’s all on there. Don’t know how strong it is, but it’ll give you something to work with.”

  “That’s all we need.”

  The men in suits stood up and walked toward the back of the room as a half dozen more stormed in from the hall.

  “There’s a million dollars in that duffle back there. I’d like to get it back.”

  “It’ll go into evidence for now, but I’ll make sure it gets back to you. Might take a few years.”

  “I won’t count on it.”

  32

  Dangerous Debts

  And just like that, everything I'd come to New York to do was done. Victor Tan and Eddie Nash were dead and I'd guaranteed my safety. For a short time anyway.