Once a Thief (Gentleman Jack Burdette Book 3)

by Dale M. Nelson

  “Debts to pay,” was all Rusty said.

  Jack accepted the card and pocketed it. He didn’t know why, exactly. Maybe that’s what Rusty needed, and Jack understood absolution.

  “What happened to the diamonds?” Rusty asked.

  Jack only shrugged. “You know what they say. Once a thief…”

  Jack got into his car and left the parking lot with Rusty watching him drive off.

  At least, Jack assumed he did. Jack didn’t look back.

  Instead of going to the winery, he first drove home. Jack let himself in. The remediation company had done an excellent job. You could never tell he’d killed a man here.

  Jack walked to his bedroom and collected a few things. There was a leather travel bag on the bed, which he’d packed with clothes and hadn’t taken with him. He’d need these at Megan’s. Then Jack walked over to the carpet beside his bed and pulled it back. His fingers found the nearly invisible seam and he pressed down, opening the panel and revealing the safe. Jack dialed the combination and opened it. Inside, there was a velvet bag weighing about two pounds. He pulled it out and opened it, just to stare at the contents.

  A few diamonds fell into his hand, and they shone like stars.

  The contents were probably worth thirty million dollars, about a third of the original take from Rome two years before.

  What Jack brought to Europe was a little over half of what he’d recovered from Reginald. The plan was simple. He knew he had to give Cannizzaro’s men something and he also knew they wouldn’t be able to tell sixty million in diamonds from a hundred. If it looked like what they were expecting, it would work. They would deliver the contents to their boss, and he would come up short with a very unforgiving Russian crime boss who would do the sort of thing that unforgiving Russian crime bosses did to manage their disappointment. Of course, Jack hadn’t counted on Nico showing up and stealing them, but the outcome had been the same. Probably better, because now Nico was content and Jack wouldn’t have to worry about looking over his shoulder for him as well.

  Meanwhile, Jack had thirty million in diamonds that he could slowly and quietly sell off every few years.

  That, too, was why he hadn’t taken Danzig’s deal.

  Jack gently tossed the bag in his hand for a moment and then gingerly replaced it in the safe. He’d need to find a place to put them when he sold the house, until he could get a safe built at his new place. He kind of liked the irony of a safe-deposit box at a bank.

  Jack closed up the safe and replaced the carpet.

  He smiled.

  “I don’t know why people keep taking me at my word.”

  EPILOGUE

  Lugano, Switzerland

  Vito Verrazano strolled along the lake and enjoyed the Christmas lights.

  Riva Giocondo Albertolli ran along the Lake Lugano waterfront and the trees, mostly bare, were wrapped in white lights. The lake on his left, was a black void, an inky smear that seemed to suck in all of the light around it. The buildings facing the waterfront were four stories, baroque architecture, and loomed like gargoyles. One of them was a bank and next to it, separated by a walkway in between, a McDonald’s. The night was clear and cold. He could see his breath. There was a trace of snow on the ground and a few flakes in the air, which was strange. Lugano had a unique climate for this part of Europe, much closer to southern Italy than Alpine Switzerland.

  Perhaps Vito should have chosen a spot a little further from his previous home in Maggiore to hide out, but Carlo needed some time to sort out Vito’s legal troubles, and for that, he needed to remain close. Still, Switzerland was a different country but close enough that he could get home if he needed to. Lugano had a very large expatriate population, much of that Italian, and he could blend in easily. Vito wasn’t very concerned. The extradition was embarrassing, and he didn’t want to come back here, necessarily, but after seeing what a clusterfuck of a country America was, he didn’t want to be there either. Ultimately this amounted to a minor inconvenience. The Americans couldn’t charge him with anything because someone stole the diamonds out from under them and his government had enough on its plate right now; they didn’t particularly care if an old man had a fake passport. Carlo said the government lawyer actually told him that it took so long to process passports these days, he didn’t blame someone for getting a fake.

  Vito guessed he’d been right about Reginald trying to cut him out.

  The FBI pressed him on who that third man was, but Vito didn’t know and continued not knowing the entire time they questioned him. He understood that in America the police could only keep you for forty-eight hours unless they were charging you with a crime, but his extended a couple of days because it went over the weekend. Then they let him go, but they kicked him out of the country. Vito white-knuckled that entire flight. Eventually, his anxiety rubbed off enough on the person he was sitting next to and they talked to a flight attendant. Vito told the flight attendant that he wasn’t used to flying, it made him nervous. The flight attendant spoke Italian, so they chatted for about twenty minutes. Vito remembered how to be charming. She gave him red wine in a plastic cup, and he went back to his seat.

  Very different from the flight he’d taken to America.

  The nerves didn’t subside, but he controlled them better and resigned himself to the knowledge that Cannizzaro would have a man at the airport waiting for him. He’d be gunned down before he saw baggage claim. Not only did he make it through baggage, Vito made it a lot further. Carlo met him at the airport and explained that Cannizzaro had been murdered, assassinated according to the local papers.

  Carlo suggested Vito stick around Rome so they could sort out this thing with the Americans. “Fuck you, I pay you for that,” Vito said and left, not telling Carlo where he was going. If Vito had learned anything from this, it was that he needed to get out of the habit of trusting people.

  He never heard from Reginald again and assumed that he had the diamonds. Good luck to him. There was the question of Bartolo, still, and Burdette. For that, Vito didn’t have ready answers. He wasn’t going to run anymore, and he wasn’t going to live looking over his shoulder. He believed Burdette wouldn’t leave the country again and God alone knew what paths Nico would walk.

  Vito still had a little of the money from the Knightsbridge job, his and Reginald’s, and it was stashed at a box in HMZ Bank, right here in Lugano. Had been for twenty-three years. That was enough to live on. It was cash and British cash at that, but the bank could convert pounds to Swiss francs and euros easily enough. It just took time, and he had to do it in smaller amounts. It wasn’t diamond money, but he’d live comfortably.

  Though Vito settled in Maggiore, mostly because it was still Italy, he’d traveled to nearby Lugano often and liked it. This would be a good place to live, he decided. He had more than enough from the sale of his house on Maggiore to afford a home here. He’d find that later. For now, he wanted a drink.

  Vito walked along the lake beneath the lighted trees and enjoyed the solitude. There were a few other evening strollers, but it was a weeknight and quiet. He looked away from the lake and saw a man walking in his direction, also enjoying the brisk night. The man wore a gray coat with a slim, tailored cut that went down to his mid-thigh. The collar was turned up against the chill, though the jacket was open. His hand was inside the flap of the coat, probably reaching for his phone. He had a black watch cap and a face mask; people were starting to wear those again. Vito smiled at his fellow walker and said, “Good evening” as he approached.

  It wasn’t until the man was steps from Vito that he recognized his eyes.

  Rusty drew the silenced HK VP9 from his overcoat, raised it, and fired twice. The two shots landed right in the center of Vito’s chest and the old man crumpled inward, like a building collapsing. Vito fell on his back, head hitting the pavement with a soft crack. There was still light in his eyes, though it wouldn’t last long. His mouth worked, questions that wouldn’t make their way out. Rusty fired a thir
d shot to the head.

  He twisted the silencer off in one quick motion and then tossed it and the gun into the lake.

  Rusty turned away, crossed the street at a brisk pace, and disappeared into an alley.

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  AGENT OF INFLUENCE: The Firewall Spies #2

  In a world where artificial intelligence offers unlimited power, government spies and tech giants fight a ruthless battle to come out on top.

  When an undercover Mossad agent is killed on a private Caribbean island, the death sets off alarm bells in Washington, Tel Aviv, and Moscow. The island is owned by Guy Hawkinson, the controversial CEO of Hawk Enterprises, and member of one of America’s most powerful family dynasties.

  Within hours of the agent’s death, multiple agencies set new plans in motion.

  Israeli Intelligence Officer Ava Klein is ordered to Washington, D.C. Tasked with salvaging their operation, she’ll need to infiltrate the Hawkinson’s inner circle.

  To beat Mossad to the punch, CIA officer Colt McShane must steer clear of Ava—a former love interest—and recruit a fresh face with no former ties to the intelligence community: a young female veteran who is just finishing up a masters degree in machine learning.

  And a Russian SVR chief has agreed to provide counterintelligence support for the Hawkinsons—at a price.

  Each side is playing the world’s most dangerous game of espionage, attempting to win the ultimate technological victory. But with foreign agents and Hawkinson private security violently eliminating threats, any false move will be deadly.

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  Agent of Influence

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  PROPER VILLAINS

  They’re in over their heads.

  And the only way out is a high-risk scam that could get them all killed…

  Flash Madigan has a problem. Desperate to get out from under the Russian mob before the cops roll up the whole operation, he “borrows” nine hundred grand to bet on a fixed sporting event. But when the wrong team wins and the money goes up in smoke, he’s in a race against time before his sadistic boss finds out it's missing.

  Partnering with a washed-up burglar and the con man who tipped him to the game gone bad, he plots to blackmail a retired Colombian drug smuggler. But when it turns out they’ve seriously underestimated their mark’s fondness for violence, selling each other out seems like the best way to survive.

  With the Russians, the cops, and the FBI closing in, can three small-time hoods stop double-crossing each other long enough to stay alive and hit a $10-million score?

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  Turn the page to read a sample —>

  PROPER VILLAINS: CHAPTER 1

  Flash Madigan placed a $900,000 bet on a rigged jai alai game using money that he skimmed from the Russian mob. In other words, it was a Tuesday in Miami. Flash placed his bet with his bookie in South Beach, a greedy little shit (even for that line of work) named Freddy Fisk. Fisk demanded the money up front, telling Flash there was no way in hell he was extending that kind of credit to a con man like him. Flash gave him the nine hundred K in even stacks, which Fisk had the audacity to count—in front of him, no less—and Flash actually thought about getting a receipt, just to be an asshole. Freddy asked Flash, only once, if he knew what he was doing. Of course he did. This wasn’t the kind of money that you just lit on fire and walked away.

  And the Russian mob weren’t the kind of people to take it from unless you absolutely, unequivocally knew what you were doing.

  Flash paused a moment before telling Freddy Fisk the precise route and exact speed with which he could go to hell.

  Without doubt, Flash knew what he was doing.

  He’d been siphoning cash for the last year. The Russians didn’t know any different. They were making almost four million a month on a variety of Medicare scams that Flash ran for them, and they kicked him a measly one percent. Flash figured that taking a further ten thousand dollars in rounding errors every now and then didn’t pop anyone’s radar.

  The plan had always been to take a little off the top every month, never more than ten large at a time from a single account, and stash it away in a separate front company … separate from the thirteen he already managed for them. He’d use his front company to write a bank check, which he’d then EFT to a bank in the Bahamas. Once he’d gotten enough, ten million or so, he’d take off for the Caribbean. All sweet and nice, mon.

  Over the years, every year, the percentages went up, and every year Flash kept the Russians making money and everyone out of jail. But it never went up by enough to let Flash walk away. The one thing Konstantin knew was how to keep an earner on the line.

  Flash wasn’t going to retire on ten million, guys like him didn’t do that, but ten mil’ was a lot of cheese to spread around, particularly in the places he was planning to be. And it was a good plan. However, it was going to take some time. Between what they paid him and what he was skimming, Flash was probably making a little over a million this year. For Flash, ice ages moved faster than that. Then an old friend—well, a guy he knew, Manny Diaz—called and said he’d figured out a way to fix a jai alai game. Did Flash want in? They had a pretty good thing going at the Miami Jai Alai fronton at the new casino downtown. It was paying out pretty good and nobody was onto it. He was only inviting the guys that he knew and trusted.

  Flash had thought, what the hell? Freddy Fisk would lay him ten-to-one (originally, it was seven-to-one, he was a greedy shit) and Flash would walk out of this with just shy of ten million. Then he could quit for good the Medicare fraud business with its rather unforgiving Federal penalties and the Russian mob with its own, equally unforgiving penalties. Most importantly, he could do it now and not in another three years.

  Flash finished up with Fisk and slid into his car, a Porsche 911 4S cabriolet in a very subtle “Lava Orange”. He put the top down and drove to the Miami Jai Alai fronton at Casino Miami on 37th Avenue. Flash knew dropping a large bet like this was unwise on one level, because it would draw attention. The smarter play would be to test out Manny’s scheme with a couple of different, smaller bets and then go big later. The problem with rigged sports was that they never lasted. Particularly when people started winning. Regardless of any strategy, this wasn’t going to stay secret long. Word was going to get out when Fisk had to pay him off. Fisk would probably spread the word himself to make back the fortune he was going to lose. Manny was, in all likelihood, going to lose the scheme he’d set up. That was too bad. Manny was a hustler and Flash was sure he’d thrown a lot of effort getting this game wired. Jai alai was damn near impossible to fix these days. Again, too bad, but Flash was only interested in “Flash Problems”, which this decidedly was not.

  Casino Miami was a massive complex on the western edge of the metro area, just outside Miami International Airport. Flash parked in the lot and moved through the gummy afternoon heat and into the industrial-cooled, sensory overload perma-day of the casino. Flash made his way to the fronton where he bought a beer—also called “Jai Alai” although it was from a brewery up in Tampa—and he purchased a ticket for the match and walked into the fronton proper. Already sweating, plastic cup of beer in hand, he walked down the long rows of stadium seating and found his seat. “The Merry Game”, as it was known, was the fixed sporting event of choice for organized crime syndicates in Florida up until the late eighti
es when it became so crooked the state had to shut it down for two years in order to weed out the mob. Now, it was all but impossible to fix. They didn’t publish the order of matches or the pairings until game time. You didn’t know who was playing who until they started. Theoretically, in order to fix a match, every single player had to be in on it. But, if anyone could pull that off, it was Manny Diaz.

  In Flash’s opinion, mobs, governments and industries all suffered from the same problem—too much greed. In the past, if they’d stayed the hell out of every goddamn game, you could still enjoy a thrown match every now and again. People don’t bet because they like the action, they bet to make money, and what’s more fun than a sure thing? But the mob went and wrecked it for everyone. They were going to do the same thing to the Medicare scheme. If they’d kept it small and therefore low-profile, like Flash told them to do, they could keep it going quietly for years. It was a great source of income and an even better way to launder funds. But no. Instead, they were going to suck every dollar they could as fast as they could, and then move onto the next thing, leaving someone else to clean up the mess. They were like locusts. It was a damn shame, because the operation was a thing of beauty, a brilliantly decorated layer cake.