Hit: A Thriller (The Codename: Chandler)
Page 5
“Maybe she still will, with me dealing.”
Again he placed his hands upon mine, stroking my wrist like he’d stroked me elsewhere. “If you deal, we raise the stakes. Five thousand dollars.”
“Against what?” I asked.
“A night with you.”
“Do you even have five thousand dollars?”
He shrugged. “We are going to Las Vegas. A man can get lucky, no?”
I’d known few men like Heath.
There were the hot and heavy wham-bam types. The shy ones who didn’t have a clue. The over achievers who went down on a girl for so long it became boring. The quick and the fat and the ones who couldn’t get hard.
And then there were the kind who treated a woman like an expensive instrument to be played, a gourmet dish to be savored. The ones who truly loved to make love, in every possible sense of the term. They were the fun ones. The ones who made your heart flutter with a look. The ones who made you wet with a single kiss.
Heath was a three day vacation in a ritzy hotel suite, stopping the sex only long enough for more room service champagne and strawberries. What he wasn’t was a man to fool around with on an op.
I sometimes had sex on missions, but it was with the target, and although I was able to respond physically it was perfunctory at best. The goal was the hit, not the orgasm. This was a job. A job I was very good at. But I kept it separate from my private life, and never, ever mixed the two.
Heath would have to be the one that got away. Or I’d have to kill him. Either way, our chance encounter wasn’t meant to end in a ritzy hotel suite.
My mission, and my focus, was Bratton. And Bratton is where my attention would stay.
“Agreed,” I said. Five grand didn’t mean much to me. I was well compensated for my service. But maybe it would be a big enough sum to knock the ardor out of the playboy bodyguard. And while he cried in his tequila, I could work on Bratton.
Sorry, Heath. Destiny is a real jerk sometimes.
I did a false shuffle, known as a riffle, riffle, strip. It looked like I was mixing the cards, but they were exactly where I wanted them to be.
I purposely dealt Heath a nineteen.
I had a face card up. My down card was ten. Five grand to the very horny Chiquita. I went to turn my card up, and Heath placed his hand on mine.
“What?” I asked.
“I will take a card.”
“You’re hitting on nineteen? No one hits on nineteen.”
“I have no choice. For some reason I suspect you have a twenty.” He trailed his fingers down to mine, then laced them. His thumb found my palm, and began the same movement it had performed between my legs. And I’d be damned if it didn’t feel like he was touching me there all over again.
“So all I can do,” he breathed, “is pray that lady luck gives me a two and a night with you that I promise neither of us will ever forget.”
“You’re crazy.”
He continued to stroke my hand, and I knew if he kept it up I’d come.
“Crazy to want to make you weep with passion? To see your face when it is so devastated by pleasure it is even more beautiful than it is now? To explore every inch of your body until you plead for me to stop because you can’t take any more? Have you ever begged a man to stop, bonita? Begged him because you thought you had no more to give, because you were so sensitive the ecstasy was almost pain, only to have him coax more from you until you were sure you would explode?”
“No,” I said, barely a whisper, feeling my need throb as he released my hand.
Then I dealt from the bottom of the deck and gave Heath a two, cursing myself as I did it.
Chandler
“Sex is a weapon,” The Instructor said. “As such, it requires practice, training, and knowledge of when to use it. You never point a gun at anyone you don’t intend to shoot.”
We agreed to make good on the debt sometime after Bratton’s business in Las Vegas was over. Then Heath turned down the charm a notch, the cards were put away, and my libido returned to status quo. Our conversation meandered to travel. He’d been to almost as many countries as I had. Apparently, before becoming Bratton’s bodyguard, he’d done some mercenary work. Odd, because though he seemed capable, he didn’t have the gung-ho mentality I normally associated with mercs. If anything, he seemed more like a spy than a grunt.
I admitted to visiting France and Spain, two places a high class Chicago call girl might go on vacation, and that lead to a lengthier discussion of bullfighting, which Heath apparently was passionate about, even to the point of participating as an aficionado práctico, or amateur bullfighter, and running in Pamplona.
Bratton woke, and I administered to him, sneaking another dose of the ipecac into a glass of cola this time and sending him back to retching in the tiny bathroom. If Bratton recovered, I’d likely be spending long hours at the casino, maybe only stopping for a quickie, not a lot of time to arrange for his death. If he was sick, he would have to stay in his hotel room, isolated and helpless.
Just where I wanted him.
We landed at McCarran International, and a car was waiting to whisk us to our hotel. I hadn’t been in Vegas for a while, and judging from the view out the limo window, it was bigger and brighter and more boisterous than ever. Neon glared in the night, highlighting everything from the pyramid at the Luxor—its beam of light shooting into the sky—to the spires of mythical Camelot that made up the hotel Excalibur, to the skyline of New York, New York, complete with circling rollercoaster. The Bellagio’s famous fountain danced across the street from the Paris Hotel’s Eiffel Tower. Finally passing Caesar’s Palace’s columns and the volcano at the Mirage, we reached the Venetian.
The resort itself was built to be a miniature Venice, yet too perfect, too clean, the bridges crisp and new stretching over dyed azure canals. An Italy built exclusively for the rich.
We turned after the replica of the Campanile Bell Tower and entered the resort drive, crossing over a bridge, traffic slowing. Heath lowered a window a crack, letting in a wave of desert-heated night air along with a wisp of O Sole Mio from one of the gondoliers on the outdoor canal.
“A tragic song. One of heartbreak. Do you know the words?”
About to answer, I caught myself. Just because Chandler was multilingual didn’t mean Simone the prostitute could say the same. I shook my head.
“It is about a poor soul thinking back to the time he was in love, when he had a moment of happiness, before his lover betrayed him.”
“That is sad.”
“You have no idea.”
“What’s the hold up?” Bratton shouted to the driver just as the car resumed.
We continued over the first bridge and under a copy of Ponte di Rialto, the famous bridge that spanned the Grand Canal in Venice, finally reaching the hotel’s expansive, cobblestoned porte-cochere. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling of the portico along with reproductions of Italian frescoes framed by gold molding. Even at night, the area bustled with several bell boys dressed in black and white striped duds matching the outfits of the gondoliers.
We didn’t have much luggage, I carried nothing but my little purse, and Bratton and Heath only had one carryon size suitcase each, and it didn’t take long for us to unload ourselves from the car, through five steps of oven-like heat, and enter the Venetian’s lobby.
The first thing I noticed was the scent. Despite the size and throngs of people visiting this time of year, a sweet, floral fragrance tickled the air. A globe fountain dominated the middle of the lobby, water gurgling and sluicing down into the base below. The marble floors held a pattern that played with the eyes, and a map of Venice stretched along the wall behind the reservation desks. As in the portico, the ceiling was covered with more frescoes framed in gold.
“I will arrange for the rooms.” Heath said and broke away
I watched him cross to the reservation desk, and start chatting up a blonde who worked at the hotel. He leaned toward her, his body language all
flirt, and to my shame, for a second, I felt a tweak of jealousy.
It had obviously been too long since I’d last been on a date.
I didn’t have a steady social life. Those in my business never did. But I tried to get out now and then, pick up an attractive guy in a bar, and have a little fun. They never knew my real name, never saw where I lived, and never heard from me again, but it was something, a way to feel close to another human being, a way to wear off a little sexual energy. But it had been a long time since I’d had an opportunity to let loose.
I’d dealt Heath that winning hand in a moment of weakness.
Now that I’d cooled down and was on my way to the privacy of Bratton’s suite, either as prostitute or nursemaid, it didn’t seem like I’d be able to fulfill that particular debt. And I had to admit, it made me feel a little crabby.
“How are you feeling now?” I asked my john/patient/victim.
He shot me a look of contempt, as if I wasn’t even worthy of an answer.
Charming man.
While he was ignoring me, I took a peek at the gold ring, now illuminated by a chandelier the size of a small helicopter. Brushed gold, the band was set with a large ruby surrounded by diamond chips. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that he wasn’t wearing it when he pawed me up the first time. He had to have picked it up at the bank.
So what about this ring of power was so special that Jacob would send me on my own little Frodo errand? Or was the ring superfluous, and the real package was tucked into his wallet?
I supposed it didn’t matter. My orders were to make it look like a robbery. I’d take it all.
Moments later, Heath returned, three key card portfolios in his hand. “This way,” he said, and we followed him to an elevator, the bellboy trailing behind with the two small carryon bags belonging to Bratton and Heath.
We left the lobby and walked through the Venetian’s Grand Colonnade with marble floors and a ceiling reminiscent of the Sistine Chapel, and then we were in the casino, every bit as much of a work of art as the rest of the resort. Like the lobby, recessed ceiling panels bore frescos straight out of the renaissance. Marble floors danced with beautiful patterns, and restaurants of every delicious variety encircled the enormous gaming floor.
In fiction, secret agents, gambling, and subterfuge seemed to go together and spies often seemed to find themselves in casinos participating in high stakes games. But unlike my fictional counterparts, I was not a fan of casinos. Not because I didn’t like a little gambling now and then, but because there were too many cameras.
They were everywhere, above each gaming table, in between each row of slot machines, at every choke point in every hall way or escalator. They were meant to keep an eye out for cheats, but they served to record every action and every face on the floor.
I was useful to the government not just for my training, but because I didn’t officially exist. I could take care of a target, then fade into the landscape, safe, free, anonymous. Having my image recorded by the dozens of cameras at any one time made me uneasy.
Bypassing the neon and bells, we went straight for the guest elevators.
When we reached our floor, I focused on the double door at the end, assuming that was Bratton’s suite. Heath stopped half way down the hall and handed me a portfolio containing a key card.
“And this is for?”
“Your suite.” He motioned to the door.
“I assumed…” I glanced at Bratton.
The man didn’t even look my way. “I’ll let Rodriguez know when I want you.”
Not my preference. Also not much I could say about it. “Are you sure?”
Without answering, he continued down the hall with the bellboy.
“I am sorry you are so far down the hall, bonita,” Heath said. “But you really didn’t want to spend all your time with that man, did you?”
I gave a shrug. Of course I didn’t. I just wanted to search him and kill him, not necessarily in that order.
“He’s paying. Whatever he wants is fine by me,” I said out loud.
“Good girl.” He pulled a stack of bills from his wallet and shoved them into my hand. “There are shops on the second floor. Treat yourself.”
“Thank you.”
“You can return that after you have a new outfit. Something less Japanese cosplay, more sin city.”
“Sequins and a feather boa? Or what do you prefer? You won our bet.”
Couldn’t hurt to keep his mind on me and off bodyguarding his boss.
“I prefer a woman to wear nothing but her own perspiration, which I have coaxed from every pore in her body.”
Who was distracting whom here?
Heath smiled. “And now I must check the room for Mr. Bratton. I will see you later, no?”
“Of course.”
Standing at the door, I watched Heath continue down the hall. My assignment had just gotten a lot tougher. Judging from the CEO’s waning interest, he wasn’t going to send for me, that much was clear.
I was going to have to find another way to get to him.
After closing the suite’s door, I did a quick bug and camera check to satisfy my inner paranoia—a nifty app on my new phone—then called Jacob and engaged in our little security dance.
“The job’s done?”
“No.”
“It’s been hours. What went wrong?”
“Nothing. I convinced him to take me back to his hotel room, but his hotel ended up being in Vegas.”
“The Venetian.”
“How did… ah. The phone. It has a tracker?”
“No. I don’t allow them to be tracked. There’s a reason for it. But I turned on the camera when you were in the lobby. Did you use it to sweep for bugs?”
“Don’t you know that as well?”
“I have other things to do than monitor your every move, Chandler.”
Ouch. Touchy.
“Bratton is already losing interest, but I think I can get at him through the bodyguard.”
“So the bodyguard isn’t posing a problem?”
“Nothing I can’t handle. In fact, it will be my pleasure.”
“Let me guess. He’s good looking.”
“It’s as if Antonio Banderas had a younger brother.”
“He does.”
“He does?”
“His name is Javier. But I’m pretty sure he’s not working as a bodyguard for Dominic Bratton.”
“You really do know everything, don’t you, Jacob?”
“Just doing my job.”
“Glad to hear it, because I have a couple of phone numbers for you. Unidentified callers of Bratton’s.”
“Shoot.”
I recited the numbers. “I’m betting the Vegas one is our buyers.”
“Nice work, Chandler.”
“And while you’re in a generous frame of mind, I need a bit more from you.”
“Such as?”
“At least a dozen cameras just captured me walking in with him.”
“I’ll take care of it. Anything else?”
“Wish me luck.”
“You’re in Las Vegas, Chandler. Home of Lady Luck. What could possibly go wrong?”
Heath
Heath moved through Bratton’s suite, clearing each room, as was his usual practice. He didn’t find anyone hiding in wait. Only the standard classic furnishings, a sunken living room with a piano, a bathtub big enough for four, three giant televisions, and an amazing view of the Strip. Nothing but the best for Bratton, and more comfort and opulence than most people in the world saw in a lifetime.
Heath had been born in America, but he hadn’t always lived in this rich and hedonistic country. In the place he’d spent most of his growing up years, Tijuana, Mexico, life was much different. And every time he visited Las Vegas, he was reminded of the first time he’d used his birth certificate to cross the border into the United States, only to be so dumbfounded by the wealth and glitz that he could do nothing but stare.
“Rodriguez?”
“Yes, Mr. Bratton?”
The CEO settled himself in front of the television, arms stretched along the back of the sofa, the golden ring on his finger reflecting the colors of the television screen.
“That woman…where did you find her?”
“My usual sources.”
“Well, you might want to talk to those sources.”
“Why is that?”
“There’s something not right about her.”
“Not right?”
“You know, there’s something that just doesn’t feel right. Like she’s not who she seems.”
Could Bratton have seen through Simone? Heath had to admit, he was surprised. He’d never known the man to be aware of anything or anyone but himself. He might have an instinct for business, but all others were lacking. “You believe she’s hiding something?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I think she’s older. Maybe even twenty-two or twenty-three.”
Heath almost laughed out loud. “Is that all?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Sí, sí. She must have lied about her age. It’s outrageous.”
“Damn straight, it is. And I’m holding you responsible. Get rid of her and find me someone young. They have high schools in Las Vegas, right? Parents willing to lend out their daughters for a little cash? Or young girls on the streets? I want one that’s clean, though.”
Bratton disgusted him. He was like so many rich, entitled men. So much like Heath’s father. El Diablo himself.
“I’m not sure there will be time. You have a meeting coming up tonight, no? With your buyer?”
“Ah shit, yeah.” Bratton cocked his wrist to look at his watch. “But not for another three hours.”
“I’ll need to prepare. How many men will he have?”
“He says two, so probably three or four.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me this sooner?”
“We’re meeting in the middle of the casino. How dangerous can it be? There are cameras everywhere.”
“Middle where?”
“Roulette table.”