by Chris Holm
Thompson stood, rising all the way to her tiptoes so she could peer over the cubicle wall. Her cell phone vibrated— a text from Jess—and her headache intensified. She was too busy for family drama right now. “They sure it was our guy?”
“Sure enough to call it in. I’m on hold with KC while they call the casino back to see if they can e-mail me a still from their security cameras.”
“He’s not still there, is he?” Thompson asked.
“No,” Garfield replied. “The place’s got a hotel, but he wasn’t registered. They comped him a dinner to shut him up, and he left just after.”
“Wait—he wasn’t registered? That mean he gave them a name when they talked to him?”
“Yeah,” Garfield said: “Smith.”
Figures, Thompson thought. If he’d used a known alias, they’d have him pegged. But Smith was almost as damning. In fact...“Son of a bitch,” she said, plopping back into her chair and swiveling once more toward her computer.
“What?”
“What’s the name of the casino?”
“Pendleton’s—why?”
Thompson googled, brought up their website. Her cell phone vibrated again, but she ignored it. “That’s where his hit is going down.”
“How can you be so sure? We don’t even know it’s him yet.” Garfield’s e-mail chirped, indicating a new message. A quick click to open it, and another to open the attached image, and he said, “Scratch that—it’s him. But you can’t know that’s where it’s gonna go down. I mean, he’d be crazy to whack a guy with that much security around, wouldn’t he?”
“Leonwood specializes in crazy,” Thompson said. “Besides, when’s the last time you flew halfway across the country to see a ventriloquist?”
“Fair point,” Garfield conceded. “Still, it’s pretty thin. Maybe he’s just killing time until killing time.”
“Cute,” Thompson said, “but I don’t buy it. If he was staying there, I might grant the possibility he just wandered down and plopped himself in whatever show was going on to kill the hours. But he’s not staying there, and he didn’t even dare to drop one of his common aliases. Ergo, he was casing the place.”
Thompson thought she heard Garfield scoff at her ergo, but he had the sense at least not to put words to his derision. Nice to know her threats of violence were starting to pay off. She fired off an e-mail and heard the electronic chirp from Garfield’s cubicle as it arrived.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“The Pendleton’s event schedule for the month. I need you to talk to someone on their end and find out which of these events are scheduled for the same room the ventriloquist is in for, say, the next three days. If nothing pops, then make it seven.” But she knew something would pop— Leonwood wasn’t the type for loads of careful prep.
“You want me to alert their security to the threat?”
“And run the risk they’ll spook him?” she asked. “No. Leonwood’s too slippery. We have to do this right. Tell them to let us know if he comes through again, but don’t tip them that he’s dangerous; make up something white-collar if you have to. Tell them we have agents on the way. And whatever you tell them, make sure they buy it, or you’ll cause a panic, and Leonwood will disappear. If they blow this collar on us, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”
“And what’re you gonna be doing while I tackle all your scut work?”
“I’m going to get us on the next shuttle to KC, and then I’m going to get on the horn with our KC office and make sure their SWAT team’s good to go. Be ready in five.”
“But all my shit’s at the hotel!”
“Which is where you’ll find it when you get back,” she said. “No time to pack a bag, pretty boy—whatever’s going down is going down soon.”
22
Eric Purkhiser wiped his palms on his thrift-store dress pants and watched the Missouri countryside roll by as the limo Pendleton’s sent for him drove north on Route 13. It was his first time in a limousine. He’d always thought that they’d be nicer; they looked so swanky from the outside. But the interior was dated—black lacquer trimmed in pink and purple. The air inside reeked of cheap air freshener. There wasn’t even any booze—just two bottles of off-brand water where the bar should be.
Not that Purkhiser would have poured himself a drink. His stomach was a wreck already. The collar of his dress shirt felt like it was slowly tightening around his neck. He tugged at it with one finger and forced himself to take deep breaths. For what felt like the hundredth time, he ran through the plan his mystery savior had laid out yesterday and told himself he’d be just fine.
“Talk me through it one more time,” Hendricks had said.
“Dude, we’ve been through this five times already!” Purkhiser whined. “What more do you need to know?”
“I need to know you’re up for this. I need to know that come tomorrow, you’ll play your part. And I need to know you haven’t forgotten any detail that’ll get us both killed. Now talk me through it one more time.”
They’d been going around like this for the better part of an hour—Purkhiser sitting at his kitchen table and sipping from a can of Bud, Hendricks pacing back and forth across the yellowed linoleum.
“The limo will be here to pick me up at one p.m. They offered to pick me up earlier and comp my lunch—but as instructed, I declined. Thanks a fucking bunch, by the way— I mean, why would I want all the four-star cuisine I can eat when I got a fridge full of mustard and batteries right here?”
Hendricks doubted the Pendleton’s restaurants were anyone’s idea of four-star cuisine, but he held his tongue on that count, instead saying, “The Outfit’s instructions weren’t to whack you at your ceremony—they were to make it public. Lunch at a fancy restaurant might strike the guy who’s here to kill you as plenty public, and a hell of a lot easier to pull off than in a banquet room that’ll likely be full of guards.”
“All right, all right,” he said, showing Hendricks his hands. “No lunch.”
“What happens after you arrive?”
“I arrive no later than four p.m. They bring me in via the employee entrance and take me through the service corridor that serves as backstage for the banquet hall.”
“Then?” prompted Hendricks.
“The head of the casino does his little jerk-off dog-andpony show, they roll an it-could-happen-to-you video that ends with me hitting the jackpot—can you believe they built that fucking slot machine with a camera to capture the big moment?—and then they bring out the big check. I get up, accept it, and then there’s gonna be a balloon drop. I hear-tell there’s gonna be a bunch of giveaways hidden in the balloons—free meals, concert tickets, fifty bucks in chips, even a coupon for a weekend stay in the Mark Twain Suite—their way of guaranteeing the seats get filled. People are gonna go apeshit once those babies drop.”
“That’s when the Outfit’s goon will make his move. Given that they want to make a scene, and there’s no screening on the way into the casino, we have to assume the worst, which in this case would be a fully automatic firearm, likely stowed in a briefcase or piece of luggage to blend in with the hotel crowd. Once they drop the balloons, you’re to get down and stay down, understand? I’ll try to neutralize the guy before he ever gets a shot off, but better safe than sorry.”
“I still don’t understand why I’m not wearing a bulletproof vest,” said Purkhiser.
“Well, for one, Eric, you don’t need one—you’ve got me,” replied Hendricks. Purkhiser frowned—not entirely certain he believed that. “And for two, any pro worth his salt would spot its bulk a mile away, in which case he’d just scotch his plans to hit you then, and whack you later.”
“Eddie,” he halfheartedly corrected. “And I’m just saying, this don’t seem right to me. Maybe we should call the whole thing off—hole up somewhere and let the bastard come to us.”
“Eddie,” Hendricks echoed. “Right. Believe me when I tell you, Eddie, it’s a hell of a lot easier to keep you
upright if we know where and when your killer’s gonna strike. You take that away from me—restore his element of surprise—and it’s a coin toss whether you live or die. But hey, you’re the gambler—you wanna roll the dice?”
“Jesus, dude,” said Purkhiser sullenly, “I was just askin’. No need to be a dick about it.”
“You didn’t pay me to be nice,” Hendricks said. “In fact, you haven’t paid me yet at all. You get the transfer paperwork I requested?”
Purkhiser fished a crookedly folded piece of paper from his back pocket. Four pieces, actually, of that translucent too-thin onionskin paper that’s pulled from stacks of carbon-transfer duplicates. Hendricks thumbed through them: all fine print and Purkhiser’s initials, the last page signed, dated, and featuring the number to one of Hendricks’s accounts in the Seychelles, listed here as Purkhiser’s own. Well, Palomera’s, according to the paperwork—not that it mattered. What did matter is that by the close of business Thursday, the day of Purkhiser’s ceremony, six million dollars—less taxes—would be transferred to Hendricks’s account.
“Looks like this is all in order,” Hendricks said. “Which means as long as you do as I’ve said, everything is going to be just fine. You have my word.”
The limo bypassed the casino’s main entrance and pulled into the employee garage around back. The driver opened the rear door, but a sense of impending doom kept
Purkhiser in his seat.
“Sir?” the driver said. “We’re here.”
Purkhiser swallowed hard and clenched his jaw, and then he stepped out of the car.
23
Thursday afternoon, and the Fountain Room was packed. Gone was the buffet, replaced by a smattering of additional tables and a waitstaff circulating trays of hors d’oeuvres. The bar was flush with drunks and compulsive gamblers taking advantage of the free food and drink offered to anyone willing to attend Purkhiser’s big event. The casino’d been handing out tickets for hours, and though no one gave a damn about Purkhiser or his enormous jackpot, the room was vibrating with anticipation of the impending balloon drop, and the promise of prizes contained therein.
To one side of the stage, a local news anchor was filming an intro segment. Crews from other TV stations were setting up in the back of the room. Pendleton’s was dropping some serious coin on Purkhiser’s big win, and they were going to milk it for every ounce of publicity they could.
Special Agent Charlie Thompson scanned the room from just inside the massive double doors, but if Leonwood was here, she couldn’t see him. The chatter on her earpiece indicated that Pendleton’s security team—and Garfield, monitoring the CCTV feeds from the casino’s surveillance room—was faring no better. Of course, looking for a specific burly, red-faced man at a Kansas City casino was something of a losing proposition, and anyway, the balloon-filled netting rigged to the ceiling was obstructing the camera coverage. Thompson wondered if she’d been wrong to mislead casino security about the severity of the threat—as far as they knew, she was here to take down a fugitive hedge-fund manager on the run from an insider-trading rap.
She hadn’t anticipated the environment would be so uncontrolled. Plus, there was the matter of not knowing who the target was. Four people were expected to take the stage. There was Norville Rogers Pendleton, majority owner of the casino and grandson of the namesake Pendleton, whose money—after a protracted legal battle between his many heirs—was used to build the casino complex. Ditto Bernie Liederkrantz, Pendleton’s longtime pit boss and—word had it—former mob enforcer out of Las Vegas who’d burned some bridges when he went legit. Ken Carson, mayor of Kansas City (KC for KC read the signs leading up to Election Day) and scourge of the local crime community thanks to his crackdown on prescription narcotics dealing, would be up there, too. And then there was the guest of honor, one Edward Palomera of Springfield, Missouri. Of the four of them, Palomera was the only one she could safely say wasn’t Leonwood’s likely target—he was a lower-middle-class wage slave with no sheet, no enemies, and no ties to organized crime. The guy didn’t so much as have a speeding ticket to his name.
Of course, Alexander Engelmann knew otherwise. He loitered on the left-hand side of the room halfway between the main entrance and the stage, his elbow propped against the chair rail, an untouched gin and tonic in his hand. He wore a white button-down with a periwinkle check and a pair of charcoal slacks that terminated over suede chukka boots the color of putty.
Engelmann had taken full advantage of the casino’s lack of metal detectors in suiting up today; he was determined to be prepared when he finally met his quarry face-to-face. His button-down hid beneath it a concealment shirt—a formfitting wicking tee into which was stitched two heavy-duty nylon holsters, one beneath each arm. The holster beneath his left arm was stocked with a Ruger LC9 compact 9mm pistol he’d purchased from a prison-inked neo-Nazi at a paramilitary compound west of town. The Ruger held seven rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. He carried two spare magazines in the holster beneath his right arm. That meant he had twenty-two rounds in total. He hoped not to use a one of them.
Strapped to Engelmann’s right thigh was a knife sheath containing a Blackhawk double-edged combat blade, also courtesy of his new Aryan friend. He’d removed the interior of his trousers’ right pocket for easy access. His left pocket contained a garrote of his own making, comprising a low E acoustic guitar string and two wooden trowel handles. It had taken him a half hour to track down the necessary components and mere minutes to construct, and cost him eleven dollars.
He had no intention of using those, either.
No, Engelmann thought the ice pick hidden in his sleeve would suffice.
It was not affixed, instead held in place by the cuff of his sleeve, and by the angle at which he held his wrist. It sat point down, its handle resting against the meat of his forearm. He’d practiced deploying it in his hotel room—a flick of the wrist and it slid down his arm, its point passing through his fingers, its handle just clearing his cuff and dropping into the palm of his hand. He pictured driving it sewing-machine fast into his quarry’s back—snick snick snick snick snick—puncturing his renal artery so often and so quickly he would scarcely have a moment to react before his heart filled his abdominal cavity with blood. The narrow bore of the ice pick ensured little external bleeding, which meant that Engelmann should have time to guide his quarry into a chair and walk out of the casino before anyone was the wiser. Now all that remained was to identify his quarry, and he would fulfill his Council contract. Such identification required nothing more now than patience and a keen eye—because unlike the Feds or casino security, Engelmann had Leonwood in sight, having followed him since he’d left Pendleton’s on Tuesday.
Hendricks had Leonwood in sight as well. It was no surprise the authorities had yet to spot him; the close call with casino security had forced Leonwood into altering his appearance. He’d shaved his stubble and his mustache, and tamed his unkempt hair—now wearing it slicked into a severe part, which made it look dark as well. He’d traded his flannel and work boots for an off-the-rack suit of checkered gray, worn tieless over a cheap, shiny blue oxford. Though the suit was ill-fitting, the jacket did wonders to hide his gut, and the overall effect was to transform Leonwood from the rough-hewn redneck security’d encountered into one of the many low-rent traveling businessmen that filled the casino, blowing their per diems at the blackjack tables.
Leonwood sat a few tables back from the stage. With a bottle of beer in front of him and his carry-on at his feet, he looked like a guy whiling away the hours between checkout and flight. But his carry-on contained a compact, fully automatic Heckler & Koch MP5K Personal Defense Weapon with collapsible stock—capable of delivering nine hundred rounds per minute—as well as four magazines of thirty rounds each and a large, cylindrical suppressor. The suppressor was not—as movie silencers would lead you to believe—enough to dampen the sound of the gun’s report entirely, but enough to dull it such that folks might mistake the shots
for balloon pops long enough for Leonwood to make his escape.
Hendricks was once more in his cowboy getup, though this time a faded snap-button chambray shirt stood in for his flashier red check, and weathered jeans replaced his ink-dark ones. He wasn’t as heavily armed as either Leon-wood or Engelmann. He carried only the ceramic knife and penlight zip gun Lester’d sent him. The zip gun jutted from his shirt pocket. The knife he wore in a jury-rigged belly sheath of Ace bandages and duct tape; he’d left the third button of his shirt unsnapped and could draw the knife at a moment’s notice.
Despite what he’d told Purkhiser, Hendricks had hoped to tail Leonwood from the moment he entered the casino and kill him long before the ceremony started. He only led Purkhiser to believe it would happen during the balloon drop to keep him occupied, so he didn’t get any ideas about changing the routing on Hendricks’s millions. The threat of death does wonders for keeping people on the straight and narrow.
But Leonwood hadn’t entered the casino through the main lobby—he slipped in through one of the restaurants with both exterior and interior entrances, no doubt wishing to avoid being recognized by the concierge. Hendricks didn’t spot Leonwood until he was walking into the banquet hall—only recognizing him in his new getup because he looked as fresh-faced as his childhood mug shot—and the man hadn’t budged since claiming a table. That meant plan B.
Plan B was to feign drunkenness, staggering through the crowd of tables and stumbling into Leonwood right before the ceremony began. Before Leonwood ever had a chance to open fire, Hendricks would sever his femoral artery with the ceramic knife and let him bleed out where he sat, all evidence of the crime obscured by the dim lights and floor-length table linens.