Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  Monica smirked at her father who smirked back.

  “You’re still getting to know the family, son,” John said. He then pointed at Monica who was now adjusting the suppressor on her beloved Glock. “That lethal bitch is one daughter I’ll never have to worry about.”

  61

  A month had passed. A quiet month. At first it was good. At first there were hints and (loose) hopes that Arty and whoever had vanished for good.

  The FBI continued their search but had found nothing thus far. Domino’s security had been top-notch; the Lamberts were never alone. This was comforting for awhile, but once that first quiet month rolled over into a second, and once it seemed as though they had ordered takeout from every conceivable restaurant in Pennsylvania, and had rented every movie ever made, Amy started to become irritable.

  They were not complete prisoners in the house—there were supervised leaves. They’d had dinner at their friends’ house one night, however Amy suspected the Browns were uncomfortable most of the evening, and she didn’t blame them one bit. Two imposing bodyguards shadowing Patrick and Amy throughout the night? The awful possibility that the bad guys could show up and catch the Browns in the line of fire, not unlike the Mitchells at Crescent Lake? The Browns knew all about the unfortunate Mitchells and their untimely demise—that is, their grisly murder.

  So that had been the one and only dinner invite thus far. There were brief morning trips to the park with the kids—both Carrie and Caleb were being home-schooled for the time-being—and occasionally, if she begged, Domino himself would escort Amy to a small strip mall up the road—the enormous King of Prussia Mall a mere five minutes away was out of the question.

  “I need to get out,” Amy eventually said to Patrick as they sat at the kitchen table with morning coffee. Domino had taken his mug and gone to the den to do some work on his laptop. Briggs and Allan were at the park with the kids.

  “Out?” Patrick said after a sip. “Out where?”

  Amy waved an arm across the kitchen. “Of here. I need to get out of here.”

  “You want Domino to take you to the park to meet up with the kids?”

  “No—I want to go somewhere else.”

  “Like where?”

  “I don’t know, just …” Amy ran both hands through her hair, trying to keep cool, refusing to snap at her blameless husband.

  “Baby, what are you—”

  At the peak of stroking her hair, Amy intentionally pulled upwards and let go, dark strands falling down over her face. “Look at my hair,” she blurted, cutting Patrick off. She wiped the hair out of her face, took the pads of her fingers and tugged down on the skin beneath both eyes. “Look at my eyes, my face.”

  Patrick did. He then shrugged. Amy knew what he was thinking, and on any other day, in any other time, she would have loved him for it. Today, it only served to irritate her further. She did not want to hear that he found her beautiful no matter how many split ends that frizzed her locks needed trimming. No matter how many roots were reclaiming their gray. No matter how many dark circles were gathering beneath her eyes, clogged pores circling her nose. She did not want to hear it because today, God damn it, she would never believe it. She felt awful. Felt she looked awful. Looked like some bag-lady sleeping on a vent near Market Street Station. A man would never understand this—the need for a woman to look and feel like a woman. A man, if society allowed it, would likely march around in sweats and a stained tee, seven days a week, shaving only when his face itched too much, showering only when his odor became a nose-sore to even himself. A man would live in his man-cave with his DVDs, his beer, his porn, his junk-food, and lose track of time. Forget the day, the month, maybe even the year if the supplies were aplenty.

  At least this is what Amy thought. And right now she thought it more than ever. Because, as Mr. John Gray so aptly put it, men are from Mars, and women are from Venus. And Amy had been on Mars long enough, thank you. She pined for a trip back to her home planet of Venus, if only for a few hours. She doubted Patrick or Domino (or any man, her temporary bias insisted) would understand, but that wasn’t going to stop her from trying.

  “I need to get out,” she said again, disappointed something more articulate didn’t come out.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I wanna feel human again. A haircut, a facial … maybe even a massage.” She rubbed her neck. “My neck and back are a mess. I must have a million knots.”

  “I can give you a massage.”

  “No,” she said quickly, knowing he would reply as such. “I want a good massage.” And then feeling a slight hint of guilt, added: “A professional massage, honey. One with a table, and scented oils, and soft music. I want to see Lana at Image.”

  Patrick sipped his coffee, taking it in, seemingly looking for the right response. “Domino would never allow that,” he eventually said.

  “Why don’t we ask him?”

  Patrick pushed his mug aside and leaned in. He dropped his voice, his expression stern. “Are you serious, Amy? Are you forgetting why we’re in this position in the first place?”

  “It’s been over a month,” she said. “Nothing has happened.”

  Patrick’s stern expression was teetering on anger. “Are you kidding me? Am I the only one who remembers what that sick bastard is capable of? Look how long he waited before he escaped.”

  “He had no choice but to wait. He was in jail. And he needed help to escape.”

  Patrick laughed incredulously. “Which proves my point even further. If he’s got help, he’s even more of a threat. And if he had help, why didn’t they break him out right away? Why wait so long?”

  “Because whoever his help was, they obviously weren’t stupid enough to risk breaking into a jail loaded with police. They waited until he was transported, when their odds were better.”

  “Exactly—they waited.”

  “Because they had no choice,” Amy repeated.

  Patrick gritted his teeth and breathed hard through his nose. He was shaking his head when he said, “I can’t believe this. A month ago you and I were on the exact same page. We both wanted Domino here. We knew Arty wasn’t going to run and hide. We knew he was going to be coming for us. Now you’re changing your tune just so you can get a massage?”

  “And a facial,” she added with goading defiance.

  “Amy.”

  “I’m not changing tunes, Patrick. I know who we’re dealing with.”

  “No you don’t,” Patrick said. “None of us do. We know Arty. But his help could be anyone. They could be fucking ninjas for all we know. If we start getting lazy, if we start assuming it’s all over and they’re gone for good, that’s when … that’s when—”

  “He’s right.” Domino’s deep voice from the kitchen entrance turned both their heads. “I know what you’re feeling, Amy. But believe it or not, that first week we were here? That first week when you and Patrick slept maybe one out of every three nights? That was the time when you were safest. People like this—bad people, smart people—they don’t rush things. Patience is their best weapon. It’s when shit starts getting boring, when shit starts getting quiet, mundane—that’s when you need to be prepared, girl. Because that’s when these bad people use that patience. They’re not only biding their time, waiting for you to slip up, they’re also planning … preparing. Remember this: you’ve got many things in your life that can occupy your mind—your kids, your job, bills, your home, friends. These folks have only one. Vengeance. I’ve been there myself. And believe me, when it gets hold of you, nothing else matters.”

  Domino’s words resonated (how could they not?), but Amy still saw no difference between a trip to the strip mall up the street and a trip to Image for a simple massage. Of course she would never forget who Arty was, or what their current situation was. She would remember Arty and Crescent Lake until the day she died.

  “I am not asking for a weekend getaway,” she said. “I’m not even asking for a night out on the town. G
od knows I have been compliant to all the rules and parameters you’ve set, yes?”

  Domino closed his eyes and nodded once.

  “All I am asking for is a trip to a spa that happens to be five minutes away. I can take Christopher or Dan, or both with me. They can even be in the room while I’m being massaged. I’ll strip naked in front of them, I don’t care.”

  Patrick made a face.

  “You’ve kept us safe thus far. I trust you and your team with my family’s life. I mean, my God, both your men are at the park with my babies—I certainly trust you to protect me in a simple spa. And if this is the metaphorical mouse finally poking his head out of the safety of his hole and into the baited trap, then I know your team can handle it. They would protect me.”

  She was using the flattery approach—with lousy metaphors to boot. She also knew Domino was clever enough to see through this and make up his own mind without influence. All she could do was sit and hope at least some of her words had made a dent.

  Domino sipped his coffee. “Wait until Briggs and Allan come back with the kids. You then call your spa and see if they can take you today. Not tomorrow, today. If they can’t—tough luck. If they can, you schedule the soonest available time; spontaneity is our ally. No pre-planning. I’ll have Briggs tailing you there. Allan will drive you and be with you the whole time. I hope you weren’t kidding when you mentioned stripping naked in front of them.”

  “I wasn’t,” Amy said.

  Patrick made another face.

  Amy reached across the table, took Patrick’s hand and squeezed it.

  “So that’s how it’s gonna be,” Domino said. “If they don’t have an opening today, it’s like I said—tough luck. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  Amy smiled for two reasons. First, she had been a loyal customer to Lana for years, and knew her massage therapist would fit Amy into her schedule somehow. Second, well … she was getting a massage.

  Domino looked at Patrick and nodded reassuringly. He then looked at Amy and nodded once, gravely. “When my team is back with your kids you can make your phone call. I’m not gonna lie though—this goes against my better judgment.”

  “Mine too,” Patrick added.

  Amy squeezed her husband’s hand again then looked at them both. “It’ll be fine.”

  • • •

  Dan Briggs did a quick check of his watch between pushes on the swing. Carrie kept urging him to push harder but he would not. Briggs glanced to his left where Allan was standing over Caleb in the sandbox. Briggs clicked the mic on his collar. “You almost ready?”

  Allan palmed the invisible receiver in his ear. “You want me to do a sweep first? I can walk the boy over.”

  “Nah—it’s freezing. Plus I only spotted the same three the entire time.”

  “Eleven and three?” Allan asked.

  “Yeah—old couple at the picnic table with coffee, and the teenager shooting hoops.”

  “Wanna approach? See if they jump?”

  “No. I’ve kept an eye on them the whole time. The kid can play—sunk ten in a row. Low odds there. Old couple’s feet were pointed towards each other the entire time they spoke.” Briggs always looked at the feet of potential suspects. The feet never lied. Faces could be deceptive; it was why some excelled at poker. But the feet always pointed towards their target. He, Allan, and Domino always had a hearty laugh about this fact whenever they’d stop for a drink, find some couple on a date, and then spot the clueless guy rambling on and on while the desperate woman’s feet shot laser beams towards the nearest exit despite looking the fella in the eye.

  “Okay then,” Allan said. “Let’s go.”

  • • •

  One hundred yards away, parked safely beneath a large oak, Monica pulled her eye away from her Canon and lowered the lens. She could tell the two men with the kids weren’t Feds—their manner suggested a more militant vibe, a more impenetrable demeanor. They certainly weren’t local police. So who were they? Monica set the camera on the passenger seat and started the engine. Time to go find out.

  62

  The front door of the Lambert home opened and both Carrie and Caleb sprinted inside towards the television. Christopher Allan and Dan Briggs appeared immediately after.

  Domino approached. “All good?”

  Briggs said, “All good.”

  Domino turned and Amy was behind him, smiling like a teen asking for the car keys.

  Domino handed her his cell phone. “Go ahead—make your call.”

  “I can use my phone,” she said. “I’ve got the number to the spa saved in my contacts.”

  “You’ll use my phone,” he said. “Anyone tries to hone in on this and they’ll hear a scramble that sounds like a cross between Chinese and Latin.”

  “Oh,” Amy said softly as she took the phone from him. “Well I still need to get the number from my phone.”

  “Get your number. But you dial from mine, alright?”

  Amy nodded and headed towards the kitchen.

  Allan patted Domino’s shoulder. “What’s up?”

  Domino kept his eyes on Amy in the kitchen as he said: “Tell you in a minute.”

  • • •

  Monica did not have to worry about her tail being spotted by whoever these two guys were. She didn’t have to worry because she’d gotten to the Lamberts’ before them.

  She sat parked two blocks over, her equipment fanned out on her dashboard and on the passenger seat next to her Canon. A cop might call it a stakeout, but unlike a cop, Monica had access to equipment that would make any cop or Fed cream his pants. Unfortunately, the problem with these specific types of stakeouts was that there was seldom a hit for hours. They were not about observation, they were about listening. You were waiting for some kind of technological communiqué, be it telephone, radio, internet, whatever. It could get damn boring. She recalled a target she was paid to eliminate a few years back. The target’s main contact was addicted to internet porn. Monica must have listened to a thousand hours of forced moans parked outside the contact’s home before the bastard finally took a break and called the target, which resulted in an immediate address. She shot her main guy six times—all in the head. Then she went back to the porn guy and shot him six times too—all in the groin.

  Monica lit a cigarette and cracked her window, preparing for a long day, maybe night. Instead, she got a pleasant surprise. A signal was coming from the Lambert house. An outgoing call. She tossed the cigarette out the window and immediately punched a few keys on her laptop. The metallic chirp of a ringing phone filled her car. She waited for the click, the “hello.” There was a click, but there was no “hello,” just a steady stream of gibberish. Her signal had been scrambled.

  “Fuck!” she yelled. She punched more keys, looking for a number, tracing the call. Ten foreign symbols came back—no decipherable numbers.

  This was impossible. Who the fuck are these guys?

  She frantically punched more keys on her laptop, cranked two dials on another device, adjusting frequencies.

  Still gibberish.

  “Fuck!” she yelled again.

  Monica picked up her own cell, hit a number on her speed dial.

  “Code in,” a male voice said.

  “Neco. 8122765.”

  “Waiting … clear. What’s—”

  “I need an immediate trace,” she blurted. “Sending you the signal now.”

  Monica knew the call would end before she could get the right frequency to unscramble and listen to the call, but she knew they could trace it.

  “Got it,” the male voice said. “Hold …”

  Monica lit another cigarette, inhaled deep. Her equipment was the absolute best. This had never, ever happened before. Who the fuck are these guy—

  “Okay,” the voice said. “We have the trace. The number is being sent to you now.”

  Monica didn’t thank him, just hung up. She flung her second unfinished cigarette out the window and pu
nched up the number. The gibberish had been over for almost a minute; the call was finished. She dialed the number.

  “Image Spa, may I help you?”

  She hung up. A spa? A fucking spa? Why the hell would—

  A piece clicked:

  Amy.

  Another piece clicked:

  The men at the park … the high-tech equipment that matched hers …

  The Lamberts had protection. Real protection. People like her and her father.

  Both pieces clicked together:

  The Lamberts have been prisoners in their own home. Amy needed to get away. Needed to be pampered for a day. Lord knows, Monica understood that.

  Monica raised her Canon. Adjusted the lens. Looked in the Lambert’s kitchen window from over one hundred yards away as if she were standing right outside their home. She saw Amy. She saw Patrick. The two guys from the park—skinny and baldy. And then she saw the third. A big black fella who looked like the main man by the way he spoke and gestured to everyone in the kitchen one at a time, clearly giving orders.

  My dear sweet Amy, once again you’ve come through for me. And Dad’s getting the van today. It appears as if ‘sooner’ might just be happening after all.

  Monica smiled and dialed the spa’s number again.

  “Image Spa, may I help you?”

  “Hi,” Monica said, “this is Amy Lambert. I just made an appointment, but I forgot to write it down.” She gave a silly chuckle. “Can you tell me when I’m due in again?”

  “Four o’clock this afternoon, Mrs. Lambert.”

  “Great, and that’s for … ?”

  “A ninety-minute massage with Lana.”

  “Right. Couldn’t remember if I booked sixty or ninety. Wouldn’t want to deprive myself those extra thirty minutes.”

  The receptionist laughed.

  Monica looked at her watch; it was 10:30 A.M. “See you at four,” she said.

  “See you then,” the receptionist said.

  Monica hung up, punched in the name of the spa on her laptop, got the address. She then dialed the same number from a few minutes before.