by Chuck Hogan
Royce, watching the laptop feed, nodded.
Maven opened his mouth to speak, but Royce silenced him with an open hand. On the screen, two other men appeared, just heads and shoulders, but Maven could see that they were heavyset, both wearing New England Patriots team jerseys. They looked like brothers. The man in the sage green jacket opened the straps of his briefcase on the bed and handed them a paper packet. The brothers opened the packet and emptied the powdery contents into a hotel drinking glass. One brother then produced a vial from a small, zippered pouch and squirted it into the glass, swishing the solution around until it turned blue.
There was more conversation then, and Maven lost focus, what with the TV fight blaring, armed men in the room with him, and the edge of the city spread out twenty-nine stories below.
The Latino guy looked over at Royce and nodded. “Same Bat-time,” he said quietly. “Same Bat-channel.”
Royce pulled down his ear wire and said, “Pack up, check out, then reregister under a different credit card. A regular room, a few floors down.”
He started toward the door, making his exit without any formalities. Maven started after him, glancing back at the man on the bed, whose fingers were still laced behind his head, watching Maven go.
Royce turned right out of the room, walking boldly past the door to the adjoining room and continuing to the corner. He pushed the button to summon the elevator, and they waited in silence until the doors opened. Inside, Royce pressed the starred button for the lobby, and the doors closed. The car started to descend.
At about the twelfth floor, Maven said, “You’re a cop.”
Royce smiled, checking the fit of his jacket in the mirrored wall, brushing some lint off his lapel. He said, “That’s strike two.”
They walked through the lobby and the revolving doors to the circular driveway outside. Royce passed the ticket to the same valet as before, who jogged off.
Maven stood next to Royce, near an ash can, trying to figure out which question to ask first.
Royce said, “Why did you rotate out, Maven?”
Maven’s mind felt wobbly, like a table with one short leg, which Royce kept leaning on with his elbow. “Because my contract was up.”
“You could have stayed. They offered a bonus to retain you. Sure, it sucked over there, but for someone with your level of training, it took a lot to walk away. What was the real reason?”
Maven shook his head. He was waiting for Royce to tell him.
Royce said, “Maybe you were worried you weren’t cut out for anything else.”
Maven stared at Royce, in the way you watch a magician up close to see that his talent really is sleight of hand and not some mystical power.
Royce said, “Maybe you were afraid that was all you were. A soldier. A killer. So you opted out. You wanted to see what life was like back home. To see if it’s for you. The job, the car, the house, the wife, the kids.”
Maven said, “What was that up there?”
Royce ignored him, taking out the room card and jamming it into the ash can. “Every fear reveals a wish. You know what that means? The reason you fear something is because part of you secretly desires it. Or desires what it could get you. Or what it might turn you into.”
“I don’t desire to reenlist.”
Royce smiled to let Maven know that he was missing the point. “You come back home looking to find your way in this world, to stake your claim. That’s what warriors have done for centuries. But you can’t figure out how to take these military skills you have and use them to get ahead. You can’t find a way back into the peacetime world.”
Maven stared at him. “Those guys up there, in your room.”
“Associates of mine. All ex-military, like yourself.”
“And the guy in the two-thousand-dollar jacket? The one we saw at lunch?”
“An importer, wouldn’t you say?”
“A drug dealer. We just watched them do a deal.”
“The prelude to a deal, a meet and greet. A taste test. The Venezuelan with the Mulberry briefcase, he is a courier, but at the highest level. This is no mules-shitting-balloons operation. The two mooks in the Patriots shirts, they are the Maracone brothers out of East Saugus. Someone’s fronting them the financing to take a giant step forward in the local powder trade. The substance they were testing in there is pure, uncut, top-quality cocaine, no more than one week removed from processing plants in the eastern jungles of Colombia. Tomorrow, cash and drugs will change hands. The Maracones will transport their purchase to a safe house on the North Shore, where they will lock themselves inside a strong room, and after setting aside an ounce or two of pure for themselves, will use pastry scrapers to chop up the caked kilos on a large, glass worktable. They will then sweeten the product—most likely with mannitol, a baby laxative with anticaking properties—increasing their volume, in turn increasing their profit, growing two kilograms into three. Using electronic jewelry scales, they will repackage the new weight into half-kilo bricks for distribution by their lieutenants, who will further trample on the product, now with pure lactose or actual flour or ground plaster or whatever the fuck else they can get their hands on that’s white and granular. Much of it will be cut with baking soda, that mixture then heated to remove moisture, forming into small, crystal-like rocks known as crack. The end product will be out on the streets by noon Friday.” Royce unfolded his sunglasses and slid them on. “What do you think about that?”
“I think it sucks.”
Royce put a finger in Maven’s chest, as though injecting this idea straight into his heart. “What if somebody were to step in unexpectedly, say tomorrow, at this hotel, at this same time—and interrupt this transaction? Stop the flow of drugs into the community.”
Maven was starting to get it now. Royce radiated confidence like heat. Maven felt electricity in his own hands.
“I’m on a crusade here, Maven. There’s a war on in this town, only you can’t see it. Turf battles everywhere, victims dying slow-motion deaths every day. There’s blood in the streets—but you can’t fucking see it, and you know why? Because junkie blood is too thin to stick to the pavement. It hoses off too easily, washing right down into the gutter.”
Maven was nodding, even feeling that same old precombat testicular tingle.
“This is what you were trained for. Sneak-and-peeks. Hit squads and house raids. You know the drill. Now, what if you could do some good in this world—some real good, for a change—and at the same time profit handsomely from it? I mean, how often does a clear moral imperative come complete with a get-rich-quick scheme? The fucking win-win situation of all time. You feeling me now, Maven?”
Royce’s conviction was an intoxicant. “I think so,” Maven answered, feeling the edge of his bitten tongue against his teeth.
“‘Think so,’ nothing. You’re feeling me. I see it in your eyes.” The valet reappeared, Royce’s car pulled curbside. Royce tipped the kid and sent him on his way. As Royce climbed into the driver’s seat, he said to Maven, “I’m your ticket out of that parking lot and into one of these cars.”
OVERNIGHT
WHERE YOU AT TONIGHT?” ASKED RICKY, CHEWING SOUR PATCH Kids.
“Huh?” said Maven, zoning out on a stool before the wall of cigarettes behind the counter, ruminatively working his deformed tongue against his gums. “Nowhere. Tired maybe.”
“Two a.m.” Ricky flipped on the small television between the cash register and the pump monitors, tuning in a re-airing of that afternoon’s The Tyra Banks Show. “Time for my girl.”
When Ricky was still stateside in Kentucky during the ramp-up to Iraq, Tyra Banks visited Fort Campbell as part of a post–9/11 USO thing. Ricky lucked out, drawing the assignment to escort her vehicle back to the airport. Before they left the base, Ricky was sneaking a Snapple out of the hospitality tent when Tyra and her entourage breezed past him, as close to him as Maven was now.
“And it wasn’t even her body, you know, which is, by the way, ka-pow!
No, it was her skin. No lie. She has this perfect, like, creamy cocoa complexion that you’ve never even seen in your life. And her hair—she had on a patrol cap with her name on the back, BANKS—her hair had a life all its own, like a fifth limb. And the way she moved … I mean, lust just demeans it. It was true love. I seriously understand now why kings and shit launched entire wars over just one woman—risked their countries, their fortunes, gave away everything they had. I understand chivalry now, dude. She is Tyra of Troy. Just look at her.”
She came out to applause, turning on her big Tyra smile, playing surprise at the warmth of the reception, putting a flat hand to her breathless, voluptuous chest, then pursing her lips in a kiss.
“There. The air kiss. That’s our little signal.”
Maven looked at skinny Ricky hunched over before the small screen. “Your signal?”
“This cruel world keeps us apart. Experts say there are three events that could trigger a worldwide cataclysm. One—the sun burns out. Two—an asteroid impact destroys the atmosphere. Three—Tyra Banks marries a white man.”
Maven thought about it, and agreed. “I think three would cause the most typhoons.”
Ricky watched his goddess on a flickering four-inch screen. “She should wear stretchier tops.”
A pickup stopped outside, the driver bald, leather-jacketed, with the extremity of a tattoo—something dull, blue, penal—visible at the sides of his neck. He left the pickup running with a pit bull sitting in the front seat, came in, paid cash for a box of Phillies Blunts and some beef jerky, then drove off feeding the jerky to the dog.
The prison tat jumped out at Maven, got him feeling that nervous energy again. Beyond all his qualms, beyond all the questions he still had, beyond the voice in his head telling him, Don’t, he was undeniably excited. He couldn’t wait for his shift to be over. For the new day to begin.
He had gone into this thing wanting to know more about Danielle Vetti, and instead found himself beguiled by Brad Royce.
Ricky said, his mouth full of Sour Patch Kids, “You’re not eating tonight?”
Maven shook his head. Tomorrow Man. “I’m thinking about trying to get back into shape.”
That straightened Ricky. “You’re going to reenlist,” he said, as though it were something he had been dreading all along.
Maven smiled and shook his head, looking out the window again, searching the sky for signs of dawn.
RATS DANCE
THE SIGHT OF HANDGUNS ON THE HOTEL ROOM BED JOLTED MAVEN. He hadn’t seen a plain-view hot weapon since returning to the States. In Eden, they were standard-issue, like bottles of water. Here in a Back Bay hotel room, a pistol loaded with live rounds looked like a bomb waiting to go off.
He geared up with the others. Royce provided him with soft tactical body armor that fit all right, except for riding up into his throat when he wanted to sit down. The vest had full-wrap protection, critical for close-quarter engagements, when an arms-out gun stance left the sides of the torso vulnerable. Because soft body armor did a decent job of fragmenting pistol bullets but repelled rifle fire about as effectively as a wool sweater, Maven was used to wearing ceramic plates in the front and back pockets. So the vest felt light and almost silly, like wearing a life preserver indoors.
A patch was Velcro’ed onto the vest front, wide and rectangular. Maven started to pull on it when Royce’s hand touched his arm. “Later,” he said, handing Maven shooting gloves made of neoprene and synthetic leather, and a police-blue windbreaker long enough to hide his belt holster.
Maven stepped to the corner and drew his sidearm, a Sig Sauer 225. He was familiar with the weapon, knowing, for example, that the 225 was manufactured without a safety. He pressed the side button and caught the magazine as it ejected from the grip. He racked the slide and found the firing chamber empty, then racked it a few more times, trusting that it wouldn’t stick if he needed it. He then thumbed the rounds out of the magazine, counting eight, a full load for the 225. He fed them back inside the magazine, one by one against the spring, and slid the magazine home into the Sig’s grip. The weapon felt comfortable in his hand, but without his having fired it, nothing really mattered. Borrowing a handgun is like borrowing a parachute. And the first rule of jump school is, always pack your own kit.
Royce said there shouldn’t be any shooting. “Not if we do this thing right. You think you can do this thing right?”
Maven racked one round into the firing chamber, then decocked, releasing the magazine again, now one short of a full load, and thumbed an extra round from one of the two backup mags in the nylon pouch on his belt, then inserted it into the current mag and thrust it back inside the grip. Now he had nine, a full wad. He holstered the weapon and zipped up his blue jacket to cover it.
The Latino’s left cheek egged out from a fat dip of chewing tobacco, another thing Maven hadn’t seen much of since Eden, where everyone dipped. Royce and the others looped ZipCuffs onto their chest straps, but Maven wasn’t issued any restraints. They pulled black balaclavas down over their faces, fixing the stitched holes so they sat over their eyes, then rolled the masks up to sit on the tops of their heads like knit caps. Maven did the same.
He appreciated the seriousness in the room. These were men dressing for work.
Royce’s phone buzzed. The blond guy had left the room a while ago. Maven realized that he had gone down to the lobby, to eyeball the Venezuelan as he entered the hotel.
Royce listened and reported, “He’s in. With muscle. One man, rolling an oversized suitcase. Tan jacket, bulge underneath. Waved off a bellboy at the door.”
Maven yawned deep. From tiredness, from nerves, from the hormones released by his battle-alert brain, already relaxing his bronchial tubes for deeper breathing. His chest, tight inside the shell of the protective vest, felt like a jar of fireflies. He tore open a foil packet of Nescafé instant coffee crystals—nicked from City Oasis—as he hadn’t got any sleep that morning, emptying it into his mouth and dry-crunching it like candy, ramping up on undiluted caffeine.
“Second elevator,” reported Royce, hanging up. “Remember the security camera in the elevator panel. First man in body-blocks it.”
“That’ll be me,” said the green-jacketed Latino, spitting his plug and a string of brown drool into the plastic-lined trash can.
The black guy passed Maven on his way to the door, smelling of hotel soap and pistol cleaner, his yellow eyes looking like stones in need of polishing. “Don’t don’t fuck it up, newbie,” he said with a smile.
The Latino followed him into the hallway, quietly singing, “We’re gonna have a party …,” until the door closed and they were gone.
Then it was just Maven and Royce, alone in the narrow entryway. Royce checked him face-to-face like a man examining a thermostat before leaving the house for the day, making sure it was right. He looked satisfied.
He pointed to the door, and Maven went out first.
THE L-SHAPED HALLWAY ON THE TWENTY-SEVENTH FLOOR WAS EMPTY. At three in the afternoon, all the USA Todays had been claimed, the maid service had come and gone. A couple of room-service trays, set out after lunch, lay next to doors.
The Latino and the black guy waited at the near elevator. The UP button had been pressed, a glowing white eye. The Latino’s voice came back faintly—“gonna have a party”—all nervous energy and nicotine.
Maven swished around the last of his soldier’s Starbucks. He looked down at a silver-handled room-service tray containing two small jars of marmalade and honey, the congealed remains of an egg-and-pepper omelet and a bowl of hash, a linen napkin, and a side plate of wheat toast. As Royce peered around the corner again, Maven bent down and stuffed a slice of cold, buttered bread into his mouth.
Royce leaned back, checking behind them. “These guys,” he said, tugging up his jacket to expose his Beretta, “are fucking scum. You remember that.”
Maven nodded, swallowing the toast. The elevator dinged and a red arrow appeared on the overhead panel. Mave
n followed Royce down the hall, everyone pulling down his balaclava mask and converging on the doors.
They opened, and the first two were inside immediately. Royce advanced with his Beretta out of his holster, aimed low at the floor, ready. Muffled yells and wall-thumps, but no gunshots. Maven couldn’t see inside, remaining a few yards back, uncertain whether he should draw. The door tried to close twice, each time Royce stopping it with his foot.
The scuffle ended, and the Latino exited the elevator car with the Venezuelan in front of him, the man’s wrists cuffed behind his back. A nylon mouth gag accentuated the wild and stunned look on the Venezuelan’s face. The black guy came out second with a bigger guy, identically bound and gagged, but more bent over, perhaps more hurt. He wrenched the man’s arms higher and handed him to Maven, who gripped the guy by his elbow.
Royce retrieved the wheeled suitcase, then the black guy stepped back inside the elevator, Maven seeing, reflected in the wall mirror before the door closed, him screwing a tube-shaped suppressor onto his pistol muzzle.
Then they were running, feet thudding heavily on the carpet as they pushed their captives around the corner, rushing to the stairwell. Maven followed the Latino’s lead, strong-arming the muscle up the steps, bumping him around a little when he resisted. He saw someone moving floors below them, but it was just the blond coming up the stairs.
At the top floor, Royce squeezed past them to the front, knocking the Venezuelan’s head against the wall to get his attention. Royce unzipped his own jacket and pulled down the flap on the front of his vest. White block letters read FBI.
The Venezuelan’s gagged grunting echoed inside the deep stairwell.
Royce bounced him off the wall once more for emphasis, and the Venezuelan sagged but the Latino held him up. Royce reached for Maven’s jacket and unzipped it, tearing down his FBI patch too. Maven didn’t feel good about this.
Royce said to the Venezuelan, “Play along and your lawyer will have you out by midnight. But fuck with us, and you die resisting arrest. Comprende? Entiende?”