Ghosts

by Matt Rogers

  Ward parked the car and waited, just in case.

  Alexis didn’t speak.

  She was exhausted to the bone.

  Five minutes later the workers gathered their trash and went back inside.

  The hot wind howled.

  Ward climbed out of the car. It only took him five seconds to round the hood, but the whole time Alexis thrashed in her seat, close to dislocating her shoulders in her desperation to get her fingers in her pocket.

  She failed miserably. Didn’t even get close.

  He opened the passenger door. ‘What are you doing? Stop that. Settle down.’

  He hauled her out of the car.

  She stopped thrashing.

  What was the point?

  Then he searched her, right there in the empty lot, surrounded by desolation. She lost all hope. He cleared three of her pockets before he came across the key fob. He lifted it out and looked at it, turning it over and over in a sweaty palm. She didn’t look. It’d hurt too much to watch her last lifeline stripped from her.

  She stared at her feet.

  The seconds drew out.

  She looked back up.

  He was staring at her. Not the fob. He held it between two fingers, held it up for her to see.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  Inquisitive.

  She nodded.

  Why lie?

  He put it back in her pocket, put a finger to his lips, then led her toward the warehouse.

  34

  Thanks to the miracle of GPS tracking, King and Slater knew exactly where Violetta was.

  Slater got up to ninety miles an hour in considerable traffic, veering in and out of lanes hard enough to throw them to the sides of the BMW with each jerk of the wheel. He had a relationship with adrenaline that King could never dream of. If the task required mayhem, Slater was the man for the job. When the operation absolutely had to succeed, he could embrace a death wish like no other.

  So he drove, and King rode shotgun.

  His eyes fixed on the road, Slater said, ‘How long ago did she push it?’

  King worked the phone. ‘Eight minutes.’

  ‘Has she moved?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘At all?’

  King zoomed in, further and further. ‘There’s tiny movements. All within the building. Hard to tell exactly.’

  Slater made to speak, but didn’t.

  King knew what he was about to say.

  They could be moving her body.

  Compartmentalisation was good in theory, but now it was impossible. Violetta meant everything to him. The fact that she was somewhere with hordes of potential witnesses and guaranteed security cameras barely registered. He’d make himself number one on Interpol’s Most Wanted to get her out safe. He yanked the glove compartment open and took out two identical SIG Sauer P226 MK25s, his weapon of choice at the range. He handed one to Slater, who took it one-handed as he ripped round a tight corner at fifty miles an hour. The back tyres slid out, screeching on the asphalt, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  He was in the zone.

  Slater said, ‘We’ll be there in three.’

  King said, ‘Good.’

  ‘There’ll be cameras. There’ll be staff. Whatever’s happening to her, it’s in a back room.’

  ‘We’re going to cause a scene regardless.’

  ‘Is that smart?’

  ‘Is anything?’

  Slater nodded. Roared into the limits of downtown Vegas and beelined for the business district. By some miracle, no cops were on their tail. If King saw lights in the rear view, he’d simply tell Slater to pull over and beat the unfortunate policeman into submission. It’d make them high-profile, sure, but time was of the essence.

  ‘Here,’ Slater said, and veered into a largely empty parking lot.

  The DA’s office was in a four-storey building with reflective glass. A security cordon had already been established out front. Five guys total, wearing suits so they looked somewhat professional, most of their heads shaved and all of them sporting earpieces. There were no guns in sight, not even when the BMW roared into view. This was a public commercial area, after all. Right now they just looked like unnecessary security. If they pulled their pieces, workers looking out surrounding windows would see.

  That was what ruined their chances.

  Slater screeched to a halt in the middle of the aisle a couple of dozen feet from the suits. Besides their crew, there was nothing between the BMW and the entrance. No parked cars, no witnesses.

  Before they got out Slater said, ‘Guns behind backs. We’re plainclothes.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ King said.

  He complied. Levered out of his seat and kept the SIG out of sight, pressed into the small of his back as he squinted under the sun. The five-man crew stared daggers at them. Slater rounded the hood and together they strode straight for the suits.

  ‘Closed for business,’ one of the thugs barked. ‘Come back later.’

  ‘LVMPD,’ King said, moving toward the cohort the whole time. ‘We got a report that—’

  ‘Whoa, buddy,’ the biggest of the five said. He held up a giant palm, but King kept advancing. ‘Can we see some ID?’

  King said, ‘Yeah, sure,’ and brought the SIG up from behind his back and crushed the butt of the gun into the guy’s unprotected face. It broke his nose and sent him careening backward, but he kept his feet.

  King darted in, fast as hell, and kicked the guy’s legs out from underneath him. Then he pivoted and swung an elbow, timing the second man’s instinctive lunge to perfection. He caught the second thug square on the temple. He would have preferred the jaw, but fistfights are messy. It still sparked the man unconscious. King shoved his limp body aside and shouldered past him and saw—

  Slater was like a bull in a china shop.

  He’d hurled himself into the midst of the remaining trio. One was already down, blood streaming from his mouth, palms flat on the hot pavement. King hadn’t seen how it happened.

  He saw sure the rest.

  Slater took a glancing blow across his right shoulder from one of the surviving pair, who’d actually managed to throw a punch. But he’d thrown it fast, so it was a weak, panicked, sloppy endeavour. Like getting slapped by a fly swatter on the deltoid. Slater finished his pivot and now he was close-range, which was a nightmare for the opposition. He hit the guy in the middle of the throat with the butt of his own SIG, temporarily ruining his ability to breathe. They were only three seconds into the entire brawl, so the last guy still hadn’t figured out a plan of attack. He was flailing, wondering whether to kick or punch or run. He didn’t have a weapon, but he couldn’t just back down. That’d be career suicide.

  Slater didn’t let him make a decision.

  He kicked the guy in the gut with the sole of his boot, doubling him over, then swung in with the pistol butt again, crunching it into the soft flesh behind the ear, which shut him down as effectively as a bullet.

  Slater turned back to the only guy still on his feet, who was now clutching his throat with wide eyes. Slater smashed the butt once, twice, three times into his forehead. Each consecutive hit put more sag in the guy’s knees, and finally the cumulative damage made him fall. On the way down Slater put a hand across his upper back and shoved him, helping him along the trajectory. His face hit the concrete and he lay still.

  King didn’t give the aftermath a second look.

  Nor did Slater.

  They had bigger fish to fry.

  They stripped the five incapacitated henchmen of their weapons — only three were armed — and locked the excess firepower in their trunk.

  Then they left the group in their collectively sorry state and stormed into the building, guns up.

  35

  There were a trio of reception workers behind the front desk, all of them equally terrified.

  Aside from that the giant space was empty. It had been cleared out in advance, most likely as soon as Kerr had called down. Usually there’d be
people milling around, floating between offices or chatting over coffee. Now the atmosphere was subdued, skeletal, punctuated only by the heavy breathing of the poor staff.

  King and Slater swept the space in its entirety, then aimed left and right respectively with only a foot of space between their backs.

  King glanced at one of the receptionists — a skinny kid with a name badge that read CHASE — and said, ‘Relax. We’re not here to hurt you.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Chase gulped.

  He was looking past them to the five writhing bodies outside.

  King said, ‘Let me guess. The three of you see a lot of weird shit happening in this building but don’t know much more than that. Gloria keeps you in the dark, right?’

  Three nods.

  They might just be nodding along because they fear for their lives. They might know nothing at all.

  But King focused in on Chase, and saw some sort of recognition in the kid’s eyes.

  Behind the terror.

  ‘Chase,’ he said. ‘A friend of ours is in danger. Gloria Kerr is a bad, bad woman. I’d threaten you, but I don’t like doing that to people like you. I want you to make the choice to help me.’

  Chase didn’t answer. He was clammed up, shaking.

  King said, ‘She’s got an office upstairs?’

  Chase nodded.

  King said, ‘There’s a door code?’

  Another nod.

  ‘What’s the door code?’

  ‘9045,’ he said without a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Thank you, Chase.’

  He sprinted for the spiralling staircase, and behind him Slater stayed put, keeping his aim on the area ahead of King. When King got to the foot of the stairs he trained his gun up through the spiral, and Slater ran to catch up.

  Cover and move.

  They worked their way fast up the staircase, bursting out into an empty corridor.

  There was a door at the end with an embossed nameplate reading: GLORIA KERR, CLARK COUNTY DISTRICT ATTORNEY.

  It hung ajar.

  No door code required.

  King and Slater ran for it in unison, moving fast but not sprinting so they could keep their SIGs up, ready for anything.

  They didn’t hesitate.

  Hesitation achieved absolutely nothing.

  They went in fast and hard, assisted by mountains of adrenaline, kicking the door aside and sweeping the space in less than a second.

  Violetta stood in the middle of the room.

  She had a suppressed Beretta in her hand, the long barrel trained rigidly on a pale woman sitting at a desk. There were two bodies sprawled on the carpet. Both very obviously dead. They looked to be ex-military. Now ex-living. They were face down, so the nature of their demise was unconfirmed, but the blood pooling around their head told the tale.

  Violetta had shot both of them in the head.

  King breathed out and lowered his weapon.

  Slater said, ‘Looks like you didn’t need us.’

  Violetta said, ‘I thought I might. Turned out I could handle it.’

  King turned to the silent woman sitting straight-backed in her chair. ‘Gloria Kerr?’

  A nod.

  King said, ‘Lovely to meet you.’

  ‘I have five men downstairs,’ Kerr said. ‘They’re all highly trained. You should leave now to save yourself the trouble.’

  ‘Oh, those guys?’ King said. ‘We got past them.’

  Kerr paused. ‘How?’

  Slater mock-sighed. ‘By the skin of our teeth. We barely survived.’

  She went quiet.

  He swept a hand over himself. ‘Can’t you tell?’

  Silence.

  Slater said, ‘Highly trained.’

  ‘Enough,’ Violetta said. She looked at her watch. ‘You two got here quick.’

  ‘Of course,’ King said.

  They exchanged a look across the room. He knew she was just as flooded with relief as he was. They were still here. Still kicking.

  For now.

  Kerr said, ‘Either way, the three of you are fucked.’

  ‘Are we?’ Slater said.

  Staring at her with unashamed disgust.

  Kerr noticed the glare, and actually wilted. King was still watching Violetta. She seemed surprised. Perhaps she’d thought Kerr was ice cold, incapable of feeling shame. But when someone like Will Slater steps into the room, his eyes burning with pure hatred, it’s a whole different story.

  Violetta said, ‘Will, you want to know something else?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Slater said.

  ‘Take a look at the family portrait on the cabinet over there.’

  Slater looked.

  So did King.

  He blinked. Just to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. Just to make sure he wasn’t seeing things.

  He wasn’t.

  King turned to Kerr. ‘Really?’

  Kerr said nothing.

  Violetta looked at the bodies at her feet. ‘I killed two people here. She went on and on about how they’re ghosts with new identities, but this is still a mess. Did you kill the five downstairs?’

  ‘No,’ King said. ‘Maybe we should have.’

  ‘They’re just hired muscle,’ she said. ‘Not contract killers like these two. There’s no need.’

  ‘So let’s go,’ Slater said.

  King watched him.

  Slater couldn’t take his eyes off the framed photograph with Melanie in it.

  ‘That’s it?’ Violetta said. ‘You just want to go?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Slater said, and aimed his SIG at Kerr’s face.

  The air grew cold.

  ‘No,’ Violetta hissed. ‘She knows Elsa’s whereabouts, but she hasn’t given it up yet.’

  Slater refrained.

  It took significant willpower.

  He didn’t lower the weapon.

  He said, ‘Elsa Bell. Daughter of Josefine Bell. Where is she?’

  Kerr didn’t answer.

  Slater said, ‘I’ll shoot you right here.’

  Kerr said, ‘You won’t.’

  ‘Don’t try me.’

  ‘I’m not trying you,’ she said. ‘I’m stating a fact. You three are the righters of wrongs. You’re all weighed down by the burden of morality. If you kill me here you’ll never find Elsa — she’ll vanish, exactly how everyone vanishes when I want them to disappear. If I tell you where she is, you’ll have no further use for me, so I’m dead.’

  Silence.

  Kerr said, ‘I’m a little smarter than your average enemy. So the answer to your question is: “Yes.” I would very much like to live. You’re not getting a word out of me. And I don’t think you’re willing to torture me in this very public place. It’ll take a lot to make me talk, and the cops will be here before long.’

  ‘The cops will be here whenever you want them to be here,’ Violetta said. ‘They’re in your pocket.’

  Kerr turned to regard her with curiosity.

  Violetta said, ‘And you haven’t called them yet.’

  Kerr stayed mute.

  Violetta turned to King. ‘She’s coming with us.’

  Slater smiled.

  Walked round the desk, grabbed Kerr by the arm and hauled her out of her chair.

  She struggled to no avail. ‘You’re kidnapping a DA?! Smart move. You’ll bring the whole damn city down on your heads.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter if we don’t exist,’ Slater said in her ear.

  That made her hesitate.

  As Slater pulled her toward the door, Violetta said, ‘Gloria, honey, I don’t think you understand who you’re up against.’

  36

  The warehouse used to be an auto body shop.

  That much Alexis could discern, even through the veil of terror. It made everything surreal, like she was detached from it all. Her arms and legs felt miles away, but somehow she managed to walk, even with her hands pinned behind her back. She swayed left and right from the disorientation.r />
  Ward kept a hand on her upper back to guide her through a side door into the warehouse. There were leftovers of the old business everywhere — cars that had been stripped, machinery gutted, the skeletons of racks scattered around the place. The concrete floor was caked in a layer of dust. It hadn’t been swept in months.

  And there was activity everywhere.

  A makeshift command centre — like Violetta’s setup with a tenth of the budget — was spread across cheap metal tables that men had carted in and erected. It seemed like the whole thing had been thrown together that day. An assortment of undesirables milled around under the dirty skylights in the roof. They came in all shapes and sizes. Mostly white men in tank tops and jeans, a few Latinos with gang tattoos, and a handful of African-Americans who all looked tough as hell. Alexis counted twelve men — all men. She was the only woman in the building.

  Ward yanked her to a halt just inside the doorway and everyone in the space turned to leer at her.

  She couldn’t mask a shiver, despite the stifling humidity in the tin shed.

  Then Keith Ray came out from behind a rusting forklift.

  She had no confirmation, but it had to be him. He wore a plaid shirt and blue jeans with Australian R.M. Williams boots on his feet. Cowboy garb. He was built tough for a guy in his sixties, with broad shoulders and huge hands and respectable muscle. He was an incredibly ugly man. Wisp-thin white hair in tufts atop his head, a face pockmarked so badly it looked sandpapered, and bright red capillaries around his eyes. He mock-smiled at Alexis — his teeth were so deeply stained they were practically brown. Even across the space she could see a Swedish “snus” in his lower lip. It was an alternative to chewing tobacco — a small satchel packed with staggering amounts of nicotine, drenching his gums in brown excess.

  His voice boomed. ‘There’s my girl.’

  She whispered, ‘Alan, get me out of here.’

  Ward kept his shoulders back, as if standing at attention. He didn’t take his eyes off Ray. He mumbled, ‘I’m sorry,’ out the corner of his mouth.

  Ray strode across the warehouse, his boots clacking on the concrete. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Huh?’ Ward said.