by Matt Rogers
He said, ‘I know.’
‘Then what?’
‘I love you.’
She looked at him.
Slater and Alexis stayed quiet.
She said, ‘Now you know how I felt on every operation.’
He nodded. ‘Then there’s only one thing left to do.’
She didn’t respond.
He said, ‘Go get that motherfucker.’
Slater said, ‘Wish it could have been me.’
Violetta focused on his ankle and shrugged. ‘Fate didn’t want you to deal with it. You’ll have to live vicariously through me.’
Slater closed his eyes. ‘I’m already picturing it.’
Despite everything Violetta smiled.
King said, ‘Go. There’s no guarantee Melanie will hang around.’
She kissed him, hugged Alexis, and patted Slater on the shoulder. Then she turned and walked straight past Ray’s corpse and the mangled body that used to be Alan Ward, its torso now riddled with lead. She didn’t look at either of them. One man was far more depraved than the other, but ultimately their choices had led them to the same place.
They watched her get in the SUV, reverse out of the lot and peel away.
The engine faded away, and then it was just the three of them.
King said, ‘Let’s get you out of here, buddy.’
He looked distracted.
As he hauled Slater upright and supported him around the waist, Slater said, ‘She’s going to be okay.’
‘I know,’ King said.
They started for one of the enemy’s SUVs, Alexis marching ahead.
King said, ‘I don’t know what I’ll do if she isn’t.’
58
Violetta had little experience with this particular role.
Frankly, she’d never needed to.
But she knew she could.
She wore jean shorts that ended a couple of inches below her hips and a tube top that pushed her breasts up and out. It perfectly accentuated all the curves she’d been blessed with, and as she waltzed into the laneway behind the strip mall she made sure to flick her hair over one shoulder and direct her assets toward the old security cameras outside the back door to Wan’s. She’d made herself look slightly dishevelled beforehand, like a woman who’d been at a pool party all evening and loaded herself up on enough substances to stride through the seedier parts of Chinatown late at night without a care in the world.
She was ready to do laps of the alley until she got a response, but it wasn’t necessary.
The door flew open.
Armando Gates was there, half-curious, half-suspicious.
He looked bad, but she knew he couldn’t tell. His eyes were so wide she thought they might burst, and red veins had almost entirely encompassed the whites around his irises. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, which he probably hadn’t. She knew he had at least a dozen underage girls on call to get his rocks off, but he either didn’t touch his own product or simply couldn’t resist the allure of doing things the old-fashioned way. Cocaine has the incredible ability to ruin your self-awareness, so he probably didn’t realise how strung-out and deranged he looked.
She pretended not to notice. ‘Hi there.’
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘You lost?’
He talked fast.
She talked slow to offset his mania.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Just walking around.’
‘You look like you should be someplace else.’
‘Where do I look like I should be?’
‘Encore Beach Club, maybe.’
‘I was at Kaos,’ she said. ‘I got bored.’
‘It’s real late. You’re a daredevil, aren’t you?’
She flushed her face and tried her best to dilate her pupils. King and Slater could do it on command. She hadn’t been through their training, but she did a respectable job of it anyway. It sure looked to Gates like she was coming down off ecstasy.
She said, ‘My friends were scared to come out this way.’
‘Why would they be scared?’
‘You tell me.’
He grinned. He looked like a demon. ‘I wouldn’t have a clue.’
‘You okay, honey?’ she said. ‘You look stressed.’
‘It’s been a long day.’
‘Same here,’ she said.
She took a couple of steps toward the doorway. Still keeping her distance — she couldn’t act completely idiotic. But enough for him to recognise the subtle advance.
He said, ‘I’ve got a club here.’
She looked around. ‘A club?’
He said, ‘You had an argument with your friends, didn’t you?’
She gave thanks he’d noticed her deliberately smudged mascara. ‘Why do you care?’
‘You’re in a bad mood, I’m in a bad mood,’ he said. ‘How about a drink to take the edge off?’
‘I don’t see any club,’ she said.
‘It’s not open right now,’ he said. ‘There’s a few issues I had to handle today. But there’s a full bar back here. I’ve got some top-shelf shit. Why don’t we keep the party going?’
She could feel his desperation, and she understood. He was losing to Keith Ray. Losing to a man who knew every aspect of his operation, and if Gates came up short in the war, Wan’s would be no more. Beneath the inflated confidence there was nihilism. He knew he might not live to see the next day, not if Ray came after him. And here was a gorgeous woman in enough of a compromised state to entertain maybe a drink with him. He’d given up on everything. He’d lost contact with King and Slater, and therefore Ward, and his lifelines were rapidly expiring.
Why not enjoy the next hour as best he could before it all went to hell?
She said, ‘What top-shelf shit you got?’
He said, ‘Anything you want, baby.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Baby? You’re lucky you’re cute.’
‘Cute?’ he said, his hands twitching. ‘Heard a lot of things before. Never heard that.’
‘Yeah,’ she said, taking another step closer. ‘You got something about you.’
‘You got lots about you.’
She gave a ditzy laugh.
He said, ‘Come on in. I don’t bite.’
‘What if I want you to bite?’
He stepped aside to let her through.
She went by slowly, making sure he got a good look at her rear in the jean shorts. Hopefully sending the blood out of his brain to … somewhere else. The corridor she entered was dark and grimy, windowless, lit only by a weak bulb and a few neon lights.
She turned around.
He’d already closed the door. Now he was really shaking, like he’d been subduing something he couldn’t tell her, and she started to realise that not even a tourist partying in Vegas could be as oblivious as she was trying to act right now. But before she could mention his obvious tics, he pulled a six-speed revolver from the back of his waistband and aimed it between her eyes.
She had a compact Glock concealed into the side of her jean shorts, but there was no way she could get to it in time.
He said, ‘You think I’m fucking stupid?’
59
She didn’t answer.
He said, ‘It’s sad, you know. That they’d send their woman. They think that little of me.’
She dropped the act immediately.
Somehow, some way, he knew.
He saw her recognition, and laughed so loud it resonated off the walls. ‘I’m just a dumbass coke addict, right? Right? That’s what you think. That’s what your friends think. That’s what they all think. Did they forget I have a tech guy? He’s worth his weight in gold. Way overqualified for me and my miserable setup, wouldn’t you say? He narrowed the coordinates when you went in, and he found the warehouse. There’s no cameras on it, but he eliminated all the other possibilities, and then, BINGO. Blackjack. Jackpot. For a smart guy, Ray can be so dumb. He moved into the place so fast he forgot to reprogram the security system inside the buildin
g. It was still there after the old tenants moved out, and my oh my, it was open. He got the feeds up. That’s how I identified you, puta. My tech guy saw you go into that office and rescue your friend. I saw it, too.’
Violetta flashed back.
To the blinking light in the office.
To the camera without the blinking light in the connecting hallway.
She took a deep breath and hoped for the best.
He just saw me get Alexis, she thought. He didn’t see what came after.
He doesn’t know.
That’s why he hasn’t killed me yet.
Gates was still talking a million miles an hour. ‘If you wanted me dead, why didn’t the others come? They thought you could do it? They really thought you could take me out?’
Violetta had to know for sure. She acted slow. She made her face fall and said, ‘Wait, you saw me in the office?’
He laughed. ‘Of course! Your boyfriends were off killing everyone in that goddamn warehouse, and you went in to rescue the damsel in distress. It’s sad that they brought you along at all. You’re useless.’
She thought, Am I?
She used her supposed uselessness to feign terror, and he bought it. It seemed to entice him further. He focused more on her and her fear than the gun in his hand.
He took a step toward her, thinking it would drive her backwards. After all he was six-five, taut with muscle, like an aggressive praying mantis, and she was short and toned and half his weight. But his biggest weakness was that he dismissed her solely because she was female. After all, he lived in a world where all he knew about women was what he could sell them for, how he could manipulate them, exploit them, bend them to his will. He was a de facto cult leader in this tiny portion of the underbelly of Vegas.
He’d missed one crucial detail.
She was not an impressionable fifteen-year-old girl.
And she could do far more than untie hostages.
So when she took a step toward him instead of retreating, he didn’t react. He should have backed up in turn, putting space between her and the revolver, but a combination of factors came into play. He thought about seizing hold of her and having his way with her right there — she was gorgeous, after all, and there was no one around to witness it. They were alone in the darkened husk of Wan’s. He thought about pushing her back, demonstrating his dominance. He thought about putting the gun against her head, a colossal power move. She could see it all running through his mind, making him — for a split second — indecisive.
He thought about everything except the right move.
So when she lunged for the gun he didn’t yank his arm back in time.
She did everything right, and he didn’t, which just overcame the considerable height and weight disadvantage. She pivoted as she seized hold of his wrist and threw herself out of the barrel’s trajectory, so she had her back facing him, so they were both wrestling for the gun. He was far stronger, and he struck her hard across the face, but he didn’t put his all into it for a variety of subconscious reasons. She was small, and she was a girl, and she was stunning, and all of that combined meant he continued underestimating her for the narrowest window.
Narrow windows get you killed.
She kimura’d his forearm. The limb was thin and long because of his lankiness, so she only needed a touch of power amidst the technique to torque the bone to the left. It didn’t snap, but the pain hit him like a bolt to the brain. He reflexively opened his palm and the revolver spilled out, but now he wasn’t underestimating her. Now he swung his free fist with everything he had, and she ducked, but two of his knuckles clipped the top of her head.
It almost knocked her out cold.
She stumbled and fell, right on top of the gun.
He came down on top of her, deranged and manic and breathing heavy, but she was fast. She’d already snatched it up and rolled and his hands clawed at her face but she pulled the trigger and sent one of the six bullets right through his bony chest.
Not the way she wanted it to go.
He would have been useful.
Not anymore.
He kept trying to attack her in his death throes but the bullet had gone straight through the left side of his chest and exited in grisly fashion out his upper back. She was far weaker, but now she could roll him off her without much effort. He slumped into a seated position against one wall, mouth flapping soundlessly, and she shot him in the head.
She got to her feet, ignored the blood staining her tube top and exposed abdomen, and made to press further into Wan’s.
A door flew open.
She almost fired reflexively.
But she saw frizzled curly hair and a terrified young face and she refrained.
She sighed. ‘Hi, Melanie.’
60
Like clockwork, Chief Judge Alastair Icke went through his evening routine.
Drive home, park, wobble his way inside, mutter a half-hearted greeting to the wife and kids (the part of his life he’d prefer to truncate, but couldn’t because of the need for a respectable public persona), head straight to the back deck, stuff his lower gums with extra-strength chewing tobacco, down a mug with three espresso shots of steaming black coffee, chase it with two shots of expensive whiskey, then cap it all off with a surreptitious line of speed, an amphetamine that made his pulse race and gave him clarity (he always used his giant torso to shield the snorting from view of any curious family members who might be eavesdropping). He tried to ignore the fact that he regularly sentenced people to prison for partaking in a hobby he himself shared. It was unfortunate about today’s case — the Swedish woman who looked cute when she pouted — and the fact he damn well knew she didn’t do it.
Usually he’d let a cute chick like her off only so she might be tempted to use her assets to thank him for his pity.
But sometimes sacrifices had to be made for the greater good, and that’s exactly what unfolded.
As he aged he found it increasingly necessary to boost his natural energy levels with artificial methods. Otherwise he came home and collapsed on the couch, gut hanging over his belt, drained from the soul-sucking nature of the courts. He liked to do things in the evenings, and that meant a carefully refined routine. He sat there, in the grip of the buzz, brought way up by the caffeine and speed, and blissed out by the nicotine. The whiskey helped to mellow him out, too, but nothing topped the fat mouthful of tobacco. His gums drenched black, he sat back, closed his eyes, and breathed.
He was wired.
More than usual.
He realised the stress of the day’s proceedings hadn’t worn off yet, so the chemical cocktail had brought his pulse up higher than usual. There was the briefest moment of panic as he listened to his heart thud in his chest — is this how it all ends? — but it quickly faded. He lit a joint packed with the strongest shit money could buy and puffed it relentlessly, watching the yard. He didn’t smoke weed often because it—
—distracted him.
He didn’t realise hours had passed until he gave his watch an off-handed glance.
9:32p.m.
‘Christ,’ he grumbled, his voice hoarse. ‘Alastair, you useless piece of…’
He trailed off, levering his giant bulk off the chair. It creaked and groaned in protest. He righted himself, staggered, wiped muck from the corners of his eyes. A belch rumbled up his windpipe and spilled out. He fished the soggy pile of chew tobacco out of his gums and dropped it in an ashtray on the outdoor table.
He groaned.
He’d missed calls. He’d missed check-ins. He swore to never touch a joint again until he retired. His seventies were the opportune time to lie around in a hammock all day and zone out. Not when he still had a career and extracurricular activities to keep tabs on.
He went inside, made for the bedroom. He passed his wife in the living room.
She said, ‘Honey, I made dinner for the boys, but I thought you wanted to be left alone and—’
‘Not hungry,’ he said.
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He didn’t look at her. She wasn’t worth the time of day.
He staggered into the bedroom, wrenched the bottom drawer of the bedside table out, and retrieved his burner phone. He couldn’t exactly conduct unofficial business on his work phone, could he?
He thumbed the home button and his heart sank.
He had thirty-seven missed calls from Gloria Kerr, twenty-one missed calls from Keith Ray, and a total of fifty-one missed calls from a variety of other numbers that weren’t anywhere near as important.
‘What the fuck,’ he mumbled under his breath, almost choking on leftover particles of tobacco. He coughed violently, swayed, and righted himself. ‘Stupid motherfuckers can’t handle their own business. Gotta get me to sort everything, right? Right?’
He ran through priorities.
Gloria first.
She was the shot caller, after all.
He dialled.
She answered in half a second.
‘What timing!’ she practically shouted into the receiver.
She was flustered, short for breath.
He couldn’t recall a time he’d ever heard her like this.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he said. ‘Why—?’
‘I should be asking you that,’ she hissed. ‘Where have you been all goddamn day?’
‘I didn’t take the burner phone to work. I thought there was enough heat on me with the whole coke bust thing. I kept thinking the media would see right through it. Turns out they give less of a shit than I thought.’
‘It’s not news,’ Gloria said. ‘You know that. People go to jail for conspiracy to distribute all the time. You think anyone has time to cross-check the deluge? No one was even suspicious of you, and my God did I need you today…’
‘What happened?’ Icke said. ‘What’s Ray shitting himself over? I missed almost as many calls from him.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Gloria said, her tone mocking. ‘Maybe the fact that he’s dead. That might be a factor.’
Icke froze. ‘He’s what?’
‘You heard me.’
‘What have I missed?’