“My other customer. He don't take kindly to others gettin' the same arrangement he gets. I gotta charge more. And the drop. It don't take place here, bub. You gotta give me an address. And different to your . . . friend.”
Trent almost smiled. It was the scenario they needed. “Yeah, man. Sounds good.”
“You pay now.”
Trent allowed the grimace to show this time.
“This is my business.” The old man showed open palms. “Check the door. I been here thirty years. I ain't goin' nowhere, bub. And the casings don't go through here.”
Trent grimaced some more for show, and then gave in. They agreed a fee and a date. Trent offered up a drop-off point. The old man didn't get any friendlier. At one point the door opened and another customer came in. The old man ignored Trent until the new guy had finished his business. The shop grew hotter and hotter. The air-con must be out of whack. Then, suddenly, it was over. Trent exited the shop and crossed the busy road, threading through the locals, and re-joined Silk and Radford in the car.
He offered them a lighter frown than was usual. “Job done. Drop's day after tomorrow. Now, we wait.”
5
The waiting was necessary and unavoidable, but still tore at Trent's soul with claws of fire and ice. Anna Borstein's fear and desperation hung like a terrible shadow over him every hour of the day. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw the haunted look in Artur's eyes, the look a child should never know. And those eyes reminded him so much of Mikey's. It wasn't often, but sometimes when Mikey spoke of old, good times and supported his mother, Trent had to look away. When his gaze returned to Mikey, he saw that same haunted look, that indescribable hurt that struck every child to his very core when the one thing he had always depended upon shattered apart around him.
They spent a day following up their own areas of expertise. Silk returned to Netherworld and executed a second scouting mission, returning to report that although the cops had taken down the crime scene tape, the computers hadn't yet been returned and there was no sign of dancers, bouncers or management. Another pick through the place had turned up nothing extra. Radford set about collecting data on the gun shop owner, the gentleman's club owner and even tried looking online for the custom casings, but came up empty. He spent most of the time prepping one of his 'toys' for use the day after. Radford's various toys made the job of finessing somewhat easier.
Trent went over the plan, time and time again. In the short time they had, it was the best they could hope for. More importantly, it was the one most likely to succeed. Every mission had its risks, and this one stood fraught with them, but some things were worth taking risks for.
The next morning dawned to find them already in place at the drop. They had waited an hour, and expected to stay in place for a further two. Experience on previous missions had taught them the necessity of scouting a meet early.
Conversation between them stayed at a minimum. This was no time to lose focus. Well before the time of the drop, Silk and Radford moved off to their game-on positions and left Trent to reassume the mantle of Mr Abercrombie.
At 10:00 am, a silver Fiero pulled into the parking lot. Trent saw it enter from his high vantage point, and listened as it screeched up the multiple levels. It wasn't the only car coming and going, but it was the only one passing empty spaces on level three and heading up to level five, where only a few scattered vehicles were parked. Trent waited. The big parking garage was ideal for their plan, which was not exactly a mind-bender – a new Langley recruit could pull it off in his sleep – but it had always been effective.
Trent cracked the door of their rented SUV. Weapons had been placed within easy reach. It never hurt to have a few back-up plans.
The silver Fiero slowed as the driver spotted him, but then shot forward, burning rubber. Trent waited patiently, prepared. The Fiero stopped in the easiest gap it could find, between the SUV and the parking garage's high wall.
So far so good.
A youth wearing a bandana, a tank-top and shredded jeans climbed out, chewing gum. “You Abercrombie?”
“That's me.”
The youth chortled. “Where's Fitch?”
Trent allowed a thin smile. “Oh. He's around.”
The youth swaggered forward. “So homes, this some fuckin' dumbass place to meet or what? They tell me Vegas, I think titties. Ain't no titties here, man.”
“It's a little early.”
Trent weathered a scathing, incredulous look. “No shit? Never hear that one before.”
“Do you have my merchandise?”
“I don' roll goddamn empty all this way, homes. It's in the trunk.”
Trent allowed his eyes to wander off the mark for just a second. At that moment there came the sound of a car being driven fast, its tyres screaming, its engine roaring. A souped-up Evo practically took off as it crested the ramp that led to their parking level, almost crashing as it drifted in a long arc and took off again in the direction of level six.
The youth hooted in amusement. “Fuckin' boy racers.”
Silk crawled back to safety, underneath a nearby parked car, having secured a tracking device to the youth's vehicle.
Trent grunted, grimaced and nailed the youth's attention until he felt Silk was safe. Then, “A long way, you say. Well, I don't want to keep you.”
“No shit, homes. You don't.” The youth clicked open the trunk, reached inside, then held out a Walmart carrier bag. “Go knock your socks off. Or some other fuckers. I don' care, right?”
“Right.”
Trent examined the bag's contents for show. “They're fine.”
“Damn straight they're fine. Got 'em from the man what can. Know what I mean?”
Trent, already committed to following this douche to the source, suddenly felt a lot better about the prospect. Here, confirmed, was a solid lead. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“Real good.” The youth gave him a nod and climbed into his car. Trent followed suit. By the time the Fiero hit the exit ramp, Silk had given Trent the thumbs up and started tailing the youth in his own rental vehicle. Trent nodded through the windshield. Silk would follow the kid to his home.
Then they would have to await Mr Abercrombie's next requirement. Somehow, Trent had an idea that it wouldn't be long in coming.
*
They took the downtime in LA. Though it hurt Trent’s heart to leave Anna and Monika to their own devices, nothing could be gained by hanging around. He had slipped the gun shop owner the line about this first batch being a trial, facilitating a fast reappearance, but to make it earlier than forty eight hours was inviting disaster. So Trent went back to his lonely apartment, with its neat array of Mikey pictures, vacation keepsakes and well-ordered freezer. Silk went back to Jenny’s cooking, and wasn’t he the lucky one, and Radford went back to his place in the Hills with its heart-shaped swimming pool and endless views, its basement array of top-end computers and worktables that incorporated an electronics workshop, and its distinctly two-bedroomed, two-wardrobed, separate lifestyle layout.
The first thing Radford did was check his personal emails. He and Amanda always made sure they knew exactly where the other was. Amanda had always known about his CIA standing. In the days when they were a close couple, she had fully supported him, even covering for him at various functions whilst he sneaked off to do his clandestine bit for the country.
Sometimes that ‘bit’ had involved the latest national security. Sometimes it had just involved his latest national treasure – Lucy, Colleen, Leila, Erica.
Now, Radford clicked open Amanda’s latest communication and found she’d made time to spend a day sightseeing in New York with her east-coast beau. He read the email, replied, and then shut the thing down. The case in Vegas was plodding along too slowly for him, not only for Anna’s and Monika’s sanity, but also for his own.
Dan Radford had always been the player, the guy with a girl in every port, the showman, the dude who took whatever he wanted. Even his wife
had succumbed and later been drawn into the game, becoming the female version of him and finding that, indeed, she loved it too. A match made in heaven, for sure.
But lately, Radford’s convictions had grown askew. Even Trent had no answer to it. The obvious cure was to ignore it. Nothing good ever came of dwelling too long. He’d topped out at MIT, received the Grace Murray Hopper award as one of the outstanding young computer professionals of the year, sailed through electrical engineering and computer science and been recruited to the CIA without ever dwelling once on lifestyle choices.
Something told him he didn’t want to start now.
*
Trent slept, took a long shower, cooked bacon and eggs and then called Doug the Trout.
“Well, Aaron Trent, how’s life in LV?”
“Gruelling. Do you have access to the police report yet?”
“Woah, Trent, it’s been days. Of course I do. There’s bad news and then bad news. Which d’ya want first?”
Trent waited.
“Okay, be like that. But I’m pushin’ sixty, man. I gotta have my breezy outlook. Anyways . . .” he drawled the word out. “Ya got the usual mix here. Good cop work, lazy cop work. No bad cop work. LVPD report says club owner – George Raymond, I can email his details – was interviewed first and gave no indications that he knew who may be responsible. Not a single dancer or bouncer saw anything. Sounds like the old I never saw nuthin’, routine to me. But if they did, they’re not talking. Cops found your specialised casings too. They’re noted in the report and marked for a follow up.”
“Any news on that?”
“Nada, my cheerful friend. and there’s a note here that the FBI took a look round. Do I have to ask?”
“If you do then you’re not the man I trust with my life. We’re still in the early stages, Doug, so keep ‘em peeled.”
“What’s the next step?”
“Find the manufacturer of those casings. Get him to lead us to the pro. Find out who’s behind this. Job’s in hand.”
“And Anna Borstein? How’s she holding up?”
Trent again pictured the two little boys. “Your friend, Gerry. If he can think of some way of helping them out? Some way to take the boys’ minds off things? I’d ask him to try it.”
“Understood.”
Trent hung up but didn’t replace the phone in its cradle. It was still three days before he was scheduled to see Mikey again, but who knew where he might be by then? Tonight, he was definitely in LA.
Victoria answered on the first ring. “What now, Aaron?”
“I may be away at the weekend. I was wondering if I could have Mikey tonight?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Victoria’s voice never lost its hardness with him. “Rules are rules, Aaron. You know all about rules don’t you? Working for the government. Oh, wait you don’t do that anymore. Not after your million dollar paycheck. Now all you do is . . . what exactly? Count your money?”
“It’s not like you don’t help spend it.” Trent kicked himself before the words were out of his mouth.
“You know . . . I just remembered. We’re taking Michael out tonight. Big thing. He’s been asking to go see that new kids movie.”
“Just remembered, huh? What new kids movie?”
“I forget the name. They all sound the same to me. Is there anything else?”
Trent gripped the receiver hard, tempted to slam it against the table. This woman had loved him once, unaccountably. Now she controlled him through their son. Either she didn’t care about, or just didn’t see the harm it did to Mikey. She lived now for her mid-morning brunches and afternoon teas, her designer labels and convertible Porsche. Her chit-chats with like-minded divorcees. And all at his expense.
“Victoria.” He tried once more. “Can’t we just get along? For Mikey’s sake.”
“Michael,” she stressed the name. “Is busy. You’re welcome to come get him Saturday, as agreed by the courts.”
If Victoria Trent could stop him seeing his son forever, she wouldn’t hesitate.
The phone buzzed in his ear, the flatline she constantly sought to make of his heart.
*
Sometime during the night, the constant beat of the great city lulled him. He entered sleep calmed by the steady hum of traffic stopping and starting at the nearby junction, the sounds and smells of the mix of Far Eastern restaurants across the street; the immense heart and soul of the city calming the beasts and giving solace to the needy. For a short time, at least.
It was what Trent needed. An interval in which to regroup, in which to forget the relentless worries of his own life and of the many others that Silk, Radford and he had decided to accept and take upon their shoulders. Those of the helpless. The needy.
Despite the damn paycheck.
Fuck you, Victoria Trent.
6
Trent returned to the gun shop two days later, and ordered a second batch of ammo. Mr Abercrombie received a better reception this time, and even earned the come back soon parting appeal from the grizzled owner. By that time, both Silk and Radford were reconnoitring the drop-off youth’s place of residence, just waiting for him to make a move. He led them to the local mall, the local animal shelter, and a probable girlfriend’s house before embarking on what they finally hoped might be the jaunt they were hoping for. Their practice was to use two different vehicles in their surveillance, further reducing the risk of detection.
As a patchwork of shadows crept across the great vault of the sky, the youth set out once more. He stopped to gas up and to purchase a big plastic bottle of Yoo-hoo, a bag of Lays, and a packet of Twizzlers.
“Looks like he’s in for a long drive.” Silk reported to Radford through their always-on cell phones. They were using the phones as advanced walkie-talkies, still utilising separate cars.
The youth drove back to Vegas through the darkening night. Silk stayed closest, staying alert even as last night’s mega-portions of food affected his stomach. It wasn’t that they affected him in painful way, it was that they stretched it to breaking point and then some. But Jenny Silk’s cooking rarely went to waste. The nectar of the gods never tasted so sweet.
Silk reflected on how lucky he was as the youth slowed down to negotiate the busy, police-patrolled outskirts of Las Vegas. Jenny had reshaped his life. He was a man in love, and a man counting his blessings. It hadn’t always been that way. Of the three men that made up the Razor’s Edge, Silk was the one with the hardest upbringing and the shadiest past. And the disavowment hadn’t been exactly pretty. Right or wrong, for good or ill of country, to save the innocent or condemn them, it had been a decision, once made, that they had never regretted. But it sure as hell hadn’t been easy.
Silk dropped further back as the youth came to a crawl, relying on Radford’s tracker to do the work. The youth soon turned off the main thoroughfare at an intersection and plotted a new route. He entered a warehouse district, replete with enormous sheds and rows and rows of lock-ups. This was where the surveillance got a little tricky. It wouldn’t do to follow a red dot on a map, not here. They needed to know which warehouse or lock-up the youth visited.
Radford powered past as the youth’s car turned another corner, giving Silk a little respite. But when Silk passed the same corner he saw that the youth’s car had pulled over. Radford, to maintain cover, had had to drive straight past.
Silk quickly bounced the rental up on to the sidewalk and jumped out. The dry night air wafted the smells of oil and plants and a burning fire past his nostrils. He jogged back to the corner, any noise masked by the roar of the nearby freeway, stopped, and peered round.
Saw two men handing a package over to the youth. Shit, he thought. They had been hoping for an ultimate source, a place of business. No such luck. Silk melted into the shadows as the men glanced round. He saw them hustle the youth off and then retire into shadow themselves.
Silk had left his cell in the car. There was no way to contact Radford. He was about to start a slow prowl tow
ard the men’s hiding place, when the roar of an engine sent him sprinting back to the car. Within seconds he was inside, shutting everything down, and then the two men fired by in an enormous utility vehicle. Damn, they were shifting, probably going too fast to even spot the car slewed oddly across the kerb, let alone any type of stalker. Silk locked on quickly and called up Radford.
“Forget the kid. We got two new players. Humongous SUV heading up—” he checked the car’s integral GPS. “Palmyra. Turning off . . . heading into another warehouse district. Woah.” Silk shot down a side road as the SUV came to a screeching halt. These guys weren’t hanging around. No doubt missing their two-for-one buffets at Circus Circus. Silk had never seen turkey legs the size of the ones they served in Vegas. Well worth hustling for.
He abandoned the rental and sprinted back to the corner, hugging the shadows. There was no fear of him being seen now, on foot. He was the consummate artist on any kind of prowl, hot, cold, medium-rare. He saw the two men exit a side door and climb back into their SUV. Tyres squealed as they pulled away. A light shone through an upstairs window of the place they had vacated – no doubt the boss counting his illegally earned money. Silk carefully crossed the road and walked until he could see the name painted across the top floor of the warehouse.
Malloys.
Here was the manufacturer and the supplier of the special casings. Silk smiled to himself as he headed back to the car, digging out his cell and calling up both Trent and Radford. His message was the same to both men.
“Found the assholes. One more finesse and the pro will be within our sights.”
7
This part of the operation was where the Razor’s Edge had always excelled, why they had once been considered the best of the best. A new target had been identified. It was time to get to know that target, to learn his habits, his likes and dislikes, his routine. It was time to see him work and play, and get an insight into his psychology.
The Razor's Edge Page 4