“Never dance again, Johnny-boy.” Trent switched his aim to the man's groin. “How's the sex life?”
Morgan writhed on the desert floor, his twisting body whipping up dust plumes and churning the blood and dirt into a dark paste.
Trent waited patiently for the man to stop squirming. Waited for the dark eyes to touch his own. “Monika Sobieski,” he said. “I don't expect you to know her name. But I do expect that you remember a little trip you took to Netherworld. And the women you snatched.”
“Strippers,” Morgan gasped. “They were just strippers.”
“We will stop at nothing,” Trent said. “To help them.”
And he fired again, this time planting a bullet into the meat of Morgan's left thigh. When Lockley's bodyguard again stopped screaming, there was blood pouring out of his mouth.
“Bit your tongue?” Trent's face was pure granite. “Could be worse.”
Morgan spat blood.
“Y'see, I'm not a rich man. Me, I can't stand waste. So my associate here—” he indicated Silk “—he's gonna retrieve my bullets.”
Silk brandished a knife, one serrated and one razor sharp edge gleaming in the half-light. “My pleasure.”
“Oh, I know I can't reuse them. It's just my sentimental heart.”
Morgan flinched away as best he could. “The strippers!” he screamed. “Whatcha wanna know?”
“What? Oh, right. The reason you're here. Alright, Johnny, here we go. Simple question. Simple answer. You ready?”
Morgan garbled an answer.
“Where are the women you abducted from Netherworld?”
“The club owner, he won a bet with Lockley. A big one. Netherworld was Donny's way of paying him back. You don't win against Donny Lockley, not in Vegas. He takes people. He keeps them.” Morgan spat more blood and groaned. “Some he sells on when it's safe. Some he keeps. It's just a lucrative side job. Nothing serious.”
Radford came forward. “Our friend did mention that Lockley was a property tycoon. Guy probably has a ton of houses and warehouses. Maybe that's where he keeps them.”
“No maybe's.” Morgan spluttered. “It's a fact. Many places.”
“So far so good,” Trent grated. “You saved your body from having to grow another arm. Where is Monika?”
“I don't know her. I really don't.” Morgan's face hit the bloody dirt, a sign that he was about to pass out.
Silk stabbed the edge of the knife into his thigh wound. “Can't hear you.”
Morgan howled. “Donny didn't keep those women! He took them to give away! As . . . as gifts.”
Trent quelled the explosion of anger that threatened to erupt through his chest. “Gifts?”
“Men as well.” Morgan's voice was hoarse from all the screaming. “He don't discriminate with his favours.”
“The guy's a chunk of dead meat,” Radford said in an exasperated voice. “And still he gets cocky. There's no hope for people like you, my man.”
“Fuck off, Hollister. Yeah, I got yer name, bud. I gotcha.”
“Shhh,” Trent snapped. “You're starting to give bodyguards a bad name. Let's take it back a step. You say they were gifts. For whom?”
“I dunno, man, really I don't. That's it.”
Trent nodded at Silk. The tip of the knife spent two minutes gouging out a small calibre bullet, by which time Morgan was shaking and crying.
“Second in command, Morgan.” Trent knocked the side of his gun against the pro's bloodied teeth. “You mentioned that, remember? I think such a high rank would make a man privy to some privileged information.”
“Lockley doesn't keep 'em. They're shipped to Texas by drivers we bought. Turner and Flash. Don' ask. Lockley does it for a friend. I don' know why, man.” Morgan sobbed into the dirt, into his own blood. The dog tags that he never removed scraped and swung from his neck. “I really don't.”
“And Monika was shipped to Texas?” Trent pressed. “You know this?” He fired one more bullet into the dirt close to Morgan's head so that the dust kicked up across his face.
“Yes. Yes. The Netherworld bunch were especially chosen. 'Easy meat', Lockley said. Easier than taking 'em off the street.”
Silk didn't buy it. “Shooting up a gentleman's club is not easier than abducting a bum.”
“No, wait. I forgot. They have to be fit. In good shape. No major druggies. No down-and-outs. No alcys. Being in shape is a given, Lockley said.”
Trent glanced across at Silk and Radford. This was sounding more and more like a conspiracy of depth, complexity and severe danger. The only good news was that such a requisite should mean that Monika was still alive. He pulled one more titbit of information out of Morgan – the name of the transport company that did the shipping – Greystone.
“Johnny, it's been a pleasure.” Trent shot him in the head. “Grab the shovels, Dan. And make sure you bury his gun with him. This bastard's going six feet under. I just hope the ghosts of Vegas past take him down to where he belongs.”
*
The journey back to civilization was sombre, which suited Trent no end. No one felt any pleasure in killing a man, no matter how bad that man had been. Radford eventually broke the silence.
“This job,” he said. “May have just spiraled out of our jurisdiction. Just saying.”
“You saying we're out of our depth, Dan?” Silk clicked his tongue. “The Edge? Think again.”
“Not what I mean. But if we take this much further . . . the fallout could be huge. We're disavowed. We shouldn't be anywhere near this. I'm thinking chain of evidence, reliability of witnesses, the whole shebang.”
Trent pushed the car a little harder. “We see it through.” He chewed at the words as they fell out, grinding them into pulp. “We find Monika. For her son. Then we worry about the rest of the world.”
13
Many corporations, if investigated, wend their trails of ownership in a weave of directions, ending up at a larger corporation, a millionaire’s tax shelter, or even a government official or rock star.
Greystone Transport was vast: a whopping chain with a myriad of outlets, satellite stations, employees and more bosses than a small-town McDonalds. The entire company was overseen by a corporate office in Dallas. When Radford did a bit of simple digging, it soon became clear that Greystone was highly connected.
“The Governor is on the board.” Radford whistled. “Senator Jackson is a big contributor. If J.R. were still alive I’d be expecting to see his name up there too.”
Silk smiled. “The bigger they are the harder they scream when their asses hit the dirt.”
Radford tapped a pen at the screen. “No. Look. Greystone is connected. They must ship half the entire goods out of Dallas. This is bigger than we—”
Silk smoothed his hair, a generous dollop of gel helping to keep it flat. “It ain’t the actual company, Dan. We’re talking, what? A run a week, if that? Half a dozen people abducted at a time? Very low key.”
“We’re looking at a mid-level manager,” Trent agreed. “Out to make a quick buck. And a couple of drivers. The run schedules can be doctored later, or the captives dropped off en route. There’s always a way around the law, Radford, you know that.”
“Yeah.” Silk pursed his lips. “What the hell’s wrong with you anyway? Something on your mind?”
“What if there is?”
“Chill, Dan. Wow. Whatever it is – can’t be as loaded as the secret our Aaron shares with ole Doug the Trout. Whatsayya Aaron?”
“Not getting into it,” Trent said without emotion. “Not again. Doug took me into his confidence. That’s it.”
Doug the Trout was a great guy, a world-class operative and one of the most connected men across the whole spy network. Only one incident had ever damaged him and even now, twenty years later, was still considered by all to be a no-go area.
Her name was Natasha.
Doug had taken Trent into his confidence – perhaps the only man alive – five years ago. Ever since, the specu
lation and assumptions had kept Silk and Radford entertained, though deep down it raised a small bone of contention within the team.
Silk didn’t push it. “So what’s your problem, Dan? Ya got a chick gridlock in the bedroom?”
Radford didn’t look up. “Always revisit the problem,” he quoted the team’s motto. “To find Monika we need to find the truck driver. To find him we need his manager. How do we track down a bent manager in a company that size?”
“Hard to pin down,” Trent agreed. “And we can’t safely get eyes-on from the other end of the chain. Lockley has too many properties to watch them all.”
“Toni.” Radford clicked his fingers.
“Your problem?” Silk wondered.
“Our solution,” Radford told him, standing up. “I hope.”
*
It took Toni a matter of hours – and the promise of a visit to Mandalay Bay’s celebrity chef restaurant Fleur – to use her US Department of Transport connections to identify which tracking company Greystone used. Radford had assumed that such a vast concern would use only the best, and sure enough, FleetSecure popped up, a company that offered top real-time tracking services. Their luck held. FleetSecure was a significant entity itself, and Toni came across them frequently in the course of her workday.
She had contacts. But extracting information from them was no easy feat. Radford’s frustration increased when Toni contacted him after several hours with the bad news.
“No go. Information’s locked. My contact would be risking his job.”
“It’s a few extra clicks,” Radford told her. “The guy's already on the system.”
“Clicks are monitored. Apparently.”
Trent caught the hint. “Apparently?”
“Says he could make it happen for front row Elton John seats.”
“He would risk getting fired to go see Elton John?”
Radford could almost see Toni shrugging. “Hey, he’s got no family. Elton is his life.”
“Okaaay.”
Trent leaned over Radford’s shoulder. “Tell your contact it’s a done deal. But we need that information fast.”
“On it.”
Toni signed off.
Radford watched as Trent drifted over to the window. The bright lights of Las Vegas Boulevard provided a glittering backdrop to the man’s sombre expression, reflected in the glass.
“She’s out there,” he said quietly. “Monika is out there. And I’ll be damned if we can’t save her. I’ll be damned.”
*
Hours later, the information filtered down. Only one truck driver habitually made that run – the one that started in Dallas, skirted Las Vegas, then headed directly back to the depot. A single driver consistently assigned to this run was suspicious – it spoke of some shift-manager intent, but to always follow the exact same course – that spoke of something more.
“Doctored GPS?” Radford wondered.
“It’s real-time,” Trent reminded him. “How is that possible?”
“It’s real-time until the truck returns to base, Aaron. After that it’s just a record on a file in some hard-drive. They could be using someone with programming knowledge inside FleetSecure to amend the route after the event. Don’t forget, the operation inside Greystone is low-key, it’s the end result that hits the big time.”
Silk butted in, “Who’s the driver?”
“Floyd Ashman.” Radford turned around, grinning. “Flash. And even better, he drives the same route every Thursday.”
Today was Wednesday.
“I hope these bastards can feel the noose tightening around their necks,” Trent grated.
Radford rubbed his hands. “So it’s search and tail.” He smiled. “Not my favourite pastime, but better than committing a B and E at some criminal’s house, then getting chased and almost shot.”
“Not for you,” Trent said. “You’re the lucky one. You get to go to Dallas for the night.”
14
Radford took the I-40 east for what seemed like a thousand miles. Truth be told, it probably wasn’t far off, but he couldn’t risk flying. Finessing wasn’t the name of the game once he reached the home of great barbecuing, steakhouses, shopping centres and billionaires. It would be a pure ‘Radford’ speciality.
Tech.
In particular, tech that he had constructed himself and couldn’t risk taking aboard an aircraft. With a speciality of computer science, Radford had always been the most geeky of the trio. After joining the CIA he had resisted field training as long as he was able, finally succumbing after his bosses threatened him with disciplinary action. Even now, after many field ops, Radford was always the one least likely to volunteer. But he had learned one vital lesson in his training – field ops weren’t fast. They took scouting, planning and a careful set-up. To go into the lion’s den unprepared was to invite a mauling.
Once the skyline of Dallas began to emerge from the horizon, Radford contacted Trent.
“Satnav says I’m thirty minutes out. You ready?”
“The moment you get a lock we’ll be mobile.”
Radford spied a noodle joint and stopped for take-away Chinese food. The pungent aroma of spicy chicken filled the car as he pulled up outside his destination and found an inconspicuous spot still well within range of the building's Wi-Fi. His plan was to shovel noodles and chicken, break out the hardware, swig water and try some piggybacking. If the Wi-Fi was encrypted, he would have to flex his digital muscles some more and break through. Both Trent and Silk had been surprised to hear the Wi-Fi might not even be protected, but then Radford had reminded them it was just a truck tracking signal. Who would be interested in hacking that?
Radford slurped at the meal as the mini-laptop booted up. Tiredness ate away at his brain, but he shrugged it off. As a trained spy he had been taught how to stay alert for days on end whilst still being able to rest his mind. That kind of training stayed with you forever.
His face took on the bluish glow of the screen. Outside the car, black night pressed against the tinted windows as if trying to get a peek over his shoulder. With this being downtown Dallas and an area largely frequented by corporate headquarters, the streets were relatively quiet at this time, and only a few businessmen prowled. The glow of hundreds of office windows shone across the streets at each other like opposing armies massing on an economic battlefield. Radford tapped at the keys, sipped his water, and waited for the link to appear.
Bad luck. The system was encrypted.
“Going to take a while longer,” he said over the open phone line. “Sit tight, guys.”
“Should have sent Amanda,” Silk joked. “She would have finessed the information out of them by now.”
Radford heard Trent tell the man to shut it, but he still forced out the expected response – a hearty laugh. He hadn’t spoken to Amanda in days and wondered what she was up to. Was she back on the book tour? Still in New York? With someone else? Radford tried to separate his feelings for her. On the one hand she remained the best friend he would ever have. Some people never found the one person they could call a soulmate, the one that got them in every way and loved them for it, but Radford was certain that Amanda was his. But things got complicated when other partners entered the picture – mutually accepted affairs. It started off like all Radford’s Christmases rolled into one, but recently he had felt something shift inside him. Some kind of perspective that he didn’t want to acknowledge or even admit to – never mind to actually broach the subject with Amanda.
Embarrassing, yes, but it was much more than that. Potentially devastating. The one thing he never wanted to risk was their underlying friendship. It was the one thing that had always saved him.
“Night’s getting old, Dan.” Silk’s voice poured from the car’s Bluetooth connection.
“Still working.”
He punched a few more buttons. The firewall caved. The trucking company’s link to FleetSecure’s tracking system landed on his laptop, his to manipulate. Quickly, he typed
in the name Floyd Ashman and waited for a location to pop up.
Shit. He checked his watch. Where had the time gone? Had he really spent it all daydreaming about Amanda, or was he getting slower? Either way, the answer was ominous.
“Crap, guys, you’d better haul ass. Ashman’s picked up the goods and is already on his way back here, crossing the Nevada state line in the next ten minutes. Move it!”
*
Trent started the car and manoeuvred his way out of a quiet Boulder City parking lot on to US-93. If Ashman was crossing the Hoover Dam and passing into Arizona then they weren’t too far behind. The roads weren’t ripe for playing catch up until they merged with the I-40 after Kingman, but after that they had around seven hundred miles to take their time. It was a big country – thankfully.
Silk settled in and stared out at the dark. Trent memorised the truck's details and told Radford to get off the system for now. It wouldn’t do for him to stay on there all night, but he needed to stay in place as backup for when Ashman reached his destination. Trent guided the vehicle as fast as he dared, wondering where the truck would make its unofficial stop.
He caught up to the truck close to Flagstaff and the Grand Canyon turnoff, identifying the plate up close before backing off a little. Silk stared longingly at the fast-food outlets as they whizzed by.
“We could catch it up again.”
“We keep going.” Trent didn’t take his eyes off the road. “Sorry, Adam, but this is our only real break in this case. I don’t want to risk blowing it.”
It was a Mack truck, blue and red, immaculately presented, with barely a scratch in sight. Of course, the truck would have to be pristine. No one wanted a state trooper pulling it over loaded with what Trent assumed was currently a ‘live’ cargo.
Trent eased up a little more. The truck pulled over near Gallup, where Silk finally managed to grab a burger and fries, berating the meal almost before it touched his taste buds as Trent had known he would.
“This just tells me how much I miss my wife.”
The Razor's Edge Page 8