The Razor's Edge

by David Leadbeater

  Trent hung up, not trusting himself to speak. Anger spiked his nerve endings and made his blood run hot. He had been a spy for eighteen years, privy to all kinds of evil, but the depths of human depravity never ceased to amaze him. And yet the balance was maintained by the good people. He saw that too. It was why, as disavowed government agents, as wealthy individuals, as hated and hunted officers of law enforcement, they tried to make a difference by helping good people who could not help themselves.

  He checked his watch. 2:00 am. He hadn’t slept long. First, Jacko had made them visit the nearest Walmart to stock up on steak and eggs, among other things. Then she had asked Silk to cook her a meal. Never one to turn down the chance to conjure some culinary magic, the ex-thief had whipped up a feast, calling Jenny for guidance only once.

  “Now,” Jacko said, after she had finished and delicately dabbed her mouth and cheeks for leftovers. “Now you are my friend.”

  She'd grabbed Silk in a bear hug, swinging him until he squealed. Her gaze had then turned to Trent, but his stern expression dissuaded her.

  Now Trent listened to the sound of her snoring, the heavy rhythm enough to drown out a jackhammer at full steam. He already felt guilty about putting her in the ring with Roth's man – Carnal – but was happy that she knew the risks. She had watched the recording. She thought she saw a weakness. He looked vulnerable to crushing.

  All good.

  Trent stared up at the ceiling, lost in the dark, images flickering through his head like an old cinema reel. He was in no doubt that Victoria had endangered Mikey at the pier but was it a one-off? A miscalculation? Or a recurring theme? He didn't believe in quizzing his child, asking if Mommy did this or Mommy did that. He believed such questioning harmed his child just as much as the realisation that his parents hated each other. But Mikey's safety had to take precedence here.

  His mind drifted, straying into unknown areas. They were lucky Claire Collins hadn't 'requested' their presence yet. The woman may or may not be within her rights, but Trent found these things usually went better by playing along. Besides, she knew they were still active. She might end up being useful.

  As the tractor-engine sound of Jacko's snoring faded from his consciousness, his last thoughts were about Doug's recent revelation – that the whole scene around their disavowment might have been staged. The questions raised by such a possibility were inestimable; the potential fallout huge, immeasurable and deadly. If a different truth came out, it would be like lighting the touchpaper to a political bomb, not to mention the civilian casualties.

  Finish the job, he thought. Then go see . . .

  Fitful sleep claimed him.

  *

  On Friday, they called up Geoffrey Bean and, through another party, were given details of the bank account they should deposit the fifty K into. Radford set it up, refraining from hitting the send button too early. Silk watched Jacko practise her moves, helped her with the bag and pad work, but drew the line at participation.

  “I ain't in your class,” he said.

  “Is that a heavyweight joke?” The soft tones were a little harder than usual.

  Silk blanched. “No! Of course not. I used to fight, that's all. But not like you.”

  Jacko's eyes twinkled and the bright red lips pursed. “That's good then. Hey, you want me to teach you how to moonwalk instead?”

  Silk bowed his head. “That would be awesome. In return, I'll ask Jenny to email us a few more of those recipes.”

  Trent called Mikey and tried to explain about Saturday. All the while, in the background, he could hear Victoria muttering phrases like: 'Again?', 'Typical Trent' and 'Just shows how much he cares', but Mikey, to his eternal credit and maturity, battled through without acknowledging a word of it.

  Trent struggled to control his voice. “I will make it up to you. I promise. Hey, that weekend away? We'll do it soon.”

  “Okay dad. That'll be cool.”

  His son barely believed him. Trent closed his eyes. How could he be so powerless?

  “What have you been up to this week? School good?”

  Trent listened as his son talked, trying everything he knew to keep him on the line and upbeat. The conversation stilted when Mikey asked him about his week. What could you tell an eight year old boy? Would some form of careful, partial disclosure help Mikey understand?

  “Work,” he said, at length. “Busy job.”

  “Why do you work, Dad? Mom keeps saying you don't even need to work.”

  Same old, same old. Trent decided to fight his own corner for a change. Maybe it was Jacko's influence.

  “I work to help people who have tough problems. I help them out . . . because they need me. They have no one else.”

  Mikey took that in, then said, “That's good.”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay, well, can you take me to Sea World when we go away? I wanna see if those baby 'gators have grown.”

  For a change, Trent had taken him to Orlando's version of Sea World last year. “Sure.”

  “And Disney?”

  “Why not.”

  Mikey cheered. Trent felt lower than the belly of a snake. Faced with the heartwrenching dilemma of most divorced parents – how to make your kid happy in the brief time you had with them – he had ventured along the well-travelled, pothole lined road of flashing the cash.

  But once a year? his heart asked. It was a vacation. How could that be wrong?

  His head knew the answer. In itself, it wasn't wrong. It was Victoria's reaction that would cause the problem. And, in truth, this time he couldn't really blame her. He had probably overstepped the mark.

  Mikey went away happy. Trent compartmentalised the worry and the hurt. The next few days were all about Monika Sobieski and Oleg Roth.

  24

  On Saturday night, Radford drove them back to the Academy. Heavy traffic made a multicoloured snake of the major roads, so they threaded their way, block after block, through the quieter, shabbier arteries, arriving at their destination with time to spare.

  On the way, Radford made them review their identities. “I know you're the best,” he told them. “But we're heading right for the belly of the beast. This ain't the part that I call fun.”

  They sat in the parking lot, in darkness. When a pair of wide, bright lights swept across them, they climbed out and walked toward Bean's SUV. The fighter leaned out of his window, gawping at Jacko.

  “Oh my fucking God. Roth's gonna shit bricks for that.”

  Jacko paused on her way past and laid a meaty paw on his arm. “What did you say, sweetie?”

  Bean's mouth worked on empty, as if his vocabulary had suddenly been stolen. “Nice . . . nice to meet ya,” he managed at last.

  Jacko gave him a friendly squeeze, drawing a gasp. “That's what I thought.”

  Trent hopped on to the passenger seat, switching to his new character without pause. “We owe you, man. We owe you! Boy, are we gonna repay you. Remember these names – Kunis, Firth, Lawrence. That's us, man. When's the party start?”

  “As soon as we get there.” Bean's face turned into an abrupt frown. “Sorry, you guys, but they insisted. You have to wear these.”

  The fighter held up four masks. “Though I'm not sure Jacko's will fit.”

  “You can hook it over my ears.” The woman smiled bloodily. “Don't worry, sweetie, I don't bite. Least, not outside the ring.”

  “They're meeting us half way,” Bean went on, getting all the bad news out at once. “To sweep you for bugs. Electronic signals, they called it. That kind of thing.”

  Trent nodded. “Dude, we got nothing to hide.”

  “A1. It's my ass if they don't like you. This better be worth my while, that's all I'm saying.”

  “We got you covered,” Radford said from the back seat.

  They slipped on the masks. Bean cranked up the music. Trent's world went black. Judging by the quality of the masks, Bean had not picked these up himself. Roth had supplied them. Trent found himself
wondering how many innocent people had been forced to wear his before him. And how many of them still lived.

  He stayed quiet. A spy, a trained operative, does not handle disorientation well. Above all, they're trained to use their eyes and ears, their main senses of observation, to stay alive. When those senses are removed, feelings of isolation and desperation are not uncommon. Even if the removal had been mutually agreed.

  But Trent could still count the minutes down. Eighteen passed before Bean muted the stereo and slowed the vehicle. Gravel crunched. Bean opened his door and exited. A short silence followed. Nothing was said, but Trent knew both Silk and Radford were readying themselves in case something had gone wrong. The only sound was Jacko's heavy breathing and the faint roar of traffic. Then a dog barked. A tin can rattled along a gutter.

  All four doors opened and a voice muttered, “Don't move.”

  Trent sensed a bulky figure invade his body space, knowing instantly where the man's hands were, that he wore a dress jacket and that he stank faintly of sweat and diesel. Slight gasps of breath said that he might be overweight. The creaking door hinges backed that theory up. Some kind of plastic stick tapped Trent's forehead, then his arms and legs and feet. Probably by accident, the out-of-shape man too bulky to maintain a perfect balance. There was a grunt and the door hinges crunched.

  “Clear.”

  Another tense moment, then Bean returned to the driver's seat, sighing. “I hate those guys.”

  “Goon patrol?” Trent ventured, voice muffled.

  “You got it. I could take every one of them out in a three minute round.”

  “Don't sweat it.” Jacko's voice was a sensual rustle. “Life has a way of offering up your just desserts. Maybe one day your chance will come.”

  Bean pulled away, not bothering with the music system this time. “Assholes.”

  Another eighteen minutes and Trent knew they should be nearing the building site. “How much longer, man?” He feigned feeling sick.

  “Not long.”

  The car entered a dirt road. Trent fancied he heard Bean switching the headlights off. The car slowed to a snail's pace. “Black light glasses and dots of paint.” Bean said, thinking he was being cryptic. “Darn, these Polacks got game.”

  Twelve more minutes passed. At last the car pulled up, reversed, and went silent as Bean turned the engine off. “Here we go,” he said under his breath. “Keep the masks on until we're inside. Then you're golden. Okay?”

  “Golden,” Silk said. “As the fleece. Got it.”

  “Or as the finger,” Bean said as he opened Trent's door. “Y'know? James Bond? You guys, the way you're dressed. Bow tie an' all. Shocked you never thought of that.”

  Trent and the others clustered around Bean. The darkness was absolute. “Two of you touch my shoulders. The rest of you touch each other. There are no holes or dips. Don't worry, I've done this before.”

  Trent grabbed a shoulder and shuffled ahead obediently until he was told to stop. They crossed a threshold, heard a door close behind them, and proceeded to walk across a wooden floor, much like the one in their own rented house. They were led down a set of stairs and told to pause at the bottom.

  Trent saw light seeping through the fabric of his mask. Lights were blazing ahead, below the surface of the ground. After another minute, Bean stopped them and pulled their masks off.

  “Welcome to our jungle!”

  Trent focused instantly on the ugly face floating before him. Still adjusting to the sudden glare, he tried a smile. “Woah!”

  The face loomed closer, hard-edged and rugged, worn with hardship, battered through battle, cold through strife.

  “I am . . . the boss.” The accent was guttural and thick, not altered or lightened for appearances sake, not down here where Roth ruled. “My rules are the law. We have a code of honour. You break it, you lose everything.”

  Trent waited. Roth just stared. At last, Trent asked, “What is it? Your code?”

  “Fight,” the thick Polish accent slurred. “Or die.”

  Radford indicated Jacko. “We came prepared.”

  “That eez gooood.” Roth moved gracefully, stepping around Trent so quickly he actually gave the ex-CIA agent a start.

  Shit, Trent thought. This is one mother of a dangerous dude. He hoped Silk and Radford had noticed.

  Roth stepped up to Jacko and went head to head. Trent watched the display carefully. The only problem he could see was if Roth suddenly decided to fight Jacko himself.

  “Carnal will eat you alive,” Roth grated.

  “Not if I knock his teeth down his throat first.”

  Roth shrugged. “That, I could bet on. What round do you say?”

  “The first, of course. I ain't here to play.”

  Roth turned his back on the woman. “You'd better be good, girl. For all your sakes.”

  “Girl?” Jacko was about to explode, but Trent stepped in smoothly.

  “How about you show us your set up, boss?”

  Roth indicated they should follow and moved off down a wide corridor, shoulders rippling beneath a white shirt. “So, Mr Kunis, let me tell you about our set up. Three bouts, the last one gets top billing. It's the most watched. The second is unpredictable, to say the least, and attracts the most gambling.” Roth laughed, the nasty rumble of a falling bomb. “The first?” He shrugged. “It is . . . as you say . . . warm up. For fun. The fighters are poor or weak, lacking all the skills to compete at our level. Isn't that right, Killjoy?”

  “My skills are improving, boss,” Bean said hesitantly. “I hope you've seen.”

  “Ah. Of course. Well, tonight, we'll see, eh?” The rumble emerged again, hideous.

  Trent saw an opportunity. “This second bout? It sounds like the one for us. You have checked our account, right?”

  “You wouldn't be standing here now if we had not.”

  “What makes the second bout unpredictable?”

  Roth's hard features creased into the approximation of a smile. “Let us say the participants are unwilling. They are forced to fight, to win. It is a popular contest among our viewers. The private forums of our site are sometimes as hotly contested as the cage fight.”

  “Superb.” Trent forced interest. “Unpredictable, to say the least. It would take a master's eye to judge the outcome, yes?”

  Roth led them into an office, complete with white walls, a desk and a set of steel-framed chairs. A black telephone sat on the desk. A gurgling water cooler and brown, stained coffee machine perched on a stand in the corner. A brand new iMac dominated the desk.

  “Sit,” Roth said. “We have a little while before the events begin. Now, tell me, what is it you want from us?”

  Trent considered his answer very carefully. “To gamble well,” he said. “To see a good fight. Maybe see some skills.”

  “Where have you seen such skills before?”

  Trent had expected this. Radford had searched through hours of Internet footage and 'private' forums. “So Cal,” he said. “Paul Wynch runs a club there.”

  Roth had to know it was true. Trent's one hope was that Roth and Wynch weren't friendly. The odds were highly stacked against it, Roth being what he was.

  “This is good. This is very good.” The hard man smiled and reached inside a drawer. Trent tensed every muscle without moving an inch, but Roth brought out a litre bottle of clear liquid. Polish vodka.

  “Drink!”

  Trent knocked one back. It was time to play their biggest, most dangerous card. “After what you said, about the second bout contestants, I have a little proposition for you.”

  Roth drained his glass, but his eyes never strayed from Trent's. “What proposition?”

  “Let us choose the contestants. And we'll bet big. The fifty K will be a drop in the ocean.”

  Tempered steel and rock made the Pole's face hard to watch, but Trent's gaze didn't waver. This is where jobs were won or lost. This is where lives were saved or destroyed. If he matched wills with Roth now, t
hey would move on to the next lethal dance.

  Roth smashed his glass down hard on the desk. “You think I'm stupid? You think I let three assholes wander in here and show them my stock? I tell you this . . .” He paused to think. “I tell you this . . .”

  Trent let the man contemplate. The operative's job was to provide the content, the substance that the target would choke on. But it would be a mistake to force it down his throat. The man had to swallow it willingly.

  “I tell you what.” Roth's voice took on a malevolent tone that immediately put Trent on his guard. “How about I make decision, yes? It is I who am boss, after all. I say this – yes to your request, but there will be one more fight. A second 'unpredictable' bout. But one of you will be a contestant.”

  Trent's expression lost its cool. “What? Our fighter is right here.”

  “Yes, and Carnal will eat her whole. But, as you say, you like the fights. You watch the fights. Imagine being a part of one. A great memory, yes? And you get to choose the other bout. Win, win. Smile, my friendly Americans, the decision is made.”

  Trent thought hard. Roth studied him closely, so closely that Trent immediately forced a tad more fear into his expression.

  “Damn,” Radford complained. “I broke my finger.”

  Trent showed a clearly fake smile, trying to appear fearful and excited at the same time. “Show us to the contestants.”

  Roth waved at his guards. “Show them. I have many things to do.”

  Trent stood quickly. This was what they had worked for – the moment of truth. Their enemy was about to willingly show them the end of the rainbow. The pot of gold. It had been a long road. As they filed out of the room, Trent also took the opportunity to gauge the enemy’s strength. Three guards herded them along, not visibly carrying weapons, but the protrusions beneath their jackets spoke of small-arms firepower. Large calibre pistols, maybe even machine-pistols. Trent couldn’t get a proper look without catching their attention.

  He ran the numbers. Three guards here. Two back at the door. Another positioned ahead where bright light and a rhythmic beat poured out of a thrown-open door.

  The cage room, Trent thought.