by Lesley Young
After Jace was done, I waited with bated breath until Giuseppe nodded his head.
“It is a good,” he said quietly, sitting up with great difficulty. His guards had to help his large body forward in the sofa. Jace was fighting a smile (of pride), as he passed him the paperwork. The two men in suits stepped in and began reviewing it.
Giuseppe’s lawyers.
I felt distinctly out of place as Jace poured drinks for Giuseppe, himself, and Joe.
I took the opportunity—not being watched for once—to text my Interpol number.
Four p.m. Pool cabana.
All I had to do was hit send, and finish this path I had been put on.
My phone buzzed, startling me.
It was B.
Maybe I’ll come to Vegas!
My heart dropped. That was the last thing I needed. Plus, she could hardly afford such a trip. Where was this coming from?
No. Stay there. Please.
She texted back: ???
I thought quickly, on the spot.
Third wheel.
Not nice, but necessary.
:(
Without thinking on it any harder, I clicked “send” on the text I had drafted for Interpol.
An offended friend was better than a dead friend.
Ninety thousand dollars. How could she have let that happen? How could I not have seen the signs of a gambling addiction?
“Charlie!”
Jace was talking to me. Everyone was staring at me.
“Yes?”
“Say goodbye to Giuseppe and Joe. You won’t be seeing them again.”
I stood up quickly and extended my hand. Giuseppe acknowledged me for the first time with a warm smile. Joe eyed me intensely. It was clear he envied Jace. And I worried what would happen one day in the future, when Joe took over the family business.
After they left, I told Jace I hoped never to see Joe again. Jace snorted and agreed. He did not appear as excited as I expected him to be about being a free man. And when I pointed this out, he said he should have never let himself get so deep in the first place. I think he would have liked to keep that hotel for himself.
When a second knock came, I assumed it was them returning for something. My stomach backflipped as—shock upon shock—Mr. Bennett and Mr. Carlisle entered the room with their own entourage, Mr. Sullivan Blaise included.
I watched, mouth hanging open, as Jace greeted Mr. Bennett like they were best friends.
He was pretending.
I closed my mouth. Why?
He was setting him up. He had to be.
Anxiety swelled in me. I felt Sullivan’s gaze on me and I met it. He gave away nothing.
Why had Jace invited them? What did he have planned?
They were dressed in swim trunks and T-shirts. He was slapping their backs, thanking them for coming. Jace turned to me and told me to go put on my cozzie.
Frozen in time, I had to mentally slap myself in order to function. Slowly, I trudged over to the bathroom, which contained a dressing room area and a double set of closets, feeling like I had aged three decades in three minutes.
“Last time I’ll ask anything of you like this,” I heard Jace say softly behind me. He must have followed me into the washroom.
I nodded, staring straight ahead, my eyes blurred.
How could we pretend to relax around men who had tried to have us killed? Why did he not warn me of his plan? What was his plan?
Actually I did not want to know. I did not deserve to know.
I heard him close the door.
I pulled my dress over my head, and undid my bra and slid out of my panties.
His arm wrapped around me from behind, his hand near my breast, on my heart. I was surprised he was still in the room.
“Remember,” he said in my ear, “I once told you it takes a strong heart to withstand real power.”
I felt mine break then, under the weight of his judgment. It was too late. I had been too weak. I had failed him and worse, I had betrayed him. There was no going back.
I nodded. Tears rolled down my face.
He released me and left me to change.
• • •
It was 3:46 p.m., according to my phone. I could barely swallow. I could hardly breathe. The Bellagio pool certainly was a poor replica of the Italian Riviera, what with its tall wrapped cedars, oversized stone fountains and plastic white lounge chairs. Everywhere—as far as the eye could see—lay glistening flesh, on display. I shook my head.
I jumped when Jace curled over me.
“Be right back,” he whispered, leaving the cabana before I could say a word.
But . . . it was 3:54 p.m.! I checked my phone, watching his departing brown shoulders, as he wove through the chairs on a path to what I assumed was the men’s washroom.
Where was he going? The man, the “imperialist” delivery man, was supposed to be here any minute.
Mr. Bennett was chatting up our Bellagio pool waitress, who was clad in her uniform of purple bikini with a thin purple veil wrap. Sullivan was standing behind him, wearing sunglasses. I wondered if his eyes were on me, reading my panic, and I glanced left, only to be hit with Mr. Carlisle’s deceptively astute stare from inside the sheltered cabana area, which contained a table and chairs, a small wet bar, and a television.
He had noticed my panic. I tried to smile, but, considering it pained me, no doubt I had failed to present a carefree front.
I sipped my virgin piña colada from the patio table where I watched for any sign of familiar Interpol agents, just as I had been doing for twenty minutes. Would they be the same ones who had given me this assignment? I had no idea. Who would come to get the hard drive? What if Jace did not return in time? Would this contact, this courier Jace had asked for, show up and wait for him? The agents might rush in or raise a red flag too soon . . .
Calm down!
As the countdown began, I focused more and more on the only path that could lead from the washroom back here.
I hoped ardently, suddenly, that Jace would not return. Yes, that would be a good thing!
Mr. Carlisle had stolen Mr. Bennett’s attention away from the waitress. He must have said something about me, because Mr. Bennett eyed me from his lounge chair. “How’s it goin’?” he asked.
I pointed at myself questioningly.
“You look . . . tense, love.”
I glared at him, eyebrows raised. You think, attempted murderer!? I wanted to shout.
The gall.
Sullivan uncrossed his arms.
Mr. Bennett smiled at me knowingly.
The Bee Gees crooned over the pool speakers.
Mr. Carlisle stood up suddenly.
He reached for something behind his back. Before he could pull it out, I heard, from my left, “Everybody freeze. Interpol. FBI. On the ground now!”
I glanced around my shoulder, preparing to stand up, when a large hand grasped my shoulder, holding me in place.
It was the German agent. “No. He’s not here. He didn’t come yet!” I protested.
Both Mr. Carlisle and Mr. Bennett, whose faces were bright red, animated, turned their eyes on me—with shock, quickly replaced by murderous intentions. Oh, dear.
“You fuckin’ little cunt,” snarled Mr. Bennett, who sat forward.
“Freeze! On the ground now!” repeated the agents, half a dozen or so, who moved forward, despite my protests. I realized, as a woman in the cabana next to ours screamed and dropped her drink, glass shattering, they were brandishing handguns. “Down. Now.” All the men in attendance slowly gave over just as all hell broke out—the woman had shouted, “Gun!”
I tried to stand up, but I was slammed backward by the table as Mr. Carlisle lunged for me, fighting off the agents trying to handcuff him. He managed to scramble over to me, grabbing a shard from a dinner plate. I screamed. Sullivan dove across the ground and grabbed his hand before it made contact with me, then slammed Mr. Carlisle’s chin into the pavement. He growled in pain
, and grew limp. The other agents quickly handcuffed him and everyone else.
“Sullivan, no, tell them, they got the wrong men!” I gasped.
“You all right?” he asked, ignoring me, grabbing the back of my head, feeling for something, staring down into my eyes.
I tried to pull away, and turned—
My stomach plummeted.
Jace! He was staring at me from halfway across the grounds between cypress planters.
I knew what he saw in that moment and how wrong it was—me being held protectively, tenderly, by Sullivan Blaise.
He was far enough away that I couldn’t see into his eyes, but I knew. He sent me his emotion across the pool. He knew I had tried to betray him. Somehow. He knew.
Speechless, confused, terrified, I watched him turn and walk away. No! I fought Sullivan’s hold on me. I needed to . . . explain. I needed him to understand. To forgive me! I wrenched violently away from Sullivan’s embrace, and he pulled a hand away. A flash of red caught my eye.
I glanced down. His hand . . . it was bloody. I must have hit my head.
“Her, too,” I heard an American agent say to another.
Wait.
No, wait!
Someone shifted my arms behind me, and when I realized what was happening, I shut down.
They were arresting me.
Chapter 23
Sitting in a narrow single-cot cell in the Clark County Detention Center, waiting to be processed (my head wound had been tended to), all I could think about was Miss Moneypenny.
Would Jace cast her aside, too? Yes. Of course. Why would a man keep the pet of a woman who had betrayed him? I did not believe Jace was capable of cruelty to animals. So . . . I stood up and paced the cell again . . . he would take her to the nearest animal shelter, likely. I needed to inform B. I needed to make a call so I could reach B and get her to come here and rescue Miss Moneypenny.
We would go on the run, together, the three of us, to escape her debts. We would go to Mexico.
I clutched at the door with no windows, and banged on it with my fists. “Please! I am legally entitled to up to three phone calls three hours after my arrest! It is implicit in my Miranda Rights!!” I shouted again, as I had been shouting for over an hour. I had researched this, and drilled this into my mother for those occasions when she was arrested—the goal being that she called me.
I was frantic with worry for Miss Moneypenny.
I could not think about anything else, and I kept pounding on my door. Finally, I heard the metal-on-metal sound and stepped back, wiping my face clear of tears.
Two guards stood there. They ordered me to accompany them.
I complied, and ignored the leering stares. My cover-up was mesh. I had nothing else on but my blue bathing suit. I was led down several hallways of shiny, cream-painted cement.
When they opened up a door into a room, where the German Interpol agents were seated, I balked.
“I want my phone call!”
They shoved me forward, hard, and slammed the door behind me.
“Sit down, Miss Sykes,” said the tall agent. I wondered where Jenny was now. I hoped she was at home, sobbing over being fired from Interpol. Clearly their plans had gone horribly awry.
“Why did you arrest them? The courier was not even there!” I complained.
“Sit down, Miss Sykes.”
I sat on the edge of a seat, wincing as the cold metal met my flesh. I leaned back. The two German men watched me carefully. They both wore white dress shirts and black blazers. I thought of the insidious agents from the movie The Matrix.
“Why did you text us to come to the cabana at four p.m.?”
I opened my mouth to speak, then shut it. Why were they asking me this? There would be only one reason: because I thought imperialist business was going down then.
“You know why I did.”
“Why don’t you explain it to us?”
I frowned.
“What am I under arrest for?”
They glanced at each other.
“Would you like a glass of water?” asked the one with deeply inset soft brown eyes. I shook my head. On second thought, “Yes, I would. Please.”
He nodded to the black man standing in the corner, wearing black pants and a blue dress shirt. I watched him leave the room.
Wait a minute.
“Why are there FBI agents involved?”
“Tell us why you texted us to meet you at four p.m.,” snarled the tall German man with no lips. “You’re in a lot of trouble,” he added.
Thank you for pointing out the obvious, I thought, but did not say. I did not understand what had happened or potentially gone wrong. However, regardless, I knew I would have to inform them of what I knew anyway, from those emails I read on Jace’s computer, not only to rescue B, but, apparently, to help myself.
“I . . . I thought that’s when Jace was exchanging—”
The door flew open suddenly, and a familiar man appeared. I could not place the face.
“Don’t say another word!” he ordered. “James Warner. I’m this woman’s legal counsel,” he announced to the Interpol agents, putting his business card on the table.
Jace’s American lawyer! The man who had assisted with the new hotel for Giuseppe. “You’ll have to excuse us, gentlemen. I need time alone with my client before you interrogate her any further.”
The two agents remained stony.
“You never had a Red Notice, boys,” added Mr. Warner. “She’s covered by the constitution. Don’t give me time with her, she pleads the fifth right now, and game over, boys. Your choice.”
My heart was beating a mile a minute. Pleasure. Anxiety. Jace had sent me his lawyer! What did this mean? Perhaps he had not cast out Miss Moneypenny—yet. But what of B and her debts?
The men across from me were creating a great degree of negative energy, but, finally, scraped back their chairs, and left.
The second they were gone, I turned to Mr. Warner.
“Where’s Miss Moneypenny?”
An eyebrow rose. “Who’s—”
“My cat. Where’s my cat?”
He glanced at me skeptically.
Right. I needed to calm down.
I cleared my throat.
Before I could clarify, he said, “I was not advised about any cat. I am here, however, by request of Mr. Jace Knight, to represent you. Do you accept my counsel?”
I nodded quickly.
“Excellent,” he said, bringing his briefcase up to the table. “Now I am going to present some information to you before you make any decisions about how you intend to participate with Interpol, ASIS, or any other investigatory bodies.”
I closed my eyes and fought to understand each word.
“Other investigatory bodies,” I repeated his words. “Why is the FBI here? Why am I under arrest?”
“You are not, Miss Sykes. No charges were actually laid. The FBI was involved in a joint sting operation with the Australian Secret Intelligence Service that was set to go today at four p.m. at the Bellagio pool cabana where you were. The head officer was—” he pulled up the file “—a Sullivan Blaise. Seems he’d built up a rock-solid case against Mr. John Bennett from a mysterious source he refuses to divulge.”
I shook my head. Flabbergasted was not adequate. Sullivan Blaise arranged a sting? Terrified came next.
“It was not me,” I whispered. “I swear I was not the source.”
The lawyer patted my hand. “I know, my dear. So does Jace.” He leaned forward, and whispered, “It was him.”
My mouth popped open. Jace? He turned in his . . . family? I could hardly believe it. But then, yes, I could. Mr. Bennett, and I assume then, also Mr. Carlisle, had tried to have him killed. I thought when Jace said Mr. Bennett was taken care of, he meant, well, I didn’t like to think . . . didn’t want to know.
But what about the emails I read? Jace had asked his new organization, the “imperialists,” to send a delivery man to pick up a . . .
A draft of an email from Jace, asking for someone to come to the pool cabanas at four p.m.
A draft he never sent.
A draft he wrote, so I would read it.
He knew.
He knew before I was arrested.
He set me up—leaving out his unprotected laptop.
Why? To see if I would I betray him, and . . . I had.
I grabbed the lawyer’s arm. “You don’t understand. They made me do it! My friend B, she’s like my sister, she’s in debt to some very bad people. Those men, the agents, they are going to let very bad men hurt her,” I said, choking up. “Please, you have to let me call her to warn her—”
“Miss Sykes!” he interrupted me. “That’s all been taken care of.”
I paused, face grimaced.
“Here.” He literally pushed some papers into my hand.
I glanced down. A wire transfer. From Knight Enterprises to Beatrice Moody. Dated . . . nine hours ago!
He knew about her?
“You don’t have those pressures to worry about, Miss Sykes—”
“No, it was worse! Money alone won’t fix it!”
“Miss Sykes, Jace wanted me to emphasize to you that he has fixed it for your friend, all of it. She’s safe. I’ll explain later. But right now you need to listen to me. Shortly, Interpol agents are going to walk back in those doors, and you will have a decision to make. I have been made aware that you do indeed have intelligence they would be very interested in getting their hands on.”
He was referring to those two emails, the ones that Jace had sent, and let me read.
“Are you listening, Miss Sykes?”
I nodded, elation washing over me.
B was free. Jace had freed B. Together, she and I, we would pay him back. We would arrange a payment plan, with interest.