THE CHARM OF REVENGE

by Tom Secret

  “Next time we not wait, Cilcifus!”

  Randall swallowed. “Um, sure, okay.”

  Dimitri released the strap and clambered into the cab as the four heavies disappeared around the other side and joined him. The truck fired up, belched a plume of diesel fumes over Randall and his men and pulled away.

  “Check the bag, Randall,” Michaels said.

  “Oh! You’re tough now that the Trotskyites have gone!” Randall put his arm through the strap and slung the rucksack over his shoulder.

  “Who do you think was dealing with them while you were off playing with your dick, eh?”

  “Watch it, Michaels! I completed the order, remember.”

  “And I’m the sap that’s been keeping them locked down and drugged up, so quit whining and let’s get inside and count the money.”

  Randall glared at Castro, then turned to Walton in his dipshit cowboy hat. “Why wasn’t Snyderman here?”

  The two men exchanged glances but said nothing.

  “Well? Where is he?”

  “How should we know?” Oswald said.

  “Because he should have been here. Call him and find out. Walton, bring the champagne and glasses.”

  * * * *

  Five minutes later, Randall felt normality return as he watched the three men laughing and joking like pubescent schoolboys. He looked across to the entrance as Snyderman’s silhouette appeared in the warehouse entrance. “Glad you could make it!”

  Snyderman sneered as he strode toward Randall. “Have the buyers left?”

  “When I delivered the last two, they did.” Randall gestured toward Walton, untwisting the wire restraint from a vintage bottle of Dom Pérignon.

  “Did they pay us?”

  “No, Snyderman, we’re celebrating getting stiffed.”

  “Where’s the money?”

  “Am I detecting a lack of trust?”

  “I want to see it.”

  “It’s safe, so stop whining and fill your boots with champagne.”

  “I want my cut.”

  “Well, you can’t have it now, because that’s not how it works and you know it, so just relax.”

  “I don’t give a little round rat turd, Cilcifus. I want to get paid now!”

  Randall felt his cheek twitch. “You’ll get it once Black has laundered it, end of discussion.”

  Snyderman jabbed the air between them with his finger. “You better get—”

  “Yeah!” Walton cried as the wire hit the gray concrete floor and the cork flew through the joists, landing with a faint thud.

  Oswald held out the empty glasses to catch the bubbly cascading from the bottle.

  Michaels stepped forward and took two, holding one out to Snyderman. “Here, shut up and have a drink.” He lifted his glass toward Randall. “A toast, to success!”

  Snyderman ignored the glass in the outstretched hand.

  Randall took one, studying Snyderman for a clue to what irked him.

  “Success!” Walton and Castro echoed clinking glasses, their eyes darting between Randall, Snyderman, and Michaels.

  Snyderman, still ignoring Michaels’s outstretched arm, continued to drill holes into Randall. “Where’s Antwan?”

  Ah, there she blows, thought Randall, casting his finest withering look. “Since we haven’t heard from him, I presume he’s now a casualty of war, as will you be if you keep ogling me.”

  “I said where is he?”

  “Come on, Charles, he was pulling your leg,” Walton said. “We should be celebrating, right, Randall?”

  Randall forced a smile and considered whether to correct Walton, but noticed Michaels taking short breaths, with nostrils flared as though preparing for a dogfight.

  All eyes on Snyderman, he broke eye contact and took the glass from Michaels. “I don’t see how celebrating is appropriate with Rohn in a coma and Antwan absent.”

  Randall watched the others ignore Snyderman and guzzle their drinks.

  “So, Randall, spill the beans,” Michaels said. “Oswald tells us you raided that snake Fairweather for the last two. I hope you finished him this time.”

  Randall met the wiry man’s gaze. “I like snakes, but it’s fair to say that Fairweather is a loathsome maggot that needs putting out of its misery.”

  “Hm! So, if you didn’t kill him, who gave you the head job?” Michaels grinned. “Please tell me it wasn’t the wife.”

  Randall blushed. “Let’s say I left them licking their wounds.”

  “Loose ends get you killed. We need to finish them now before they call the cops.”

  Snyderman stepped away from the group. “Count me out.”

  Michaels snarled. “You’ll do what you’re told Snyderman, or else.”

  “Keep it civil, ladies!” Randall said. “They won’t be calling anyone with Antwan covered in blood, on their bedroom floor.”

  Snyderman’s face contorted. “You left him there?”

  Michaels’ knuckles turned white as he clutched the stem of the champagne glass in his fist. There was a muffled snapping sound and blood trickled from his fingers as he stepped between Snyderman and Randall. “Fairweather’s long overdue, and I say we go tonight.”

  Snyderman shoved Michaels aside. “I asked you a question, Cilcifus! Did you leave him there?”

  Randall grabbed Michaels’s arm to stop him taking a swing. “We’ll do it tomorrow, I’ve had enough for one day.”

  Michaels pulled free. “We’re not leaving this dangling when you’ve just taken their kids!”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You what?”

  “I trawled the back streets. It was dark. I got lucky.”

  “Lucky!” Snyderman’s face flushed. “You’re a bloody moron, Cilcifus, this isn’t what we do. We’re professionals, not mobsters!”

  “Butt the fuck out, will you?” Michaels said.

  “It’s okay, Michaels. I’ll take care of this.” Randall rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck as he prepared to smash his glass into the big man’s face. “I had no time Snyderman and only two options; either pick two brats off the street or call at your house and collect your children. Did I make the wrong choice?”

  “Come on, you guys.” Walton’s eyes darted between them.

  Snyderman stepped toward Randall. “Don’t you ever threaten my children, Cilcifus, or I’ll—”

  “That’s enough, Snyderman!” Michaels tossed the broken glass and slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out something metal that flashed as it caught the light.

  “Screw you, Michaels! I wasn’t addressing you!”

  Randall stepped into striking range of Snyderman. “Keep pushing, and your rat progeny will be in the next shipment. Oh, and maybe I’ll rape your wife while I’m bagging them!”

  The tinkling sound of glass breaking on the concrete floor reached Randall’s ears the instant Snyderman’s palms slammed into his chest, punching the wind from his lungs and launching him into the air.

  Before Randall landed, Michaels darted forward and, in one fluid motion, pulled Snyderman’s hair back, kicked the back of his knee to buckle it, and brought the switchblade against the big man’s throat.

  Randall’s coccyx slammed the concrete, delivering a wave of pain that powered a puke projectile of champagne across the floor.

  Walton’s phone came to life with a musical ditty. “Everyone, stop!” He looked at the number. “It’s Dimitri.”

  Randall watched them freeze as a grin broke out beneath Walton’s stupid hat, but another wave of pain from his tailbone turbo-charged a stream of puke down his suit.

  “Yee-haw!” Walton shouted. “The Christmas order’s confirmed, and… wait for it… they want fifty-fucking-four, yeah!”

  37. THE HUNT IS ON

  Tuesday, 5:30 a.m.

  The gunmetal predawn sky churned as Brad crunched across the gravel to where Marcus waited in the villa’s open doorway. He met his father’s inquisitive gaze.

  “Did everything go okay?�
�

  “I didn’t get caught.” Brad slipped past him into the hallway. “Lola and the kids asleep?”

  Marcus closed the door behind them and pressed the button on the alarm panel, sending the steel bolts sliding into the door frame and rearming the front perimeter. “They are, and we should leave them to sleep off the shock. Let’s go in the kitchen, I brewed coffee.”

  Brad went first, crossing to the bay window and sitting in the nook while Marcus fixed the drinks. A robin redbreast caught his eye as it went scavenging through the flower bed outside the window. His gaze drifted further, to the barren trees with their icicle-bejeweled branches, lighting up as the dawn broke. He sensed Marcus studying him and turned his focus to the steaming mug of black coffee before him.

  “Did you go to the sawmill like you said?”

  Brad blinked acknowledgment and raised the mug.

  “Is it safe?”

  “I think so.” He took a sip. “Thanks for the coffee. I put him near the trees at the back.”

  “Did you use bleach?”

  “Dad, it was me that studied medicine, remember?” Brad watched the pained expression flash across his father’s face. “Sorry. I did, and before you ask, if he hadn’t been dead, the bastard would have drowned in it.”

  “Good, and you didn’t leave footprints behind, tire tracks, or anything else?”

  Brad shook his head. “Frozen solid. Took me forever to dig the hole. Did you call your buddy Witner?”

  “I’m meeting him at ten o’clock.”

  “How long to get a result?”

  “Could be tonight.”

  “And you’re sure you can trust him?”

  Marcus leaned back and placed his palms flat on the breakfast table. “I get it! I quizzed you on the beach, so now it’s my turn.”

  “You know I didn’t mean it that way, Dad. If our guy gets reported missing—”

  “We go back a long way, and I trust him, okay.”

  “I know, but still, involving a cop…”

  “He’s solid; we ran three tours of duty together.”

  “I hope so, for all our sakes.”

  “Shall I cancel?”

  Brad considered his father’s demeanor, aged by the sleepless night. “No, I need to know who that guy was and find out what we’re up against.”

  “You won’t be the only people they’ve targeted, you know?” A cloud passed across Marcus’s eyes, his face seeming to sag even more.

  “Are you okay, Dad?”

  Marcus shook his head as if banishing an unpleasant memory. “Someone else is orchestrating this, someone with a lot of connections and those two that visited you were the tip of the iceberg.”

  “Dad? Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “You have enough on your plate. Do you want me to visit Michaels?”

  “I need to do it myself, but I also need you to tell me what’s going on.”

  “I have a feeling this is connected to something that happened years ago, but I can’t say more than that; so go visit Michaels, find out who’s behind this and put that fortune I spent on your medical studies to good use.”

  38. BUFFALO

  Tuesday, 8:00 a.m.

  Donatello knocked on the open door of Wilkes’s office. “You asked to see me, sir?”

  Wilkes looked up from his papers. “I did. Come, sit down. Drink?”

  Donatello sat. “No, thank you.”

  “Know why I asked you in?”

  “You need a character reference for Captain Colby?”

  Wilkes smiled. “I’ve always liked you, Donatello. You tell it straight, which makes you a rare commodity around here, but you’ve put yourself in the eye of a twister even I can’t save you from.”

  “He suspended me for doing my job. That arrest was by the book, and Colby knows it.”

  “Colby’s been gunning for you a long time. He wants you out.”

  “Not without a fight, sir. I’ve already seen my rep, and I’ll be seeing my lawyer in a few hours.”

  “You can’t win this one, Don. Colby’s got friends the Pope would envy.”

  “What are you telling me, that I should walk away? Throw my career, my pension, down the toilet?”

  “According to the grapevine, you inherited property when your mother passed. You should retire early, and I'll keep a lid on this until you go.”

  Donatello rose from his seat. “On what, sir? Colby wants a war, so I'll give him one.”

  “Wise up, Don! He’s been preparing the ground to bury you for years, and has the brass backed up behind him.”

  “I thought you were the brass, sir. Besides, it’s about time Colby gets investigated. Perhaps I’ll discover why he’s had me in his sights since Jonah died.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  “Way I see it, he’s left me no option, sir.”

  “How do you plan on doing that while you’re on suspension pending dismissal?”

  Donatello shrugged. “I didn’t say I’d planned it out.”

  “Shall I tell you how I see this playing?”

  “You’re the inspector.”

  “Yes, I am, and I’ve stood by and watched Colby build a fortress around himself.”

  “Sorry, sir.” Donatello sat back in his seat. “I thought you were telling me to retire.”

  Wilkes glanced over Donatello’s shoulder, his eyes following someone as they walked past his office. He leaned forward, forearms on the desk, and lowered his voice. “I am, but since you aren’t in a hurry to leave, and appear determined to dig the dirt, let’s say I’m interested in having an inside track on what you find.”

  “Weren’t you pretending not to hear?”

  “I was, and I’ll keep pretending until you find irrefutable proof that Colby is the man I believe him to be. In the meantime, you’ll have better luck pissing from inside the tent, so I’m overruling, Colby.”

  “He won't like that, sir.”

  Inspector Wilkes crossed his arms and leaned back, smiling. “No, I expect he’ll crap a buffalo, but that’s my problem. Staying alive will be yours.”

  “Sir?”

  “Colby has a lot of friends, and not all of them work for the good guys. You’re off suspension, effective today, and I’ll do what I can to protect you, but I’m not indispensable either, so assume from now on you’re on your own.”

  39. THE AFFAIR

  Tuesday, 8:49 p.m.

  Only the driveway and porch lights shone from Marcus’s villa as Brad touched the fob against the entry panel at the gates and entered the code. Driving slowly, he glanced between the cypress trees, hoping in vain to glimpse his family waiting at the door to welcome him.

  He entered the house, closed the door, armed the perimeter alarm system, then stood in the dark, eerie silence, listening for signs of life. When none came, he entered the kitchen and found Marcus at the breakfast nook where he’d left him, only now a small reading light illuminated his father as he sat with his laptop open on the granite table. “Dad, where’s Lola?”

  Marcus looked up from the screen. “What happened?”

  Brad turned to leave.

  “Wait!” Marcus closed the laptop. “She threw up her lunch and then cried nonstop for three hours before falling asleep. Maybe it’s best to leave her for now. Considering what she went through yesterday, she’s doing remarkably well.”

  Brad hesitated, gave a faint nod, and slid onto the leather seat. “Are the kids any better?”

  “No comparison, when I got back this morning they were playing games. I made them lunch, which they wolfed, then ran around the gardens until they found a black and white kitten that had crawled through the gates.”

  “Crawled?”

  “The back legs were damaged. Brave little blighter dragged itself towards me when Jack took me to see it.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “I tried to clean its’ paws in the bath, but when I put iodine on them, maggots wriggled out from between the brok
en bones. The poor guy managed one last meow, then went limp in my hands. It was heartbreaking.”

  “Did Lilly and Jack see?”

  “Jack kept her out, then told her it recovered and jumped out the window.”

  “He’s a good lad.”

  “Better than good, he took Lilly to play Xbox, so I could bury the little fella. If Lilly mentions it, you know nothing.”

  “Scout’s honor.” Brad raised his palm as though swearing an oath. “Where did you put it?”

  “Flowerbed outside the window. How did you get on with Michaels?”

  Brad slumped deeper in the seat and let out a heavy sigh. “Well, he’s still at his old address. He was pulling out as I arrived, so I followed him.”

  “Can you give me the short version, I’ve got to finish something?”

  “No need for that, I’m shattered too, you know.”

  “Okay, but please get to the beef.”

  “What’s got your goat? I listened to your sorry-ass cat story.” Brad closed his eyes and took a breath. “Sorry, Dad, I didn’t mean—”

  Marcus waved his hand. “Me, too, we both have a lot on our minds. Go on.”

  “Well, actually it is a short story. We ended up at a warehouse a few miles past the White Lodge Motel. I hung back, watched him go inside—figured I should wait awhile. Then I fell asleep.”

  “You what!”

  “I couldn’t help it! By the time I woke up, it was dark, and his car had gone.”

  “Did you at least get inside?”

  Brad shoved his hands in the pockets of his blue fleece. “I almost wish I hadn’t. There were at least twenty-five empty cages, filthy blankets, buckets of excrement, broken toys and half-rotten food strewn everywhere.”

  “Toys… that’s where they were keeping the children?”

  “And I found a name.” Brad met Marcus’s look. “Okay, okay. Walton.”

  “The other Revolution investor?”

  “It has to be. And I’ll bet dollars to dingleberries that Damian Black is donkey deep in this.”