Grinny

by Nicholas Fisk

  Of course, they can’t see me, but still.

  The old Sahara Hotel is in sight, with its Moroccan dome and vintage sign. I can’t believe the thing hasn’t been torn down yet, but people tend to hang on to places like this now. They are relics of the time when normal existed.

  “You remember the room number, right?” Mom whispers in the wake of a taxi’s honk.

  I tap her shoulder to say yes. Talking while I’m on a mission is too risky. There must never be proof that I was anywhere near here tonight, because as far as the world is concerned I’m just a spoiled syndicate baby, born into crime but not actually participating. Someone to be loathed, sure, but not a real criminal.

  The doormen acknowledge my mom tentatively, as does everyone who lives in Vegas, and we stride into the foyer. Clinking coins and Middle Eastern music assault my ears, and the smell of smoke forces me to hold in a cough.

  Mom heads for the bar, since she has to make it look like she’s just treating herself to a night out. She takes a seat, and the bartender drops everything to wait on her. “What can I get you, Lauren?”

  She smiles. “The usual.”

  As he mixes her drink, I scan the room for our targets. They shouldn’t be too hard to spot—Juan Torres’s people never are. Dad says they’re fools, marking themselves the way they do, but not all syndicates work like us. Juan may not have Dad’s stealth, but he has a gift for instilling terror in people. His henchmen flaunt their depravity and smear it across the news so even the cops run the other way, while Dad makes sure the “authorities” can never pin a crime on him.

  “Thank you.” Mom sips at a neon-pink concoction, carefully watching the lobby like me. Men eye her hungrily, but they know better than to mess with my dad’s women.

  Then I spot them. Even with their long sleeves I can make out the tattooed claws on their hands, which are surely connected to jaguars, Juan’s signature mark. I slink through the crowd as Mom finishes off her drink. We’ve done this enough that she knows I’ll be where I need to be, even if she can’t see me.

  They wait for an elevator, just like our intelligence said they would, and speak in hushed Spanish. I run my tongue over the recorder in my mouth, which is smaller than a stick of gum. Once their elevator comes and goes, Mom walks up. She presses a button and waves her hand slightly in the process. Our ride is there in seconds.

  Telekinesis. The reason Mom is my perfect criminal partner.

  She presses the button for a different floor than the one we want, but she uses her power to take us to the right one. Up, up, up we go, until we reach the restricted VIP floor. She opens the door, and then it’s me and a long, quiet hallway.

  The carpet is lush, making it easy to creep along in silence. I find the door I’m looking for and hear muffled voices. Now I just have to get in and figure out what they’re doing here. I knock.

  The door opens wide, and the idiot who answered holds a small pistol as his eyes search the empty hall. Crouching, I slip inside before the moment’s lost. I find a concealed corner and pull out the recorder, while the door guy goes back to the table and takes a swig from a tequila bottle. With one flick of the recorder’s switch, I’m in business.

  The whole job is child’s play, really—nothing I haven’t done before. My shoulders slump as the thought sinks in. Sixteen, spying on criminals for a criminal, and here I am thinking it’s no big deal. Sad.

  “ … Radiasure …” one of them says.

  The word makes my ears perk up. If this has anything to do with Dad’s drug stash, he’ll be pissed. Then the bald one pulls a tiny bag from his pocket, and I can’t breathe.

  Glowing blue pills.

  Radiasure may not look like much, but each one of those goes for over a thousand bucks on the black market. They are what make this twisted world go round.

  They are mine.

  I take a small plastic cylinder from under my tongue. Carefully, I pull out three minipins, their points colored purple to indicate their use: knockout needles. Dad has these made especially for me, for emergencies, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I use them now to bring the pills back for him. He’ll be happy. I want to make him happy.

  By the time one of them catches sight of the pin, it’s too late. I stick the closest person in the neck, and he writhes before going limp. Guy number two gets pricked before the first hits the floor, and the third fumbles for his gun. I pull the final pin from my teeth. Ever so smoothly, it sinks into his skin.

  “You …” he says before falling on the bed.

  Thanks to the nearly empty tequila bottles, I’m not worried about him remembering the exact details.

  I grab the pills from the table. They are beautiful, like gleaming jewels. Consuming Radiasure boosts your ability, but it’s not like I can get any more invisible, so taking one would be a waste. The bag fits in my mouth without a problem. Slipping through the door, I knock on the hijacked elevator to signal to Mom that I’m done. It opens, and Mom guides it down without a word. She has a few more drinks, and we’re back at The Clover just after midnight.

  Dad is already at our penthouse, sitting on the couch with Petra, the resident speaker of tongues. His dark brows are pulled over his eyes, and he frowns. I can’t wait to change that.

  “So?” Dad stands, and though he’s not a large man, he’s still intimidating.

  “Fiona?” Mom looks for me, her voice high, as if she fears I might have gone missing on the way back.

  “Here.” The things in my mouth garble the word. “And I have a present.”

  I spit out the Radiasure, and Dad’s eyes light up. Then he’s smiling, and I can’t help but do the same. I made him happy. I am useful to him. That makes me the luckiest girl in the room. “You darling girl. Juan’s men had this?”

  “Yeah.” I grab the sundress I left on the couch, since the AC in the penthouse is freezing me out. “And they talked about Radiasure a lot. They were obviously planning to use this bag for a power boost, but after that I don’t know. It was all in Spanish.”

  He grabs the recorder and thrusts it at Petra. “Translate.”

  She takes it, touching my dad in a way that makes Mom look away. It’s one of those things you never get used to, but this is what Mom got herself into when she fell for a Charmer. Petra listens to the Spanish and then she nods. “Your daughter is right—they were going to use the extra power to break into your vault at The Bellagio.”

  His nostrils flare. And with good reason. The Bellagio vault has at least a ten-billion-dollar stash of Radiasure. “They knew where it was?”

  “It seems Juan paid Spud millions for a hack.”

  “Damn her!” He grabs the recorder and almost throws it, but then thinks better of it. “If I ever find that hacker, I’ll make sure she dies slowly.”

  Except no one ever finds Spud, the computer savant that some say could control the entire world if she felt like it.

  “It’s a good thing I grabbed the pills,” I say. “They don’t stand a chance without them.”

  Dad shakes his head, anger reddening his face. “It’s not enough. Juan sending his men into my city? Plotting to steal my Radiasure? He needs to be taught a lesson. No one touches the O’Connell syndicate.”

  “Should I call Graham?” Mom says. Graham is my oldest brother and head of Dad’s beat squad. There is no one I hate more.

  “No. Juan needs to understand that he’s never safe. We’ll take the fight to Phoenix. See how powerful he thinks he is when we kill his daughters.” He points at me. “It’s time to show him death he’ll literally never see coming.”

  My heart stops. “Me? You want me to do it?”

  He nods.

  I’ve spied on people. I’ve stolen millions. I’ve knocked people out, destroyed their cars. But I have never killed someone, and the thought makes it hard to breathe. “I … I can’t.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  “Please don’t make me.” I regret saying it, because now he’s really angry.
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  He grabs me by the shoulder, and his fingers dig in. “You’ll do what I say, and you’ll do it on tape for every wannabe criminal to see. Do you want people questioning our power?”

  I don’t answer fast enough, and it earns me a slap to the face. Mom flinches, but stays where she is. Dad takes out the Radiasure and swallows two. He sucks in a breath, and in the silence I can feel his pull. His happiness is the only reason to live. There’s nothing better than making him smile.

  “You’re going to kill them.” His voice is firm, and it fills me with resolve.

  “I will, in front of Juan if I have to,” I say.

  He smiles. “That’s my girl.”

  Later that night, when the penthouse is dark and Dad’s charm has worn off, I shake and cry and curse myself for what I promised. It’s always like this. Why didn’t I say no? Why didn’t I disappear into the Vegas crowds when I had the chance?

  My door clicks, and I go silent.

  “Fiona?” Mom says. “Are you awake?”

  “Of course I am.” I never sleep the night after a job. Too much guilt. Too much self-loathing for giving in to Dad’s power once again.

  “Good. Pack your things.”

  I sit up. “What?”

  “We’re leaving.”

  Normally, I would groan at yet another one of her pathetic attempts to escape, but not tonight. Tonight I am running; it’s the only way I won’t become a murderer. I grab the nearest bag and shove things into it. She doesn’t say anything else, only watches me in the scant moonlight. We work better without words, anyway.

  Once I have what I need, she leads me to the garage, disabling cameras and locks all along the way. She revs the engine without a key, and we’re gone.

  Published in Great Britain in 2013 by Hot Key Books

  Northburgh House, 10 Northburgh Street, London EC1V 0AT

  Grinny first published by William Heinemann Ltd in 1973

  You Remember Me! first published by Viking Kestrel in 1984

  Text copyright © Nicholas Fisk 1973, 1984

  Cover illustration copyright © François Baranger 2013

  Foreword copyright © Malorie Blackman 2013

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-4714-0146-6

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