Go! - Hold On! Season 2

by Peter Darley

  “I’m sorry. It’s a highly sensitive, highly classified case.”

  Garrett’s eyes squinted almost unnoticeably, although Wilmot was fully aware of what was going through her mind. He could detect discomfort in Landis, and Garrett had an even keener eye than he had. He sensed her straightening her blue suit jacket as a highly practiced misdirection. With Landis distracted by Wilmot’s intimidating stare, she subtly slipped the fingers of her left hand into her pocket for a fleeting second.

  “Well,” Landis said, “I don’t know how far you’re going to get chasing phantoms. It’s nothing but an urban legend.”

  “Not according to the people we’ve interviewed,” Wilmot said.

  “Yes, I know. Your agents told Chief Tepper about the people they’d spoken to in Nevada. I’m telling you, you’re wasting your time.”

  Garrett gripped the sides of her seat and pulled it forward a fraction of an inch. “We believe there’s more to it than that.”

  Wilmot glanced at Cynthia for a brief moment, and she gave him a barely detectable nod of the head.

  Turning back to Landis, he smiled and stood. “We’ll be in touch, Commissioner. It’s been a pleasure.”

  After the customary handshakes, Landis cordially led them out of the office, and escorted them out of the building.

  Wilmot smiled smugly. “Good work, Cynthia.”

  She smiled gloatingly. “The trap is set.”

  With calculating grins, they came to the end of the street, and hailed another cab.

  Landis hurried back into his office and took a 35ml bottle of whiskey from a desk drawer. Heavy perspiration and hyperventilation punctuated generous gulps. Had it not been for his anxiety, he knew he would’ve been quite taken by Agent Garrett’s sophisticated beauty. However, the distress he’d tried so earnestly to disguise had impaired his attentions.

  Shaking, he sat down, took out his cell phone, and punched in a number he’d committed to memory. “Mae Ling?” he said. “I know my calling you is dangerous, but what we’re facing is much more so. I’ve kept you clear of police investigations for five goddamn years, but now it’s becoming problematic. I’ve just had a visit from the director of SDT, a Homeland Security sub-division. This is their second visit to the department. They’re looking for Sapphire . . . No, no, of course I didn’t tell them anything. But I’m telling you, something’s going down, and you should watch your back.”

  ***

  Jed Crane sat at a coffee table in one of the less expensive motels in Santa Monica staring at his laptop screen, knowing he was testing his luck. Low on funds, he’d been forced to continue traveling in the car he’d been driving since escaping with Brandon in Nevada. It was unlikely he was going to succeed in concealing himself for much longer. His greatest fear was being captured before he found Brandon. However, finding him would be futile if he didn’t have any information for him.

  With a standard SDT issue laptop, Jed had the skills to tap into the email accounts of many departments, although not high-ranking offices such as Wilmot’s.

  But Deborah Beaumont’s was not a problem. During his time with the SDT, they’d sent countless emails to one another. With her email address in his contacts file, hacking into it was child’s play.

  He’d been checking her inbox and sent box for most of the day, but no email headings seemed to be concerned with Wilmot. He was familiar with the operations in their headings, which affirmed the information contained therein was of no use to him.

  A new message, addressed to Director Brenham, appeared in Deborah’s sent box entitled: ‘Director Wilmot’.

  With an attack of conscience he opened the message. “I’m sorry, Deborah. But under the circumstances, I don’t think you’d disapprove.”

  The email opened:

  I’ve contacted Director Wilmot, and he’s in Los Angeles investigating Brandon Drake with the Los Angeles Police Department. I will keep you informed of any further developments.

  With a shrewd smile, Jed closed down Deborah’s email account, and exhaled with satisfaction. “So, you’re working with the LAPD are you, asshole?”

  Thirty-Seven

  The Citadel

  Seated at a Blackjack table, Tyler looked down at his cards with a deadpan expression. A four of diamonds, a seven of clubs, a five of hearts, and a four of spades—four cards totaling twenty. The dealer’s face up card was a queen of clubs.

  Tyler’s hand lightly brushed the subtle black button cover fixed to his collar, exposing a $90,000, gold Rolex watch. Wearing a newly-purchased designer tuxedo and his hair slicked back, his image conveyed the epitome of wealth and self-assurance.

  “Mr. Faraday?” the stunning blonde dealer said.

  “I stand.”

  An Italian sitting at the table failed to disguise his disappointment as he glanced at the three cards in front of him—a two of clubs, a ten of diamonds, and an ace of hearts. After a tense moment, he said, “Hit me.” He glanced at the three of spades the dealer put down. “Hit me again.” The dealer dealt him the king of clubs.

  “Bust,” the dealer said, and scooped up the cards.

  As she drew a six of hearts, Tyler held his breath. She had sixteen showing. With the usual dealer’s luck, her hole card would be a five, giving her twenty-one. However, she turned over a jack of spades.

  Tyler let out a small sigh of relief, and the dealer paid him.

  The Italian smiled. Accepting his loss of $200,000, he graciously departed the blackjack table and disappeared into the crowd.

  Earlier, Tyler had won $300,000 at the poker table. In a mere two hours, he’d attracted great attention to himself, just as he’d intended.

  Located on the east side of Hollywood, The Citadel was one of the most prestigious card room hotels in L.A. A golden fountain surrounded by limousines on the outside, marble floors and pillars, decorative statues, a luxurious bar area with the finest-quality leather couches, and impeccable, hospitable service, demonstrated opulence. The main gaming area offered a sprawling spectacle of international clientele. It had required most of the day for Tyler to verify his financial means in order to prove his eligibility.

  He looked up at the dealer with a cocky glint in his eyes. The dealer waited for two women to join the table before she dealt the next hand.

  Two attractive women, one blonde, and the other brunette, sat down on either side of Tyler. Both flirted with him outrageously. At any other time, he would’ve reciprocated. However, with his true agenda at the forefront of his mind, his sexual interests were dampened considerably, and Nikki had captured him in a way that overshadowed other temptations.

  Han Fong sat at the desk in his office. A bathroom and kitchen were annexed to it via oak doors on either side of the entrance. The walls displayed a strong adherence to Chinese tradition. Images of Chinese settings, along with dragon emblems, adorned the red wallpaper.

  Fong studied a folder before him, occasionally glancing at the monitor screen on his desk. The camera in the card room focused closely upon Tyler.

  “That’s what we’ve managed to come up with on Mr. Faraday,” a young Chinese executive said in Mandarin.

  Fong looked up at him. “Quite a catch. A most interesting young man, indeed.”

  “How would you like us to proceed, Mr. Fong? Shall we bring him up here?”

  “Certainly not. We should extend to him the greatest hospitality. I’ll go down and introduce myself.” Fong stood, took his tailor-made suit jacket from his coat stand, and made his way to the door.

  Tyler turned over a hand of five cards consisting of an ace of spades, a five of hearts, a six of clubs, a four of clubs, and a five of diamonds––five cards totaling twenty-one exactly.

  “You have extraordinary luck, Mr. Faraday.”

  Tyler’s breathing quickened. He sensed his brow becoming slightly damp at the sound of his name being uttered in a Chinese accent. Switching to his role in a heartbeat, he turned and looked up to see Fong smiling down at him. He studied the man�
�s mature features, which seemed to ooze confidence, authority, and command. His combed back hair revealed the widow’s peak of temporal recession, enhancing a sinister darkness in his deep-set eyes. “Thank you, sir.” Tyler offered his hand. “And you are?”

  “I am Han Fong, the owner and founder of The Citadel.”

  I know who you are, you evil prick. “Well, it’s an honor to meet you. Everything here is a contender for the most impressive I’ve seen.”

  “Coming from such a highly-experienced connoisseur as yourself, I consider that quite a compliment.”

  Tyler smiled, feigning flattery. “I wasn’t aware I was such a celebrity.”

  “Well, I don’t want to take you away from your game. I would just like to extend an invitation for you to join me in a drink.”

  Damn, I’m good. “You know what? I’ve been at this for a few hours. That sounds great, Mr. Fong. Thank you.”

  Tyler stood and followed his host across the room, a dark sensation gripping him as he struggled to maintain his humorous, confident demeanor. This time, he knew he was walking into the lion’s den. If he faltered even once, his entire plan would be forfeit. As would his very life.

  En route to the office, his mind became lost in a tempest of uncertainty. That very doubt, the cause of his distress, presented the paradox of a potentially-fatal problem actually creating itself.

  In the elevator, he smiled cordially at Fong, who reciprocated. That, at least, helped to ease his mind. So far, he was pulling it off.

  The elevator arrived at Fong’s floor. They stepped out together and made their way to the office.

  Tyler silently rehearsed his act and focused upon portraying a persona of absolute narcissism and callousness. Everything depended upon him being believable as a predatory opportunist.

  Fong unlocked his office door. “Please, come in, Mr. Faraday.”

  Tyler quickly surveyed the interior and decided a brief, almost-flippant compliment, would be the most appropriate for his role. “Nice place you got.”

  “Thank you.” Fong took two glasses and a bottle of vintage Cognac from his liquor cabinet. “Brandy?”

  Tyler’s immediate reaction was to say ‘yes’, but he quickly changed his mind. An arrogant personality would probably be more demanding. “Actually, I prefer bourbon.”

  “Of course.”

  Fong took out a bottle of bourbon, poured Tyler a shot, and handed both bottle and glass to him.

  Once they were both seated Fong took out Tyler’s folder. “I do hope you don’t mind. We have to run a check on all our new members. The Citadel is an exclusive organization, and we must ensure that our guests meet our requirements.”

  Tyler feigned a chuckle. “And do I check out?”

  Fong’s grin beamed down at the file. “You most certainly do. The son and heir of Charlton Faraday, the founder of the Faraday Corporation. Investment specialist with a taste for the finer things in life, an avid gambler, and member of the most prestigious casinos in the world, including the Venetian Macao.” He looked up again. “You certainly get around, don’t you?”

  “It’s the only way to be.”

  The conversation continued for another thirty minutes, with the two men discussing people and places they had in common. They marveled at the small world they lived in, and other considerations of the six degrees of separation.

  Finally, Fong said, “So, what brings you to Los Angeles?”

  “Oh, just a little business in Beverly Hills. A particular celebrity, I can’t say who, is looking to buy a couple of helicopters from my dad.”

  “I see. Are you alone?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “According to your résumé, you usually have an escort. Always an extremely attractive escort.” Fong shot him a sly grin.

  This is it. “It gets boring after a time,” Tyler said. “Pussies are like frogs. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all. I’m looking around for something more . . . I don’t know. Kinky, maybe?” I can’t believe I just said that.

  “Oh, I completely understand.”

  “Know anywhere in town that stretches the boundaries?”

  Fong stared at him for a moment, and Tyler wasn’t sure he’d been a little too hasty in asking such questions.

  “I just might,” Fong said. “But it could be highly expensive.”

  Tyler laughed in a manner that conveyed money was no object. Fong followed in the mirth.

  After a moment, and with a faux-beaming smile, Tyler drummed his fingertips on the desk. “So, c’mon. You gonna tell me?”

  “All in good time, Mr. Faraday. Do you plan to be in town on Friday?”

  “I could be.”

  “Good. I’ll see what I can do. There is a particular event that takes place every six weeks that I think you will find most stimulating.”

  Tyler took a sip of his bourbon. “So, can you tell me what to expect?”

  “There is a procedure that needs to be followed first, but I will arrange it.”

  Tyler realized a sociopath would be concerned for his own well-being and promptly assumed the role. “Hey, there’s not a chance of me getting busted for something, is there?”

  “No. That’s what the procedure is all about. Just leave it to me. I assume you have offshore bank accounts?”

  “Yeah, several.”

  “Good. Meet me here at six p.m. on Friday, and we’ll discuss it further. For now, let us drink and discuss life.”

  With a painted grin, Tyler poured himself a generous shot of bourbon and raised his glass with a wink. “You got it.”

  Tyler was becoming noticeably intoxicated by the early hours, and decided it was time for him to call a cab. On highly amicable terms as far as Fong was concerned, they parted company, and awaited their next meeting on Friday evening.

  In the privacy of his office once again, Fong took out his cell phone and made a call. “Mae Ling, I may have a highly-lucrative customer for Friday’s auction. An extremely wealthy young man with exotic tastes . . . Yes, all of his credentials check out. I will explain the first time procedure to him on Friday. He will have no idea where he is when he arrives.” With a satisfied grin, Fong ended the call.

  Thirty-Eight

  On the Take

  Nikki Hawke entered Miranda Curtis’ living room at just past 3:00 a.m. Brandon sat on the sofa, deeply focused on a tiny device wedged between his fingers. With his other hand, he held a pin, which he used to carefully bore a slender hole through the center of the device’s thin casing.

  Beside him on the coffee table, his open silver attaché case rested, displaying an array of sophisticated gadgets positioned in sponge, cut-out compartments.

  “Miranda and Belinda are sleeping soundly,” Nikki said. “What’s that you’re doing?”

  “It’s a transmitter.”

  “A transmitter for what?”

  He finally looked up at her. “You said this organization scans everyone who goes into the auctions for bugs, right?”

  “Yes.”

  He held up the tiny gadget. “This is for Tyler. It’s the core from a very sophisticated bugging device. It contains a jamming chip that’ll bypass any sensor equipment these clowns have. This technology still hasn’t been made available to the public yet.”

  Nikki sat beside him. “What’s Tyler going to do with it?”

  “When he goes in there, he’ll have this attached to his scalp. I’m creating a hole in it to weave a few of his hairs through.” He gestured to a slick, silver, pocket-sized radio receiver on the table. “When he’s inside, I’ll be close by on the outside listening to everything that goes on in there. First sign of a problem, I’m going in.”

  “It’s good to know you’ve got this covered, and you’re thinking everything through. But I have no idea how you think you’re gonna take on all of that manpower in there.”

  “Leave that to me.”

  She stood and moved over to the open attaché case. “Is this all of your weaponry?”

  �
��What you’re looking at is just the first layer,” he said. “There are three more beneath it. I used to have two cases, but the other was destroyed in a car explosion, two years ago.”

  There was a knock at the front door. “I’ll get it,” Nikki said, and exited the room.

  She opened the door to see Tyler standing in his tuxedo. His button cover was removed and the top two buttons of his dress shirt were open. His bleary eyes gave away his intoxication.

  “Hi,” he said without concealing his attraction to her. His inhibitions were clearly lowered.

  However, far from concerned, Nikki returned his amorous glare with the same enthusiasm. “How did it go?”

  “Well, let’s just say I’m in the club.” He stepped inside and staggered into the living room.

  Brandon stood abruptly with an intensely serious expression. “What did you find out? And keep your voice down. Belinda’s asleep.”

  “Nice to see you too, bro,” Tyler said, slurring.

  Brandon’s brow furrowed. “Hey, are you drunk?”

  “Yeah, look, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to cause you any anxiety, but I had no choice. I think the son of a bitch wanted to adopt me. I had to suck up to him to get in with him, over a bottle of bourbon.”

  “How do you know you weren’t followed?”

  “Don’t worry, bro. A cab took me from The Citadel to The Four Seasons. I booked a room there earlier in case they checked me out. From there I called another cab from the men’s room to meet me round the back and bring me here. I kept my head down the whole time.”

  “So, what’s happening?”

  “I’m meeting them at six on Friday night.” He paused for a moment. “Actually, that’ll be tomorrow night. This is Thursday morning. One way or another, this goes down tomorrow night.”

  “And?”

  “They’re taking me to the auction. I did it, Brandon. I actually did it. Fong said they have these auctions every six weeks, and Emily hasn’t been with ‘em for two months. She has to be there.”