by Dale Wiley
Jones nodded. That was her feeling and the president’s as well. They were at this for hours and had not one single other credible lead. They had to take some risks, or this day was going to get a whole lot longer.
She let a little prayer slip silently from her lips and then asked, “Where do you want me to send the plane?”
Forty-One
Give him weeks, Tony thought, and he could find about anybody in Las Vegas. He knew bartenders, strippers, bookies, and hotel clerks. He knew craps dealers and high-class hookers. He knew how to triangulate people. If you had enough time, it really wasn’t a problem. If you had only a few hours, it was.
Trying to find someone—someone who was hiding—in a few hours in a city of this size was impossible and unthinkable. It just wasn’t going to happen. He couldn’t believe Paolo. First, he tipped her off that Tony was around and then he brought her unsecured—really? It was unbelievable. Paolo was soft. He didn’t do this kind of work often. He couldn’t go down that road too far, however, or he would have to admit who put him in that position: good old Tony. So when it came down to it, Caitlin’s continued ability to breathe was really his rather large mistake. Easy or not, his best bet was just to keep moving and looking and hoping Britt wasn’t going to have him killed.
He should have taken the shot in the condo, but his orders were to catch her, not to kill her. A very stupid decision on Britt’s part. He wanted to remind Britt of this, that you eliminate a target when you can but thought better of it. The rage and the brow beatings were all part of what you put up with to deal with psycho assholes like Britt. He wouldn’t be with him always; he knew that. Regardless of what he decided to do with the rest of his days, he would just as soon stay employed right now, if he could get these thoughts about Britt out of his head. And he certainly wanted to stay alive. Both of those sounded good.
The whole situation made it necessary for him to kill Paolo. He hadn’t enjoyed this. He liked it when the people he killed were considerably “badder” and not just a soft moron from a club. The dumbass should have had her hands tied, or handcuffed, or something when he brought her in—fucking amateur. It was a mistake that cost Paolo his life.
Tony had told Britt everything. Britt had this bloodless quality about himself. He would look as sanguine as an old-hand spy handler, and then, when it served him, unleash all of his emotion at once. He kept quiet when Tony told him the story. Then he, cold as an iceberg, simply told him to find her, find her wherever she was.
That was two hours ago. Even though Tony made a dozen phone calls and visited two properties himself, he knew it was no use. It would take jackpot luck to allow him to find her anytime soon, anytime when it might actually mean something.
He looked at his watch for the dozenth time. It was time to be a man. He called Britt’s number.
“Found her?” Britt cut right to the chase.
“No luck. I’ll probably need a lot more time. This is a big city, and she’s a smart girl.”
Silence. Tony hated silence. And Britt knew this.
“I could …”
He had no idea what he was starting to say. How he hated silence.
“I …”
Again nothing. Britt was letting him twist.
Finally, Britt spoke in that icy voice that was far scarier than any emotion he showed. “That’s a big miss, my friend.”
Jesus, these guys never knew what they were asking. “I know. I’m gonna keep looking.”
Emotion crept back into Britt’s voice. This was ruining his scenario. This dumb bitch and her intuition was going to cost him everything. “Fuck it, Tony. You didn’t get the job done when you had the chance. I’m going to put someone else on Vegas, someone she doesn’t know. Your next role is in Tahoe. Go to the cabin there and thank your lucky stars you’re still employed. I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”
Tony nodded and then realized he hadn’t spoken. “Okay, boss. I’ll talk to you in the morning. Sorry, boss.”
“Look,” Britt said. “Clean up these things. Get to Tahoe. I’ll speak to you in the morning.”
He spoke to Tony as if he were a seventh grader.
Tony was near the strip, so he headed out of town toward the interstate. He had eight hours ahead of him. Tony checked the gas. He had enough to get him out of town but would have to fill up once and maybe into a second tank. Might as well do it now. He was sick with the conversation. He liked it a lot better when Britt screamed.
At the gas station just outside of town, Tony pulled out the credit card Britt gave him and charged the gas. He leaned against the Escalade and twisted the card in his fingers while the gas poured. He had a good run with Britt, but this whole thing had gotten very weird. A new person in Vegas. Tony knew who that was, but he was too pissed off to break the news to her that she would soon be getting a call. And why so insistent about Tahoe? There was nothing there but a second-rate hideout. Was his boy leaving town?
Tony knew very little about the plan, but it was becoming clearer Britt was very tied to what happened today. All of the tragedy and loss. Tony had a cousin who died in a firefight in Afghanistan after September 11. He still hated that whole chain of events. Tony may have been a life-long criminal, but he wasn’t a fucking terrorist. He had a boy in Los Angeles who could hook him up with work. Suddenly, that sounded a lot more inviting than Tahoe. He could stay in Britt’s pad on the coast there tonight and then disappear tomorrow before Britt even knew. He had contemplated this moment for some time, but that last bloodless call did it. You always needed an out in his business.
Clean up your own mess, Britt. Take the pepper spray yourself. Kill your own crazy bimbo. She was better than you anyway. See you in the next life.
Forty-Two
Britt had known this was going to be a problem. Why could he not control his feelings? Feelings had always been easy for him. He thought at times he became immune to them. But now, at the worst possible time, here they came: anger, betrayal, confusion, impotence. He was the king of the fucking world, and yet he couldn’t control his own erection.
This rage, though—maybe this rage would do it. He went back upstairs. The girls were there, cooing, nuzzling, and kissing. It was nothing worse than you would see on Cinemax. Priscilla kissed Jilly’s neck. Her back was arched, feeling it, taking in the moment. Tilly smiled when she saw Britt. She motioned for him to join them.
“We’ve been waiting,” she said in a practiced but effective purr. He lay down and they all moved to him. This was power.
Tilly undid his shirt, button by button. She flung it open like something out of a rock video and kissed his nipple. He knew it was supposed to be sexy, and it was. But nothing happened.
Root canal, deposition, random errands—they were just as stimulating to him. His breathing grew stronger. The girls figured he liked it, but the whole endeavor was making him nervous. He wasn’t moved by this fantasy that most men would give years of their life for. These girls were all his and would give him any wish. Priscilla could sense something wasn’t right. She grabbed his crotch—should-be heaven, but still nothing.
What was wrong with him? What was wrong? Fuck, what moved the needle? What did he need to have to make him powerful? He knew. He had it right there. He stood up and moved across to the other side of the room.
He got his gun.
Forty-Three
Raylon for Becky—by the time they got back to Hollywood, that was a trade Joey was very happy to make.
During the last fifteen minutes of the car ride, Becky couldn’t shut up. The shock of the explosion had worn off, and she huffed and puffed about who she gonna call and what they gonna say about all dis shit. After telling her twice not to tell anyone he was alive, Joey figured out he was better off not emphasizing this; she was clearly the kind of girl that did something just because someone didn’t want her to.
He let her out just about four blocks from where he had found her, winked at her, and told her he would call. They both knew
he wasn’t going to, but he had to say it if there were any chance it would help her shut the hell up.
Becky got out, Raylon climbed in, and Marvin drove the pair away while Becky made loud noises so that everyone would notice what a fancy car she had gotten out of. She was sure she could keep Joey’s secret. She knew something that no one else in the world knew.
Raylon was hurt but knew he couldn’t show it to Joey.
Joey felt horrible but knew he couldn’t say anything to Raylon. They sat on opposite sides of the limo, looking like freshmen who had just gotten invited to a formal with the upperclassmen. They said nothing and barely moved.
Marvin ended the silence by asking where they were going. Joey told him to head toward the beach. He didn’t intend to end up there but figured they would almost certainly end up going west.
“How the fuck we get paid to get killed?” he finally asked.
Raylon still seethed about the whole afternoon but to accuse him of being the reason for this? Incredible. He knew he could say more than anyone else, but, frankly, that wasn’t much these days. He shook his head and didn’t make eye contact, hoping Joey would get the idea.
“Man, you remember? You remember anything? I told you not to do this. I told you this was bad news. This tha one you made me get in cash.”
Joey looked at him as if they had never laid eyes on each other before.
Raylon chuckled in disbelief. “Shit. They came to us last month. You say we don’t know them, they ain’t regular industry. I said it ain’t worth it. You said get the money in cash.”
It was obvious this didn’t register with Joey. Raylon thought he was playing dumb.
“So I met the guy. He gave me fifty in cash then, and then gave me fifty in cash two days ago. Same guy. Italian or some Mediterranean motherfucker. It’s what we went to the strip club on.”
Now Joey nodded. He remembered that. He made it rain like a tropical storm.
“Bitch ask me, you there too? He knew I saw something.’ I don’t think I saw him, but he knew I knew something.’ I sure as hell know where he live.”
Joey’s eyes got big. “You know where he live?”
“I followed him. I knew nothin’ was right.”
“Raylon, you my nigga.”
“I don’t wanna talk about it right now, man. I don’t wanna talk about it. We gots a score to settle. Tell me where we need to go.”
It was the one thing they could agree on.
Forty-Four
Mandy relayed word to Grant. They were going to Vegas. They called Caitlin and made arrangements to meet her near the airport. Mandy made Grant place the call on speakerphone so she could hear both sides of the conversation. He could hear the trepidation in Caitlin’s voice. Grant thought Naseem was affected by the call as well, as he now appeared to be constantly frowning.
They headed to the airport. Naseem looked more perturbed than he was previously. When Mandy took a phone call, Naseem motioned to him. He needed a moment alone with him.
“Something just hit me,” he whispered while Mandy kept talking. “Check your bank account.”
Grant stared at him. “What?”
“Just do it.”
Grant was about to say something back, but he didn’t want to tip off Mandy. Naseem still hadn’t disappointed him; every bit of information was gold.
He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and went to his banking app. Grant put in his password and scrolled to the accounts screen. He quickly put the phone in his pocket as they navigated the tarmac and were let out to get on the jet.
He looked at Naseem as they boarded the plane. Naseem’s look said he had figured it out. He didn’t need to tell him. Grant went into the air knowing that his account had just had a deposit made just that afternoon. That morning, he had checked it. It was quite healthy, just short of six figures.
Now it held ten million dollars.
Forty-Five
He marched halfway back across the room before they knew what was going on. Priscilla stood up and tried to reason with him. Jilly and Tilly sensed that wasn’t going to help, and they scattered to the corners of the room. That left him with Holly, beautiful, lithe Holly, who was now frozen in the middle of the bed, looking at him with terror, which almost did it for a minute. Could he build on that? He closed his eyes for a second and listened to her whimper. It was close to making him hard but not enough. He pulled the gun up and shot her.
Blood went wild. It covered Jilly, who was too close to the bed to avoid it. The others screamed but stood still, not knowing if it was better to run or to freeze.
Britt looked at Priscilla, who was trying to hold his gaze.
“Let’s try this again.”
Forty-Six
Becky thought about it. Joey had told her that it could be dangerous for him if the world knew he was alive. But they needed to! All of her friends who had met minor rap stars like Wocka Flocka Flame and Twista would be crazy jelly if they knew her part in history! She was with the fucking Pal during all of this! What luck.
But surely she could be down, keep his secret, right?
And then it hit her. This shit could get her on TV and make her some money! Her nails didn’t French tip themselves.
She knew he’d be mad, but Joey would get over it. She was sure of this.
She pressed the on button. Then she saw it: Joey had slipped out the battery. She wondered if he had seen the picture she took.
Forty-Seven
Caitlin soaked in the news. They were coming: Grant, Naseem, and Mandy, who had so opportunistically taken Grant’s job in the wake of the scandal. She shook her head as she realized that even now she was taking up for Grant even after all he did to her.
She remembered how perfect that summer was: seeing the man she loved mature in every way, taking those fancy trips, and finally loving her job, mainly because she was so preoccupied with everything else. It was the most magical time of her life. She got to fly to meet her future husband who was protecting the president, and she had gotten the romantic proposal on the beach, the exact way any girl would want it to happen. It seemed too good to be true. For three weeks, it was.
Their picture had appeared in the papers in a manner befitting the minor celebrity Grant was. She showed her ring to everyone she knew, and together they celebrated in a way that only women can do over a perfect proposal.
She floated across the ground. Nothing could touch her, or her man, or her happiness.
And then she woke up on a Saturday morning in late August. She didn’t get a warning call and had no sense of foreboding. She just turned on the television, flipped through the channels, and thought, “I know that head.”
That head belonged to her fiancé, and it was being displayed in a cell phone shot laying across a set of breasts. Both her fiancé and the owner of the breasts were naked and completely passed out. Unfortunately for everyone, the breasts’ owner was Saudi royalty.
But oh, there was more. The same intrepid photographer also had a grainy and backlit video of the pair doing the nasty in a VIP room at some Washington nightspot. You couldn’t tell it was them exactly except that it appeared to be taken at the same nightclub. The photo, though, left no doubt that Grant Miller was an asshole, creep, and philanderer.
No one had any comment. The political scene was tense, knowing how big this scandal could be. It appeared Grant Miller, FBI playboy, had just defiled one of the most famous virgins in the world and one of the few women whose sexual status could disrupt the diplomatic standing of nations.
It was everywhere. Take-no-prisoners reporters came and camped out on her lawn by late that morning. They shouted at her. When she ignored them, they shouted louder. She had no comment. They didn’t care. They kept asking questions, and she became a zombie. Grant called. She didn’t answer. She texted him and told him she would ship his stuff back to him, and she was keeping the ring. Well, she was selling the ring.
Her family tried to help, but there’s a time when you nee
d help, and there’s a time when you don’t want anyone to touch you, or speak to you, or even acknowledge that you exist. That was what Caitlin wanted.
The reporters camped for a few days, but then they finally figured out she wasn’t going to be any fun, wasn’t going to play the jilted lover in front of their lenses. They wanted potshots at Grant, but she wasn’t going to give them that; he did enough to embarrass them both.
The first few days, this was front page news—an international incident with sex, fame, money, and privilege. But behind the scenes, the other princess, her sister, lobbied her father. She saw Grant and the princess together. She saw nothing wrong; she had actually heard Grant speak fondly of his new fiancée. She believed that the pair had been drugged.
She knew her sister well enough to know she was about as virginal as your average call girl, and she also hadn’t seen anything to indicate Grant made any advances. She made her father watch the video, which she showed him did not in any way definitively indicate it was them as participants and not someone else, and she single-handedly saved Grant’s job.
President Bush, who considered Grant almost a buddy, put in a stern call after he had cleared things with the Saudis, indicating Grant was to be placed on leave but not fired, which was tantamount to a miracle.
Grant had relayed all of this information to Caitlin in a series of long-winded e-mails. While it may not have been enough evidence to convict him in a criminal court, it was more than enough to make the woman who had let him hold her heart despise him forever.
He called once or twice a month still, two years later. He asked friends to tell her hi. He acted like the most clueless man in America or someone who was truly innocent.