by Chris Mooney
“Could I get, like, a blanket or something? It’s freezing in here.”
Sebastian took off his coat and draped it around the kid’s shoulders. “I’ll see what I can do about a blanket, too,” he said. “You hungry?”
Enrique hesitated.
“This isn’t a trap, my man,” Sebastian said. “If you’re hungry, say so.”
“I could use something to eat, sure, if it’s not a bother.”
“It’s not. What would you like?”
“Anything—I’m not fussy.” Enrique looked up, craning his head back. “Thank you,” he said, eyes filling with tears of gratitude. “Thank you so much.”
Sebastian placed a hand on the kid’s shoulder and smiled. “You’re welcome,” he said, and grabbed Enrique in a headlock. As he strangled the kid, Sebastian made a promise to himself to send some money to Enrique’s widow so their boy could see that specialist. And if she did something else with the money, well, then that was on her.
* * *
* * *
The air outside seemed warmer than earlier, as though the temperature had risen another ten or fifteen degrees in the last hour—which, obviously, it hadn’t. Sebastian had been sweating underneath his down jacket—sweating from excitement. Finally, after all these months, he had the son of a bitch.
He had a powwow with Frank and Ron’s men, and then, by phone, with Ron himself.
“I’ll put together a team,” Ron said. He was still at the hospital, waiting for his daughter to give birth. “We’ll start surveillance tonight. Then we’ll—”
“Surveillance?”
“We don’t know how many people he’s got working for him, what kind of hardware he and his crew are carrying, how this place is laid out.”
“It’s a house, not some goddamn military installation.”
“And that’s the fatal flaw in your thinking. Paul and Guidry are military,” Ron said. “If they’re bunkered in that house, using it as a lab, keeping their carriers there, whatever, they’ve taken steps to secure it. They’ve got people watching it—people who are probably ex-military, too.”
“As are your people. Guys with me right now, I’ve already talked with them. They said they’re trained for this exact kind of midnight op—get in and out without making a peep.”
“I know you’ve got a major hard-on for Paul. I get it. But you’re going to need to keep it in your pants until I—”
“We’re doing this now.”
“No, we’re—”
“I’m running a democracy all of a sudden? ’Cause last time I checked, you work for me. You and your boys.” Sebastian’s voice was clear, but his face was flushed with heat. “Make it happen. Tonight.”
A long silence followed.
“Where do you want them to bring Paul?” Ron asked, barely keeping his anger in check. “The Bungalow?”
It was Frank’s pet nickname for his den of torture, a funeral home Frank owned, under some dummy corporation, on the other side of the city. It was a one-stop shop for all your diabolical business needs: a private torture chamber with easy cleanup and cremation in less than half an hour.
“Long Beach,” Sebastian said. “It’s closer—and I’m going to take the next few days off, spend some one-on-one time with Paul until I get him situated in a more permanent living situation. Bring Paul there.”
“What about Guidry?”
“I don’t give a shit about Guidry or the others.”
“Let me speak to Marty.”
“Which one’s that?”
“Tall guy with the beard, has a face and head that look like they belong in a caveman exhibit. Before you hand off the phone, know that you’re not going along with Marty and the others. They can’t do their job if they’re also babysitting you.”
Sebastian bristled at the word babysitting. He was about to argue the point when Ron said, “This isn’t up for debate. You go, I pull the plug. Now, put Marty on the phone.”
Marty grunted his way through a fifteen-minute conversation with Ron. After Marty hung up, he returned the phone to Sebastian and explained that he would stay in close contact with him.
“No,” Frank said to Marty. “You’ll be in close contact with me.” Then, before Sebastian could argue: “You’re too emotionally involved. This requires finesse. Patience and detachment.”
If anyone but Frank had publicly dressed him down like that, the guy would have been on the ground, sobbing, picking his teeth out from blood and vomit. Frank knew it, too, and to add insult to injury, said, “No, don’t shoot me that look. You know I’m right.”
Hot, bright white stars exploded across Sebastian’s vision. “When this is over,” he said, his limbs shaking, “we’ll have a meeting, me, you, and Ron, talk about who’s running things.” Sebastian turned to the three men. “Get rid of the body in there.”
Sebastian stormed away. He needed to keep busy, stay out of his head. He paced in the shadows, his skin tingling and itching in places as though it were covered with ants. He knew the real reason behind his discomfort: He hated giving up control, the problem of every alcoholic and addict. In the past, he had treated it with a bottle of Scotch. Now he had to go through the problem instead of drinking his way around it.
Christ, how he missed booze.
That bottle of rare Scotch Paul had brought to the house, the one with the gold crown, was still there. Paul had left it behind, and Sebastian hadn’t thrown it out. Should have, he knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had been nursing a fantasy of drinking it nice and slow in front of Paul until the old Sebastian came back to life. That person was still there, locked away and maybe a little dusty from disuse, but Sebastian 1.0 was still there, backed up, ready and waiting.
And the strange, messed-up thing? He wanted that previous version. Needed it. Sebastian 1.0 was still plenty angry, and that was a great thing, actually, because what the so-called experts on the subject of rage didn’t want you to know was just how clarifying anger was, how it reduced all the bullshit in your life to ashes and left behind what truly mattered to you. Anger didn’t allow you to hide. It kept you sharp.
Footsteps approaching. Sebastian turned and saw Frank nibbling like a rabbit on one of his organic, no-gluten, no-preservatives, all-natural, and zero-taste protein bars. Frank didn’t partake of junk food, no matter the occasion. Sebastian, the true alcoholic he was, both admired and despised Frank’s self-discipline.
“Are you through sulking?” Frank asked.
“It’s not wise to poke the bear.”
“I won’t apologize for taking the reins on this. Finding Paul has become your new drug.”
Sebastian stopped pacing. “Say that again?”
“You’re an alcoholic. All you see is what you want, and you go after it with the subtlety of a bulldozer. I don’t fault you for it. All alcoholics and addicts are wired only one way.”
“And which way is that?”
“To self-destruct.”
Frank, Sebastian knew, was right. Still, it did little to mollify his anger.
“Our new celebrity center,” Frank said. “I found someone we can use to run the front office, keep an eye on things.”
Sebastian said nothing.
“She’s one of Anton’s stickmen,” Frank said.
That got Sebastian’s attention. “Since when did Anton get all woke?”
“He’s always had an eye for talent. And this woman, Faye Simpson, is quite talented. I spoke with her. I was impressed.”
“Inviting someone in from Anton’s crew. What a great idea.”
“I think it’s an excellent idea, as a matter of fact. Anton has taken quite a shine to her. I can see why. She’s very attractive, but also she’s very . . . unique. Tough. I suspect she can handle herself, keep her wits about her. Anton trusts her, and if he uses Ms. Simpson to gather info
rmation on our operation, feed it back to Paul—well, then we’ll know for sure if he and Paul are working together.”
“Of course, the question will be moot if we get our hands on Paul tonight.”
“We will,” Sebastian said.
Frank’s phone buzzed. He took the call, listened for a moment, then hung up.
“That was Marty,” Frank said. “They’re entering the premises.”
Sebastian paced the cracked, sunbaked asphalt, his shoes crunching against the broken glass of beer and liquor bottles and, he was sure, crack vials. He’d spotted a couple in the car headlights when Frank had driven around the back of the garage.
“What the hell is this?” Frank said under his breath.
Sebastian stopped pacing, turned, and saw Frank staring down at the screen of his phone, his brow furrowed in thought.
Frank showed Sebastian the message on his phone. It was from an unknown number and contained one word:
Ka-boom!!!
“What the hell does that mean?” Sebastian asked.
His phone vibrated. He took it out, saw a text on the screen. It was also from an unknown number, and the message contained three words:
Nice try, asshole.
Paul. This text was from Paul. Had to be. But how had he gotten this number? They had purchased new encrypted Enigma Black phones—
Another text: You guys walked right into it!
Sebastian felt as though his stomach was packed in ice. It was a trap. Either that kid Enrique led us into a trap or Paul had somehow anticipated our movements and—
Another text: I’m coming for you, old man.
Sebastian didn’t know what had happened, not yet, but he knew Paul had been one step ahead of him. Paul had somehow engineered a trap and Sebastian had sent—no, forced—Ron’s men to march straight into it.
CHAPTER 20
THE GENERAL PUBLIC didn’t know much in the way of specifics about the actual workings of the blood world—how it was run and who ran it, how transfusions were performed—and for very good reason. Law enforcement agencies, private investigators, legitimate journalists, and hacks were constantly out in the field, digging for information to lead them to an actual blood farm, looking to talk to people who had undergone a successful blood transfusion. Not surprisingly, few people were willing to talk on the record, because carrier blood was illegal. True carrier blood was as rare as the Hope Diamond, and ridiculously expensive, so only the überrich could afford it. They got their blood in secret, the transfusions performed by experienced medical professionals. If you weren’t part of the elite, then you had to take your chances on finding what you prayed to God was legitimate carrier blood that fit your budget. This second-tier level was peddled mainly by the Mexican cartel.
These were the prevailing theories on the Internet, where people took to social media and discussion websites like Reddit to post their opinions and experiences. People were more comfortable sharing both the truth and bullshit there, because they labored under the delusion that they could hide behind a username and remain private, which was why Ellie spent much of her time on the deep, dark web, in chat rooms on restricted websites that didn’t show up in Internet searches. These sites were harder to find and, generally speaking, unknown to law enforcement. There, Ellie had spent thousands and thousands of hours searching for her elusive white whale—stories from people who had received successful transfusions using what was generally considered the single best blood product available: Pandora.
The problem was, there was no way to know who was telling the truth. Still, Ellie combed through each post carefully, trusting her gut instincts as to which users were telling the truth or clamoring around it.
Ellie recalled a post from one user named PandoraAngels333. She remembered the username because the person who had written the message, a woman who claimed she was in her early fifties but easily passed for thirty, said something that had always stuck with Ellie: “Getting Pandora is like welcoming the entire Kingdom of Heaven into your heart. Your skin glows like an angel & you feel beautiful & warm & safe & confident, like God Himself is with you, wrapping you in His Almighty Love. God is real, and I am no longer afraid. I am now complete.”
Ellie carried those words with her when she started working at Frank’s so-called Celebrity Center. To the public, it was known as the Los Angeles Health and Wellness Center, a legitimate business that did, in fact, cater to a number of celebrities. The Center, as it was called, wanted to be a one-stop shop for all your physical, mental, and spiritual needs. It was a hybrid of legitimate Western medicine and what Ellie called typical hippie-dippie LA bullshit. The place also offered a line of ridiculously expensive skin care products enhanced with collagen and a whole bunch of other so-called natural and organic ingredients that helped you look younger, fresher, and rested. The Center couldn’t keep them in stock. Business was booming.
If transfusions were taking place on the Center’s premises, Ellie saw absolutely no signs of it.
But she knew something blood related had to be happening here, because Frank was involved, and Frank was involved in the blood world and wanted her to work with high-end clientele. If transfusions were taking place on the premises, she was sure they were going down on one or both of the top two floors. The newly renovated building on Santa Monica Boulevard had a total of ten. The key card issued to her allowed access to every single room on floors one through eight, but nine and ten were strictly off-limits—they didn’t have a key card reader.
“They have to be doing the transfusions there,” Ellie told Roland a week later. She had met him at traffic court, where they waited with other people waiting to go before a judge to argue a speeding or parking ticket. Roland’s people had planted one on her car, to get her to meet him here, early this morning. To an outsider, they looked like two people who happened to be sitting next to each other, indulging in polite chitchat.
Roland said, “But you haven’t seen any signs of a transfusion taking place anywhere in the building.”
“No. Nothing. Patients who come in are out within an hour—not enough time for a full-body transfusion.”
“Maybe they’re getting a pint.”
“I thought of that and checked their arms for needle marks. I’m telling you, it’s not happening during normal business hours. Maybe they’re bringing blood patients there at night or on the weekends.” Roland, she knew, had people watching the Center.
“No one is coming there on nights or weekends,” Roland said. “At least not yet.”
“What’s going on with that carrier I tagged for you?”
“It’s a dead end.”
“Why?”
“That liquid GPS didn’t work out quite the way we wanted it to.”
“You lost him.”
“We prefer the term temporarily out of pocket. Sounds better. We’re investigating some angles. I’ll let you know if anything develops. Hang tight.”
Roland was about to stand when Ellie said, “I think Frank changed his mind about having me work with his high-end clientele.”
“It’s only been a week. They’re probably watching you, see how you work—see if they can fully trust you.”
“Or they’ve dug deeper into my background and found something.”
“Your cover story is rock-solid.” Roland caught her doubtful expression and added, “You seriously believe we’d send you into an undercover situation without making sure you were one hundred percent safe?”
“What if they’re looking for Ellie Batista?”
“Ellie is skipping around the globe, providing security for a self-help celebrity. If anyone asks for her, makes any inquiries, we’d know, and no one has. If that changes, I’ll let you know—”
“I’m worried about pictures. I know you said your people scoured the Internet, removed any pictures of me, but what if they found one? What if
your people missed something?”
“We’ve taken care of everything. Stop worrying.”
“Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”
“That’s impatience, what you’re feeling.”
She had to admit, he had a point. She felt like she was trapped in limbo. She wasn’t used to inertia. When she experienced it, she found a way to break it.
“I’m going to talk to Frank.”
“No,” Roland said, drawing out the word, “you’re going to keep doing what you’re doing.”
“I’m not doing anything. My job title is ‘senior administrator of hospital personnel,’ which is a long-winded way of saying ‘babysitter.’ I’m watching a staff of four ridiculously good-looking young men and women stand there looking sharp and pretty while answering the phones, confirming appointments, and making sure they smile and act polite while talking to clients and delivering them herbal teas, kombucha, and bottled mineral water from some volcanic spring on the other side of the planet. My main job, though, is to make sure they don’t bring their phones into the Center.”
“Frank say why?”
“To protect the privacy of his patients,” Ellie replied. “Each morning, he has me frisk the front desk staff and search every purse. I’ve got to wave a wand over them, see if they have any, you know, bugs or listening devices. We’ve got a lot of famous people coming in there for skin treatments, other shit, and he doesn’t want anyone selling anything to the tabloids.”
“Sounds reasonable. And it sounds like they’re doing actual medical work there.”
“As far as I can tell, they are.”
“What an excellent cover,” Roland said, more to himself than to her.
“I haven’t talked to Frank since I first started working there.”
“You’re overthinking this. Just give it some time.” Roland checked his watch. “I’ve got to get to work on getting Faye Simpson a boyfriend.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you have an ungodly amount of people following you, and I need to find an easier way to deliver messages. Just keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll be in touch.” Roland stood and left.