“I’ll give you one month, minimal interference, with a promise that you’re going to tread really fucking carefully, brother. There’s a reason why Jade hasn’t been in a relationship since that asshole.”
“Understood.”
“All right then. I’ll let Jade know I’m on board with this plan of yours, and I’ll also let Kat know that you’ll be coming to Miami with me. Very soon.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“You King brothers will put a motherfucker in the ground when need be, but you’re so passive aggressive when it comes to your women.” Roman roars with laughter again at my expense. I’m so glad I can entertain him.
I admit this is a very unusual position I find myself in, but my gut is telling me that I’m going about this the right way. The way Jade needs me to handle it, so that she doesn’t disappear on me completely. She’s a fighter, and I need to give her the illusion that she’s putting up a good thirty-day fight, so that she can live with the results when she’s defeated, and satiated, and happy in my bed.
“Watch your mouth, lover boy, and pass the hot sauce. It’s the only way I’m going to be able to get this burger and bullshit you’re talking down my throat.”
Camden
Soft swirls of magenta, violet and indigo bathe the city’s skyline. It’s dusk. My favorite part of the day. The best time for people like me. Night crawlers. After a day of tracking one scumbag named Ronald Patterson, Cutter and I have ended up at the Majestic Hotel & Casino on the Delaware River waterfront where our target has been floundering at the blackjack table for the last forty-five minutes.
The Majestic is a new hotel and casino built as part of the city’s expansive revitalization plan for this area of the riverfront. After a huge advertising campaign to attract tourist dollars to the area, the casino has turned around one of the most desolate areas of the city and it continues to rise in popularity among gamblers.
The place is so new that you can smell the faint chemical smell of the green felt rising from the card tables. I myself am partial to casinos that are a bit dated. Casinos that remind you of bell bottom pants, cigarette smoke and lots of gaudy decor. New casinos are sleek and sexy, but they have lots of bills to pay, so you’ll never win there. Not big anyway.
I’m not actually surprised that we’ve ended up here tonight. Ronald has been researching nearby casinos for the past two days on the Internet. My guess is that he’s itching to throw away the stack he’s been paid to testify against our client. It’s amazing what people will stoop to for just a thousand dollars. So I knew it was just a matter of time before he landed somewhere like this. A place that gives him the illusion that he’s going to get lucky.
I have to admit, I live for shit like this. The hunting and the gathering. I love what I do for a living, especially when I can do it in one of my custom three-piece suits. Sometimes I get sick of always having to underplay the money I make.
While I know it’s important that we live under the radar and not draw attention to our wealth, there are moments I’d like to say to hell with the sweats or jeans and put on a four-thousand-dollar suit, because I can.
Tonight is one of those nights. I’m rocking one of my favorite custom tailored, midnight blue Tom Ford suits with black lapels and a blue and white Windsor knot tie.
I’m probably a little overdressed for this casino, and in particular this table, because there are no high rollers here, but that’s all right. I’m going to take a seat, play a few rounds, bankrupt Ronald, then make him an offer he’ll have trouble refusing. And by the glances that I’m already getting in this suit, I’ll be rounding out the night in a suite drinking a few shots and getting my dick sucked properly, although I’d rather it would be Jade on her knees.
“What the hell is taking you so long?” my brother whispers in my ear. Apparently impatient with my card playing. What Cutter has always failed to realize or had the temperament for is that the first rule of gambling is that you have to wait patiently for your turn of the cards.
I choose to purposely ignore the question or rather his badgering. I’m counting cards, and it’s not something that I do everyday, so for it to work I can’t have any distractions.
“I’m talking to you,” he whispers again.
I cut my eyes to the side. My signal for him to shut the fuck up, or he’s going to pay for it later. I’ll never be too old to give my younger brother a good old-fashioned ass whipping.
As I use two fingers to tap the table for another card from the dealer, I notice several women brazenly ogling me, but I only really see one who’s worth a second look. A strikingly beautiful woman, with red lips, long legs, jet-black hair, and wearing a modest black jumpsuit at a nearby roulette table.
As she reaches across the table to strategically place her chips down before the ball drops, every man at the table is staring at her ass, and when she places her final chip down, her eyes flick up and catch mine. If this was a couple of months ago, she would have served as motivation to wrap my night up quickly, and get to the better part of the evening.
Funny how things change.
I decide that I’ve played my last losing hand when I get a text. It’s Jade, and for a moment I look away from the game to see what she wants. We haven’t talked much since I issued my thirty-day challenge. We’ve just been keeping things strictly professional, because she hasn’t accepted the job at the club yet, and I haven’t forced the issue. Time is slowly running out for her though. If I have to be, I can be very persuasive.
* * *
Jade: Where are you?
Me: Busy.
Jade: Are you coming to the club?
Me: Probably not. Why? You want to see me?
* * *
Cutter whispers in my ear again.
“Pay attention.”
I cut my eyes towards him a second time, but again I don’t say anything to my brother. I never like to react to someone speaking to me in the middle of a hand. Not only is it a distraction, but it allows other players an insider look into my mood. A definite no-no when you’re playing cards, even though this is basically an amateur table.
I text Jade again since she hasn’t responded to my last message, and because I’m wondering if these texts are her ass backwards way of agreeing to my proposal.
* * *
Me: Do you need something?
Jade: No, never mind, I’m good.
* * *
I’m no idiot. I know Jade. I’ve been inside of Jade. She doesn’t text for no reason, but if she doesn’t want to tell you something, then she won’t. She’s stubborn like that. So I decide to get back to what I’m supposed to be doing, before Cutter fucks it all up with his impatient interruptions.
I can sense that Ronald is starting to feel pretty confident about the rising stack of chips in front of him. His last few winning hands have lulled him into a false sense of security, because now he’s trying to beat the house using a betting progression strategy. A fatal blackjack mistake.
Based on the time we’ve sat here, the number of players at the table, and the number of cards that I’ve counted, there’s a high probability that Ronald’s hand is good, but that I’ll have the winning hand.
So I bet high.
I bet everything I’ve got on the table.
That’s Cutter’s cue to walk away and head to the bar, because that’s where our devastated loser will probably be headed after he’s lost this hand. I’ve done the intel, and he has a thing for taking shots of expensive vodka after he’s finished playing cards.
The dealer flips over Ronald’s final card. He’s a bust with a total of twenty-four.
Then she turns over my final card.
“Twenty-one wins.”
Okay, so sometimes these scenarios play out exactly like I plan, and sometimes we have to go off script. I won the hand and several thousand dollars, and Ronald lost his entire pot, but the jackass didn’t head straight to the bar like my intel suggested he would. He made a call instead that sent hi
m straight out of the casino and over to the valet to call for a cab.
“What now, Sherlock?” Cutter asks sarcastically.
“Obviously we need to grab him before he gets in a car.”
“Obviously. So who’s going to do it? You or me?”
“Me. You get the car and bring it around here. And get my boots out of the trunk. I need to get out of these shoes. Dress up time is over.”
I approach the valet stand and ask them to fetch a fictitious Jaguar. When one of the guys returns to say that he can’t find it, I act as if I am going to cause a serious scene which gains the attention of the manager.
“I’ll search for it myself, sir. My apologies for the wait.”
I nod in acknowledgement of his efforts, especially because this leaves the desk unmanned for a while. Best time to confront Ronald. Just in case I have to hurt him to get him into the car, I don’t want any do-gooders calling the cops.
“Finished for the night?” I ask casually.
He glares at me for a moment. Remembering that I’m the guy who wiped him out at the blackjack table.
“You won a lot of my money, so yeah, I’m finished.”
“I know a way you can get it back.”
The look on his face questions my motives, but as I was counting on, he’s too desperate to walk away.
“I’m listening …”
Turns out Ronald wasn’t that interested in listening at all, in fact he got a little indignant after I made my offer, as if I offended him. So now I’m spending the rest of my night in the middle of a freezing, abandoned, concrete building that smells like motor oil, piss, and mold.
Crushing this asshole’s head under my boot.
My glock pressed against his temple.
My brother is trying to reason with him, while I hold him helpless on the ground. His words are a sheer waste of time in my opinion. I’ve always told Cutter that there’s no point in reasoning with someone who lacks basic intelligence and this guy is dumber than dirt.
All the dumbass had to do was take the three grand I offered him to walk away from testifying, also widely recognized as snitching, at an upcoming case for one of our clients. A very simple transaction. An easy yes. But simpletons like to make things difficult sometimes, and this guy was no different.
Instead of taking the money and walking away, he actually tried to stab me with a pocketknife that was stashed inside of his jacket. As if that would have ever worked. I’ve had fourteen-year-old punks come at me that were smarter and faster than this dummy.
“This is real stupid, homeboy.” My brother bends over to say to the pissant. “You should’ve just taken the money, and you definitely shouldn’t have tried to shank him. Now look at what you’ve done.”
I guess I should give Ronald a little credit. He doesn’t budge. He doesn’t plea for his life. He doesn’t once speak up to say that he’s changed his mind about testifying. He just quietly grimaces while I dig the heel of my boot into the side of his face. Actually his tough guy act is pissing me off. I had no intentions of beating his ass and getting blood on my favorite suit tonight, but now he’s making me think otherwise.
A text buzzes my phone to life. It’s Jade again. Two messages on the same night from Jade is not standard fare. I stare at her text a little longer than I normally would. Trying to assess the hidden meaning behind her innocuous message this time and the inquisitive one from earlier. In fact, my eyes are actually glazing over my phone screen, in an attempt to decipher the subtext of her brief message, call me when you’re done, when I hear the two deadly clicks near the back of my head.
Shit.
Two clicks means that there are at least two motherfuckers who followed me and Cutter into the warehouse, and they are holding at least two guns on us right now.
Camden
“Get your foot off the boy, put your gun down, and walk away slowly,” ordered one of the men. Clearly someone older if he considers the douche on the floor the age of a boy rather than a grown man.
Cutter is bent down in front of me, but turns his head slightly towards the voice, and when he does I recognize the fury in his eyes. He’s just as pissed as I am that there are two guns on us, but more importantly that we’ve fucked up like this.
We’re fixers and we know better. It’s our job to clean up messes made by the wealthy clients who hire us. It’s a vocation we were born and bred for. We’re good at it. And even though it can sometimes get complicated, and messy, and dangerous, we don’t usually make mistakes like this. But tonight we did.
“Who the fuck are you?” Cutter demands to know while backing away carefully his hands up in the air.
I on the other hand still have my gun pointed at Ronald. It’s going to take more than a simple request from some old dickhead for me to relinquish my piece. Especially when there’s a gun pointed at my own damn head.
“Never mind who I am, and I’m not going to say it again. Get your foot off of Ronald’s head, put your gun down, and back away, or I’ll blow a hole through the back of both of your skulls.”
Without even having to look at me, Cutter knows that I am not going to back down. We’ve been raised if someone puts a gun to your head, then you better put his ass in the ground.
Whoever this is has balls, is smart, and must have been following us for a while to have cornered us in this out of the way location without us knowing. Which also means that we have no clue what he knows and what he doesn’t. Another complication and a loose end.
While we rarely have to resort to lethal force in our line of work, one thing that this job doesn’t tolerate is loose ends. Especially loose ends that put a gun to your head. Unfortunately you can only tie up loose ends with money or with blood.
Ronald already turned down our money.
So tonight it would be blood.
I keep my foot on Ronald’s head, but bend down slowly to place my piece on the floor. Giving the gunman the illusion that I am fully cooperating. I place my hands up and after giving Ronald’s head one more hard squish with the bottom of my boot, I slowly begin to back away.
I make sure to back myself up completely in front of Cutter, so that I am standing directly in front of him. Like we’re in a line. Both of us with our hands up. Then we both turn to face the gunmen to get a good look at their faces. They don’t look familiar, and they don’t look like professionals, but they do look very motivated. This Ronald guy means something to them. Maybe he’s family.
“Get up, Ronnie,” the other man orders. Answering at least one question of mine. This is personal. They definitely know him. They have a nickname for him. Ronnie. Which means that my brother and I are probably as good as dead if we don’t handle this situation carefully and swiftly.
“Now go outside and get in the silver Lincoln. We’ll be out in a minute. We just gotta take care of these two shitheads.”
Ronnie stands up, brushes off his pants, and nods his head smugly. I can feel it in my gut that this is going to go down quickly. The minute Ronald makes it to the other side of the door we’re going to be put six feet under by these two middle-aged Rambos. They’re not professionals, but I can tell they’ve killed before. It’s much easier the next time.
It’s obvious we’re going to have to shoot our way out of this one. I just pray that Cutter remembers how we made it out of a situation like this once before, and the reason why I’m standing so closely in front of him.
Fortunately for us he does.
And it all goes down in a matter of seconds.
As Ronald opens the door to leave, Cutter quickly steps closer behind me, reaches inside of my jacket and under my shirt, where I carry a second gun. I always carry two when I’m working.
He whips the small Beretta Pico out of the back of my waistband, carefully takes aim over my shoulder and in between my raised arms, then shoots both men in the head with two quick shots using marksman precision.
Pop! Pop!
While we take the man in charge completely by surprise, t
he other gunman sees it coming and tries shooting first. Not quickly enough though. Fortunately the asshole’s safety jams, and they both collapse to the ground before he can get a shot off. Cutter rarely misses his mark.
As soon as their lifeless bodies hit the ground, Ronald shrieks like a little girl. “Barry! Oh my God, No!” he screams while running to the guy that gave the orders just moments before.
I pick my glock back up and breathe for a moment. We’re alive, and for that I’m grateful, but I’m also pissed. This very simple bribery job has morphed into a big pain in my ass. Now we have a clean up situation. I hate those, because you basically have to make a scene look like you were never there. No bodies. No DNA. No evidence whatsoever. And that shit is much harder to accomplish than you would think.
To execute a drama free clean up and cover up you either have to have a friend in the police or coroner’s office, know an actual criminal cleaner for hire, or do the job yourself. None of us have connections to the coroner, and a professional cleaner is hard to come by at the last minute, so we decide to handle the shit ourselves.
Arson would be the easiest way to go in this situation. The warehouse is abandoned and there are no other buildings open within a two or three block radius at this time of day. So there won’t be any innocent bystanders getting hurt by a fire, or anyone to call and stop the blaze before it effectively wipes away any traces of our DNA.
I turn the gun back on Ronald while Cutter makes a call to Roman, to give him a heads up about what’s going on. This type of thing is usually up his alley, but he’s been preoccupied lately.
“You see what you’ve done, Ronald,” I say coldly.
Tears start rolling down his face.
“He was my brother!” he wails. Snot running down his nose.
“Boo fucking hoo. You’ll see him soon in hell or wherever snitches go if you don’t do what we asked you to do. What we offered good money for you to do thirty minutes ago. This is all on you, you know that right? You’ve turned this into way more than it needed to be.”
Claimed by a King Page 5