by L. T. Ryan
The elevator moved fast. An LCD display embedded in the wall kept track of the progress. 8, 9, 10. The elevator slowed, settling on the eleventh floor. The doors opened.
Two men dressed in black suits occupied the area between the elevator and the elaborate parlor. The men canted their bodies, opening a pathway between them. They stared at her as if demanding she step out. Haeli backed up against the stainless-steel box in which she was trapped. She let her hands fall just behind her thighs and she balled her fists.
One man spoke. “That’s okay, we’re going down.”
Haeli let out the breath that she realized she’d been holding in. Her fingers relaxed as the doors closed and the elevator lurched upward.
Relax.
The doors opened to the twelfth floor. The sitting area and hallway were empty. She felt relief, but the tension in her shoulders would have disagreed.
She followed the order of the numbers affixed to each door until she reached the one that read 1211, and knocked lightly.
The door opened a crack. She could not see anyone peeking out at her.
“Haeli?” he whispered.
Haeli raised her sight line and saw the man’s face peering out from what seemed like several feet above her. At five foot four, she was used to looking up at people, but not that much. She guessed the guy had to be at least six foot eight.
“Dr. Wentz?” Haeli responded.
Karl Wentz opened the door and hurried Haeli inside.
“Were you followed?”
“I don’t think so.” Haeli noticed that the tall man was sweating. His face was gaunt and his movements were sporadic. Maybe she was right to have been paranoid. Something had put the fear of God in this man.
Two chairs faced a small table in front of large panes of glass that looked out onto the Las Vegas strip. Wentz pulled one chair out. Even this simple motion was awkward.
“Sit down,” Wentz said. “I’ll try to make this quick, but I want you to listen to what I have to say. It’s important I tell you everything I can and then you’ll never see me again.”
Haeli sat. Wentz pulled out the other chair but didn’t sit in it. He paced in a tight circle like a dog chasing its tail in slow motion.
“You don’t know me, but I feel like I know you in a way. I worked with your father. Not for long, I mean, they hired me just as your father transferred from Israel. It was an excellent opportunity. I mean, it was supposed to be an excellent opportunity. But I saw something I shouldn’t have. I didn’t mean to. Believe me, I wish I hadn’t.”
Haeli tried to let him speak but was already growing tired of trying to decode the nervous rambling.
“Is my father okay?” Haeli interrupted.
Wentz stopped and let out an audible sigh. He adjusted the matching red plush chair and sat facing Haeli. If she had been standing, the pair would have been eye-to-eye.
“I don’t know, Haeli. I had to run and came here to warn you. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. If I didn’t tell someone. I couldn’t warn him, I couldn’t go anywhere near that place. So, I’m telling you.” Wentz’s speech dropped to a disconcerting level. “Haeli, you and your father are in danger. Extreme danger.”
Haeli’s mouth opened as if she was going to speak, but no sound came out.
“I came here to give you this.” Wentz produced a small blue thumb drive and held it toward Haeli. Haeli reached out and Wentz grabbed her hand and pushed the device into her palm. With his other hand, he closed her fingers around it and squeezed. “It’s everything that I could access. It’s proof that what I’m telling you is true. That they are planning to wipe the Eclipse program…”
“Wait. You’re losing me,” Haeli interrupted. “I don’t know what that is. What is the Eclipse program and what does it have to do with me?”
“You don’t know? Eclipse has everything to do with you. It’s—”
The left side of Karl Wentz’s head exploded. The skin peeled back like a grotesque piñata. His head hadn’t moved, and his stare remained fixed on Haeli as if he were going to finish his sentence. The blood and brain matter that painted half the room said different.
A high pitch rang in her ears even though she had never heard the shot. The subtle clink of the glass and the whistle of the round passing into Wentz’s temple and then into the far wall was all she had heard.
Haeli’s mind railed against the scene in front of her. In a daze, she acknowledged the sensation of the warm droplets hitting her face by rubbing her hand along her cheek, smearing the blood down her face and onto her hand.
Only a second had elapsed before the entire picture became clear in her mind. The small, clean hole and shallow crater that hadn’t previously been present in the thick pane of glass. The nervous man with half a head that sat before her. It all crashed down on her in a single moment of clarity.
Get down.
Haeli dove for the floor as another round smashed through the window and whistled overhead. She dragged herself by her elbows toward an interior door. Another round cracked through the glass. She reached up and pulled down on the handle, popping the door ajar as she dropped back to the ground. A fourth projectile left its mark on the pane and struck the wall behind her with a thud. The translucent pockmarks formed a pattern from right to left, dropping lower each time a new one appeared. It was a matter of time before one bullet blindly found its mark.
Haeli pulled the door open by the bottom corner and found another door behind it. She laid as low as she could and smashed her fist against the bottom of the second door, pleading that someone be in the adjoining room. Anyone.
She called out frantically, “Is anyone there. Help me, please.”
The door cracked open. Haeli looked up to see a pair of brown eyes staring back at her from the dimly lit room.
Although the woman’s eyes were the only thing visible behind the complete coverage of the burka, Haeli could see the obvious fear in them. And she didn’t blame her. Covered in blood and yelling like a lunatic, Haeli couldn’t have guessed why the woman didn’t slam the door on her, or even refuse to open it in the first place. The woman stepped back and allowed Haeli to low crawl into her room.
Haeli scanned the room, noticing the drawn drapes, and she hopped to her feet. She closed both adjoining doors and took a breath. She needed to plan her next move.
Haeli opened her hand and checked the memory stick she had been grasping with all her might. While covered in blood, it didn’t appear damaged. She tucked it into her bra.
The Muslim woman had retreated to the corner of the room, near the window. She remained silent.
“Don’t touch the curtains and get away from the window,” Haeli ordered. She grabbed a glass off the dresser and held it in front of the peephole. If someone were on the other side, they’d send a round through. Satisfied it was clear, she put her eye to the peephole that looked through to the hallway.
A plan. That is what she needed.
And fast.
The hulking man in the black suit held the H&K semi-automatic pistol high, inches from his face, and pressed his back against the wall to the left of the door marked 1211. He motioned to his associate, who had assumed a similar posture on the right side of the door. The man on the right swung around and kicked the door directly below the handle, shattering the door frame and violently swinging the door open.
Both men filed in, the muzzles of their pistols leading the way. They cleared the room. Each step leaving a gory imprint in the carpet.
“Where is she?” the big man said.
His partner waved his gun toward the adjoining room. Taking the initiative, he quietly opened the outer door and pressed his ear to the inner one.
“Move.” The big man’s foot came crashing on the door without further warning. His partner skirted to the side in time to not become the target.
The door exploded inward, and both men rushed in with a singular purpose. To kill Haeli Becher.
But Becher was not who they found. T
hey knew Haeli Becher well. They knew her face. And the woman sitting on the bed, wrapped in a bed sheet, trying to cover her hair with a pillowcase was most definitely not Haeli Becher.
“Talk to me,” the radio squeaked in both man’s ears.
The big man answered. “She’s not here.”
“What do you mean she’s not there? She couldn’t have gone far. The rest of the team is on the perimeter, we’ll nab her if she tries to leave. Anderson, you track her down. Trinity, you find the thumb drive.”
The radio went silent for a moment but cut back in. “And no witnesses.”
As if choreographed, both men turned toward the cowering young woman and solemnly shook their heads.
Haeli leaned into the street and waved at the cab driver. The car blew by without slowing.
Come on. Come on.
She waved down another, which to her relief, pulled over a few feet past her.
Haeli rushed to the car, opened the rear door, and hopped in.
“Just start driving,” Haeli said.
“Of course.” The young middle eastern man was amiable enough and didn’t seem perturbed by Haeli’s short temperament. He eased out into traffic and headed south on Las Vegas Boulevard. “Where are you heading?”
The question didn’t even register in Haeli’s mind. She yanked the burka up under her buttocks, pulled the entire garment over her head and then used the heavy fabric to wipe her face and hands. The driver’s gaze met hers in the rear-view mirror.
“What are you doing?” he yelped. “I can see you.”
Haeli gathered her hair and pulled it tight toward the back. She pulled an elastic from her wrist and twisted it around the ponytail.
“No worries,” she replied, “I just converted.”
9
“Let me get these out of the way for ya.” The man’s voice was friendly and upbeat. A contrast to the brooding style he had seemed to cultivate. Tattoos covered his arms and crept up the side of his neck. His bald head was polished and gauged spacers filled the inch-wide holes in his earlobes. This man was familiar to Blake. Not that they had met before, but in the sense that most of Blake’s friends possessed a similar quality. An outward appearance that would make the average person cross the street to avoid meeting them on the sidewalk. A rough, hardened exterior that housed a heart of gold. As servers go, Blake found the man beyond attentive and decided he would leave a sizable tip.
“What else can I get for you guys? Another round?”
“I’ll take another Pappy,” Blake said.
“Hook me up with another mule.” Griff added. Each word more exaggerated than the last.
“You got it.” The server carted away the balanced stack of plates and empty glasses.
“You know how I can tell when you’re drunk?” Blake asked.
“Because I’m slurring?” Griff answered, slurring.
“Because you have a personality.” Blake laughed.
“Screw you. At least I’m not nursing my drinks. I’m drinking ‘em like a man.”
“Yeah, nothing says manhood like a few sprigs of mint.” Blake mocked. “This, my friend, is an eighty-dollar glass of perfection. You savor it. Got it?”
“And that’s why you’re buying,” Griff said.
Blake hadn’t said so yet, but he was, in fact, buying.
Blake had been sold on the place within the first five minutes of arriving. Primarily because the dominant feature of the bar was a wall of some two hundred bottles of whiskey. Scotch, bourbon, rye. Various ages and locales. Each fastened upside down and fitted with a dispensing stopper that allowed the bartender to draw a perfect pour with the touch of a lever. Blake had planned to sample a few varieties that he hadn’t tried before, but as soon as he discovered that they stocked Pappy Van Winkle 20-year-old Kentucky Straight Bourbon, he scrapped the entire plan. Pappy was his favorite, and it was rare that he found it on the menu.
“I have to say, this was an excellent find, Griff. Your gambling buddy came through. Great food. Better drinks. The atmosphere, very interesting.”
Stickers, chotchkies, and eclectic art covered every inch of the aging interior. The wooden floors were raw and every chair in the dining room was different, as if each had been purchased from a different garage sale in a different country.
“I like it,” Griff agreed. “I’m glad you came out, Mick. Out west, I mean. Not that it’s helping me get any work done. I have to submit some kind of report after this, so I’ve gotta buckle down a bit. Tomorrow.” Griff tipped back the copper mug and jiggled it to free any last drops of liquid that might be clinging to its sides. “Tomorrow I’m all business.”
Blake wondered what Griff’s mumbling had sounded like in his own head. Probably perfectly intelligible.
“I can take care of business, Mick. You know that.” Griff fully committed to his new tangent, as if a different conversation had engrossed him. “I’ve been in the shit too. You know that. I’ve been shot down. Right? You know I can handle myself.”
“Yeah, I know that, Griff.” As amusing as Griff’s non sequiturs were, Blake wasn’t placating him with validation. He meant it.
“‘Cause I don’t know if Fezz and Mick know that. No, you’re Mick. Fezz and Khat, I mean. It’s always like, ‘you stay in the van and do that voodoo that you do.’ Ya know? You did both, Mick. I’ve heard all the stories.”
“Listen, Griff. For what it’s worth, and I know you won’t remember this in the morning, but Fezz and Khat know what an asset you are. They’ve told me outright. And I’d be glad to have you by my side when the shit hits the fan.”
“Ahhhh, ha, ha. This guy.” Griff stood up from the table and pointed at Blake. “This guy.” The few people who turned their attention to the disruption immediately lost interest and returned to their own conversations. All but one young woman sitting at the bar. The petite blonde had grabbed Griff’s attention.
“Hi there,” Griff called across the bar.
“Sit down.” Blake considered that it may not have been a good idea to order another round.
“What,” Griff said. “Did you see that? That woman’s into me.”
“I’m sure she is.” Now Blake was placating him.
The server dropped off the Moscow Mule and two-fingers of bourbon, neat. “All good for now?”
“All good,” Blake replied.
“Hold up. I wanna buy that girl a drink. Whatever she’s having.” Griff pointed out the woman.
“No problem.” The waiter moved on to the table behind Blake to check on the couple that had been sitting there for the past hour.
Whenever in a public place, Blake made it a habit to observe. To casually keep track of people’s movements. Their body language. A habit that was so engrained, he was not conscious that he was doing it. But he had gathered that the couple behind him was going through a rough patch. He had overheard most of the conversation. Argument, really. He agreed with the woman. She had some valid points.
“Why don’t you find a…” Griff stopped himself. Blake knew what he was going to say. He was going to spew some crap about playing the field or getting back out on the market, or some other sage wisdom about why he needed female companionship. But at eight Moscow Mules deep, Blake was impressed that Griff retained enough of his faculties to know it wouldn’t have gone over well. Griff changed the subject back to his own priorities. “I’m going to hook up with that girl tonight.”
Blake shook his head.
“What? You don’t think I will?”
“Not to burst your bubble, buddy, but did you notice that she’s with a dude? He’s been chatting her up for the last half hour. You snooze, you lose.” Blake sipped his bourbon.
“Well, he’s not there now, is he?” Griff said. “Looks like I’ve got a shot.”
Griff was right. The muscular guy in the tight T-shirt who had been stuck to the woman for the past half hour had disappeared. Blake was surprised he hadn’t noticed the man exit.
The waiter delivere
d Griff’s gesture — a pink concoction garnished with a paper umbrella. Blake watched as the server pointed Griff out to the young woman. The woman nodded and took a sip of the drink. Griff remained engrossed in his own cocktail, but Blake noticed that she had stood up and was moving toward them.
“You sly dog,” Blake said. “Look alive, brother. Incoming.”
Before Griff made any indication that he had heard Blake, the woman was standing at the edge of the table.
“Thank you for the drink, that was sweet,” she said. “I’m Sandy.”
Griff hopped up, kicking his chair back in the jerky maneuver.
“I’m Griff, nice to meet you.”
Blake stood and introduced himself. Sandy extended her tiny hand with her palm down as if she were the Queen of England. Blake wondered if she expected him to kiss it. He reached out and shook it.
“Mind if I join you guys?”
“Not at all.” Griff pulled out one of two empty chairs and tucked it in behind the woman as she sat.
“So, do you live here, or just visiting?” Sandy shifted her body toward Griff.
“Just visiting,” Griff said. “Business trip.”
“Oh, what do you guys do?” she asked.
Griff shot Blake a look. They would often make up stories about what they did for a living. Anything but the truth. Often, they’d have fun with it, seeing who could come up with the most outlandish career. But Blake thought it’d be more fun to go the other way.
“We sell insurance. Griff here is quite the salesman. Actually, you’re looking at Anchorage’s top producer, two years running.”
Griff’s eyes widened and fixed on Blake. His jaw clenched so hard it was visible through his cheeks. He knew exactly what Griff wanted to say. Insurance? Couldn’t have been firefighters, or deep-sea divers, or MMA fighters? Blake smiled back at him.
“Oh. That must be, uh, interesting.” Sandy fiddled with the tiny umbrella.
“Nah. It’s just temporary,” Griff said. “The money’s good, I couldn’t pass it up. Plus, I mean, I couldn’t have been a Navy pilot forever. I mean, life’s not all about thrill and danger.” Griff leaned in closer and softened his voice. “Or maybe it is.”