by A. C. Fuller
Warren grimaced as if to object, but shook it off. “In the eighties and nineties, the last holdouts of the Vegas mob got taken down. Big business moved in. Corporations took over. All that shit from Goodfellas and Casino was real.” He shrugged. “Mostly. But criminals always find a way, and NVM sprang from those ashes. Some are cousins and nephews of the old mobsters, but the new thing is less family-oriented. They let outsiders in, so it’s more diverse. Women, non-Italians. A real rainbow coalition of organized crime.”
“The mob is getting more diverse? That sweet.”
Warren chuckled. “Seriously, though. It’s not an Italian thing anymore. And it doesn’t resemble The Mob as most people think of it. It’s more like a loosely-held-together criminal family that exists about eighty percent online.”
“Online?”
“You know how in all the movies, bosses won’t talk on phones or use emails or anything?”
Cole nodded.
“NVM is a dozen steps ahead of law enforcement when it comes to technology. They embrace tech instead of avoiding it.”
“Dropgangs?”
Warren nodded. “Not only that. They have their own cryptocurrency, advanced facial recognition software in their clubs, stuff most people don’t even think about.”
“Like what?”
“One I heard about? They leveraged a few people at the DMV for driver’s license numbers and photos. It’s hooked into their facial recognition software so they always know who’s in their clubs.”
“Seriously?”
“Gives them leverage against everyone in their clubs. Especially when cops or others in law enforcement are stupid enough to end up there. Drugs, prostitutes…” He shook his head. “They’re tracking every single person who comes in from the moment they enter and they’re using every piece of information they can to screw you.”
Cole shook her head, half impressed, half in disbelief. “And Sunny Lee? Who’s he?”
“She’s the bastard daughter of one of the old mobsters. Birth name’s Sofia, but they call her Sunny because she was always happy. A little ray of sunshine. Her dad got locked up, mom gave her up for adoption, and she was adopted by a Chinese family in Vegas. Bankers, I think. Got the last name Lee and eventually followed in her father’s footsteps. They say she was one of the driving forces in creating the NVM. They’re young, tech-savvy, and utterly ruthless.”
“And taking over Las Vegas?”
“No, those times are gone, and they’re not coming back. When big business takes over, not even organized crime can compete. And that’s allowing for a distinction between the two that doesn’t always exist. NVM is picking up all the pieces. Consolidating the criminal side hustles.”
The tour bus driver emerged and began corralling the people back into the bus. “Assuming you’re right,” Cole said, “and the FBI stops those guys, interrogates them—either they get info that stops this thing or, more likely, they don’t. Either way, we should head to Vegas.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s where the next murder’s gonna be.”
“You don’t know that.”
Within minutes of sending out the map, her journalistic instincts had kicked back in. She no longer had that piece of the scoop, but she had to keep chasing. “I feel it. And, even if I’m wrong, that’s where the story is headed. C’mon, we gotta get rid of this van. You hop out and pop the hood. Pretend to look at the engine. I’ll get us a lift.”
Before Warren could respond, Cole got out of the van and jogged up to a young couple straggling behind the group of tourists. “Where’s the bus heading?”
The couple glanced at each other. “Back to the hotel,” the woman offered, looking over Cole’s shoulder at the airport shuttle van. “Were you...on the tour?”
“Nah. Looks like our shuttle van needs to be taken in for service,” Cole lied. Sometimes she feared how easily she lied.
“There were a few empty seats on the bus,” the man offered.
The woman gave him a cold look. Cole wasn’t sure whether it was because he was flirting, or because he was offering up seats on their tour bus to strangers on the side of the road.
“You’d need to talk to the driver,” the woman said.
Cole waved at Warren, who shut the hood and began walking over. She turned back to the couple. “That’s exactly what I’ll do.”
3
The plane had been in the air for half an hour when Cole gave in and decided to pay for the in-flight Wifi. She needed to know what people were saying about the shootings.
The tour bus had taken them to a hotel. From there, they’d taken a taxi to the Naples Airport where she’d dipped into savings to purchase two one-ways to Las Vegas. Warren fought her on it at first. He wanted to get back to his daughter in New York and work on getting back into the NYPD. But she suspected he wanted to chase this crime just as badly as she did. She’d assured him she’d tucked away enough from Matt’s death benefit to cover them for a while. Plus, she’d be able to make money writing freelance anytime she needed. Warren was a big part of getting close to the story. She needed him. His opposition melted at her merest pushback, lending truth to her suspicions. He was addicted to the chase, just like her.
On the tour bus, Cole heard whispers about the assassinations and the manifesto. Snippets of news coverage had been playing on the TV in the hotel lobby. The airport had been no different, though all the TVs were muted. Now she needed Wifi to continue tracking the story.
She tapped in her credit card number and opened Twitter.
“I thought you weren’t gonna buy the Wifi,” Warren said.
She gave him a guilty frown. “I can’t not know what’s happening.”
She’d stuck Warren with the center seat, a harsh move given his long legs, but he hadn’t complained. One-on-one he could be surly, but in group settings, he turned on the charm and became affable, so he didn’t seem to mind sitting next to the stranger in the aisle seat. In fact, he’d been chatting with the guy since they’d boarded. Cole had been leaning on the window since the moment she’d shoved her bag under the seat in front of her, silently fighting the urge to get online.
Warren frowned. “What happened to, ‘I need to sleep, clear my head.’ What happened to that?”
“I have to admit what I am.”
He furrowed his eyebrows at her, amused. “And what’s that?”
“A junkie. A news junkie. You know you want to see what’s going on, too.”
As if reading her mind, the man in the aisle seat asked, “You heard about the nine murders, nine cities thing?” He was an old man in a collarless button-down—his accent was Indian, but his vowels were round, like he’d lived in the midwest most of his life. A long gray beard and a purple turban completed the look.
Cole shrugged, pretending not to hear him. The last thing she needed was some random guy’s thoughts on the case.
“Little bit.” Warren’s eyes narrowed when he answered, his affability briefly gone before it came back again in a flash. “Damn shame what’s happening. What do you think about it?”
Cole shot him a scolding look, then turned her attention back to her phone.
The man beamed, clearly glad to have been asked. “I’ve got a theory. I’m no detective—I’m in insurance sales, actually, only a year from retirement—but I’ve watched a lot of CSI, Law and Order, every single episode of Monk, so I know how they think.”
“And you’ve got a theory?” Warren smirked at Cole. “Let’s hear it!”
Warren was messing with her. Punishing her for being too weak to stay off Twitter. She wanted to read stories from journalists, professionals, official sources, and he wanted to subject her to a random theory from an aging insurance salesman.
“Talk loud,” Warren added, “so my friend can hear you.” He nodded toward Cole.
The man leaned in conspiratorially. Warren put his seat back to make more room. Cole turned her phone face-down on the tray table.
“I wa
s in Miami last week,” he began. “Stayed only a few blocks from where the shooting happened.”
“That part of your theory?” Cole asked.
“No, just saying.”
Cole rolled her eyes.
“Be nice,” Warren whispered. “Aren’t journalists supposed to talk to real people?”
She sighed. “What’s your theory, Mr…”
“Asan, but call me Gill. Top life insurance salesman in Nevada, 2015, 2016, and 2018.”
“What happened in 2017?” Cole’s voice was still full of snark.
“Let the man tell us his theory,” Warren said.
“Okay, so you know the Unabomber?” Gill asked. “He had a political ideology, and killed the people he believed to be against it, right?”
Warren nodded. “Batshit crazy, wasn’t he?”
“Not really. He was a Harvard grad. Mathematics. Smart as hell.”
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Warren said.
Cole didn’t know a lot about the Unabomber case; she’d been a teenager when his manifesto had been published. “Wasn’t he anti-technology and industrialization?” Cole asked. “These guys are anti-globalization, they’re against immigration, global corporations, the diversification of the U.S. and other countries. They seem to have a beef with the financial system and—”
“Can’t really blame them for that last one,” Warren interjected.
Cole had looked into their ideology more closely as the tour bus drove from the edge of the park to the hotel in Naples. “The key piece of their ideology is what they call The Great Replacement. It’s a theory that started in France and, essentially, it says that the elites in France are conspiring to replace the white population with non-European immigrants. It’s an intellectually fancy version of white supremacy, but members of their group in India and Japan are using the same theory against minorities in their own countries as well. But it doesn’t stop there. Like I said, financial system, corporations, etc. It’s complicated. Anyway, not the same as the Unabomber.”
Gill gave Warren a look, as if to say, What’s her deal? “You seem to know a lot about this. Anyway, I wasn’t saying it was the same ideology. I’m saying the Unabomber killed for an ideology, like these nine murders people are.” He moved his hands when he spoke, as though he’d been bottling up all his words for weeks and dramatic hand gestures were a key part of releasing them. “Now, a big thing for the Unabomber was having his manifesto published. Back then there wasn’t an Internet like we have it now, so getting his stuff published in the major papers was the only way to get his ideas out there. Not saying these people have the same ideas, but they’re killing for their ideas, right?”
Cole agreed. Where was he going with this?
“Okay,” he continued, “so why would they announce there are going to be six more killings? Why would they announce it in advance? Surely that will send people into hiding?”
“Because terrorism is the point,” Cole said flatly.
Warren agreed. “They’d have to know that simply killing nine people—no matter how powerful those nine people are—isn’t enough to stop whatever they’re trying to stop. She’s right. Terror is the point.”
Gill shook his head. “But they do want to kill these other people. Won’t everyone go into lockdown now?”
“Maybe,” Cole offered. “Increased security, sure.”
A woman in the seat behind Warren stood and leaned between the seats. “You talking about the manifesto thing?” She had to yell to be heard over the persistent roar of the plane. “I got a theory. One word: China?” She was a young woman, no more than twenty, with a large textbook under her arm.
Gill waved her off. “What? You think China is behind this?”
“Watch, you’ll see. Ain’t no Chinese person been killed yet. We all know they’ve been amassin’ power. This is their takeover move. Watch! Not one Chinese elite will be taken out. That’ll be your proof. Book it!” She snapped her fingers and, satisfied she’d made her point, sat down, and returned to her textbook.
Gill shook his head and returned to his theory. “China,” he scoffed. “That’s insane. Here’s what’s happening, here’s the theory: another shoe will drop. A twist. You don’t hatch a plan like this, then announce it, then carry it out. It never works that way.”
“You mean on CSI or Monk?” Cole’s voice dripped sarcasm. In the last ten years, she’d seen a steady rise in conspiratorial thinking among everyday Americans. It seemed every person she met had a different—usually odd—set of beliefs about how the world worked. She couldn’t exactly blame them. Some of the craziest conspiracy theories she’d researched had turned out to be true.
“As the lady said, book it!” Gill mimicked her finger-snapping exclamation. “Something else is going on here. Maybe a government’s behind this whole thing and they’re using these assassins as patsies. Doubt it’s China, but I wouldn’t put it past them. Maybe it’s someone taking out business rivals. But something isn’t adding up.”
A flight attendant passed, carrying a tray of water in cups. “Water?”
They all shook their heads, but the woman leaned in. “Ask me, the whole thing is a cover-up. Everyone who’s been killed knows the truth about Area 51.” With that, she continued down the aisle, handing out water.
Warren shook his head. “Business rival was our first thought as well. When it was just Raj Ambani. But there’s no way all these people tie together in a business framework. And the killers have stated their motive pretty clearly.”
Gill shook his head, then stroked his beard in a way that annoyed the hell out of Cole. “If I’m wrong—which, you know, I’m not—a different motive will reveal itself in time. You don’t simply announce all your intentions before the deed is done.”
She’d seen Monk too, and she didn’t know if the guy was stealing his line ironically, or if he was truly this proud of his theory. Either way, it was her cue to get back to her phone.
Cole sorted through a few dozen emails. Former colleagues had written her about the stories claiming she and Warren were involved in the murders. Most assumed they were false, and she didn’t blame them for trying to get a statement on the record. This story had tentacles everywhere and would dominate headlines for weeks, months, maybe years. Until it was over. It had connections to politics, finance, organized crime, international trade, and business.
She deleted the emails without replying.
Next, she checked the homepages of a dozen news websites. The only real advancements in the story were reports from around the world that the police, intelligence agencies, and even militaries of multiple countries had been enlisted. Even though all the killings had taken place in the United States, the promise of international assassinations had woken the rest of the world. The map hadn’t yet been published, but it would be soon, which would allow the police and intelligence services to focus on the target cities.
There wasn’t yet any news about The Truffle Pig or the men who’d shot him. Marty Goldberg’s death was still being treated as a suicide.
Most of the online coverage was about the manifesto—analysis of everything from the political ideology to the writing style. As usual, debates were taking place about whether to report on the radical ideology or ignore it. Some argued that reporting it only amplified the message, but the promise of more killings swayed most newsrooms—the publication of the manifesto might lead to a break in the case. In fact—Cole shot a rueful look at Gill—that’s how the Unabomber had been caught. Once his manifesto was published, his brother recognized some of the writing and turned him in.
Cole’s phone dinged. Even though she’d been browsing for twenty minutes, it felt odd to receive a text at thirty-thousand feet. It was addressed to Warren, from Gabby.
Gabby: Rob, I called and texted you but no response, so trying Cole. You still roaming the earth with her? Anyway, I got a call from Alan Takigawa, Vegas FBI. Smart dude. Got wind of the NVM connection, somehow learned you were invo
lved and called me because of the JTTF connection. Knew I was your TO. Wants to talk.
A second text had Takigawa’s number.
“What do you think he wants?” Cole asked.
“Let’s find out.”
She sent Takigawa a text, explaining she was there with Warren and asking what was up. He responded immediately.
Takigawa: Can I call?
Cole: Airplane. Can’t really talk.
Takigawa: Airplane where?
Cole: Halfway to Vegas.
Takigawa: When do you arrive? Pick you up at the airport? If you’re OK with that.
Cole looked at Warren, who’d been reading over her shoulder. He nodded.
“What would he want from us?” Cole asked. “You think our theft of that airport shuttle is finally catching up with us?”
“Probably just following up. Maybe after they apprehended the NVM guys, they sent them to Vegas. Maybe he wants us to ID them.”
Cole: Arrival is 8 PM. We’ll meet you curbside.
4
Special Agent Takigawa met them curbside at McCarran Airport. He’d texted Warren a picture of himself, which struck Warren as odd. But as they greeted each other, it all made sense.
Takigawa was one of those guys Warren had come to know as a BTBB, a By The Book Bastard. He dressed neatly, followed every rule, and covered his bases to the point of overkill. The kind of guy who annoyed the hell out of officers like Warren, who were sometimes willing to bend a rule to get something done.
He stood about six feet tall and wore a boring brown suit. With his short black hair and glasses, he looked like he belonged at an accounting convention. He stood straight and square on the curb and didn’t smile as they shook hands. “Mr. Warren, come with me,” was all he said.
Warren said, “This is Jane Cole, formerly of the New York Sun.”
He shook Cole’s hand and opened the back door of his black sedan for her. By the book, Warren thought.
Cole slid into the back seat and Warren took the front.