five

The prisoner had been sedated, one of the men who’d brought him here had told Tommy-Lee. It was the same man who’d got talking to him in a downtown Kansas City bar just a couple of days ago. He’d sounded American, talked football like he knew the game, and drank nothing but Pepsi. A real all-American kind of guy. Tommy-Lee hadn’t thought much about the nondrinking bit; he’d known a few guys who’d hit the wagon over the years. They’d always seemed fine, although he reckoned they sounded kinda sad, too, like they’d lost a bit of spark along the way and couldn’t figure out why.

This guy—he’d introduced himself as Paul—had called himself an entrepreneur. Tommy-Lee didn’t really know or care what that was, only that the guy was buying drinks, which was fine by him. He could call himself Buddha if he wanted, long as he kept paying.

About an hour later, after more drinks and Tommy-Lee had mentioned he was looking for work, Paul had asked him if he wanted to earn some ready money, no questions asked.

As liquored as he was becoming, Tommy-Lee knew right away that it had to be something a little off-the-wall. Guys in bars—especially in Kansas City—didn’t throw money around if they were into a legitimate line of work. Just didn’t happen. And there was something about this Paul guy that gave off a vibe that was down deep and dark.

But Tommy-Lee was near broke and he’d said yes right off. Fact was, he had no immediate prospects, so any money was fine by him as long it was legal tender. Didn’t mean he had to like the man paying him, though.

“It’ll be easy work,” Paul had explained, leading him over to a corner table where they could talk in private. “You seem a pretty solid kind of guy, I can tell. Just had a run of bad luck, that’s all. Can happen to anybody.” He leaned forward, his breath sweet. “Fact is, I overheard you talking to a pal of yours in here a couple of days ago. See, I know you have no love for the military or Uncle Sam. Am I right?”

Tommy-Lee gave the man one of his looks. Normally that was enough to shut down an unwelcome line of conversation; but this Paul just seemed to absorb it and shrug it off without a flicker. He didn’t much like knowing he’d been watched before now; that was definitely creepy. But since the guy was offering paid work, how much did it matter?

“I’ve had my run-ins, sure. Ain’t ashamed to admit that. So what?”

“Nothing wrong with that at all.” Paul called for refills. “Nothing wrong,” he added, “with collecting a little payback for some of the hard times, if you get my meaning.”

Tommy-Lee frowned. With what he’d already drunk, he was struggling to hold onto the line of conversation. “How does that work? You saying you work for the government?”

“No. Not at all.” Paul smiled genially and clapped a friendly hand on his arm. “Let’s just say I have access to some rerouted funds … sort of liberated cash that nobody’s going to miss and doesn’t need to go back into the system. And you could have some of it. The beauty is, there are no taxes to pay. How does that sound?”

Tommy-Lee understood that bit, no problem at all, and any tiny suspicions he might have had disappeared in a flash. What the hell, money was money and he needed some real bad. “It sounds sweet. Doing what?”

“I want you to look after somebody for me. Keep him quiet and secure for a few days. Think you can do that?”

Tommy-Lee had nearly laughed. Keeping people secure had once been his specialty, he’d said, although gut feel had cautioned him not to mention where or who they were. This Paul wasn’t exactly dark-skinned. More Latino-looking. But you never knew how people would take the news that he’d once been a jailer and interrogator in Iraq. Especially if they’d ever done time themselves. Hell, step across the road to another bar with white-collar workers and he’d be a hero; right here, right now, though, it could just as easily go the other way.

“Looking after people is what I used to do,” he said, and mentioned doing guard duty at a correctional institute in Indiana. It wasn’t quite true; in fact, he’d been on the wrong side of those bars doing short time on the institute’s farm as a security level 1 prisoner. But there was no way this guy would ever find that out.

Paul had seemed satisfied at that. “I knew I’d chosen right.” He looked down and nudged a small leather briefcase at his feet. “See this? I’ll pay you as much money as I can get in this briefcase on completion of the job. Shouldn’t take more than a week.”

“Yeah? How much are we talking about?” Tommy-Lee had ducked his head for a quick look. It was a pretty sizeable item with a heavy strap and a brass lock. How much cash could a briefcase like that hold, he wondered?

“Fifteen thousand US dollars,” Paul had murmured quietly. “Small notes, well-used and easy to spend. You’d have nobody asking why you’re breaking fifties or hundreds, and you’d always have money in your pocket, free to go wherever you like. But you have to come with me right now. This is kind of urgent and we have a drive ahead of us. You in?”

“Can I ask who this guy is?”

Paul hesitated, then said, “Sure. I guess that’s only fair—and I trust you. You don’t need to know his name, but he’s a former military officer.”

“What kind of officer? A general?”

“No, nothing that heavy. Lower scale but with his eyes on the top. He put a couple of friends of mine away … friends who got caught shipping a few mementoes back from Afghanistan.”

“Mementoes?”

“You know the kind of thing I mean … stuff they could have sold for a nice profit. It wasn’t classified or top secret or anything like that. Nothing the government should have got worked up about. But this officer … well, he pushed it all the way because he wanted to make a name for himself. They were good men, too.”

“What happened?”

“They’re serving a ten-year stretch, no early release.”

“That’s harsh.” Tommy-Lee felt the jab of fellow-feeling for victims of the system. He knew how tough that was. There really hadn’t been any more to it than that. He’d already overstayed his welcome with his pal, Dougie, who he guessed wouldn’t miss him if he never went back and neither would his lady. What few items of clothing were at Dougie’s place he could do without or replace later. Hell, with fifteen grand in his back pocket, he could buy a whole new wardrobe.

He finished his drink and stood up, filled with bravado. “Hell, I never did like officers much anyway. Let’s go do this!”

Out in the parking lot they’d climbed into a pale blue Ford van and driven across the city, stopping at a small hotel to pick up two men Paul had said were work colleagues. He’d introduced them as Bill and Donny, which even Tommy-Lee in his drunken state figured were made-up names. Both were dark, with black, oily hair and deep eyes. Good men, Paul had told him. The best. But Bill and Donny? Come on.

Bill was big. Over six foot tall with a weight-lifter’s chest and shoulders, he was somewhere in his twenties and had a surly mouth. Donny was younger, skinny, with wild, wiry hair and looked like a geek fresh out of college.

Laurel and Hardy more like, Tommy-Lee thought, and shook their hands. Bill’s grip was surprisingly fleshy and soft, while Donny barely touched fingers before sticking his hand back in his pocket. Tommy-Lee shrugged it off. He’d trade courtesies with these guys’ dead mothers if it meant he got paid.

But no way were they fully paid-up citizens of the US. He’d swear on that, no matter what Paul had said about his pals in the military doing time.