August 4
Aboard a private charter from Dulles to SLC, the woman traveling as Miriam Van Doren split her time between sipping a pisco sour and working her computer. On her screen, a recent Nevada DMV photo of Sonny McGuiness smiled back at her. Blazing white teeth, clearly false. An even more blazing white beard that seemed electric against his pitch-black skin.
You’re a real pain in the ass, Sonny-boy.
It had taken Kayla well over an hour to dig up information on Sonny. That was twice her normal search time. She had, however, finally tracked down his Social Security number. For any American, those nine digits were a key that opened many locks: credit ratings, medical histories, tax info, houses and vehicles, so much more. If people really knew how not private their private information was, they would realize a Social Security number was the modern equivalent of a concentration camp tattoo.
“Must be hard to type with those long nails of yours.”
She looked up to see the private jet’s only male passenger leaning close to her seat. Six-two. Receding hairline. Practiced grin that probably worked wonders in whatever boardroom this rich bastard frequented. Fifteen pounds overweight, if she was being generous. And as long as she was being generous, she’d call him an even twenty years older than she was.
In a smooth, unhurried motion, she closed her laptop. She stared at the man. Her red fingernails slowly bop-bop-bop-bopped a pattern on the computer’s plastic.
“You’re a fine-looking woman,” he said. “I don’t usually go for blondes, but in your case, I’ll make an exception. How about when we land, you let me buy you a drink?”
“I already have plans,” she said.
“Plans for the entire day? Or, should I say, for the entire night? Because that little low-cut number of yours is driving Daddy crazy.”
Daddy. She hated it when they said that.
Kayla could have dressed down for the trip, sure, but that wasn’t how “Miriam Van Doren” rolled. Knee-length white skirt tight to her thighs, white pumps, a white top that left her belly exposed. And why shouldn’t she leave it exposed? She worked hard enough on the damn thing and ate like a rabbit.
“Not interested,” she said.
The man’s grin faded.
“What’s the matter, someone already paying you? Trust me, darlin’, I can double it.”
Bop-bop-bop-bop.
“For an out-of-shape piece of shit like you, all the money in the world wouldn’t get you laid,” she said. “At least not with me. You want a fuck? How about you fuck off? Then we both get what we want.”
He stood straight. He stared at her like he wanted to hit her. She hoped he would.
“You should smile more,” he said.
“At the moment, there’s nothing to smile about.”
His eyes narrowed and his face reddened. “If you don’t want men to talk to you, you shouldn’t dress like a slut.”
She nodded. “Thank you for telling me what I should and shouldn’t wear. I’ll be sure to make a note. Now run along.”
The red-faced man walked back to his seat.
Eight seats in the jet. Five empty. The other passenger — a middle-aged woman — was sleeping. It had been pricey for Kayla to buy into this flight, but hey, it wasn’t her cash.
She watched the man sit and buckle in before she opened the computer again.
Sonny’s DMV history showed he currently owned a Humvee, a Grand Cherokee and a classic ’79 Corvette. A cross-reference to his credit rating showed all three vehicles were paid off.
She again cross-referenced his credit rating to find mortgage information. One residence: a $700,000 home in Reno.
Looks like a bum, lives like a king.
With a few keystrokes, she back-hacked from his credit report into his bank account. Interestingly enough, he showed only thirteen grand to his name. She’d have expected more from a man with such expensive tastes.
How about tax evasion?
Kayla accessed sleeper programs she’d planted in the IRS system a few years ago, back before her boss decided she was … how had he put it … no longer NSA material. Vogel. That stupid fuck. She wanted to gut that man. Or blow him, if that’s what it took to get her job back.
She pushed the past from her thoughts, focused on the now. As she waited for her program to get Sonny’s info, she thought of Connell’s sense of urgency. He’d hired her four times before this. For those four gigs, he’d been calm, methodical. She’d tried to drive up his offered price. She’d failed. This time, however, he’d been in a hurry. He’d paid her triple. Why the change in behavior? Maybe McGuiness was onto something big, so big that Connell knew he had to act fast before someone took it away from him.
Thirty years of McGuiness’s tax info started scrolling across her screen. She scanned, piecing together his financial picture. In the past twenty years, he’d reported an income of $7 million. Not bad for an old geezer. Seven million and now only thirteen grand in savings? Sonny McGuiness apparently spent it almost as fast as he made it.
She activated another program, a tax-fraud sniffer made by some of her former NSA coworkers. As it ran, she glanced down the aisle at the man who had hit on her. He was staring out the window, trying to act like being shot down in flames didn’t bother him. What a prick. Maybe she would get his number after all. Maybe a little late-night visit could prove to be fun. For her, at least.
You want to be my daddy? Sure, you can be my daddy.
The sniffer program came back blank. Sonny McGuiness actually overpaid the IRS. He was honest, at least when it came to taxes.
His exemptions and records painted a rather detailed picture of his life. For one thing, McGuiness appeared to be quite the philanthropist. Over the years he’d given $100,000 to both the United Negro College Fund and the Wildlife Fund, $200,000 to the Paralyzed Veterans of America, $100,000 to the University of Utah and over $200,000 to Brigham Young University’s Archaeology Department.
Kayla’s anger grew. She checked her watch – 5:12 a.m. She would land in another hour. She was running out of time.
While the financial picture was notable, it didn’t give Connell anything to work with. He needed a negotiation lever, if not outright blackmail information.
Nothing to be had on McGuiness. Nothing real, that was. She didn’t need facts, she needed a threat of charges that would stick.
Could she get that from Darker?
She set the tax-sniffer program to look at Darker’s records. While it ran, she checked Sonny’s criminal record. A felony conviction. That was good. From three decades ago. That was bad.
The old prospector had served a two-year stint in Rikers for assault and battery. That wasn’t leverage in itself, but if she could come up with something else illegal — or that lawyers could present as illegal — Sonny’s criminal record mattered.
The felony wasn’t the only mark on his rap sheet. Several arrests, all for solicitation. For a man who listed his legal residence in Reno, Nevada, she didn’t think a patronage of the world’s oldest profession would provide adequate blackmail material.
There just wasn’t enough. Aside from hookers, Sonny McGuiness seemed to be a straight shooter.
The computer beeped, indicating it had finished searching Herbert Darker’s file. She read through the information.
Her anger subsided. There, she finally had something to smile about.
• • •
Herbert stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking into his kitchen.
“Honey, hurry up or the boys will be late for school.”
His wife, Angie, quickly stuffed Tupperware containers into cloth lunch bags. Herbert’s company had grossed almost a million dollars that fiscal year, but he still couldn’t bring himself to buy lunch. After ten years of struggling to build his own business, frugal habits established in the early days were impossible to break.
A high-pitched scream of attack ripped through the house; Herbert braced himself as his youngest son launched off the third-to-last stair and landed on Herbert’s back. Herbert let out a small whuff and stumbled forward. Luke was getting bigger and stronger every day; pretty soon the daily Attack from the Stairs would send Herbert sprawling across the entryway’s Spanish tile floor.
“Take it easy, Luke. You’re going to kill your pops one of these days.”
Luke squeezed Herbert’s shoulders tightly. “I wouldn’t kill you! I love you!”
Herbert smiled and lowered his youngest son to the ground. Luke was at the age where he had no problem declaring his love for Mom or Dad. Soon he’d be in the fifth grade, then the seventh, and that kind of unabashed expression would fade. Herbert had already seen it happen.
Thomas, his sullen and surly oldest, thumped down the stairs. Only in the seventh grade and already the tallest one in the house. He had Angie’s genes. Herbert was grateful for that — he’d been the smallest boy in school, and that had sucked — but there was still an odd feeling at having to look up to meet the eyes of someone you used to cradle in one arm.
“Morning, Thomas,” Herbert said. “Ready for a big day at school?”
“Whatever, Dad.”
Angie hurried over with the three sacks, one for each of the Darker men.
“Thanks, honey,” Herbert said, giving her a kiss. “Come on, boys, let’s go.”
Angie’s cell phone rang just as Herbert reached the door. She held the phone toward him.
“It’s for you. It’s a woman.”
“Who is it?”
“How should I know? Are you going to answer it or not?”
Herbert looked at the phone. How odd. A woman his wife didn’t know? Did he even know a woman that wasn’t one of his wife’s friends?
He came back inside and took the phone.
“Hello, this is Herbert speaking.”
“Hiya, Herbie.” A woman’s voice, yes, all slow and sultry. “On your way to work?”
“Yes, I am, and I’m going to be late. Can I help you?”
“I sure hope so,” the woman said. “I need to meet with you. Immediately. I’ve got some tax information you might be interested in.”
Herbert froze. Angie stared at him, arms crossed, waiting for an explanation: Who was this strange woman calling on her phone for her husband?
“I know about your taxes, Herbie,” the woman on the phone said. “I know everything.”
“Ah, Professor Adams,” he said. “I didn’t recognize your voice. Hold on a moment, please.” Herbert pressed the phone to his chest, smiled at his wife. “Sorry, honey, it’s something for the Geological Society of America.”
A fast lie, a good one, and yet Angie didn’t seem fully convinced.
“Why did they call my number?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll find out. Just watch the boys for a moment while I answer her questions, okay?”
Angie stared a moment more, then walked out the door. Herbert shut it behind her before speaking.
“Who is this? How dare you call my wife’s phone!” Then he remembered the threats made the day before, he remembered his new enemy: Cutthroat.
“Did Kirkland send you?”
“Does it really matter? You need to meet with me. Now.”
Herbert’s stomach started to burble. Was Kirkland really coming after him?
“I can’t meet now. I have appointments.”
“Pioneer Park, fifteen minutes,” the woman said.
“But I just told you that I—”
“Have Angie drop Tom and little Luke at school, Herbie. Trust me — you do not want to be late.”
This woman, this stranger, she knew his wife’s name and number. She knew his children’s names. His chest felt tight. The first few drops of acid set up camp behind his sternum. His family.
Kirkland … he had to be behind this.
“Lady, you tell that boss of yours—”
“Now it’s fourteen minutes,” the woman said. “I’m easy to spot. Look for the white van. If you’re not there on time, my next call is to the IRS. I’m sure your wife would love to hear where your money has come from over the past few years, and why you chose not to report those little bonus payments.”
The burning rose from his chest to his throat. Angie knew nothing — Herbert was going to keep it that way.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
“I know you will. See you soon, Herbie.”
• • •
The hotel room phone’s ring jerked Sonny awake. He opened his eyes, closed them, actually managed to fall asleep again before a second ring made him jerk awake anew.
His body told him to ignore the phone. He needed sleep. Good God did he need sleep, after what the exquisitely talented Chloe had done to him the night before. That’s what he got for hiring a twenty-year-old instead of someone at least half his own age.
The phone rang a third time.
He looked at Chloe, still asleep, tangled up in sheets that hugged her curves, and hoped the ringing would stop.
It did not. He answered.
“Yes?”
“Mister McGuiness?”
Sonny had told only one person — Herbert Darker — where he was staying. The voice on the other end wasn’t Herbert Darker.
“If this isn’t the front desk telling me I’m getting free room service and a complimentary rim job from the manager, then whoever you are, you and I have a problem.”
“My name is Connell Kirkland,” the man said. “I represent a company that would like to talk to you about your find.”
That name. A longing desire to be unconscious again made Sonny’s brain miss gears. Kirkland … Kirkland … did he know that name?
Oh, he did know it. “Cutthroat” Kirkland.
Sonny sat up, leaned back against the headboard. He’d heard things about this guy. Bad things. Kirkland worked for a smaller company. Sonny tried to remember which one. Earth-Crack or something like that. Digger Yakely’s old outfit, maybe? Shit, Sonny hadn’t thought about Digger in years. No, not Earth-Crack … EarthCore. Yeah, that was it.
“You woke me up, asshole.”
“I seem to be making a bad habit of that lately,” Kirkland said. “Sorry. But since you’re up, I’d like to meet.”
Sonny’s fatigue faded, instantly replaced by disappointment, by cold anger. Had Darker sold him out? Couldn’t trust anyone anymore. But had Sonny ever been able to trust? No. This phone call was a perfectly good example why.
“Listen, Fancy Pants, I don’t want to waste your time and I don’t like having my crank yanked if I’m not going to get off. I’ll be talking to companies a bit larger than yours, know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean,” Kirkland said. “But you have to admit, if the right person is doing the yanking, it can be a pleasant way to pass the time. Meet with me. Today. I assure you, it is in your best interest. You don’t like what I have to say, by all means, do what you were going to do anyway.”
Sounded harmless enough. And Sonny needed to know what information Kirkland had. He couldn’t have much, because Sonny hadn’t given Darker much. Darker … had that little asshole really sold him out? Maybe there was another explanation for it. Sonny hoped there was. The older he got, the more alone he felt — trusting Herbert mattered, even if Sonny only saw him once or twice a year, even if Sonny paid the man to do a job.
And then there was the financial aspect. EarthCore would offer whatever they could. Sonny could use that number as a jumping-off point when he talked to the big-timers.
“Gibson Lounge, five o’clock,” he said. “It’s in my hotel. Drinks are on you.”
“My pleasure, Mister McGuiness. See you then.”
Sonny hung up. He made the meeting for later in the day so he’d have time to go to Darker Inc. and confront that little weasel himself. Kirkland had info? Well, shit, Sonny could get info, too. Herbert’s office was only a twenty-minute cab ride from the hotel.
Yeah … he had to know if Herbert had sold him out. Hopefully, there was a mistake or something, and Herbert hadn’t done anything wrong. Sonny rapped his knuckles three times against the nightstand: knock on wood.
He started out of bed but stopped when a hand with long, purple fingernails lightly scraped his back. He turned to see Chloe smiling up at him, her light-brown skin beautiful against the white sheets, her lush lips slightly parted, her black eyes glinting with sex.
Sonny’s anger dissipated, replaced by morning lust. He had all day, after all — Herbert wasn’t going anywhere.
• • •
Kayla sat and waited. The park took up a full city block. She’d parked the white cargo van along the curb, under some trees that grew up from between the sidewalk and the street. Thick branches and plenty of leaves provided a nice, shady overhang. It made for an ideal spot. A public place, four lanes of traffic, businesses on the other side of the street. Pretty safe, right? That’s what Darker would think.
“Public” is only “public” if someone is looking.
Connie Browning had rented this van. Kayla liked her Connie character. A little dirtier than Miriam, a little sluttier. And weaker — an important thing with most men.
She checked her makeup in the rearview mirror. She used her fingers to tease out her blond hair a little more, giving it volume, letting it hang past her shoulders. Connie preferred heavy eyeliner, fake lashes and thick, colorful shadow. Never red lipstick for Connie — too traditional. Dark pink. That was how Connie rolled.
Despite snagging only a catnap on the flight out from D.C., Kayla had to admit she still looked damn good, if she did say so herself. The bags under her eyes showed through the makeup, but only slightly. Five years ago, a little concealer and boom: no problem. Five years ago, though, her age had still started with the number two. It was getting harder to look young. Soon, maybe, she’d have to permanently move her cast of characters into MILF-land.
For now, though, the Great Distractors would see her through. She unbuttoned an extra button on her shirt, angled the mirror down to see the results. Black lace bra barely visible, but visible. The girls on display. Yeah. That would do it. As long as Herbert wasn’t secretly gay. And even then, he’d still have a hard time not looking.
Sonny McGuiness might have nothing to hide, but Herbie had a closet full of financial skeletons. He’d pulled in $210,000 from Connell, one rat-out at a time. If the IRS discovered that unreported sum, Herbert would be looking at prison time. If she was going to come up with something on McGuiness, she’d have to fabricate it — Darker was the only person who could help her do that on such short notice.
At this early hour, there was plenty of open parking along the curb. A black Cadillac drove up into the space behind her. Jesus, he wasn’t even bright enough to park a ways away and slowly walk up? Maybe take a look around as he did? Just more proof of that old adage: book smarts and street smarts are two different things.
In the van’s driver’s-side mirror, she watched him get out. Five-foot-five, maybe 140 pounds. All the muscle of a Dachau victim. No visible weapons. Poor coordination.
An easy mark.
He walked up onto the sidewalk and waited.
Kayla slid off her seat, smoothing her cotton skirt as she did. She adjusted her purse — she was never without a bag, although this one was smaller than she usually carried. Enough room for the essentials: lipstick and mascara, IDs, Springfield X-DS 9 mm, a compact to check said lipstick and mascara, Strider SNG knife, a granola bar in case she got hungry. The usual stuff for the girl on the go. And, of course, her three signature tools of the trade that she never left home without.
Kayla opened the van’s sliding side door and stepped out. The three-inch heels on her black pumps slid into the grass, but only a little. She saw Herbert’s eyes widen. She couldn’t blame him. The skirt barely hung below her ass, showing off strong legs. With the pumps, she stood at six-foot-two, towering over him.
Darker stared at her face. Then, as predictable as the sun rising in the morning, his gaze drifted down to her tits. The Great Distractors were doing their job.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”
Connie had a wavering voice. Kind of a girl just off the bus from the farm thing. Truth be told, it was very close to the way Kayla had sounded back when she’d first left home. When she’d left Daddy and her sisters.
With some effort, Herbert looked her in the eyes again.
“I have a message for Kirkland,” he said. “You tell that asshole he crossed the line when you called my home.”
So tough, this one was. She wondered if he’d have that brave voice if Kirkland were standing here instead of her. Of course not. If he were facing a man, Darker would be wheedling and whining. But not for a woman. Oh, hell no.
Kayla glanced across the park. A few new moms with strollers sitting and talking, but far enough away they weren’t paying attention to anything but themselves. A few homeless people camped out, lost in their own worlds. A weekday, so no schoolkids.
“He made me do this,” she said. “You have to believe me. He’s an awful person.”
The look in Herbert’s eyes showed he instantly, desperately wanted to believe that. Women who looked like her weren’t supposed to be bad people.
“You didn’t sound like this on the phone,” he said.
“I’m sorry about that. I had to get you out here. I didn’t want your family to see, you know?”
I’m just doing you a favor, pal. I’m really on your side.
Darker crossed his arms. “So what is it you supposedly have on me, anyway?”
Kayla gestured to a cardboard file box sitting on the van’s empty floor.
“Some paperwork or something,” she said. “He told me you’d know what it was.”
Darker took a step closer. He leaned forward, still wary, and peeked into the van.
Close enough, dumb-ass.
“Here, let me get it for you,” she said.
She bent at the waist, reached in for the box. So predictable: he took another step closer, ready to help her in case the box was too heavy. She lifted the cardboard lid. There wasn’t any paperwork inside. It held other things, things she needed for this job. She reached in and grabbed the Taser.
Herbert’s eyes widened slightly, but before he had time to run or call out in surprise, ten thousand volts coursed through his body. Kayla watched him shudder and jerk.
She cut the power. He fell forward. With practiced ease, she caught him on the way down, flipped his short, light body over her shoulder. She tossed him into the van, jumped in after him and slid the door shut.
Bagging him had taken maybe three seconds. Three silent seconds.
She quickly rolled Darker onto his stomach. From her purse, she pulled the first of her favorite things: a small spool of thin copper wire. She used it to tie his hands and feet behind his back. He started to moan, already recovering. He’d be yelling for help within seconds. Fortunately, her purse contained the second of her favorite things. She pinched his cheeks, forcing his mouth open wide enough for the ballgag to fit. He seemed confused, tried to pull his hands and kick his feet as she buckled the leather strap behind his head.
“You can scream if you want,” she said. “I don’t mind.”
Kayla slid into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine, smoothly pulling away from the curb and down the street. The homeless people didn’t even look up. What was another car or van or truck to them? The mothers remained focused on their strollers and on each other.
A public place. Safe, right?
Still, you didn’t hang around for something like this. For the next step, she needed privacy.
They drove. Herbert started mumbling. The words seemed incomprehensible through the ballgag, but Kayla had done this before.
“You want to know where I’m taking you, sugar? Somewhere we can be alone. Gotta ask you a few questions.”
He mumbled louder. Sounded like begging. Already? Kind of early for that, but to each their own.
While she didn’t know Salt Lake City, she’d scouted the area before setting up the meeting. A vacant factory sat less than a two minutes’ drive from the park. She pulled in to the empty, weed-choked parking lot and drove behind the building, out of sight from the road. It wasn’t a great hiding place, but she only planned on a fifteen-minute encounter.
She killed the engine. Time to get to work.
There was still one more favorite thing in her purse. Herbert wasn’t going to like that one. Not at all.
Kayla slid out of the seat. She squatted in front of him, knees wide, her fingertips gently stroking her inner thighs.
He stared, bug-eyed, head cranked up uncomfortably so he could see what was in front of him. He had probably jacked off a thousand times to visions of a woman that looked like Connie, but Kayla was pretty sure none of Herbert’s fantasies involved him kidnapped and tied up with copper wire.
She guessed, anyway. You never knew with men.
Spit already coated the rubber ball. Snot dripped from his nose. His eyes teared up. A little blood trickled from his left wrist where wire had cut into the skin.
“You and I are going to have a little conversation,” Kayla said. She reached out, tenderly stroked his hair. “I need information from you. If you’re good, I’ll let you go. If you’re not, I’ll kill you.”
He said something — shouted it, really — but the red ball blocked his words.
Kayla slid around behind him and straddled his back, resting her crotch on his ass.
She reached into her purse and pulled out a pair of rust-speckled pliers. She could, of course, afford to buy new pliers, but these had sentimental value. Back when the NSA still looked upon her as a fair-haired child, she’d put the pliers to good use in Honduras, Kuwait, Paris, Afghanistan. Even in D.C. once.
She couldn’t think of her old job without thinking of her old boss. André Vogel, NSA director, had sacrificed her for political gain, made her a scapegoat in order to advance his career. If it had been a man involved in the Genada incident, would Vogel have reacted differently? Of course he would have.
We’ll make an example of you, he’d said.
You’re no longer NSA material, he’d said.
All bullshit. Vogel found a way to get rid of her because her continued success and unfailing patriotism undermined his control — if it hadn’t been for Genada, he would have created some other fabrication.
She had loved the NSA. God how she had loved it. She’d made it her life. And now she put her pliers to use in the private sector. Not for God, not for Country, but for money. It was so unfair. Her life felt so empty.
But still, a girl’s gotta pay the bills.
She knew the pliers, knew every nook and cranny, every rust spot, every scratch. The engraved words kmart drop forged (japan) showed on the handle. The tips were good for things like ripping lips off of faces or pulling tongues from throats.
The pliers’ best feature, though, if she did say so herself, were the four pointed “teeth” just behind the tip. The teeth let you get good grip on nuts and bolts. They also happened to fit nicely around fingers.
Around knuckles, to be precise.
She slid the cool pliers around the last knuckle of Herbert’s right pinkie. Without a word, she squeezed with practiced strength. A loud crunching sound ripped through the van, like a tree branch breaking under the weight of wet snow.
Herbert Darker threw his head back and screamed.
His thrashing sent a tingling jolt through her body. Her skin felt electric, so sensitive she could feel her skirt sliding across her thighs. She felt that tingle building down there. He was more of a turn-on than she’d thought he would be.
Herbert pulled at his restraints, but the wire only dug further into his skin. He stopped moving. He kept screaming, though. His body trembled with fear.
Her breathing came in short, shallow pants. She felt her blood coursing through her body.
Kayla stroked Herbert’s hair. He sounded loud, but she knew from experience that such screams were practically inaudible outside the van. He cried. He mumbled.
Sounded pathetic. It sounded delicious.
The tingling’s intensity built slowly, steadily.
He repeated a single syllable, over and over again.
“Why?” Kayla said, echoing his question as she slid the pliers down his pinkie to the next knuckle. “I’ll tell you soon enough, sweet thing.”
With a snarling smile and a sigh of passion, she squeezed the pliers until she heard the crack. Herbert thrashed his head. His throat-tearing screams filled the van. He wiggled — yes, he wiggled — in just the right way, in just the right places.
She moved the pliers down to the pinkie’s base knuckle. That one was always the best, always took the most strength to break, always made them scream the most.
Herbert finally started to fight, to jerk and kick.
God, could he be any sexier?
“That’s it,” Kayla said, feeling the tingle turn into a buzz, strong and building fast. “That’s it … let me see you fight. Don’t let me do it to you. Give momma some sunshine.”
He cried, begged, thrashed, wiggling this way and that, trying in vain to throw off her weight. The way he moved … The buzz started to overtake her, growing in her head as well as down below. She tried to lock the pliers on his knuckle, but her hands seemed to lose strength, lose coordination.
He screamed. And when he did, she screamed with him.
The pliers slid from her fingers, clattered against metal. She breathed in deeply, body rejoicing in it after suffering through so many short, tiny breaths. The buzzing in her head slowed, settled.
The only sound was his steady whimper, still muffled by the ballgag.
Kayla opened her eyes.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
She unwrapped the wire from his wrists, rolled him over like a limp rag doll. He tried for her throat, but one grab and shake of his broken, swollen pinkie ended all thoughts of resistance. As his face screwed into a mask of agony, she calmly rewrapped the wire, binding his hands over his stomach.
Tears and snot streaked his face. Bleary eyes gazed up with mindless incomprehension. In less than fifteen minutes, he’d gone from a meeting in a sunny park to a helpless torture victim.
She straddled him again, then reached down and unsnapped the ballgag. It popped from his mouth and hung off his left cheekbone, a thick strand of spit running from the rubber to his lower lip.
“Please stop,” he said. “Please!”
Kayla stroked his hair, used her thumb to gently wipe the tears from his eyes.
“I need some dirt on Sonny McGuiness.”
Herbert’s face: confused, disbelieving.
“I need to blackmail him,” Kayla said. “I know you’ve got something I can use.”
“Use? B-b-blackmail? I don’t … I don’t know anything like that.”
“You’d better come up with something,” Kayla said sweetly. “Or I’ll start in on your ring finger next.”
Sobs racked his voice, each word following a sharp, snot-filled intake of breath. “You … crazy … fucking … bitch!”
Kayla picked up the pliers, held them in front of his face so he couldn’t help but look at them. His crying ceased.
“Hold on a second,” he said. “Just give me a second, okay? I’ve got something, I swear.”
Kayla waited, letting Herbert think. She watched him blink furiously, as if his eyelids were mental speedometers.
“Okay-okay-okay,” he said in a rush. “There was this mine a few years ago. The Jorgensson Mine. Sonny discovered it and sold it but it went bust. You could say he knew it would run dry but he sold it anyway.”
Herbert babbled for several minutes, the sound of a broken man begging for his life. His subservient tone caressed Kayla, adding to the energy still simmering through her body. She pulled a notebook from the file box, scribbled down the information, smiling the whole time.
“That’s exactly what I needed,” she said. “Now, I want something else. Whatever Sonny found, people are all fired up about it. Tell me everything you know about his latest discovery?”
Herbert talked. He talked so fast she had to make him go back and repeat things. One phrase, in particular, he repeated over and over — billion-dollar find.
Oh, Connell … something like that floating around out there, and you only pay a girl triple her normal rate?
Kayla placed the notebook back in the box. When she finished with Herbie, she’d research the Jorgensson Mine, find all the relevant details. Connell would get the information he wanted, and get it by his ridiculous deadline.
Damn, girl … you’re good.
She stroked his hair one more time, then slid into the driver’s seat.
The white van pulled away from the empty factory.
• • •
Kayla parked behind Herbert’s Cadillac, then cut the copper wire around his wrists and feet. She handed him a white towel to clean up the blood; aside from the broken pinkie, he had only minor cuts on his wrist. All in all, it was a pretty clean job, one that wouldn’t draw an ounce of suspicion when Herbert went to the doctor and made up some excuse for the damage to his finger.
True to her word, she hadn’t put anybody in a wheelchair.
She opened the van and helped him out. His shoulders slumped. His head hung low. He reminded her of an old balloon, saggy and half-deflated.
This was the true essence of any man.
“I’m letting you go,” she said. “You’re going to keep your trap shut. If you don’t, the IRS will be the last of your worries, because I’ll come for your sons.”
Herbert’s head snapped up, pain suddenly forgotten, the spark of defiance back in his eyes. Perhaps there was a backbone in there after all.
“That’s right,” Kayla said. “Let’s just say little Tommy and little Lukey will never play the violin again.” She slowly opened and closed her pliers. The metal squeaked like a baby bird calling for food. “You understand me, Herbie?”
He nodded quickly.
She always threatened the kids. They were better than the wife or the husband; you never knew who would actually prefer their spouse tortured and dead. Threaten the children, though, and people listen. In ten years using that theory, she’d only had to keep her promise once.
She knew fuck-all about mining, but she knew the word billion. A big word, a big number. She needed to find out more. Maybe there was a way for her to get a little piece of the action.
Because even a little piece of a billion was pretty damn big.
• • •
Another bar, another negotiation, but this one so different from the Two-Spoke. That place had been a dirty, broken-down dive. Well-worn was a better way to put it. This place? The wood walls didn’t have any scratches, or dents from someone’s head being thonked into them. The leather chairs were padded and looked brand-new. And they were teal. Teal leather, for fuck’s sake. The Gibson Lounge had all the personality of a fake tit. That’s what you got for a hotel lounge.
The last time Sonny had drunk, he’d really enjoyed the company. Dennis the Deadhead was good people. This time? Sonny wished he’d brought his gun.
He’d heard about Kirkland, sure, but never met him. Spooky eyes, gray and hollow. He looked at you like a Doberman looks at a T-bone. And he was much younger than Sonny had expected. The older Sonny got, the more irritated he was with young men doing well in his field. Made no sense — he’d been quite successful himself as a youth, and older men had hated him for it — but it was what it was.
“I do thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” Kirkland said. “I’m sure you have quite an agenda lined up.”
They sat in comfortable chairs — yes, teal — and spoke to each other over a small, knee-high marble table. Kirkland sipped his bourbon. On the rocks, even, like some kind of pansy. Sonny couldn’t remember what kind of bourbon it was, exactly, and he didn’t give a shit. He didn’t give a shit about any liquor save for his favorite: Old Overholt.
“Got people I want to talk to, if that’s what you mean,” Sonny said. He took a sip of his own drink, felt the pleasant burn. “So, let’s get to gettin’.”
Sonny had expected someone in a suit. The stuffy kind, the boardroom kind. If that was Kirkland’s true nature, he wasn’t showing it here. Dark gray sport coat over a blue button-down shirt, jeans, and well-worn cowboy boots that gleamed despite years of obvious use. His leather briefcase sat on the table between them.
Kirkland drained his glass. He nodded at Sonny’s.
“You want another?”
“You trying to get me drunk? Think that’s going to make this easier for you?”
“Mister McGuiness, if it comes to a drinking contest, anyone in this bar could beat me. I’ve had a long day and I want another drink. You want one or not?”
Sonny stared at those gray eyes, tried to get the feel of the man. Skinny, but not that skinny. Looked like the kind of asshole that ran five miles every day just for the sake of running.
“Sure,” Sonny said. He polished off his drink.
When the bartender brought over the second round, Kirkland raised ice-clinky bourbon.
“To your find,” he said. “And to hopes of doing business together?”
Kirkland waited for Sonny to clink glasses. Sonny did not. Kirkland shrugged, took a sip.
Maybe Sonny wasn’t mad at Kirkland. Maybe he was just mad, his mood fouled by Herbert’s apparent betrayal. Greed. Always gumming up the gears. That was the very reason Sonny hid his finds and always had his samples tested at the same place. Apparently, that strategy had paid off. If Sonny had given Herbert the find’s location, Kirkland and his company would already be greasing the local politicians and buying up property rights.
Sonny had gone looking for Herbert. Hadn’t found him. Herbert’s office said he’d called in sick. A fall at home or something. How convenient.
“Interesting that you know of that find, Mister Kirkland. I haven’t told many people about it. How’d you come across it?”
Connell stared hard for a moment. Gray eyes. Dead eyes.
“Let’s cut the bullshit, Mister McGuiness. I’m not going to play games with you and I hope you’re not going to play them with me. You know damn well where I got the information. How you handle that is up to you. I really don’t care. The important thing is that I know of your find, I want it, and I want it before anyone else finds out about it.”
Kirkland’s abruptness surprised Sonny. Company men were usually smiles and compliments and bullshit. This guy was all business. He struck Sonny as the kind of man who’d sell his own mother to a Bangkok whorehouse if she could turn a regular profit.
“What we want and what we can have are often two different things,” Sonny said. “And what you want will be expensive.”
“How expensive?”
Sonny took another sip of rye. Still delicious, still perfect, but the second glass never tasted quite as good as the first.
“You want me to make the first offer,” Sonny said. “Read that in some negotiating book, did you? Well, college boy, let’s light this candle. I’ll take fifteen million, up front. And twenty percent of the net for the first ten years.”
Kirkland smiled. There was no real humor in it.
“Wow, Mister McGuiness — only a decade’s worth of the profits?”
“I’m feeling generous,” Sonny said. “Because I’m old and who knows if I’ll be around in another ten. And I get full accounting access. All day, every day, not just quarterly. Someone so much as steals a Sharpie from the mine’s supply cabinet, I want to know. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“No? But your cheeks have that rosy glow of youth.”
“Fuck you,” Sonny said. “You should be so lucky to get as old as I am. That’s my offer, take it or leave it.”
Kirkland stared. He stared some more.
Sonny felt uncomfortable. It was okay, though, because that was how these bossy fuck-nuts operated. Something about embracing silence or some horseshit like that, waiting for the other guy to stammer and yammer to fill the space. Like Sonny was going to lower his offer just because this emotional zombie kept his trap shut? Hardly.
“Pricey,” Kirkland said, finally.
“No shit,” Sonny said. “And if you keep putting them long sentences together, I’m going to have to go fetch a notebook and a dictionary.”
Another smile. A cold one, but Sonny thought maybe he detected a tiny bit of sincerity in that one, a glimmer of an actual sense of humor. Then, it was gone. The gray eyes once again held sway.
“Perhaps if you owned the land and the mineral rights, we’d play with that number,” Kirkland said. “You own neither.”
“Oh, is that right?”
“That’s right,” Kirkland said. “Mister McGuiness, I know everything that you own. You don’t own any mining properties. The seventy-nine ’Vette sounds bitchin’, though. Sweet ride.”
How did he know about the Corvette? Just what the fuck was going on? Maybe Sonny hadn’t been mad at Kirkland before, but he was now.
“Negotiation is over, shit-bird. You’ve been snooping around in my private business.”
“When I want what you’ve got, your business is my business,” Kirkland said. “You don’t own the land. If you try to get it, we’ll outbid you instantly and you’ll be left with dick. Let’s not bother talking about claim-jumping and other legalities, because this is the game and you’re already playing it. Since our relationship has been so delightful right out of the blocks, I’ll make a counteroffer. We’ll give you one million dollars for the location. No back-end. You take your mil and you walk the fuck away so I don’t have to look at your wrinkly old ass ever again.”
Sonny stared. Not for effect, like Kirkland, but rather because he had no idea how to react. He was the one with the location, he was the one holding all the cards. Didn’t this guy realize that? Sonny wanted to flip this asshole off and walk out … but he wanted to put him in his place even more.
“You listen to me, you little fuck. You wanna play tough? I’ll go to a dozen other companies with what I’ve found and start a bidding war that will make you bend over, grab your ankles and beg me to fuck your ass if I give you the original price. I figured you’d counteroffer, but since you didn’t, it’s fifteen million and that’s that. Someone is going to write me that check. If that’s not you, tough shit. Think you can swing your big imaginary cock around and I’ll just fall to my knees and beg to gobble it down? I’ve been handling people like you since before you was an itch in your daddy’s little pecker.”
Kirkland sipped at his bourbon, pansy-ass ice cube swirling and clinking as he did.
“Mister McGuiness, you’ve never dealt with someone like me.”
Sure, Sonny wanted to put this arrogant pup in his place, but it was beyond even that now. There were only two options left to Sonny: leave that very moment or shove his glass right into that emotionless face.
“Fuck you,” Sonny said. “The only person who will know the location is the one who pays the most money, so your lawyer friends won’t have any chance to jump the claim. And you know what? Now that I think about it, I bet you don’t make it to my age. I hope you die of dick cancer first.”
He stood up, drained his drink and set it down hard enough on the table to draw a look from everyone else in the shitty, fake lounge.
Kirkland opened his briefcase, pulled out a piece of paper. “Before you go, Mister McGuiness, there’s something you should see.”
“Whatever it is, I don’t care.”
Kirkland’s eyebrows rose. He nodded slightly.
“I see. Well, do you care about being sued into the Stone Age? Losing your house, that pitiful excuse of a savings account and — I’m sorry to say — that classic Corvette?” He held the paper up by one corner, rattled it. “You’ll see that your friend Mister Darker was very helpful to us. You sold a location to the Jorgensson Cooperative. You know, the one that netted you a half a mil? The one that went bust when the initial high-grade ore gave out after only a month of mining?”
Sonny stood there, unable to turn away. He felt eyes on him, other people in the lounge glancing his way, wondering why he was standing there with his fists clenched.
He wished he’d brought two guns.
“I don’t guarantee my finds,” he said, forcing himself to speak quietly, slowly. “Everybody knows I get paid for a location, and only a location. What happens at that location isn’t my problem.”
He had been doing business that way for twenty-five years. Some finds panned out, some didn’t. He was always exceedingly clear about what he was selling. Sonny knew he was in the right, both legally and morally — so why did he have such a sinking feeling about that bullshit piece of paper?
“I’m sure you’re as pure as the driven snow,” Kirkland said. He gave the paper another small rattle. “But this statement — provided by a man who has known you for sixteen years, I might add — says that you knew the vein was small and that the ore grade was too low to be profitable beyond the first hundred thousand tons. According to him, you had full knowledge the find was a total lemon, yet you sold it anyway, for far more than it was worth.”
Sonny hadn’t wanted to hit someone this bad in a long, long time. He’d been in the business most of his life; he’d never had anyone try to strong-arm him like this before. It infuriated him. It terrified him. Could EarthCore really get away with this?
“I didn’t know any such thing,” he said. “Herbert Darker is a lying sonofabitch, and when I find him, I’m going to take this out of his hide. The ore I found near the surface was very rich.” The ore that Herbert analyzed, Sonny couldn’t forget. “The Jorgensson people did their own analysis. They agreed with my findings and that’s why they bought the location.”
Kirkland let the paper drop to the table. It slid a little, stuck on a bead of water that had fallen from the outside of Sonny’s glass.
“That’s not what Mister Darker will state in court,” Kirkland said. “And after I pass this information to my friend at Jorgensson — Bob Kitchum worked for EarthCore before moving on, we used to play golf together, great guy — you will definitely be in court.
He leaned back in his chair, took another slow sip. All the while, those wax-museum eyes of his stared.
Sonny knew he had to calm down. He couldn’t think straight. These motherfuckers were stealing his find. Stealing it. Sonny’s jaw felt tight. He was shaking. If he’d been twenty years younger, he’d have come right over that table and hit Kirkland. And hit him again. And again.
Kirkland gestured to Sonny’s chair.
“Please, have a seat. We can work this out. I’ve got the upper hand, but that doesn’t mean you’re not going to get paid.”
Sonny knew he shouldn’t have taken this meeting. He shouldn’t have assumed he could use Kirkland to find out about Herbert’s actions. He should have got on the first plane out of SLC and gone where he couldn’t be found. He hadn’t done any of those things. Instead, he’d walked right into this, blind, without a shred of research or preparation.
He didn’t know what to do. So, he sat.
Kirkland signaled for the bartender to bring another round, then leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“I’m not going to use this on you unless you force my hand,” he said. “We both know Darker’s statement is bullshit, but that doesn’t matter. It wasn’t just the purchase price — Jorgensson shelled out millions for equipment and labor.” He tapped the piece of paper. “If they get this, they’ll come after you with both barrels blazing. Maybe they’ll win a suit against you, maybe not, but the best you can hope for is to spend money you don’t currently have on lawyers. The worst you can hope for? With Darker’s testimony, and with your record, you could wind up in jail.”
The concept of prison brought the situation home. Sonny would do anything rather than risk another stint, locked away from open skies and sprawling landscapes.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
The bartender dropped down two fresh drinks, took away the two empty glasses. Sonny didn’t think Kirkland’s ice cube looked all that pansy anymore.
“Because I can’t afford to let you put this on the open market,” he said. “It’s that simple. I want what you have, I don’t have the money to buy it, so I found another way.”
He made it sound so simple. So basic. So primitive … so cutthroat.
“Mister McGuiness, we both know your demand of fifteen million was ridiculous.”
Sonny picked up his drink. He drained it. He didn’t taste any of it.
“It was,” he said. “Not as ridiculous as one million, though.”
Kirkland nodded. “True, true. Since we’ve established that EarthCore is going to get the claim, we—” He stopped, raised one eyebrow. “We have established that, have we not?”
Sonny wanted to say something smart. He wanted to insult this prick. Instead, he simply nodded. As his mother had always told him, a smart man knows when he’s whooped.
“Good,” Kirkland said. “Here’s what I think we should do. One million up front for you. Cash. No obligation. And, two percent of revenue. For life, to be passed on to your heirs or whatever charity you choose. And that’s two percent gross, not net, so we won’t be able to cut you out by shuffling the numbers around to make it look like we’re losing money.”
Sonny didn’t understand what was happening. This wasn’t some pity offer: it was generous. He’d pulled the 20 percent number out of his ass — just to be a dick, really. Two percent of the mine’s profit, for life? If there was any size to that find, any size at all, that percentage would wind up making fifteen million look like monopoly money. Sonny could wind up being rich beyond his wildest dreams.
And he was a man that didn’t dream small.
“What’s the catch, Kirkland?”
“Catch?”
“You’ve got my balls in a vice,” Sonny said. “You could just take the damn thing and cut me out altogether, so there has to be a reason for this sweetheart deal.”
Kirkland sipped, nodded. “Ah, that catch. Of course. Well, the million is yours. No strings. But to get that two percent, I need you on-site for the next year. That will give us time to probe and figure out the best place to begin. You found it. You know the area. Having you there saves me time and money.”
Sonny’s anger faded, pushed aside by a creeping sensation — the same feeling he’d had on that mountain. If he wanted to get rich, he’d have to go back. Go back and stay.
Stay for a year, in the place that felt like a funeral.
“Mister McGuiness, this is a good deal. You know it is. I want this to be a success. I think I need you there for that to happen. So I got the better of you this time, so what? Forget it and join me.”
Kirkland again held up his glass. “What do you say, Sonny? Let’s get rich.”
Sonny McGuiness felt overwhelmed, completely confused. He’d just gotten his ass kicked, sure, but wound up with one hell of an upside.
And, maybe, he was getting tired of going into the mountains all by himself. The lone-wolf act was great for a young man. He wasn’t a young man anymore. Not even close.
He clinked Kirkland’s glass.
“I’m in.”
Kirkland grinned. When he did, his eyes crinkled. Well, what do you know … there was an actual human being in there after all.
The two men finished their drinks. Then they finished another.
An hour later and drunk off his ass, Sonny stumbled back to his room. Hotel lounges sucked, but they did offer a proximity advantage when you were so crocked you could barely walk.
He dropped into bed without even taking off his clothes. He fell asleep almost immediately. Almost. Before the blackness claimed him, he had a brief realization.
He was going back. Back to that lifeless place where animals had the good sense not to tread.