Wild Card (A Sinatra Thriller Book 2) Page 9

  “It will be anyway.”

  He shook his head. “Not necessarily.”

  “What do you propose, Governor?” asked Beck.

  Deep breath. “I leave the room and face the music. Get this charade over with.”

  “Ay dios mio, you’re a fool. That’s not noble, that’s cowardly. We don’t let terrorists win, Curtis.”

  “So this whole time, Sinatra, at both poker tables, you were spying on me? You’re good, pal, I had no idea.”

  “We knew you were cheating. Didn’t know how. I figured it out and planned on arresting you tonight. Didn’t realize the mess you were in,” said Manny.

  “Cheating?”

  “Don’t play more dumb than you are, estûpido. It was easy to pick up.”

  “You never told me how he does it,” said Beck.

  “Simple. The dealer uses her fingers to feel the edges of the upcoming cards. She nicks the Aces and Kings beforehand, and then pats the table to let Curtis know what’s coming.”

  Weaver’s voice. “I’m impressed, Sinatra. How’d he convince the dealers to work with him?”

  “Don’t know. Figure it out later.”

  Benjamin Curtis lowered his head to stare at his hands. His ears and neck were red.

  Manny continued, “Right now we figure out how to save this idiot’s life. We’re rats in a cage. We need to get him out of the hotel without being spotted, then we convince the mob to back down. Any ideas, Kristen Terry?”

  His bodyguard shook her head. Rightfully wondering if her career was over, Manny assumed. “Not if he’s refusing governmental protection. He’s right about one thing; up here in Maryland, we’re painfully aware of the Kings’ influence, even in our own ranks. Hiding him wouldn’t last long.”

  “Curtis, how much do you owe?”

  “A lot.”

  “Be specific, jackass,” said Manny.

  “Seven million.”

  Manny glanced at Beck. “I don’t usually say jackass. I do it okay? Felt good.”

  “Yeah, Sinatra, you did great. How’d you lose seven million, Governor?”

  “You’d be surprised how quickly it goes. But most of it went into bad investments and poker games. I was guaranteed good returns, and then—”

  “Seven million is nothing for men like you. Ask your brother, ask your bank, sell your house,” said Beck.

  “Seven million is not nothing. Seven million is seven million dollars. Plus I owe others too. I’ve already borrowed from my brother, though he doesn’t know why. I sold my second home. And I would rather die than be a got’damn beggar. And—”

  Manny had heard enough and he hated pointless meetings. “Shut up. Just shut it. Here’s what we’re doing. We’re going up, not down. To the roof. Weaver, I need a helicopter and then a car nearby. Made in America. Curtis and I are hitting the road. We leave tonight and we drive west until—”

  The phone rang.

  Everyone jumped.

  “See. I told you. They’re everywhere,” said Curtis. Miserably.

  Varvara spoke for the first time. She was straightening her hair. The whole thing struck her as amusing. “How could they know what room?”

  Vat room?

  “House cameras. Everywhere,” said Beck. “The Kings probably have informants working for the MGM."

  Manny picked up the phone. “Go ahead.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Martinez.” An unfamiliar voice.

  Manny’s eyebrows raised. Mr. Martinez—not Sinatra. He’d been researched. Things got more interesting.

  “You and Noelle Beck have something that doesn’t belong to you,” said the voice.

  “Maybe, but I’m keeping it.”

  “A man is coming to speak with you. Alone. Unarmed. It would behoove all parties for you to meet with him in the hallway, Mr. Martinez. Alone. Unarmed.”

  The line went dead.

  Beck asked, “What?”

  “A negotiator. I’ll meet with him in the hallway.”

  “No way. They’ll kill you.”

  “It’d take all of them. But they won’t try. They have as much to lose, or more, if this thing goes south. They don’t want a war with the entirety of the American government; they want to take care of a loose end and send a message.”

  Beck said, “We don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

  “But even more importantly, we don’t let them win. I want to hear what the guy’s got to say.”

  “Careful,” said Weaver through his speakerphone.

  He took Beck’s phone and activated the Voice Memo app and slid it into his pocket. Withdrew the gun at the small of his back and laid it on the bed. He and Beck inserted their earpieces.

  “They kill me? Call in the cavalry.” He moved to the door and glared out the peephole.

  A minute later, the elevator dinged. A man walked out and stopped at their door. He wore pants and a button-down oxford, no jacket. Handsome guy. Hands raised, he turned in a circle so Manny could see he was unarmed. In his right hand, a small audio jammer. By using the device, their conversation couldn’t be recorded or picked up by microphones. Manny slid out his earpiece and said, “Didn’t see that coming.”

  “Who’s out there?”

  “It’s your boyfriend, Beck. Rocky Rickard.”

  18

  Manny stepped into the carpeted quiet of the hallway and he closed the door. He heard Beck’s soft footfalls as she hurried to listen and watch through the peephole.

  Rocky pressed a button on the device in his hand and the tiny speaker emitted a strange warble, so high pitched it bordered the upper limit of Manny’s auditory range. Not painful or annoying, just unusual, and it obliterated listening devices.

  “To begin with,” said Rocky. His smile was hard, doing tricky business with an old friend.“I would like Noelle Beck to be kept safe. I offer her guaranteed passage off the premise, Mr. Martinez.”

  “Sinatra.”

  “Who cares.”

  “Why Beck?”

  “She enchanted me. A woman of scruples and class in an immodest world.”

  “She stays,” said Manny.

  “She can decide for herself.”

  “She’s no coward. You a King, Rocky?”

  “Who are the Kings, Mr. Sinatra? Last week, a cargo ship of lumber arrived in Baltimore. The resources it contained were purchased illegally out of El Salvador and pre-sold here in America. Is the captain of the cargo ship a King? What about his crew? Or the dock workers? Or the purchasers of the lumber? Or the men and women who will live in the houses made from the lumber? It helps the simple-minded to think of the District Kings as a set group of card-carrying members. But we both know, the whole thing runs on relationships and unspoken rules. It’s never simple. The same way you’re not a simple law-abiding U.S. Marshal, Mr. Martinez. People aren’t only one thing.”

  “So you’re a King.”

  “Call me what you need to."

  “You’re not getting the governor.”

  “Me? What would I do with him? My businesses are legal. I’m here on behalf of others. Mr. Sinatra, trust me—the poor bastard’s position is hopeless.”

  “Because he owes you seven million.”

  “Not me. But yes, he owes seven million. You think the powerful monsters in the world will simply rub that out of their ledger?”

  “Only monster here is me, Rickard.”

  “I heard. That’s one reason this courtesy is being extended. You are…respected in the minds of those who matter. Be proud of your reputation; none of the Kings’ stable of hitmen volunteered to break down your door. But I wonder, would you die for the corrupt politician?”

  “I would die for America. And sometimes, America is a person.”

  “Yet somehow I don’t think it’s patriotism that drives you. That’s a vaguely noble notion and nobility is lacking in monsters.” He squinted one eye at Manny like he was a math problem. “Zeal for king and country is only the symptom for some greater code you follow. Elevate the nati
on, elevate yourself, maybe?”

  “I choose patriotic zeal over greed any day, Rickard.”

  “Shame. You’d be good in my world. But don’t judge me too harshly—I’m not a violent man. Just ambitious. Like Julius Caesar.”

  “Ambitious, maybe, but I don’t know about intelligent. Your amigos should know you can’t get money out of a dead body. Curtis needs time.”

  “He’s had over a year. His net worth has only worsened. Do you know, Mr. Sinatra, that loan shark collectors do not break legs? A bizarre and macabre urban legend, the leg breaking. All borrowers expect this will happen to them if they default. But how can a man earn more money and make his payments if he’s in a cast? An absurd way to run a business. So what keeps them in line? The threat. The looming broken leg. The terror. The promise of pain. If the Kings are willing to kill the celebrated governor, then they’re willing to kill others, so the story will go. The collectors won’t have a single default for five years. Not my area of expertise, but interesting none the less.”

  Manny stayed close to Rocky. He’d noticed a small pistol hidden up the man’s sleeve. Probably a single shot—Rocky would be a fool to try. Manny said, “Cute story, amigo. I’ll duel you for him.”

  “Ha. I don’t handle violence. I’m just rich.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’m here to be reasonable on behalf of my colleagues who are not.”

  “What’s your offer?” said Manny.

  “You cannot hide Benjamin Curtis. I work with men who are insatiable and powerful and they’ll find the governor. Believe me. Considering the inevitability of his fate, I think it’s wise for you to stick him on an elevator and send him to the second floor. In fact, I’d be surprised if Benjamin Curtis has not suggested this. It’s in his best interest; in a room on the second floor is a lawyer ready to adjust his will. His considerable life insurance policy will be redirected to a trust of our choosing, thereby giving us no reason to harass or embarrass his brother. You and Ms. Beck go home.”

  “Pass.”

  “I’ve been authorized to give you and Ms. Beck two hundred thousand in cash once you’re in your car, leaving.”

  “Reluctant pass. Here’s my offer, Rickard. Forgive his debts and I’ll forget your face.”

  “Remember, Sinatra, the man owes me nothing. It is not for me to forgive. And even under intense federal scrutiny, the most they’ll get me for is tax evasion. I’ll pay the fine and then Ms. Beck and I will spend a year in Guam on vacation.”

  “What if he won the tournament?”

  “He’d be quasi-wealthy and he’d use most of that wealth to be free of his debtors. Because of you, that’s no longer an option.”

  “So, if Curtis had the seven million, you’d back off?” said Manny.

  “Again, not me. But yes.”

  “Fine. You’ll get your seven million, Rickard. Inform your insatiable men.”

  “Poorly phrased. Where will Curtis suddenly get the funds? Because if it’s embezzling from the national treasury, I’m all for it.”

  Manny jerked a thumb at himself. “I’ll win the tournament. And I’ll pay you off.”

  “Be serious, Mr. Sinatra. You’re not good enough yet. And tomorrow, there’ll be no compromised dealer to throw you hints. Oh yes, I noticed you caught on.”

  “You knew,” Manny realized. Of course Curtis wasn’t working alone. “You were helping him by supplying the dealers?”

  “Seemed easy enough. Child’s play to arrange the dealer schedule, inserting my own crew. But the son of a bitch is too stupid to make it work. He’s been winning at my casino for months, but then losing it online. Honestly, Sinatra, the man’s better off dead.”

  “What’s the tournament payout?”

  “First place gets fifteen million. Second receives seven. Third gets three, and fourth, one million,” said Rickard. “But you can’t expect—”

  “That leaves a million.”

  “Tournament overhead.”

  “I’ll place in the top two. Pay you off. And this thing is done. Understand?”

  “Your odds are low. I’ll propose your offer to my colleagues. But, unfortunately for you, things are never easy. It won’t be simple.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The English are here for him too.”

  “No comprendo, señor.”

  “Your friend the governor has many enemies. Mr. Wright and his hired muscle are here to claim him.”

  Manny blinked. Stupidly, in his opinion. He hated not knowing things. “Why?”

  “Ask him.”

  Without turning, Manny banged his fist on the door to 707. He called, “Send Curtis out here. It’s safe.”

  A long moment passed—the murmur of discussion inside.

  While he waited, Manny asked, “Mr. Wright, the Englishman with blue eyes. He’s an assassin?”

  “He is.”

  “He any good?”

  “Very. Few charge higher fees.”

  The door behind him opened and Benjamin Curtis stepped out, doing his best to keep up his chin. He looked between the two men and declined to speak.

  “The English are here for you,” said Manny. “Why?”

  To his credit, Curtis maintained his erect posture. “They have been for years. Prickly, sensitive bastards.”

  “Tell me.”

  “What’s it matter? Let’s get this over with, Sinatra.”

  “A few years back, he was involved sexually with one of the Hanover girls,” replied Rickard. “British nobility. The governor took compromising photos of her without her knowledge, knocked her up, and left town.”

  “Not exactly how it went down,” said Curtis stiffly. “And hackers pulled the photos off my phone. Not my fault.”

  “The Hanovers have unofficial connections to the Clerckenwell crime family. Once besmirched, favors were arranged; the father wants blood.”

  Curtis grumbled, “I haven’t left the country for years because of those damn limeys.”

  “Mr. Oliver Wright isn’t cheap. He’s here to pluck the governor off the motherland and take him to the Hanover’s private estate where he’ll answer for his crimes. So you see, Mr. Sinatra, nothing is ever easy.”

  Manny gave Curtis a shove. “Any other countries trying to kill you I should know about?”

  “Clearly you cannot save him, Mr. Sinatra. Take my deal.”

  “Clearly I can’t? Maybe I heard you wrong.”

  “It’s you against the world,” said Rickard.

  “Odds are about even. I’ll win that tournament and deal with Mr. Wright.”

  “You’re willing to wade into my world to save this man? A man you hold in contempt? Why?”

  “Because I can. Because if I don’t, what am I?” asked Manny.

  “Alive.”

  “No, a coward. And a traitor.”

  “There’s a spectrum between martyr and traitor, Mr. Sinatra. You should adjust your position.”

  Then a pause, because an unknown noise tickled their ears. A sudden, muffled sound. All three men titled their head, listening.

  Manny placed it first and his blood ran cold. Something inside 707 was breaking…

  …the window.

  19

  An eruption shattered the quiet. Sounded like a small bomb detonating and the tower shivered up through Manny’s feet. Breaking glass. Gun shots and screaming.

  Manny fumbled for his keycard. “Beck!”

  Rocky flattened himself against the wall and from his sleeve he withdrew a hidden .22. A short double-shot.

  Benjamin Curtis dropped to the carpet, hands covering his head, and he shouted something worthless.

  Manny said, “If you have hitmen coming through the window, I’ll kill you Rickard.”

  “That’s not us.” Rocky tossed Manny the little gun. “Good luck, Mr. Sinatra.”

  Manny caught the gun. His keycard beeped. He dropped to his knees and shoved open the door into anarchy.

  The wide window was gone, r
eplaced by a frame of jagged shards and wedges. A man stood there dressed in black, firing rounds at Beck and Varvara, taking cover behind the king mattress.

  Kristen Terry bled on the floor, curled in on herself.

  Manny’s head spun. How had the attacker reached the seventh floor?

  The light from Manny’s door caught the attention of the man near the window. The intruder altered the pistol’s sights, swinging for the doorway.

  Manny’s little gun cracked and the man staggered backwards. He could tell from the impact, the man wore a ballistic vest.

  “Sure it’s not the Kings?” he growled at Rocky Rickard.

  He shook his head. “They would’ve told me.”

  “The British,” muttered Manny. “The British are coming.”

  The man in black turned and leaped for the window. Caught a rope Manny hadn’t noticed and he was whisked upwards. Gone from sight into the Maryland air.

  “Not so fast, señor.” Manny, up and racing for the window. Shoes crunching on glass. Foot bracing on the sill and he jumped into the cool midnight. He couldn’t find the rope until it whisked by his face. He grabbed hold, jerked to a halt, and began hauling himself up, fist over fist. Above, a scrambling figure and stars beyond. He was dimly aware of the chaotic lights and hotel rocking below like an inverted disco ball.

  The rope was pulled by a winch on the rooftop, lofting them without strain. If this was the English coming for the governor, they intended to abduct him—the rope system would be designed for two bodies. Manny’s luxury loafers slipped on the glass windows they levitated past, finding no purchase.

  For the briefest of instants, dangling helplessly, he wondered if this was the wisest course of action.

  The man above turned and called something to him. Manny coming on strong until he was within grasping distance of the guy’s boots. By the light of the moon and spotlights below, he caught the glint of a pistol being aimed. Manny couldn’t run along the windows but he could shove against them, and he did. A great pump from the thighs, sending both men floating away from the windows and jarring the guy’s aim. A burst of light and noise—a gunshot missing by several feet. They drifted away, paused, and rushed in again like rappelling in reverse.