Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games (30 page)

“You’ve kept us safe thus far. I trust you and your team with my family’s life. I mean, my God, both your men are at the park with my
babies
—I certainly trust you to protect
me
in a simple spa. And if this is the metaphorical mouse finally poking his head out of the safety of his hole and into the baited trap, then I know your team can handle it. They would protect me.”

She was using the flattery approach—with lousy metaphors to boot. She also knew Domino was clever enough to see through this and make up his own mind without influence. All she could do was sit and hope at least
some
of her words had made a dent.

Domino sipped his coffee. “Wait until Briggs and Allan come back with the kids. You then call your spa and see if they can take you today. Not tomorrow,
today
. If they can’t—tough luck. If they can, you schedule the soonest available time; spontaneity is our ally. No pre-planning. I’ll have Briggs tailing you there. Allan will drive you and be with you the whole time. I hope you weren’t kidding when you mentioned stripping naked in front of them.”

“I wasn’t,” Amy said.

Patrick made another face.

Amy reached across the table, took Patrick’s hand and squeezed it.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be,” Domino said. “If they don’t have an opening today, it’s like I said—tough luck. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it.”

Amy smiled for two reasons. First, she had been a loyal customer to Lana for years, and knew her massage therapist would fit Amy into her schedule somehow. Second, well … she was getting a massage.

Domino looked at Patrick and nodded reassuringly. He then looked at Amy and nodded once, gravely. “When my team is back with your kids you can make your phone call. I’m not gonna lie though—this goes against my better judgment.”

“Mine too,” Patrick added.

Amy squeezed her husband’s hand again then looked at them both. “It’ll be fine.”

*

Dan Briggs did a quick check of his watch between pushes on the swing. Carrie kept urging him to push harder but he would not. Briggs glanced to his left where Allan was standing over Caleb in the sandbox. Briggs clicked the mic on his collar. “You almost ready?”

Allan palmed the invisible receiver in his ear. “You want me to do a sweep first? I can walk the boy over.”

“Nah—it’s freezing. Plus I only spotted the same three the entire time.”

“Eleven and three?” Allan asked.

“Yeah—old couple at the picnic table with coffee, and the teenager shooting hoops.”

“Wanna approach? See if they jump?”

“No. I’ve kept an eye on them the whole time. The kid can play—sunk ten in a row. Low odds there. Old couple’s feet were pointed towards each other the entire time they spoke.” Briggs always looked at the feet of potential suspects. The feet never lied. Faces could be deceptive; it was why some excelled at poker. But the feet always pointed towards their target. He, Allan, and Domino always had a hearty laugh about this fact whenever they’d stop for a drink, find some couple on a date, and then spot the clueless guy rambling on and on while the desperate woman’s feet shot laser beams towards the nearest exit despite looking the fella in the eye.

“Okay then,” Allan said. “Let’s go.”

*

One hundred yards away, parked safely beneath a large oak, Monica pulled her eye away from her Canon and lowered the lens. She could tell the two men with the kids weren’t Feds—their manner suggested a more militant vibe, a more impenetrable demeanor. They certainly weren’t local police. So who were they? Monica set the camera on the passenger seat and started the engine. Time to go find out.

Chapter 62

The front door of the Lambert home opened and both Carrie and Caleb sprinted inside towards the television. Christopher Allan and Dan Briggs appeared immediately after.

Domino approached. “All good?”

Briggs said, “All good.”

Domino turned and Amy was behind him, smiling like a teen asking for the car keys.

Domino handed her his cell phone. “Go ahead—make your call.”

“I can use my phone,” she said. “I’ve got the number to the spa saved in my contacts.”

“You’ll use
my
phone,” he said. “Anyone tries to hone in on this and they’ll hear a scramble that sounds like a cross between Chinese and Latin.”

“Oh,” Amy said softly as she took the phone from him. “Well I still need to get the number from my phone.”

“Get your number.
But you dial from mine, alright?
”

Amy nodded and headed towards the kitchen.

Allan patted Domino’s shoulder. “What’s up?”

Domino kept his eyes on Amy in the kitchen as he said: “Tell you in a minute.”

*

Monica did not have to worry about her tail being spotted by whoever these two guys were. She didn’t have to worry because she’d gotten to the Lamberts’ before them.

She sat parked two blocks over, her equipment fanned out on her dashboard and on the passenger seat next to her Canon. A cop might call it a stakeout, but unlike a cop, Monica had access to equipment that would make any cop or Fed cream his pants. Unfortunately, the problem with these specific types of stakeouts was that there was seldom a hit for hours. They were not about observation, they were about listening. You were waiting for some kind of technological communiqué, be it telephone, radio, internet, whatever. It could get damn boring. She recalled a target she was paid to eliminate a few years back. The target’s main contact was addicted to internet porn. Monica must have listened to a thousand hours of forced moans parked outside the contact’s home before the bastard finally took a break and called the target, which resulted in an immediate address. She shot her main guy six times—all in the head. Then she went back to the porn guy and shot him six times too—all in the groin.

Monica lit a cigarette and cracked her window, preparing for a long day, maybe night. Instead, she got a pleasant surprise. A signal was coming from the Lambert house. An outgoing call. She tossed the cigarette out the window and immediately punched a few keys on her laptop. The metallic chirp of a ringing phone filled her car. She waited for the click, the “hello.” There was a click, but there was no “hello,” just a steady stream of gibberish. Her signal had been scrambled.

“Fuck!” she yelled. She punched more keys, looking for a number, tracing the call. Ten foreign symbols came back—no decipherable numbers.

This was impossible.
Who the fuck are these guys?

She frantically punched more keys on her laptop, cranked two dials on another device, adjusting frequencies.

Still gibberish.

“Fuck!” she yelled again.

Monica picked up her own cell, hit a number on her speed dial.

“Code in,” a male voice said.

“Neco. 8122765.”

“Waiting … clear. What’s—”

“I need an immediate trace,” she blurted. “Sending you the signal now.”

Monica knew the call would end before she could get the right frequency to unscramble and listen to the call, but she knew they could trace it.

“Got it,” the male voice said. “Hold …”

Monica lit another cigarette, inhaled deep. Her equipment was the absolute best. This had never,
ever
happened before.
Who the fuck are these guy—

“Okay,” the voice said. “We have the trace. The number is being sent to you now.”

Monica didn’t thank him, just hung up. She flung her second unfinished cigarette out the window and punched up the number. The gibberish had been over for almost a minute; the call was finished. She dialed the number.

“Image Spa, may I help you?”

She hung up.
A spa? A fucking spa? Why the hell would
—

A piece clicked:

Amy.

Another piece clicked:

The men at the park … the high-tech equipment that matched hers …

The Lamberts had protection. Real protection. People like her and her father.

Both pieces clicked
together
:

The Lamberts have been prisoners in their own home. Amy needed to get away. Needed to be pampered for a day. Lord knows, Monica understood that.

Monica raised her Canon. Adjusted the lens. Looked in the Lambert’s kitchen window from over one hundred yards away as if she were standing right outside their home. She saw Amy. She saw Patrick. The two guys from the park—skinny and baldy. And then she saw the third. A big black fella who looked like the main man by the way he spoke and gestured to everyone in the kitchen one at a time, clearly giving orders.

My dear sweet Amy, once again you’ve come through for me. And Dad’s getting the van
today.
It appears as if ‘sooner’ might just be happening after all.

Monica smiled and dialed the spa’s number again.

“Image Spa, may I help you?”

“Hi,” Monica said, “this is Amy Lambert. I just made an appointment, but I forgot to write it down.” She gave a silly chuckle. “Can you tell me when I’m due in again?”

“Four o’clock this afternoon, Mrs. Lambert.”

“Great, and that’s for … ?”

“A ninety-minute massage with Lana.”

“Right. Couldn’t remember if I booked sixty or ninety. Wouldn’t want to deprive myself those extra thirty minutes.”

The receptionist laughed.

Monica looked at her watch; it was 10:30 a.m. “See you at four,” she said.

“See you then,” the receptionist said.

Monica hung up, punched in the name of the spa on her laptop, got the address. She then dialed the same number from a few minutes before.

“Code in.”

“Neco. 8122765.”

“Waiting … go ahead.”

“I need blueprints. Sending you the address now.”

Monica lit a third cigarette. She would savor and finish this one. When she was done, she would get her photos developed, and then make sure her father had the van secured. Then a nice lunch somewhere. Broiled salmon maybe. After that? Why, after that she was heading to the spa, if you please.

Chapter 63

The Image Spa had once been a sizeable one-story home, long since renovated to accommodate its needs. Monica entered just after 3 p.m. Her hair was red, her eyes blue.

“May I help you?”

Monica approached the front desk where a single receptionist stood smiling. Monica performed a quick read of the woman: late 30’s, brunette, average features, way too tan, way too much eyeliner, tabloid magazine next to the appointment book, the newest Droid smartphone next to the magazine, no ring on her finger. Two or three more bad dates away from platinum blonde hair and fake tits.

Monica smiled genuinely. “Hi. I just moved into the area and was wondering if I could take a look around.”

“Absolutely.” The receptionist handed Monica a brochure. “Here is a list of all the services we offer.”

Monica took the brochure and pretended to scan it with interest before turning her back to the receptionist and wandering off.

“If you have any questions,” the receptionist called to her back, “please let me know.”

Monica waved a thank you over her shoulder, her mind too preoccupied to speak. She was comparing the blueprints in her mind to the layout before her. Massage should be to her right, deeper into the spa, past reception. She strolled onward, opened a door with a sign that read:
Shhh … Quiet Zone,
and then stepped into a waiting room that was all things serene. A woman sat in a cushy chair dressed in nothing but a white robe, her face in a magazine. The woman lifted her head and smiled at Monica.

Monica smiled back and whispered, “Waiting for a massage?”

The woman nodded.

“Lana, right?” Monica asked.

“Yes.”

“Is she any good?”

“She’s the best. I won’t go to anyone else.”

Monica made a surprised face that said
wow
, the blueprints still sliding throughout her mind like an old microfilm reader:

One door to the only massage room—you see that. You also see the fire exit at the extreme end of the waiting room. Behind the fire exit will be the spa’s less-than-glamorous side—a dumpster, a recycling bin … the new van.

You see the second door—the showers. Crucial. Its interior should have a connecting door leading directly into the massage room, so clients won’t have to walk back out into the waiting room before taking a shower after their massage. People feel disheveled after a massage; their hair is greasy and mussed, their faces mushed and half-asleep. They aren’t ready to meet the world yet. They need the rejuvenation that is a hot shower. And conversely, many are self-conscious of odor, therefore showers are often desired
before
a massage. Win-win.

Still, she needed to double-check on the connecting door between the two rooms.

“Is there a shower?” Monica asked.

The woman said there was and pointed to the second door.

Monica put on a worried face and pretended to run a hand through her hair (wig), as if she’d sooner die than be seen with a messy coif. “You mean you have to come back out here before going into the shower?”

“No,” the woman said as if she understood Monica’s concern completely. “Lana walks you into the showers. There’s a connecting door in her room. The tiling is exquisite.”

“I’m sure it is. Are there lockers?”

The woman nodded.

Monica smiled, said thank you, and then left the waiting room and approached reception again.

“Any questions so far?” the receptionist asked.

Monica only said, “It’s
beautiful,
” and kept walking, the blueprints sliding through her mind like the old microfilm reader again:

Facial and body treatments should be through the doorway to the left—right near the spa’s entrance.

She made a left.

*

Monica appeared at the front desk five minutes later. The receptionist was checking her smartphone.