Hit: A Thriller (The Codename: Chandler) (10 page)

I approached the body, taking in the slight subconjunctival hemorrhage staining the whites of open eyes, the slightly off tilt of the neck.

Leaving him, I moved through the suite. I was fairly sure Heath had killed Bratton before our tryst, but it never hurt to be thorough. The last thing I needed was an unwelcome surprise. Clearing the bedroom, bathroom, closets bigger than my apartment, and workout room, I returned to the sofa and pulled out my phone.

After verifying our identities, I launched right in.

“Bratton is dead.”

“Good, then—”

“I didn’t kill him. The bodyguard did.”

“Where?”

“In his room.”

“Who knows he’s dead?”

“As far as I know, no one other than me and Rodriguez.”

“Are you in the room now?”

“Just me and the corpse.”

“Does Bratton have a flash drive on him?”

“It wasn’t in his wallet.” I did a quick search of the dead man’s pockets, but he hadn’t added any items since the car ride in Chicago. “I have a cell phone here, a wallet, with over two thousand in cash, and a condom, thankfully unused. Wait—”

I checked his hands. The three platinum rings were there, his fingers swelling around them, but the ruby ring set in gold was gone. “Could this information be hidden in a ring?”

“A ring?”

“After the meeting in Chicago, he was wearing a ring I’m pretty sure wasn’t on his finger before.”

“Take it.”

“That’s the problem. I don’t have it. I’m betting the bodyguard does.”

“Then you know what you need to do.”

I did. “Recover the Precious. But I don’t know where Rodriguez went.”

Silence hummed over the phone, then the clack of fingers on a keyboard.

“Jacob?”

“Leave that part to me. Does he have anything else with him? Suitcase?”

“One.” I returned to the master bedroom. Finding Bratton’s carryon in a closet, I plopped it on the bed and rifled through it.

“Anything?” Jacob asked.

“Not unless you’re interested in condoms. The guy has a drug store’s entire inventory in here.”

I wiped down all the surfaces I’d touched, not just for security reasons but sanitary ones as well, then returned to the sunken living room. A memory niggled at the back of my mind, although it took a couple of seconds for me to grasp hold of it—the lingering flunitrazepam, no doubt.

“Shit.”

“What is it?” Jacob asked.

“Heath Rodriguez.” I paused. I wasn’t sure if Jacob was familiar with the training I’d gone through, but as my handler, I suppose I had to trust him. There was no one else. “He mentioned The Instructor.”

“The Instructor? Are you sure? And you didn’t think to bring that up until now?”

“I was… I’ve had a few problems.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked if The Instructor trained me.”

“Why would he ask that?”

I tried to recreate the memory in my mind, but it was no use. I wasn’t sure if it was the flunitrazepam or the orgasms, or a combination of the two, but the whole experience shifted and blurred as if something from a dream. “I don’t know. He also wanted to know if The Instructor sent me to kill him.”

“Did he say anything about Hydra?”

“No.”

Only the sound of computer keys clacking came from the other end of the line.

“A couple things he said make me think he might be an operative. Could he be working for someone The Instructor wants dead?”

“You’ve got to find him, Chandler.”

I hadn’t expected a clear answer from Jacob, but the way he ignored my question and changed the focus made me uneasy
.
“In all of Vegas? That will be easy.”

“He’s on the second floor in the Grand Canal Shoppes, just entered St. Mark’s Square.”

“What, are you magic now?”

“Casinos are full of cameras. And I know how to access them.”

“So in a word, magic.” I said, already on my way out the door. I slipped the Do Not Disturb sign over the knob and broke into a run. “There isn’t any way you can use some of that witchcraft to zap me up a gun, is there?”

“Sorry. There you’re on your own.”

Heath

Heath threaded through the crowd jamming the replica of St. Mark’s Square, moving quickly yet casually enough not to attract attention. Scanning the crowd as he went, he skipped over singers and stilt walkers, jugglers and human statues dressed in costumes from the
Commedia Dell’ Arte,
and the obligatory Bermuda shorts-wearing tourists. He was good at reading body language and intent in faces and barely had to take the time to really look at them. And that was a good thing. The trip to the lobby for another key card to Bratton’s room had taken more time than he’d hoped. Too much time.

By now, the Russians would be getting restless.

On the far side of the square, doors opened to the ballrooms and convention center. A crowd of nearly all women milled the halls, the lanyards around their necks and piles of books in their arms suggesting some kind of booklovers’ convention.

For what might be the first time in Heath’s life, he shifted through the currents of women without paying them the attention they so richly deserved, keeping his mind focused and feet moving.

The business office was a quarter of the way down the long hall, situated between two ballrooms. He glanced through the side panel window and as expected, it was closed for the evening. What casino would want executives faxing at midnight when they should be in the casino, blowing money?

Any sane person would probably hesitate before breaking into a locked room amidst a crowd like this, but Heath slipped his tools in his hands and walked up as if he belonged there.

People tended to defer to confidence.

Even with thousands of dollars of computer equipment in the room, the door was little more than a courtesy lock, and he had it open in just a few seconds. He closed it behind him, turned on the lights, and reset the lock before moving into the room. Passing a fax machine, he sat down at the first computer and snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves. Then he booted it up and logged in using Bratton’s key card and the access code to his room’s Wifi.

The rest went quickly. Hacking was one of Heath’s specialties, and he spoke binary as fluently as he spoke English. Within minutes he had accessed the hotel’s mainframe by using a USB stick to upload a Trojan horse—a malicious code he’d worked on for quite a while—which began a brute force password attack. Then he sat back and waited.

The casino’s security was good. The Trojan was better. In eight minutes, Heath had his password, and two minutes later he was remotely spliced into the Venetian’s command center, peering at the images caught by cameras all over the hotel. Since he didn’t have a monitor array, he had to cycle cameras manually, made a little easier by twelve thumbnail images per page.

As he’d guessed, the Russians looked uneasy, though as long as he avoided the casino, he should be able to sneak past, quiet as a gentle wind.

More concerning was an image showing a bank of elevators on the second floor. She moved so quickly and casually, he almost didn’t spot her, just a flash and she was gone. But he couldn’t push back the smile that bloomed on his lips.

“How did you wiggle yourself free, my
chica bonita
?”

She was fast, but she still had a long way to travel. Maybe he could still get away without killing her.

He switched the feed to the next batch of cameras, people playing blackjack, the front escalators, and…

A shot of adrenaline dumped into his system as he watched Pino and Smith stride through the Doge’s Palace façade’s main door.

Heath performed a quick check of his cell phone, but it was safely turned off, the battery removed as always. There was only one way those two could have followed Bratton’s plane to Las Vegas and then their car to the Venetian Hotel. Bratton’s phone. If the
pendejo
wasn’t already dead, Heath would kill him again.

Time ticking away, he attacked the keyboard and uploaded the other program on his USB stick; a system restore malware virus.

One by one, the camera feeds went dark. What the clever little program did was reboot the entire surveillance system using yesterday’s data. It would infect every hard drive in the network, erasing all newly recorded video and replacing it with the most recent back-up. Then it would infect the back-ups and do another reboot, erasing everything.

Once begun, it couldn’t be stopped, and they’d be dark for at least an hour. By then he’d be gone, and no one would ever know he’d ever been there. Not the authorities, not the Russians, not Pino and his group of Venezuelan radicals.

And most of all, not The Instructor.

Heath pocketed the key card and found his way back into the throngs of chatting readers, the decibel level of the women’s excited talk camouflaging the thunk of the door as he closed it behind him. As expected, hotel security had already mobilized, men in suits with ear-mikes walking past in a big hurry.

No one gave Heath a second glance.

He made his way back to St. Mark’s Square and ducked into a shop selling Venetian masks. Simone would be here soon, and he needed to be ready when she arrived. Only after he made it past her was it even worthwhile to worry about Pino and Smith.

Chandler

“When you can’t escape,” The Instructor said, “plain sight can be the best place to hide.”

The Grande Canal Shoppes were on the second floor of the hotel, and I took the elevator straight there. Although in the real world it was almost midnight, the ceiling of the shopping mall resembled an incredibly realistic-looking sky and carried the soft glow of early evening. Plenty of shoppers still milled, street singers sang, and living statues statued. The scents of food still drifted from the many restaurants, and the nightclubs and the casino downstairs were just getting heated up. A gondolier boomed O Sole Mio, shuttling one of the last pairs of lovers for the night down the fake canal, and I thought about Heath’s earlier comment about the song.

I hated being manipulated. Ironic since I was trying to manipulate him at the time, but the truth nonetheless. I’d killed men I’d fucked before—my job required it—and I wouldn’t hesitate this time, either. The bastard more than deserved a little payback.

I wound through the pristine faux streets and took one of the bridges arching over the canal, finally making my way into the St. Mark’s Square portion of the indoor mall. The place was jammed with late night diners, shoppers and tourists. Street performers sang and mimed and juggled, all dressed in elaborate masks, gowns, capes, and hats straight out of a medieval carnival.

A clown-like Arlecchino, or harlequin, walked past me on stilts, and two living statues posed nearby among throngs of tourists, wearing the elaborate costumes and masks of the
Commedia Dell’ Arte
; one dressed as the sharp nosed Capitano, the other donning the shriveled face and rich robes of Pantalone. Beyond them, another sported a Bauta mask and tricorn hat, as if Casanova himself had taken up residence in Las Vegas.

The place was huge, the ceiling soaring to a false sky several stories above and rimmed with shops and restaurants that looked out over elegant balconies. I walked with the flow of traffic, scanning as I went, but there was so much going on it was difficult for me to take it all in, even with my training.

If I was going to find Heath in this haystack, I’d need more assistance from Jacob. I reached for my phone and called. We used an abbreviated exchange code and got right to it.

“I’m in St. Mark’s square. Point me in the right direction.”

“I can’t.”

Despite the voice distorter, I could hear the alarm in Jacob’s voice. “Can’t? What happened?”

“The security video. It’s gone.”

“For St. Mark’s Square?”

“For the whole hotel. The entire system is rebooting and the back-ups were wiped.”

“That’s not a coincidence.”

“No kidding. It’s also not easy.”

My computer hacking knowledge was limited compared to Jacob’s, but I remembered the story of a twosome in Australia who’d hacked into a casino’s security cameras and used them to spy on the opposition’s cards. In that case, the gambler and his accomplice were discovered right away.

“There’s no trail?”

“Oh, there’s a trail. It leads to a computer in the hotel’s business center and to Bratton.”

“Smart.”

I watched the living statues change positions. Two Arlecchinos in the balcony above started to sing, and another standing on a giant ball surrounded by the type of velvet ropes you see in movie theaters, started to juggle.

“But wouldn’t there be a username? A password? Something?”

“Sure. There’s an Internet access code assigned to each room. In this case, Bratton’s. The password for the control center was hacked. It’s one thing splicing into a live video line—we’ve all seen that in a hundred movies. But your boy somehow got a Trojan to do a blunt force attack. I saved part of the malware code, but I don’t think I can trace it.”

“I guess Heath thought of everything.”

“Chandler?”

“Yes?”

“Who the hell is this guy?”

Good question.

Capitano and Pantalone moved to the side, getting ready for their part in the song, and for the first time, I noticed Casanova was dressed in a black shirt and dark gray sports jacket. But more than the clothing, I recognized the body underneath it. The way he moved.

“You want to know who Heath is, Jacob? How about I ask him?”

“He’s still there?”

“Right in front of me.”

He was at least twenty meters away, on the other side of a dining area for one of the restaurants, closer to the mall. I must have walked right past him, and I was sure he was watching me now.

He’d see me coming long before I could reach him.

“So what are you waiting for?”

“You to wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck, Chandler. Go kick his ass.”

Tucking my phone into my pocket, I glanced around the square and focused on the juggler. Balancing on top of a large ball, he rolled in tiny circles as he tossed red, yellow, and blue balls in the air, catching one only to toss again in unending movement. A small group surrounded him, chattering and nodding with appreciation.