Sabotage (22 page)

Now, he couldn’t say for sure that was what he wanted. He told Grant he wanted to die, but he knew it was highly unlikely that an American, who foolishly valued life too greatly, would do this. He still wanted this, maybe more, now that he was drowning in the consequences of his actions that day. Could he do it himself? He knew enough to not know that answer. What was worth saving? What was worth fighting for?

He knew one thing: Yankee’s death and humiliation was worth almost any price. That was worth living for. He would see him flinch. He would hear him scream—no matter what. After that was anyone’s guess.

T
here is no one more vulnerable on the planet than a naked male.

Red learned this long ago. She remembered her two years waitressing, during a series of poor decisions, at a place where the men smelled like their bad habits and treated her like a pincushion.

She learned how to turn that situation around.

Step One: appeal to their ego. This was the easiest. For all the talk of women falling for the slightest compliment, Red found that men were much easier to bring down. A wink and a nice word followed by a gentle touch on the thigh could bring any heterosexual man as far as she needed to get, which led to …

Step Two: appeal to their organ. Even when a man can control his sex drive, this becomes the primary focus of his life. Here is a man who can control his penis—those men, Red learned, are all famous for this ability. Everyone else needed to rub one out on or near her, no matter any age difference. This led to …

Step Three: get them naked, keep them naked, and you can have whatever you want.

On this evening, Red opened the door to the ladies’ room slightly, crooked her finger at Steve, and shut the door behind him. She grabbed his tie and practically threw him into the middle stall. She kissed him violently, her tongue like a dagger, giving him no ability to control anything. She took her time to bait the trap, no matter how much she hated kissing these ciphers. She put her mouth against his ear, said nothing but breathed often, and then ripped his shirt apart, sending the buttons flying across the room. She bit his neck, hard.

He started to unzip his pants.

She laughed. “No, take ‘em off.”

“Can’t I …?”

She grabbed him and bit his neck like she meant it this time. “Don’t be a pussy.” No man ever has ever liked being called a pussy. “If you’re going to ride this, you’re going balls out. I don’t play.” This half-concocted line never failed. No man could see the lack of logic on the other side. There had never been a bankroll yet big enough to keep the pants from being kicked into a heap.

She teased her short skirt up her thighs, showing him she was not wearing any underwear.

He could see the tattoo over top of her pubic bone, but couldn’t read what it said.

She turned around and raised her ass and moved it back toward him. Then she turned suddenly again and grabbed the shirt and threw it over the stall. She winked at him and then changed her expression to a more serious look. She put her finger on his lips. “Hold it.” She looked down to sell it. “Shit, let me grab a little friend.” Red winked at him, and he bought it.

They always bought it. This man, who was probably good at his job and not terribly reckless and most likely good with other people’s money, left all of that self-control at the sight of her thighs. That man didn’t exist for the time being.

She left the stall with Steve thinking she was grabbing a condom.

How wrong he was.

While Steve had his dick in his hand, Red gathered up all of his clothing, with the exception of his socks, which he was still wearing, and without saying a word, left the restroom. She stuffed the clothes in her oversized purse and told the first bouncer she saw with a dramatic flutter that there was a completely naked man in the ladies’ room. She looked shaken. She made a vaguely Scarlett O’Hara gesture that just seemed right. This sent every bouncer into chivalry mode, and this one was no different. He strode toward the problem, and she left the premises and grabbed the first taxi she saw.

“7710 Constanso Avenue,” she said and reached into her purse to count the money as the cab sped away. This was sport; now, she had work to do. She was going to pay her dear friend Caitlin a visit.

T
he girls scattered, but there was nowhere really to run. He had the gun. Priscilla was fully nude while the other two were in bras and panties.

Priscilla was the brains. She edged up the wall to her full height from the crouch she was in. “What do you want from us?” She asked like a seasoned hostage negotiator. “I’m sure we’ll do it. We’re easy.”

Britt felt the waves of emotion. They poured over him. It wasn’t her fault. He was so ashamed. He was so helpless. Everything had gone. He worried that someone heard the shots. But if anyone came, he would shoot them, too. He thought he was far enough away that any noise would be excused—such was the power of privilege.

Then he felt the stirrings. It was working. The killing was returning his masculinity. “Come over here,” he said to her. She was so much sexier, prettier, and smarter than the others. “Make me hard.”

“Then put the gun down.” She inched toward him.

He didn’t call her out.

She decided to continue. “Use your other gun.”

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

She pulled his pants down. Didn’t look like he was working with much. She looked back to Jilly and Tilly and motioned them to join her.

Priscilla used her calmest voice. “Ooh looky here girls,” she said, motioning with her eyes to the door. “Look at this.”

She turned her head and bit his scrotum—hard and fully. She pulled down with her teeth and yanked with her mouth just to make sure he was hurt very badly.

He screamed like a three year-old, and blood spurted everywhere.

“Run girls,” Priscilla spat, knowing the chances of anyone getting out alive were slim.

Britt figured out the play mid-scream: she wanted him to deal with her first, giving the other two time to escape. The pain returned him to his senses. The FBI training kicked in. He wheeled and shot both of the women in the head.

They didn’t have time to make a sound. They didn’t reach the door.

He looked down and saw the blood. It was bad. He turned back to Priscilla. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“But I’m glad I did,” she said. Her face was covered in his blood.

He thought about shooting her in the kneecaps, making her pay for the pain he was feeling. But he needed fewer loose ends, not more. He overcame the rage and shot her once but deadly enough. She was no longer a problem.

Britt went to the bathroom to see what he could do about his wound. He jumped in the shower and watched blood pour off him. The wound wasn’t as bad as he expected. He had some bandages in his overnight bag and luckily a change of clothes. This would hurt like a mother, but there was nothing that wouldn’t heal.

He couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t right. He was concentrating on all the wrong things while so close to the payoff for all his hard work. He was obsessed with his dick. What was wrong with him?

He sat on the bed to fix his dressing. Oh, did it hurt, but the bleeding was almost stopped. If she moved left or right an inch or two, it would have been much worse. He thought of Monty Python—only a flesh wound, indeed.

Britt found a pair of dark jeans and a red shirt. It was the best he could do about hiding the bleeding if it were to restart. He would just have to take his chances and soldier on.

He turned the air conditioner down all the way and put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. He hoped this would buy him enough time. He needed to be out of Vegas very soon.

He called his driver and told him to meet out front.

M
andy had about five minutes to think this through. The plane was taxiing, and she would be met by other Fibbies as soon as they deplaned. She dispatched Naseem and Grant to the front of the plane fifteen minutes earlier to give her a moment by herself. She caught a knowing glance from Naseem that made her very uneasy. She could sense that the initial horror of his double-cross was wearing off, and his resolve was likely setting in. She didn’t know if that led him in a different direction, but it was yet another thing that weighed on her.

Grant was being set up. She received an e-mail a few minutes before indicating that ten million dollars was transferred into his account this morning. Knowing what Naseem said, this fit perfectly with someone trying to hang the blame on him. He was part of a plan and either bungled the St. Louis explosion or was double-crossed, and now he was dead. The financial impact of this plot was obviously huge if someone could spend ten million dollars just to frame someone.

She spent half an hour e-mailing with Vanessa Jones about what to do. After giving her the go-ahead to make this crazy trip, Jones wanted to question Naseem and Miller separately—in custody. This seemed insane. There was no time to waste if Grant actually had a connection to someone who knew this villain and had spoken to him recently. Vanessa said other agents could check that out. Mandy knew how well that would work. Caitlin wanted and needed her connection with Grant. They had a shorthand, the way lovers and good friends do. Caitlin would become very unwilling to cooperate once she knew she wasn’t working with Grant.

At one time, she was interested romantically in Grant. Who wasn’t? He was an asshole, but all women love a rich, talented, good-looking asshole. They fight over them. She never acted on it, realizing it would be career death. Instead, she developed a buddy-buddy, frenemy thing that lasted until his famous public swan dive. Of all the things she had to reconcile, especially now, her complete Judas kiss of Grant was right up there.

Only three minutes to go. The airport was clear of departing flights, so it might be sooner.

They were arriving at McCarran Airport, private terminal, gate 7. She texted the agents to meet her at stall 17. It would buy them five minutes. With these two, she was sure that was all they would need.

She walked straight at Naseem and Grant, who were steeling for whatever was ahead.

“Boys, they think they’re onto something. They’re wrong. They can’t hear ya, but they can see ya on that camera directly over the pilot’s door.” She made no motion.

They knew.

“I’m gonna sit down and look at my phone while you disable it.”

Naseem stood and made a single gesture, putting his right thumb painfully into the center of the camera. He winced from the pain.

Grant saw blood, but there was no more camera.

“Tie me up, Miller. Stick something in my mouth. Wanted to say that for a long time.” She winked at him.

He deftly obeyed her.

“They’re coming from 17. They think you two are somehow in cahoots. Head the opposite direction. They’ll let me go in an hour or two, and I’ll text my phone.” She motioned and Grant took it.