Sabotage (5 page)

But in the brief time that Raylon averted his eyes from his charge, Joey was half into a limo. There was a vision standing just outside the door. A blonde-headed, big-breasted vision with an ass the size of a horse farm. She was a Becky, slang for a white girl who loved black men and only black men. But oh, she was a fine-looking Becky. Raylon hated these distractions, because, most of the time, he was playing traffic cop instead of getting to enjoy the goods. He got paid very well so that Joey got to hit that shit, but that didn’t make it any less fun to see your bro taking that all for himself. And she was
fine
. Raylon would have been tempted to sample that ass himself and ask for forgiveness later.

Joey was clearly introducing himself to this young lady.

“Yo, Joey.” Raylon tugged at his shirt. “Come on. This shit can wait. She’ll be here after you’re done. Three songs. Where you at?”

‘Yeah, I know,” Joey said, turning to glance at Raylon with the slanted eyes of a serious dope smoker. The entire entourage smelled like a Thailand grow farm.

“We’re supposed to be on now,” he said, hoping to talk one more problem out of the way, knowing he was going to fail.

“I’ll check witchoo in a few,” he said. “Send the hype.”

Big Brooza was his hype man. This was not what he was supposed to do, not at all. They were going to deviate from the plan so that Joey could get laid.

But hell, he thought. He’d be giving the audience more show. Joey would do his three. They certainly wouldn’t complain about a longer show.

Brooza had seen this before. He admired Joey’s new friend and nodded at Raylon with the look they gave when a classic piece of ass came Joey’s way. Shit, Brooza was happy. He could plug his own release, out next week, on Straight Up Cash with plenty of guest appearances from his boy.

Raylon nodded and sent Brooza toward the stage. Roger that, thought Big Brooza. He was gonna rock this shit. Raylon pulled a walkie talkie from his pocket and asked the stage crew to go to Plan B.

“What’s up, Callllllli?” Big Brooza hit the stage, plenty happy to fill the time.

“Y’all know me. From da SD. 619 baby comin’ up da coast to fuck witchoo!”

The crowd, emerging from this rather impromptu setup, cheered wildly. Pal Joey was big and getting bigger. Brooza got his drops on the records, and most kids knew him. This was big stuff.

Joey introduced himself to his new playmate, although he obviously needed no introduction. She looked upset and put off as he took her hand, and they got into Limo Number Four, a white stretch limo which had no current occupants, Joey’s only requirement right now. The exterior was ho-hum, but the interior made up for it. It looked like a neon fairy cut an artery.

“Hi, Becky. I’m Joey.”

“That ain’t my name, boo.” She put her hand on his neck and teased him. She didn’t like being called a Becky, even though she clearly knew she was one.

“I know, but I ain’t gonna rememba ya name anyway. Let’s just keep it simple. You a fine lookin’ Becky, but you a straight Becky.”

The girl wanted to be offended and tried her best, but she couldn’t be. This was one of the world’s most famous rappers. This was her chance. All her friends and Facebook friends would soon know of her encounter. She snuggled closer to him, smelling his Versace cologne and the heavy scent of marijuana. Joey closed the limo door and moved to the back. Becky followed. She kissed him and undid the top button of his Coogi shirt. He kissed her back hard. Joey’s pal Big Brooza made his case from outside the window, firing everyone up.

Then they heard it. A loud noise, like ten thousand concerts. It wasn’t a gun. No gun sounded that big. It was a bomb or an earthquake. Then they heard a whistling, followed by more explosions. It sounded like fucking
Full Metal Jacket
. Two wheels of their limo tipped off the ground. Becky screamed. This limo was originally made for a presidential candidate and was perfect for a man who went straight from dealing drugs to selling records. He was as protected as a low-rent dignitary would be, and he needed the protection. He said that from day one. Half of 619 still remembered Pal Joey from when he was a civilian, a crack dealer. He could think of plenty of enemies. Was that what this was about? No, it couldn’t be. This was way bigger than his sins.

The bulletproof limo sped off, not asking for directions, carrying only Joey and Becky. The driver locked the doors. If that bomb was meant for him, Joey should know better than to look out the window, but he just had to.

As they pulled out, he turned and cracked the window. He saw bodies. He saw blood. He saw his boy Sarge grabbing what looked like a stump for a leg and screaming like a girl. His best friend, mentor, partner-in-crime Raylon screamed from just outside his window.

“Please stop for me, please stop for me!”

Raylon didn’t cry like that. This was bad. Their eyes connected for a moment and the pleading in Raylon’s was unbearable.

The driver took that decision out of Joey’s hands and sped up. Joey didn’t complain. And that fact made Joey feel like a punk.

C
aitlin forgot about her aches and pains. She quit trying to reconstruct her night. She now felt this destruction. She rolled these concerns around for weeks and strong suspicions for days. It just still seemed so dumb, though. Not dumb enough that she was still with him but just dumb enough not to call the police.

What would she have said? I’ve seen the maps that look like they’re planning a military campaign? I hacked into his e-mail and saw messages that said some shit was going down on July 7 even though that shit appeared to be regarding a movie premiere? No, it was way too speculative to talk to anyone else. At least, she convinced herself of that.

The life had been sucked out of the room. Even Vegas, known for its decadence and its complete lack of connection to the rest of the world, was really composed of people from all over, and, at this moment, they might as well have been at home, looking at the screens and seeing their hometowns in flames.

The anchors were cutting between multiple locations—New York, Chicago, Atlanta, Miami, Missouri. There were reports that something just happened in LA. So far, nothing had happened in Vegas, at least that she could tell.

Well, if Britt were still here, that would make sense. She saw dozens of cities mentioned in that last e-mail, the one that scared her. If the e-mail was correct, there were more events to come.

Paolo saw her and seemed surprised. “I thought you left,” he said, looking down at her and sizing her up, somehow simultaneously. “That’s what I told your friend.”

The unease intensified. “What friend?”

“The Guido-looking guy.”

Caitlin glared at him. That didn’t exactly narrow it down in Vegas.

“You know. Your friend’s boy. I saw you two at Bellagio a couple of weeks ago.”

Shit, it was Tony, Britt’s muscle. How did he know about Oscar’s? How did he know about Paolo? She vaguely remembered seeing him that night.

She looked puzzled. “How did he know about this place?”

Paolo shrugged. “I gave him my card that night.”

Of course, Caitlin didn’t remember. She had been drinking and left all of her senses at the bottom of her third drink. This is why she shouldn’t drink or do drugs—ever. She forgot things. She missed details. Sometimes she missed entire nights and their inevitable early mornings that followed. She always kept Oscar’s as her safe haven and didn’t let anyone know—until now.

“What did you tell him?” He could hear the note in her voice.

“I sent him on his way. I didn’t like his look. I would have covered you either way. I suggested he check the high stakes rooms at the Wynn. He bit.”

Oh, she was going to panic. She could feel it.

“I need a favor, Paolo.”

He winked at her. “What you need?”

“I need a burner phone and a place to hide. And I need that little package I left in the back office.”

Paolo didn’t blink an eye.

“Follow me.”

W
hat were the chances he wouldn’t be noticed?

Here he was, a tall man of Arab descent, riding a Jet Ski like a bat out of hell while the sky rained smoke and ashes. Surely, someone would take note of that.

Lucky for him, he didn’t have far to go, and no one rushing to the cove was thinking about terrorism. Party Cove owned such a bad reputation that everyone was heading there sure that some drunkard dropped a cigarette in the wrong spot and caused a diesel explosion. That explanation wouldn’t last long, not with the size and once people figured out the shrapnel. But for now, it gave him just enough cover to round the corner, move sufficiently slowly through the no-wake zone, and take the jet-ski over by a community dock. It was early for most of the non-party cove visitors to have made it to the lake yet, so he was fairly safe in pulling in and eyeing his escape route.

Before he did, he thought of one problem that needed to be taken care of. He no longer understood who he worked for, but he knew they assumed he was dead. That was an advantage he desperately wanted. He looked at the new iPhone, with its so many handy features he had come to love, and pressed the button to turn it off. If he kept it, he would be tempted to use it, and no good could come of that. He dutifully tossed it into the lake, saying a sad goodbye as it quickly drifted into the murk. He waited for a second to see if there were any chance it would float, but this was not going to happen. It was gone.

He had watched the lake for six weeks. In his mind, he was ready to die for the cause, but he didn’t want to die without making it worth his while. Therefore, he had worked on finding an escape route should his mission need to be aborted.

If he was completely honest, he had provided himself with a relief valve. But he certainly hadn’t considered this scenario—the cause he gave his life to would desert him.

Check that. The cause hadn’t deserted him. That last text confirmed it. Yankee hadn’t deserted the cause; he never was a part of it, just a clever and dedicated chameleon who duped them all.

The spot was between this dock and the marina, a large brown lake house with two levels, lots of railings and porch space. It was probably built in the 70s and was still well-cared for, but it was no longer prime space on the lake. As far as he could tell, save for one visit by a family about a month earlier, he had never seen anyone there.

On his last visit, ten days ago, Naseem did some reconnaissance. He left some real estate cards, things you’d see all around the lake, in specific places—on the back door and up on the car. He wanted to know if anyone had been there since his last visit.

He climbed from the deck and peered at the back door. The card was still there. He discarded his life vest, practically jumped up the stairs, and went to the end of the deck, finding the jimmy he left there just in case. The back door was a screen door and no problem to enter. The house smelled musty and unused. Naseem searched for the owners’ clothing and found them in the third bedroom. The man seemed to be tall and surprisingly thin, at least judging by his lake wardrobe. He sucked his belly in and put on a pair of flowery green shorts that were no match for the light-blue polo he found and was forced to wear. He hid his swimsuit above the dryer, went back outside, and threw the life jacket over the railing into the water. He didn’t think any of it would be found for some time. He could not find any shoes that would fit him until finally, behind the door at the top of the stairs, he found a pair of flip flops that had obviously been discarded by a careless tourist.

In front of the house, there was a dark gold Buick under the awning, and, again, his cards were untouched. He used the jimmy and got the driver’s side door open. The car looked to be from the early 90s and was easy enough to hot wire. The only question was would it turn over? Naseem tried—once, half a turn, disgusting sound. Again he tried, but got the same results, only fainter. He gave it one more time before he would have to figure out another plan. He waited. He prayed. The car sputtered for the longest time and then finally turned over.