The Inner Circle (2 page)

“We haven’t seen them yet. But the Kid just sent a file. Apparently a new link opened up and ...”
 

“What is it?”
 

“Looks like the next part of the game involves a child.”
 

“Jesus Christ.”
 

“Exactly. So we’re going to hold off until we establish a location.”
 

Ronny nodded to himself. “Got it.”
 

Carver asked, “How’s Ian doing?”
 

“I’m okay,” Ian said. “Just, you know, nervous.”
 

“Don’t worry about it. We’re all nervous. I’ll call you guys back if anything changes. For now, just stay on the target.”
 

“Got it.”
 

Ronny disconnected and set the phone back by the gearshift. Beside him, Ian was slouched in his seat again, staring back out the window. Ronny glanced at him and thought about how the kid’s life had changed forever a year ago. He thought about how he himself, almost five years ago, had woken up in that shed just a few miles from the Mexican border. How his wife and two children had been taken and held captive by Simon. How he had thought just like Ian had thought—how all the players no doubt thought, even the Racist a quarter mile ahead of them—that this was just another segment in
The Twilight Zone
and the monster was outside right now, waiting to get his attention, waiting to show him that it wasn’t safe no matter how much he tried telling himself otherwise.

3

Actually, inside the Crown Vic that moment, the Racist wasn’t worried about monsters waiting outside. At that moment, he was worried about the monster on the other end of the cell phone. The monster whose voice he’d first heard less than two days ago, telling him that his wife and son had been taken captive and that the only way to get them back was to be a good boy and do everything Simon said or else they died.
 

And Simon, at that very moment, was doing everything he could to set the Racist off.
 

“Come on, Mason,” he was saying, because the Racist’s name was Mason Coulter, an ex-con who’d been working as a mechanic for the past five years. “You can admit it to me. I won’t tell anyone.”
 

Mason’s entire body was shaking. Not so much out of fear or concern but rather anger. An inexorable rage coursed through his blood. This fuck face and whoever else took his family were going to pay. Of this, Mason was certain. How and when, well, that was something to worry about later. Right now, though, if he wanted to keep his family alive, he had to do everything Simon said, which included putting up with the asshole’s grating voice.
 

“No,” Mason murmured.
 

“Yes,” Simon said. “Tell me how much you liked the feel of that man’s mouth around your cock. I mean, you did come, didn’t you? You must have liked it. You must have
loved
it.”
 

“Shut up!” Mason shouted, the sudden outburst surprising even him.
 

Simon chuckled. “What’s wrong, Mason? Do you want to cry? Cry like a little fucking girl?” He paused. “What about fucking a little girl? Would that make you feel better? Would that make you feel more like a man? Because if it came down to it and you were given the choice, which would you do?”
 

“What?” Mason said. The rain was falling harder and harder, the windshield wipers working full force. “What are you talking about?”
 

“Well,” Simon said matter-of-factly, “between fucking a little girl and killing her, which would you prefer?”
 

Mason’s mouth opened but then slowly closed.
 

“Just think about that, Mason. Think about which would be easier for you. Or is this maybe a race issue? Like, would it be easier to kill a black girl or would it be easier to fuck a white girl? Or vice versa?” Another pause. “Are you there, Mason? I can see you, but I don’t hear you.”
 

Mason swallowed, his massive Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. His throat was dry. He wanted water, soda, beer,
something
, but he had nothing to drink. He had nothing at all except the money in the wallet that had been given to him very early in the game. That and the cell phone now seemingly glued to his ear.
 

“Yes,” he finally managed. “I’m here.”
 

“Good,” Simon said. “It’s very good that you’re still with me. Because the longer you’re with me, the longer Gloria and Anthony stay alive. Say, you want them to stay alive, don’t you?”
 

“Yes,” Mason breathed. His body still shook. “God, yes I do.”
 

“That’s great, Mason. That’s fantastic. So just do yourself a favor and play the game and maybe both your wife and son will make it out of this in one piece. Got it?”

4

Eventually the Racist turned off 95 onto the Julia Tuttle Causeway, taking him over Biscayne Bay and into Miami Beach.
 

Now that our target had gone deeper into the city, we had closed the gap. Ronny and Ian stayed only six car lengths behind, while Carver and I stayed five car lengths behind them. Traffic was everywhere, making it impossible for the Racist to know we were following him. Besides, it wasn’t him we were worried so much about but rather his escorts, who we usually spotted by now.
 

Despite the heavy rain, people were still out and about, hurrying from one restaurant or bar or club to the next. Palm trees danced to the music of the rain and wind. Lightning continued to streak the sky like a strobe.
 

The Crown Vic slowed in front of a place called The Spur. Then it sped up again, drove for another two blocks, and pulled into a parking lot.
 

Carver checked his gun as he called Ronny.
 

“Head down another couple of blocks and park where you can. We’ll keep an eye on him.”
 

The SUV continued down the street, lost with the constant rush of traffic. I slowed as we neared the parking lot. The sodium-arc lamps illuminating the lot were dim, but they were just strong enough to see the Racist’s massive bulk as he climbed out of the car.
 

We passed the lot and came to a red light.
 

Carver put in his earpiece and said, “Go around the block, find a place to park,” and then he was outside, slamming the door behind him.

•
   
•
   
•

F
INDING
A
PLACE
to park in Miami Beach on a Saturday night, even if it is past midnight and raining like hell, is not an easy task. Eventually I did find a space, but it was four blocks away from the spot I’d dropped off Carver, even further from the spot where Carver had trailed the Racist. That place the target had slowed down in front of, The Spur, was where Carver had tracked him, which was seven blocks away.
 

Before getting out of the car, I put in my earpiece. Then I checked my gun, a Sig Sauer SP2022. I shoved it in the back waistband of my jeans, placed a baseball cap on my head, locked the car and hurried back down the street. I was completely drenched by the time I made it to the main strip.
 

In my ear Carver asked where I was.
 

“I’m almost there,” I said, my hands in my pockets, my head tilted down but still aware of every person I passed.
 

I spotted The Spur forty seconds later. There was a small line outside. They were illuminated by a yellow and red neon sign of a cowboy boot hanging above their heads, its spur flashing blue.
 

Carver and Ronny were waiting on the opposite side of the street, half a block down. Carver had his cell phone to his ear.
 

I nodded at Ronny, asked, “Where’s Ian?”
 

“Keeping an eye on the back,” he said. Then, his face all at once somber, “This is messed up.”
 

I nodded, thinking he meant the little girl strapped to the bed.
 

Then Carver finished his call and said, “Ben, give Ronny your piece.”
 

“What?”
 

“Lose the gun.”
 

It’s important to note that in the past two years I’d never once questioned Carver. In many ways, he saved my life, and I owed him a great deal. So when he gave me an order I never faltered or asked why. But now, with the rain coming down hard, with lightning streaking the sky, with us so close to our latest target, I couldn’t help myself.
 

“Why?”
 

He had turned to say something to Ronny but now paused, looked back at me, and said, his voice hard, “They’ll wand us at the door.”
 

I understood then why Ronny had said this was messed up. Not the little girl strapped to the bed—which was indeed messed up, just on an entirely different level—but the fact that Carver and I were apparently going inside The Spur, just the two of us, without any weapons.
 

The first rule about trailing a target—the most important rule Carver always stressed—was never get yourself trapped. That’s why we most often did the Smash and Grab. Because then we were out in the open, with limitless exits. But inside a store, inside a house, inside a club, the exits become limited. It gets to the point that if there was a trap and Caesar’s men surrounded us, it would be a hell of a time trying to get out alive. And now, going inside The Spur, where they were bound to wave a metal detecting wand over us, which meant of course we couldn’t take our guns, I realized just how messed up—how
fucked
up—this had become.
 

“Why can’t we just wait for him to come out?”
 

“The girl might be in there.”
 

“She’s not.”
 

“She might be,” Carver said. “We can’t take that chance. We need eyes on the inside, and we need them now.”
 

Carver stared at me hard and I knew there was no point trying to argue. I reached behind my back, withdrew the Sig, handed it to Ronny. He made it disappear into his rain parka.
 

“Who was on the phone?” I asked Carver.
 

“The Kid. I had him look up what he could about The Spur.”
 

“And?”
 

“There’s going to be trouble inside.”
 

“How can you be so sure?”
 

“Because The Spur,” Carver said, “is a gay bar.”

5

Mason Coulter had the words DEATH TO FAGS tattooed across his chest. Below this, on the left side of his stomach, was a swastika. Beside the swastika, on the right side of his stomach, were two crossed hammers.
 

These tattoos had not been on his skin three days ago. Before then he had only had two, both prison ink. One was his son’s name, the other a crossed out AB. The AB stood for the Aryan Brotherhood, which he had briefly been a member of when he was inside. But he had had no choice in the matter, not if he wanted to survive, and so he had become a skinhead for his wife’s and son’s sake—at least that was what he told himself at the time—but after he had gotten out one of the first things he had done was had it crossed out. The thought had occurred to him to try to get rid of it completely, but he wanted it there as a reminder, a constant accusatory memento of the life he had once led and the life he had almost once lost.
 

But now there were others.
 

On his chest.
 

On his arms.
 

On his back and on his legs.
 

His entire body was
covered
in these tattoos that had appeared on his swollen and raw skin when he woke up two days ago in Alma, Georgia.
 

He had been in a bathtub, completely naked. A cell phone was on the bathtub’s rim. It rang the moment Mason sat up. And who had been on the other end? A voice calling itself Simon. Simon saying good morning, Mason, how are you doing? Simon then asking what Mason thought about his new ink. Simon telling Mason that if he ever wanted to see his wife and son again, he would do exactly what Simon said.
 

Mason had lurched out of the tub, knowing at once that this wasn’t his bathroom. He opened the door and stepped into a bedroom that wasn’t his either.
 

On the bed lay two naked black men. They were both dead, their throats slit. One even had his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling.
 

“My, my, my,” Simon said softly in Mason’s ear. “Would you look at that? Two deceased homosexual African Americans.” A chuckle. “That’s quite a mouthful. Though I guess you’d call them dead queer niggers, wouldn’t you, Mason? I mean, that is what a racist would say, isn’t it?”
 

Mason was a tall man, standing six-five, weighing close to three hundred fifty pounds. He had a lazy face, somewhat resembling a bloodhound, but he was the type of man who demanded respect wherever he went, taking no shit from anyone. But now here, standing completely naked in this strange place, talking to this strange man, something broke inside him. An internal dam that he had been building most of his life broke and, though he did not cry, tears welled up in his eyes.
 

In his ear, Simon said, “Oh no, Mason, don’t do that. At least not yet. Right now ... well, compared to what’s in store for you, this is nothing to cry about. Now, see those glasses on the nightstand? Put them on.”
 

“But I”—he swallowed—“I don’t wear glasses.”
 

“Mason, Mason, Mason,” the voice said tiredly. “Do you
want
your family to die?”