Jeff Abbott - Cut and Run

‘That’s not how comas work, sweetpea,’ Tasha said.

‘Well, Mom’s been reading to him. Or leaving books on tape playing next to his bed. All his favorite books. Robert Ludlum, Louis L’Amour. He loves those. And I run Mel Brooks movies on the DVD player for him.’

‘So read to him.’

‘What about a direct approach?’ Paul said. ‘You could do a lap dance for him.’

She blinked. ‘A lap dance.’

‘It couldn’t hurt. And he had a woody earlier, so he’s still got some juice in his brain.’

‘Do you ever hear yourself talk, Paul?’ A lap dance for a guy two seconds from choking on his own drool.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I admire your concern for your dad. Really. But you have millions missing, Kiko isn’t waiting forever for his money, you’ve got a guy half-dead upstairs you’re going to start torturing, you’ve got Eve and this Whit man gunning for you. The police could descend on you any second. And you want me to lap dance for your comatose daddy.’

Paul slapped her.

She fell back against the withered legs under the covers. His legs felt like sticks under the sheets.

‘Don’t mouth off at me. Especially in front of my dad.’ Like Tommy Bellini was going to open his eyes, shoot them a disapproving look.

‘You hit me, Paul.’ She slowly got up from the bed. ‘After all I’ve done for you…’

‘I hit you because I want you to realize the seriousness of my request. I didn’t ask you to do him, that would be gross.’ He took a step toward her. ‘Just rub against him. If it works, it works. I’m sorry, baby, please.’

‘And we could all get written up in a medical journal.’ She moved to the other side of the bed, keeping it between her and Paul. ‘Charming. He can wake up and slip the tip in my G-string.’

‘Tasha. I need my dad. I need him bad now because I don’t know what to do.’ He started to cry. More than cry. Blubber.

‘Paul, don’t.’ She was still spitting mad and the sight of tears on his face made her even madder. She hated to see a man cry; it turned her stomach.

‘Kiko’s gonna put my balls in a grinder. I got to have that money.’

If he had cried for his father, her heart would have softened toward him. But he was crying because he was afraid for himself. It wasn’t tears for his dad or for anyone else. She wanted to slap him.

‘Hush now,’ she said quietly. ‘Be strong, Paul.’

‘I need my dad. We’ve spent all this money to take care of him, he sure ought to get better.’

Tasha counted to ten silently. ‘Paul. Your father’s not going to recover. Ever. That’s clear to everyone but you. You’ve got to take charge, take responsibility.’ She touched his shoulder. ‘Let me help you.’

Her pager beeped. She glanced at the readout. Ralph, her computer hacker friend. She pulled a cell phone – a real one, not the clever little gun she carried that no one knew about except, now, Whit Mosley – out of her purse and dialed his number.

‘Tasha. Ralph sounded excited. ‘Emily Smith is using her Visa again. At Greystoke Hotel. The charge is for two rooms.’

‘Which rooms?’

‘Charge doesn’t say.’

‘Ralph, you are a god.’ She clicked off and turned to Paul, told him what Ralph reported. ‘You got ’em in your sights, sugar. Call Bucks, call your dogs in for the kill and act like a man.’ She lowered her voice, came to him, put a hand on his chest. ‘I done the work for you. I got a lock on Eve and her buddy. Now go make your daddy proud.’

‘You lied to me,’ Kiko said.

‘I told you exactly what I was told,’ Bucks said. ‘That there was a delay in getting the money.’ He rock-steadied his voice. ‘Paul lied to us both because Eve robbed him blind. She’s gutted him. He has very little left he can quickly convert to cash with that money gone.’

‘Why should I believe you now?’ Kiko said.

‘Eve stole the loot, I swear. Kiko, you know I wouldn’t screw you over, I’ve got too much to lose. I’m about five minutes from capturing her ass. I got a team working to grab her for Paul.’

‘There’s been a change in plan,’ Kiko said.

Bucks listened to what Kiko said, closed his eyes. ‘I understand.’ He clicked off the phone, waited for the horrible thumping in his chest to subside.

Adapt. Adapt. He could still come out on top. The phone rang in his hand and he answered it, heard Paul telling him where they thought Eve was now, and truly thanked God and Chad Channing together for the strength they were giving him.

Bucks waited in his Jag with MacKay. They were parked a half block from the Greystoke Hotel in the shadow of a new real estate development, in a parking lot where a restaurant was closed and shuttered. They could see most of the porte cochere for the Greystoke. Cars arrived in a steady stream; the hotel had an upscale martini bar that attracted locals. Valets scrambled around the vehicles. But what pissed Bucks off was a car pulling in next to them, a Cadillac with Jerry Smacks driving and the Wart in the passenger seat.

Bucks sipped from a water bottle. The next hour would determine how he played his next card. He felt warm and calm, confident for the first time in a day.

‘They gonna wonder why you’re here with me,’ MacKay said. Now both men were looking over into Bucks’ Jag. Jerry Smacks gave a friendly little wave with his hand. The Wart didn’t smile.

‘Why are they together?’ Bucks asked.

‘More likely to make the hit, working together,’ MacKay said. ‘Better to split the fee rather than none at all. Cut me out, too.’

‘So why are we here together? In case they ask.’

‘My car broke down, you giving me a ride,’ MacKay said. ‘Quit worrying, you’re the boss.’ He eased down the window; Jerry did the same.

‘Gentlemen,’ MacKay said. He didn’t volunteer why he was in Bucks’ car and Jerry Smacks didn’t ask.

‘So you boys sitting here jerking or what?’ the Wart said. ‘We gonna go in?’

‘Need to know,’ MacKay said, ‘which of the fifteen-odd floors they’re on, for starters. The registration desk isn’t gonna give that up.’

‘I’m not inclined to walk through a front door,’ Jerry Smacks said.

‘Yeah, you struck me as a back door kind of guy,’ MacKay said.

Jerry folded a rectangle of gum into his mouth, muttered to the Wart. Then he looked past MacKay to Bucks. ‘How you want us to handle it, Mr Buckman?’

‘I pay the bounty, gum boy,’ Bucks said. ‘I don’t do the job for you.’

‘Fine,’ the Wart said. He started to get out of the car. ‘Then I’m gonna-’

‘Whoa,’ MacKay said. Target number two.’

A tall blondish man stood at the valet spot. He gave the attendant a dollar and hurried to a slightly decrepit Volkswagen van that had been brought up to the curb.

‘That’s our boy,’ Bucks said. His bruised eye throbbed at the sight of Whit. ‘Eve’s alone in the hotel. MacKay, you and Jerry go in. You know what I need. I’ll follow our boy. Wart, you come with me.’

‘Why me?’ the Wart yelled.

‘He’s part of the contract,’ Bucks said. ‘Kill him, you still get paid.’

MacKay was out of the car already, buttoning a leather jacket, lifting his dreadlocks free from the collar, hurrying across the pell-mell rush of Westheimer. Jerry Smacks followed. The Wart huffed into the Jag and before his door was shut Bucks wheeled into traffic, earning a blare of horns. He cussed. Honking might attract Mosley’s attention. But the van, four cars ahead, stayed in the left lane, didn’t slow, didn’t turn.

A charge of electricity played along Bucks’ skin. Man, this was a rush like cutting a deal with California power buyers, seeing how far he could shove the rates down their desperate little throats, calculating his enormous commissions in his head. He jammed in a Chad Channing tape, upped the volume. Chad’s reassuring baritone filled the car. ‘It’s important to remember,’ Chad Channing said, ‘that goals are as real as the air we breathe. They surround us. They permeate us, like oxygen. They sustain us. The life lived without goals is life without breath.’