David Morrell - The naked edge

They will not, he decided, be happy.

I wouldn't have gotten involved if I hadn't been confident these guys would let me spend the money, he thought. I was sure they'd want me to work for them again. I was also sure I could slip away from New Orleans and enjoy life in southern France. Hey, I was supposed to be anonymous. But thanks to you, Aaron, none of that's going to happen. Everybody'll be hunting me.

As the sun rose, Carl remained still. Only at nine o'clock as the craving for alcohol prompted his companions to stagger from the alley, did he leave. Every action needed to be calculated, every decision analyzed from every angle. He never went anywhere without a thousand dollars in twenties in a money belt, so for the moment, he didn't need to worry about cash. He bought unremarkable clothes in a discount store. He bought jogging shoes. He ate two sandwiches from a take-out place.

That's where he noticed the Times-Picayune in a vending machine. The attack was all over the front page. On a secluded bench, he studied the newspaper and found a detailed description of him. No photograph, but one would eventually be found. Because Brockman had scrubbed Carl's file from the GPS records, the only source for a picture would be the military. But information about Delta Force was secret, and the Pentagon's bureaucracy would take a while to declassify it. The photo would show him in uniform, younger and thinner-enough differences that it might not draw attention to him.

The newspaper had plenty to say about Aaron and his wife. It gave Carl bitter satisfaction that the reporter actually referred to Aaron by his given name and revealed that the mysterious single word "Cavanaugh" by which he was known in the protection business was actually an alias.

But the greater satisfaction came when Carl learned that Aaron and his wife had been arrested and why they were being charged. So that was you at the hotels, he thought with angry admiration. Clever move, Aaron. But now you're in jail while I'm on the street. I bet you think everything's upside down. It's only starting. I'll deal with you later, pal. Right now, I've got problems to solve.

A bug-out bag. Always make arrangements for a bug-out bag. The van Carl had abandoned contained one, but members of the team might have been captured and interrogated, in which case the authorities would know about the van. Even if that weren't the case, by now all vehicles left overnight in the conference area would have been investigated. He didn't dare return to it.

Always have a back-up plan. The jet was no longer available, having been abandoned at the camp. His alternative bug-out bag was in a spot that was now off-limits to him: a New Orleans bus station. In theory, the arrangement would have worked perfectly. Get the bag. Get a ticket. Get out of town. But now he took for granted that the authorities would be watching the bus stations, the airport, the train depot, and the car-rental places, looking for anyone who matched his description.

"Hey," he said to a street musician near the bus station, "want to earn fifty bucks?"

The guy, a skinny guitarist with his case open in front of him, a couple of dollars in it, stopped singing a nasally version of "The City of New Orleans" and asked, "What do I have to do, pull your putz? Get out of here, man."

"Nothing funny. Just a straight business proposition. I need you to run an errand for me. In the bus station. Five minutes max."

"And there's a reason you can't run the errand yourself?"

"Let's make it a hundred reasons," Carl said, showing the money.

"And maybe I walk into trouble in there?"

"I guess you don't need the dollars." Carl turned away.

"Wait," the scruffy guy said. "What's the errand?"

"This." Carl showed him the key to a locker. "I'll tell you where the locker is so you don't need to wander around searching for it. Five minutes. In and out. You bring me what's in the locker."

"For a hundred. Right?"

"Did I say a hundred? I made a mistake."

"A scam. Damn it, I figured this was too good to be-"

"What I meant was two hundred."

"You're kidding."

"One hundred now. One hundred when you bring me what's in the locker."

"And what's in-"

"A briefcase."

The guy's eyes reacted.

"Want to make a bet?" Carl asked.

"Bet?"

"That I know what you're thinking. You figure the briefcase must contain something really valuable for me to pay two hundred dollars to get it. And you're right. There are many valuable things in it. So your plan would be to take the hundred dollars and steal the briefcase. After all, if I don't feel comfortable going into the station, I must have a reason I don't want to be seen, and that means I won't report the theft to the police. Right?"

The guy's face now radiated suspicion. "Something like that."

Carl gripped the arm that wasn't holding the guitar. Immobilizing him, he removed the guy's wallet from his back pocket.

"Hey," the musician said, struggling.

"Shut up, or I'll break your guitar." Carl studied the driver's license. "Okay, Kenny Barrington." Carl read the address out loud. He found a photograph of a young woman. "Pretty. She your girl friend?"

No answer.

"Four hundred dollars, Kenny. Half now, half when you come back with the briefcase. If I don't see you back here in five minutes, the next time you see me, it'll be the sorriest night of your life. And your girl friend's life. Sound fair?"

"Uh…"

"Here, Kenny. Here's two hundred dollars and the key. I'll hold your guitar for you. Be cool, my friend. Easy money."

Minutes later, when the musician came back with the briefcase, Carl watched from a distance. The guy looked around in bewilderment, then focused on a black kid sitting next to his guitar.

Carl imagined what the kid told him. "Somebody paid me ten bucks to tell you to go into that Starbucks over there and buy some coffee."

If the musician had warned the police about a man who paid him four hundred dollars to get a briefcase out of a locker, Carl would see if anyone followed.

No one did. As the musician carried his guitar and the briefcase into the Starbucks front entrance, Carl came in from the side entrance, took the briefcase, gave him the other two hundred, and told him, "Nice to meet an honest man."

In one of the city's lovely parks, Carl sat, watched a bicyclist go past, nodded to a woman with a stroller, smiled at children on swings, and worked the combination lock on the briefcase. The case was dull brown, attracting no attention. He slid his hand inside and felt past five thousand dollars, a pistol, an extra magazine, fifty rounds of ammunition, a knife, small rolls of duct tape, fake ID, and other necessities. He gripped a cell phone. His previous phone had been destroyed by the river. He pulled the new one out, closed the briefcase, and enjoyed the pleasant morning.

Then he couldn't postpone his business any longer. He pressed numbers on the encryption-equipped phone and waited. After two rings, the connection was completed, although the person on the other end didn't speak, presumably waiting to learn which language to use.

"This is Bowie," Carl said.

"You disappoint us."

Carl felt his chest harden. "Things went wrong. They couldn't be helped."

"You accepted our money but did not produce results."

"I got some results. The mission isn't a total failure."

"You sound like a child making excuses."

Carl's muscles tightened, now because of anger. "It was a unique situation. The next time, the person who caused the problem won't exist."

"Your friend? If he had been available to us, the mission would have succeeded."

Carl bit the inside of his cheek.

"You will return the fee we already paid you," the voice said. "One million dollars. An electronic transfer. By noon tomorrow."