Don Pendleton - Kill Squad

Las Vegas, Nevada

Harry Sherman knew there was a problem the moment he stepped inside Marco Conte’s spacious office. The casino boss sat behind his massive desk, his narrowed gaze drilling into him.

His bodyguard, Milo Forte, was seated beside him. Forte was a big man, well muscled beneath his well-cut suit, and Sherman knew he had a fearsome reputation. He was ready to act the moment his boss snapped his fingers. A pair of Conte’s hardmen stood near the desk, flanking Sol Lemke. They kept the man upright because he was unable to stand on his own.

Lemke was one of the accountants who worked under Sherman in the accounting department. It took him a few moments to recognize his subordinate, who had been beaten until his face was a swollen mess. There was excessive blood. His nose was flattened and his pulped mouth hung open, dribbling blood from his lacerated lips and gums down his shirtfront. From the way his left arm hung, it was obvious that it was broken and his left hand was a misshapen, finger-crushed mess.

Marco Conte ran the Vegas casino with a firm hand. He intimidated those who worked under him while presenting a genial face to the customers. No one crossed Conte. He was tough and uncompromising. From the tension in the office and the harsh expression on Conte’s face, Sherman knew that something heavy was going down.

As Sherman moved into the room he heard the solid door click shut behind him. He experienced a frisson of anxiety. He had no idea what this summons was all about.

“Nine million dollars, Harry,” Conte said in his low, gruff voice. “Nine. That’s a shitload of money.”

As the head of the casino’s accounting department, Sherman knew what nine million dollars represented, but he had no idea how it related to him. Even so he was beginning to get nervous. His mouth went dry.

“Mr. Conte?”

The casino boss leaned forward.

“That’s odd, Harry,” he said.

“What?”

“You called me Mr. Conte. Not Marco. We’ve never used anything but first names, Harry. You sound nervous. Is there a reason why you should be nervous?”

“Mr.—Marco...can someone tell me what this is all about? Because I have no idea.”

Sherman knew his voice had cracked. It came out like a croak.

“Why did I expect him to say that?” Conte asked no one in particular. “Maybe it’s because he does know what this is all about. Is that right, Sol?”

Lemke refused to meet Sherman’s gaze. He pawed at his bleeding mouth with his right hand, wincing when he touched torn flesh.

“Yeah, he knows.”

His voice was weak, quavering.

Sherman could feel all eyes on him. He was being accused of something, and he didn’t know what.

“Gone, Harry,” Conte said finally. “All that money gone. Lost.”

“Or stolen,” Forte added.

“He has a point, Harry. Money doesn’t get up and walk away on its own.”

“Marco, none of this makes sense. Where was this money?”

“The backup account,” Conte said. “You remember the backup account? You should, Harry, because you look after it.”

Sherman remained silent. There was a nagging voice in his head telling him he hadn’t looked at the account in some time. Mainly because there was no need. The backup fund was seldom touched. Because the casino was making so much money, there was no need to dip into the reserve.

Forte raised a hamlike fist and jabbed a thick finger in Lemke’s direction.

“Quit screwing ’round, Sherman. We know. Lemke and you took the money. He already told us.”

The words stung. Sherman stared at Lemke. The man held his gaze despite the pain he was in.

“Harry,” Conte said, “there’s no use trying to stall. Sol told us you were in it together. Took the nine million and shifted it to other accounts you set up.”

The words hit like solid punches. Sherman was unable to speak. His mind was wrestling with the situation, trying to make sense of it all. If money was missing, he had been set up by Lemke to draw attention from himself and implicate Sherman.

“Marco, this is crazy. You really believe what he’s saying? That I’d be any part of this? Come on, Marco, it’s too much of a setup to be true.”

“Is it?”

“Why would I even try to screw you over? What the hell would I want with nine million dollars? Don’t I get paid enough to look after your books? Jesus, Marco, I’m no big spender. I don’t even gamble. You’re always joking about that. The only guy in Vegas who doesn’t even play the slot machines. What do you think? That I’ve run up such a big tab I have to steal from the man I work for? Marco, just look at me. I have not done this. I would not do this to you. Ever.”

Conte was studying Sherman closely, searching his face for any hint of deception.

“I always trusted you, Harry. Right now I’m not so sure I should have.”

“Marco, what can I say? This is down to my word against Sol’s. While we’re playing his game, his real partners are moving the money out of reach.”

It had become very quiet. No one spoke. They were all waiting for Conte.

His decision would be final. There would be no challenge to it. If Conte made a decision, it was written in concrete. No going back. Right or wrong, his word was law.

“Okay, this is how we’ll do it. Harry, you have four days to locate the missing money. I give you my word that nothing will happen to you during that time. If you don’t replace the nine million, that’s it. If the money isn’t back where it belongs, the hammer comes down. Don’t fail me, Harry. Until today I never had reason to doubt you. Don’t make a fool out of me. If you’re on the level, make me see that. Lemke here figured he was smart enough to put some of the take in his own account so he could skip town and collect the big prize later. He didn’t know there’s a check we can make on the unexpected movement of casino money. Not even you were told about it, Harry. We’ll be checking your account, as well.”

“Are we going to find some big deposits there?” Forte asked.

“If he’s involved, I don’t think Harry would be stupid enough to do something like that,” Conte said. “It’s your move, Harry. Make my money come back. Four days.”

One of Conte’s men opened the door. As Sherman stepped through and the door began to close behind him, he heard Conte speaking again.

“Not you, Lemke. We have a lot more to discuss...”

Sherman made his way to his office, ignoring the other members of the department. He stepped inside, closed the door, sat at his desk and was suddenly overcome with a feeling of utter loneliness. In a building full of people he was totally on his own, with the clock already starting its slide to zero.

The only thing Sherman knew for certain was that he had not taken Conte’s money. Sol Lemke had fingered him to pull the heat off himself; a seemingly smart move that backfired on the man.

Conte was suspicious, even though he had cut Sherman a break. He was giving him the opportunity to return—or try to return—the missing cash. Sherman knew that even if he succeeded in retrieving the money it was not going to erase what had happened. He was under no illusions as to his eventual fate.

In the end Conte would be considering only one thing: the money. That was the single most important factor in Marco Conte’s life. He didn’t give a damn about anything else.

Once the deadline was reached, successful or not, Harry Sherman would become a target. He was sure the ink was already drying on his death sentence. Conte was not going to risk leaving Sherman alive. That the theft had happened was already a black mark against the man. Conte was going to do all he could to let the east coast mob know that he did not allow such transgressions to go unpunished. Sherman visualized the terrible sight of Sol Lemke—bloody and broken, with more of the same to come.