Choke Point (3 page)

She smiled again, the cryptic grin of a gambler with aces in the hole. “It is my honor to serve the great taipan.”

Honor. Great taipan.
The bullshit and exaggerated politeness made his skin crawl. “And it is my—” From the corner of his eye he saw a man step from the shadows, not more than ten yards away, his skin so white it seemed transparent. Dressed in a dark jogging suit and black running shoes, he had the broad shoulders and narrow hips of an athlete, and the steady hand—which contained a black machine pistol—of a professional. Before Jake could react there was another sound, from behind, someone light on their feet, coming fast, emerging out of the fog, arm outstretched, a small chrome-plated automatic waving erratically with each step.

Twisting his body to avoid a direct hit, Jake shoved Madame Chiang out of the way, but he was too slow and too late, a lightning bolt of fire burning through his chest as both guns fired simultaneously. He felt the air leave his lungs, the blood draining from his legs, the earth rising to meet him as he pitched forward onto the wet cobblestones.
You dumbass cowboy!

He landed with a hard, dull thud, but felt nothing, his body already numb. He could see the hem of Madame Chiang’s dress, her booted feet as they peddled backward out of the light.

“Billie…” He gasped her name with his last bit of air, knowing it would be the final word to cross his lips.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Manhattan Island, New York City, New York

Wednesday, 27 June 10:53:32 GMT-0500

Lara dropped the deli bag onto the small glass table next to the window, and pulled the mouthpiece of her head-mike down below her chin. “Let’s eat.”

Simon glanced over at the wall-mounted clock—a new two-thousand-dollar global time indicator—located above Lara’s equally new twelve-thousand-dollar, ultramodern, ultra high-tech desk.
Her command center.
In fact, everything in the place was new and expensive and high-tech: his blatant attempt to overcome her resistance to their new office. Despite her assurances that she never thought of Eth Jäger and what happened, he didn’t really believe it and wanted the added protection of a building with full-time security. “It’s not even eleven o’clock.”

“I don’t care. We’ve been moving this crap around for hours.” Though dressed in a lightweight tank top and loose-fitting khaki shorts, her tan skin glistened with perspiration. “I’m hungry and tired and I need a break.”

He wanted to point out that the
moving around
was her doing, that no matter where he put things, she wanted them somewhere else. That was the problem with having your sister manage your business: she felt an inherent right to bitch, and he felt a familial obligation to let her get away with it. “Okay, we’ll take an early lunch.”

She pulled out two of the unborn chairs, still wrapped in their thick plastic membranes, but before she could peel away the covering, a tall man with broad shoulders and brown curly hair stepped through the open hallway door. His coffee-colored eyes made a quick sweep of the room, lingering for an extra microsecond on Lara’s slim figure. “Excuse me.” Dressed in tan slacks and a blue blazer, he was holding a clipboard in his left hand. “Is this a bad time?”

“Of course not,” Lara answered, her voice suddenly perky and full of energy. “What can I do for you?”

He reached inside his coat—exposing the butt end of an automatic pistol holstered beneath his left arm—and pulled his identification: a laminated PVC card with photo ID, and an embedded hologram of the building. “I’m Bill Rapp, head of security. I just need a few more details for our records. Number of employees, that kind of thing.”

“Sure, no problem,” she answered, as her tiny hand disappeared into his large one. “I’m Lara. Lara Quinn.”

He flashed a boyish grin. “Nice to meet you, Ms…. I’m sorry, is that Ms. or Mrs. Quinn?”

“It’s Ms.” she answered. “But call me Lara.”

“I will, thank you.” He released her hand and turned to Simon. “And…?”

Simon stepped forward and extended his hand. “Simon Leonidovich.” He pronounced his name slowly and distinctly—Le-on-o-vich—letting the man know the
d
was silent. “That’s L-E-O-N-I-D-OV-I-C-H.”

Rapp recorded the information on his clipboard. “I’ve got you listed here as Worldwide SD. What’s the SD stand for?”

“Special delivery,” Simon answered. “We’re a courier service. Most of our work is international.”

Rapp’s pupils expanded with interest, as if he had just stumbled across the Playboy Channel on his television. “You ever transport valuables? Jewelry or bonds, that sort of thing?”

Simon smiled to himself, thinking of Lara’s common refrain:
At ten thousand a pop, you don’t hire the man who can deliver anything, anywhere, to haul toilet paper.
“Sometimes.”

“Will valuables ever be stored here on the premises?”

“Never.”
Almost never.
He wasn’t about to divulge that kind of information to a stranger—security service or not.

Rapp recorded the information on his form. “And your position with the firm, Mr. Leonidovich?”

“He’s one of our delivery people,” Lara answered before Simon could speak up, “and a general pain in the ass.”

Rapp’s gaze bounced back and forth between them, clearly wondering what kind of weird relationship he had just stepped into.

“She’s my sister,” Simon explained before the man became overly confused, “and I own the company.”

“Aaah.” Rapp expelled a faint sigh of relief and turned his attention to Lara. “So you’re…?”

“My secretary,” Simon answered in quick retaliation. Of all his sister’s self-anointed titles,
secretary
was most decidedly not on the list. “But you might want to put her down as the office manager. She’s very sensitive about job titles.”

“Thank you, Boris.”

Though tempted to strike back, he realized that’s exactly what she wanted—an excuse to embarrass him with the story of how Boris Leonidovich Pasternak Simon became Simon Leonidovich—and he wasn’t about to step into that trap. “You’re welcome, Sissie.”

Rapp took a step back, as if wanting to extract himself from a situation he didn’t understand. “That’s all I need.” He pulled a couple of business cards from the breast pocket of his blazer. “Any questions or concerns about security—” He leveled his eyes on Lara, his tone going from helpful to inviting. “I’m the man to call.”

Eating her lunch—a footlong Italian sub that miraculously disappeared into the confines of her tiny stomach—Lara stared out the window and tried to hide her interest in the handsome Bill Rapp. “This really is a nice view.”

Simon suppressed a smile. He would have teased her about the obvious attraction, but the last thing he wanted was to dampen any possible relationship. It had been seven years since Jack’s death, Allie and Jack Jr. would soon be teenagers, and she deserved to have a life beyond work and kids. He followed her gaze down to the small community park, eight stories below. The patch of green, a pleasant little garden surrounded by ornamental wrought iron, offered a welcome respite from the surrounding towers of steel and concrete. Under the watchful eyes of mothers and nannies, children scampered back and forth through the playground, a pinball movement of colorful little bodies bouncing from swings to slides to climbing bars. “Yeah, sure is.”

“It looks hot.”

“Sure does.” He could see the heat shimmering off the hot cement; could almost smell the hydrocarbons through the glass.

“Bill seemed nice.”

He forked another scoop of salad into his mouth, trying hard to conceal his amusement. “Mmm-hmm.”

“This place might not be so bad.”

Not so bad!
The building was newly remodeled with plenty of underground parking, the offices were light and airy, the security chief handsome and friendly—what more did she want? “If you decide you don’t like it, we’ll move.”

She gave him a suspicious look, realized he was yanking her chain, and immediately changed the subject. “What’s with you and the salad? You lose any more weight, you’ll need a new wardrobe.”

Wardrobe.
He could barely keep from laughing. “Men don’t have wardrobes, Sissie. As long as we’re covered and comfortable, we’re good to go.”

“Yeah, well…” She leaned to the side, giving his ratty T-shirt and paint-spattered gym shorts the evil eye. “That’s probably the reason you keep getting dumped.”

“I didn’t get—” The sharp buzz of the phone saved him from once again having to explain his breakup with Caitlin Wells.

Lara pulled the tiny head-mike up from under her chin and toggled the switch on the wireless receiver attached to her belt. “Worldwide SD. How may I help you?” As she listened, her expression mutated from happy recognition to puzzlement. “Yes, he’s right here.” She pressed the
HOLD
button on her controller. “It’s Billie Rynerson. She sounds…odd.”

“Odd?” Simon was already up and moving toward his office. “What do you mean by ‘odd’?”

“I think something’s wrong.”

He leaned over his desk from the front side and snatched up the phone. “Billie, what’s up?”

“Jake’s been shot.”

The unexpected words hit like a gut punch, and for several eternity-in-an-instant heartbeats he couldn’t muster a response. Without conscious thought, he reached over and pressed the
INTER-LINK
button on the phone, automatically recording the call on his computer. “Is he okay?”

“No,” she answered, in what sounded like a major understatement. “He can’t breathe. They’ve got him on a ventilator.”

This time he noticed the distinct intercontinental hiccup between question and answer, and remembered they were in Macau. “Is he conscious?”

“No, but he’s hanging on. He’s fighting.”

Of course he was fighting; she was talking about Big Jake Rynerson, a man who didn’t know the meaning of quit. “Then he’ll make it, Billie. Jake’s got the heart of an elephant.”

“Absolutely,” she answered with a confidence that failed to hide the truth: hope mixed with fear, mixed with panic. “That’s exactly what I told the doctor.”

“What happened? Tell me everything.”

As she started into the medical details, Simon printed four words on a scratchpad—JAKE SHOT, HANGING ON—and handed it to Lara, who had followed him into his office and looked ready to burst with questions.

By the time Billie finished, her voice was edgy with impatience. “That’s everything.”

But it wasn’t, not even close. She hadn’t said anything about the shooting, and Simon could think of a dozen unanswered questions. How did it happen? Where did it happen? Was the shooting random or intentional? What happened to Jake’s security? But Billie Rynerson was a tough old West Texas broad, and he knew better than to push too hard or too fast. “What can I do?”

“I need you to pick something up in D.C.,” she answered instantly, “and bring it out here. Jake was going to call, but…well, anyway, it’s very important. All the arrangements have been made. They’ll be expecting you.”

“Sure. No problem. What—”

“And I need you to stay here awhile. We need your help.”

Of course he would go, as a friend, someone to hold her hand and help her through, but there was something in her voice, the way she said
help
that told him it wasn’t moral support she had in mind. “Is there something…” He didn’t know how to say it, didn’t want to sound reluctant. “Something specific…?”

“We need you at the Pearl. The grand opening is less than a month off and we’re having problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“Never mind that,” she responded, her tone impatient. “We’ll talk about that when you get here.”

He hesitated, trying to read some meaning into her reluctance to say more. Were the problems and the shooting connected? “Billie, I’ll come, of course I will, but if you’re having problems at the Pearl, you need to get Caitlin out there.”

“No,” she answered without a moment’s consideration, “we need Caity in Vegas.”

“But—”

“We’re at a chokepoint.” She hit
chokepoint
hard enough to make it echo over the line, a warning ping that had nothing to do with Jake’s current state of health. “We need someone we can trust.”

“But—”

“Kyra is already on the way. She’ll have all the details about the pickup in D.C. She’ll be at Teterboro Airport in two hours.”

He realized it was useless to argue. Hurricane Billie was at full blow, her mind made up, and nothing he could say would alter her path. “Sure, I’ll be there. You just take care of—”

She interrupted a third time, clearly wanting to end the conversation. “Gotta go, Simon. I’ll tell you everything when you get here.”

Before he could respond, there was a soft click and the line went silent. Something about the way she said it—
tell you everything
—reverberated with innuendo. Billie Rynerson was not the kind to mince words, and she didn’t lie, which meant there were things she wouldn’t, or couldn’t, say over the phone.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

Central Macau, northern peninsula

Thursday, 28 June 02:01:16 GMT +0800

Thirty years of battles and skirmishes—big wars, small wars, and more hand-to-hand encounters than Bricker Mawl cared to remember—and never once in all that time had he been hit. Until now. It was ridiculous, more embarrassing than painful, and a blow to his image of invincibility.

Robert Joseph Kelts, known to everyone on the five-man team as “Robbie” or “Jocko” or “the kid,” ripped another strip of camouflage tape off the roll. “A little more, sir. I’m almost done.”

Mawl raised his arm another couple inches, trying but failing to ignore the explosion of heat that spread down the side of his abdominal wall.
Bloody hell!