Fun and Games

14

I can still see!

—Rumored original final line of Roger Corman’s

X: The Man with the X-Ray Eyes

THE TWO OF THEM—Mann and O’Neal—briefly reconvened in the back of the van on top of the hill. O’Neal was shocked when he saw Mann. She had blood streaked down her cheeks and seemed to be wearing her bikini top upside down. Then again, O’Neal was sure he’d looked better, too. He’d self-administered the adrenaline in enough time to counter the heart-attack special, but he felt like 160 pounds of wet shit. His skin was clammy yet warm. Sweating out of every single pore of his body. Head pounding. If this was what a heart attack felt like, then O’Neal swore to eat a bullet the moment his primary doc told him his cholesterol was looking a little high. He’d fucking mainline oatmeal if it kept his arteries clean.

“What’s our plan?” O’Neal asked.

Mann sat down on a crate, ripped open a first-aid kit, started squeezing some antiseptic into a patch of gauze.

“I want to know more about who we’re dealing with. Get Fact boy on the line and tell him I want everything in ten minutes. If he gives you an excuse, tell him we’re severing our business relationship.”

O’Neal watched Mann work on her face. More blood trickled down her cheek. The eye wounds looked hideously painful. He waited for Mann to flinch. She didn’t. Her fingers moved around her eye, flicking pieces of plastic away from the corners of her eye. Which was not easy with compromised vision and no mirror.

“Can I help?” O’Neal asked.

“Yeah. By calling Factboy.”

Factboy sat on the toilet and read about the death and life of Charles Hardie.

He didn’t need to file an electronic National Security Letter this time. The story had been all over the local paper three years ago. (He didn’t think he should mention that little tidbit to Mann just yet.) Seems Hardie had worked with a detective named Nate Parish—who, in turn, was part of a joint Philly PD–FBI task force dedicated to cleaning up Philadelphia at all costs. (Factboy had visited Philly once. Good fucking luck with that.)

Albanian gangsters had broken into Nate Parish’s suburban home and shot the detective and his family—thirty-eight-year-old wife, ten-and six-year-old daughters—to death, execution-style. Also at the scene was Hardie, who had been almost shot to death. He’d flatlined and everything, but EMTs were able to revive him. A couple of surgeries later at Pennsylvania Hospital, it became clear that Hardie was going to make it. Within six months he was walking around again.

But the strange thing wasn’t that Hardie survived; it was that Hardie had survived twice.

The first time was at his own home, which the gunmen had visited before they hit the Parish house. The Albanians sprayed heavy artillery all over Hardie’s place, with him inside. One reporter compared the scene to something out of Kabul. Broken windows, chopped-up woodwork, severed plants, exploded chunks of brick.

But Hardie survived the attack, even though he took anywhere from one to three bullets. (See, the Philly PD couldn’t really tell because he received more bullets from the same guns during the second attack.)

Anyway, badass Charlie Hardie not only survived but was able to rouse his bleeding self, make his way to the garage, start up his car, and race to his friend and partner’s house to warn him the Albanians might be coming for him, too.

But it was the worst thing he could have done.

Oh, if only he could take that back…

The gunmen arrived not long after Hardie did, giving them a second opportunity to kill him. They even stopped to reload, according to one account, and continued the execution. This time, Hardie didn’t get up and chase after them.

But he also didn’t die.

A local columnist dubbed him “Unkillable Chuck.”

At first everyone said he was a hero. A “Philadelphia-style hero,” some columnist said. Hardie had tried his best and lost—just like Rocky. That didn’t mean he didn’t give it his all. And that was something to be commended.

Soon, though, the tide turned, as it is wont to do. Some city council members questioned Hardie’s role with the Philly PD—was he a consultant or a hired thug? What had he done to piss off the Albanians so badly? Rumors of double-dealing and corruption spread through local papers and blogs. Hardie refused to comment; so did the Philly PD.

After that… the coverage pretty much died. Hardie spent six months recuperating, then went into exile.

Factboy had to admit, the story hit home. Turns out Hardie had a wife and kid, too, and luckily they weren’t home when the gunmen paid a visit. Factboy had a hard time thinking about something like this happening to him—to his wife and kids. It’s the kind of thing that went through his head in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep. This chosen profession of his.

Which made what he had to do next more than a little creepy.

But hey, it was his job.

O’Neal gave Mann the highlights as she finished repatching her eyes. He knew better than to try to persuade her to visit a hospital—or even the mobile doc they kept on retainer. She’d want to stay, finish the job. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to talk a little sense into her. Maybe propose a viable alternative.

“What about the team—on the other job?”

She pressed tape to her brow. “What about them?”

“They’re not on until tonight, and I know they’re in the area. Why not bring them over and have them finish these two off?”

“No.”

O’Neal ran his tongue along his teeth, looked down at the floor, tried again.

“It could be a home-invasion scenario. Simple enough. She holes up here, at her boyfriend’s place. Only somebody’s robbing the place at the same time. Things go south, she mouths off, gets shot…”

“Way too coincidental. And the minute you involve guns is the minute everybody and their mothers start picking apart the narrative. With guns, it’s almost never an accident, unless you’ve got a ten-year-old kid, inattentive parents, and an unlocked cabinet.”

Right. The narrative. With Mann everything was about the narrative. And she was so anti-gun, you’d think you’d find her out on weekends, arms linked with Oprah Winfrey and George Clooney, singing “Kumbaya” at a rally.

“This could be over in twenty minutes,” O’Neal. “Don’t dismiss it.”

“We can’t use the first team.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re already busy.”

O’Neal knew there were two jobs this weekend, and he had to admit, he was bummed to be in a backup role for the second. For some reason, Mann had wanted two completely different primary teams. He knew little about the other job, other than that it was “on the other side of the mountain” and set for that night. Making this a kind of twilight doubleheader for Mann.

“What about a fire? We can light it from the bottom. It’s L.A., and it is the season. Completely plausible. We can even figure out a way to pin it on her.”

“It’s sloppy. The actress and Hardie could make it out. And too hard to control. Once a fire breaks out, it could wipe out dozens of homes before the fire department makes it up here. The arson investigators would have a field day.”

Yeah, O’Neal thought. But they’d be dead, wouldn’t they?

He held his tongue. This was why she was the director and he was the deputy. Not for lacking of trying, though. Maybe someday he’d earn a top spot on the production team. He’d put in the hours, certainly.

Mann finished up by running a wet wipe over her eyes to remove the dried blood and dirt. She pulled a black dress over her bikini, and applied lipstick as best she could without a mirror. She could pass for an aging Hollywood Hills trophy wife who’d endured a particularly rough crow’s-feet plastic surgery session.

“I’m going back down to the other vantage point. I’ll check in with A.D. Make sure he’s still functional.”

A.D. was indeed still functional.

He’d passed through shock and come through it okay, all things considered.

Now he was directly under the bottom floor, keeping watch. If they were going to bolt, they’d most likely try it from the windows closest to the ground. The drop wasn’t too crazy; you could survive. Hell, he survived being kicked in the balls and falling from the top floor. A drop off the bottom floor? No problem at all.

“You sure you’re okay?” Mann asked, crouching down next to him. “You can still see and hear?”

“Yeah. You know, I’m kind of surprised about it myself… but I’m still in this. Don’t count me out, boss.”

“I won’t.”

“How’s your eye? You can’t even tell with those glasses on.”

“I need you to focus.”

“Okay, I can focus. What do you want me to do?”

“How far do you think you can crawl?”

Mann knew O’Neal was impatient to finish this. So was she. But you don’t go this far and make a mistake at the very end. The narrative was everything. Now that she knew a little more about Hardie, she’d figured out the perfect way to eliminate him.

He wouldn’t even know it was coming.