Money to Burn

64

KYLE MCVEE WAS BEHIND THE WHEEL OF A BLACK SUV, DRIVING toward WhiteSands. His nephew had arranged for transportation to be waiting for them at the private heliport a few miles away when they landed. He was in the passenger seat, too busy fussing with his new toy.

“I’m liking it,” said Wald.

He was inspecting his new weapon for the tenth time, an older but nicely refurbished Italian-made Beretta 92FS Compact. From a technical standpoint, it was everything he needed-thirteen rounds of 9 mm ammunition in a quick-release magazine, a smaller and more easily concealed version of its big bad-ass cousin, the M-9 pistol used by the U.S. military.

“I can see why Tony liked it so much,” he said, weighing it in his shooting hand.

“You kept Girelli’s gun?”

“My trophy.”

McVee flung his fist at him, hitting his nephew square in the chest.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Dump that damn gun the minute we’re done here,” McVee said. “Now put it away before you shoot yourself.”

Wald double-checked the safety and tucked his trophy back into his shoulder holster. “Like I’m the only one taking unnecessary chances,” he said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” said McVee.

“The way we’ve played this so far, it would be difficult for anyone to place you in the same zip code as Ian Burn, let alone in the same helicopter hangar.”

“Fine. Your concern is noted.”

“I understand that they all have to go,” said Wald. “But there’s no need for you to be there when it happens.”

McVee gripped the steering wheel even tighter. “You know nothing about my needs,” he snapped.

“I’m just saying, we can handle this.”

They rode in silence for another minute, but McVee’s emotions were beginning to roil.

“You don’t know me,” said McVee, “and you certainly didn’t know your cousin.”

“Marcus?” said Wald. “Of course I knew-”

“You didn’t,” said McVee.

He paused, struggling to get control of himself. There was nothing to be gained by unloading on Jason at this point, but the kid seemed to think that this was all part of Kyle McVee’s business plan and personal vision, that he was proud of the way his nephew was comfortable in dealing with the darkest elements of organized crime. The boy couldn’t have been more wrong.

“You think this is what I wanted Ploutus to become?” he said. “You think I like being the Wall Street thief who manipulates the market? The go-to hedge fund for mob money?”

He glanced at his nephew, and from the look at his face, the younger man had never really reduced it to such vile terms.

“You pay a price,” said McVee, “when you reach a point in your life when everything you’ve worked for is bullshit. When it doesn’t matter anymore. When you need a man like Ian Burn to make it right.”

Wald was about to speak, then stopped, seeming to sense that silence was the wiser course.

“Do you have any idea what it feels like to see lightweights like Eric Volke rise to the top? To see a know-nothing like Michael Cantella named in Forbes magazine as Saxton Silvers’ youngest-ever investment advisor of the year? It would be hard enough to stomach that shit in any case, but in a world with my son dead and buried, it’s unbearable. Marcus was a dynamo,” he said, his voice quaking, “and we had plans. Big plans. If he were alive today, he’d be the CEO of Ploutus-a thirty-six-year-old king of the world. I’d probably be president of the NASDAQ. All that ended when that bitch came along. I was happy when she was lost at sea and the sharks got her-and just enraged when I found out four years later that it was all a lie. That Girelli didn’t really get the job done.”

“He was a punk,” said Wald.

“So are you,” said McVee, disdain in his voice. “How my sister popped you into the world I’ll never understand.”

Jason looked out the passenger’s-side window, toward the passing darkness. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the insult.

“But I can tell you this,” said McVee. “Marcus was no punk. And for him, I’m going to spit in that woman’s eye before she burns alive in a WhiteSands helicopter with her conniving mother and the biggest punk of all-Michael Cantella.”

Wald’s phone rang. He answered. It was Burn. The conversation lasted just five seconds. He ended the call and looked at his uncle.

“Show time,” he said.

The engine revved as McVee accelerated down the last half mile of the WhiteSands access road.