Trust Me

38

Henry Shawcross leaned forward across the table and said, ‘Quicksilver has my son. We are going to get him back.’

Mouser and Snow glanced at each other. A thin haze of smoke from Mouser’s cigarette hung above the hotel room table; they sat at a window, but Snow insisted the curtains be kept drawn. She said satellites could spy on them. Henry thought she might be right. He studied their faces; they looked haggard, tired. They could not be. He needed them sharp.

‘There was a police incident report filed, shots fired near the air park where Luke’s plane landed, a man running into traffic, causing a couple of accidents. Quicksilver grabbed them.’ He’d driven up from Washington late last night when the news came from Mouser that Luke was headed for New York.

‘Who the hell are these Quicksilver clowns?’ Mouser asked.

Henry waved the smoke away from his face. ‘I gave some of my think-tank clients a security exercise to perform, to find every record affecting Quicksilver Risk and my old friend Drummond and Clifford, who are not much more than hired guns. Quicksilver is a small risk management consulting group, but I’m sure it’s just a front. But they have also bought, sometimes through front companies, buildings around the US, Europe, Asia and the Middle East. They have accounts in banks around the world, again, under a set of holding company names.’

‘Are they CIA?’

‘Drummond used to be State Department. I don’t think it’s State. But I’m not sure why the CIA or FBI would go to this trouble to hide, unless they’re simply breaking the law and avoiding congressional oversight.’

‘You want us to attack a building,’ Snow said.

‘I live for this,’ Mouser said.

‘It’s not a typical building. There are no tenants. They will have a skeleton staff. All you have to do is get Luke back. Kill everyone else, I don’t care.’

‘And this is to save Luke? You know we’re just going to have to kill him, Henry, face facts. He’s not coming over to your side.’

‘I want to talk with him. Hustle him into a van and bring him to me.’

‘Face facts,’ Mouser repeated. ‘You’re deluded.’

‘I am in command here, Mouser. Not you.’

Mouser said, ‘For the moment.’

Henry ignored him. ‘Quicksilver knows of us, thanks to Bridger. So we have to decapitate them before they can act.’

‘Just the two of us and you?’ Snow said.

‘I have some important Hellfire work to do. I’ve arranged for some Night Road help for the two of you.’ He looked at Snow. ‘And, Snow, we need to move your bombs. I need to know you didn’t leave booby traps around your storage space in Houston.’

‘Why?’

‘You’re not there to handle the distribution. I’ve gotten a Night Road team to go to Houston to transport the bombs to a new location.’

‘Where are you taking the bombs?’ Snow asked.

‘That’s need to know. You’re about to go on a job where you could be captured.’

‘No traps,’ Snow said after a moment. ‘Take good care of my babies.’

‘You’re running this show,’ Mouser said, ‘but it’s your fault we’re in the hole we’re in.’

‘Your continued failure to capture Luke is our hole,’ Henry said, ‘but I’ve gotten you some more muscle.’

Sweet Bird was not a man who enjoyed waiting for other people, but impatience got you killed these days. Mr Shawcross had offered him enough arms to eliminate every rival gang in Queens and New Jersey. The Albanians, the leftover Italians, the mean Russians and the Asian tongs. He couldn’t say no to such a deal. Even if the risk was high. His grandmother, who never lived to see him become a leading kingpin and had hoped he would become a physician, had drilled that lesson into his head, by soft cajole and hard belt: take your opportunities, don’t waste them.

So when Shawcross called him early that morning, he’d listened to the delicious sound of a rare chance to make a powerful friend.

I may need you to assault a building.

A building? You’re kidding me.

I don’t like the sound of hesitation.

Ain’t hesitating, I’m listening. You probably don’t like the sound of some idiot leaping before he looks.

You do this, you’ll be one of the most powerful men in New York by the end of the day. I have a lot of work for you. Mr Shawcross’s voice had carried a low gleam over the phone. And Mr Shawcross always delivered. In the past two months he’d sent Sweet Bird real nice Belgian rifles to use, trained his men, helped them take down rival drug lords and a bothersome DA. Given him army-quality grenades to eliminate a couple of informants, right in their cars, no need to bother with unreliable handmade pipe bombs. And, from the Night Road website, handed him a couple of small insurance agencies that sold cheap policies, made it easy to shine and polish and legitimize the cocaine money.

He was waiting for Shawcross’s two people at a back room at one of the agencies, a few blocks from Greenwich Village. He waited with five of his regular guys, one who was Sweet Bird’s cousin, a violent gangster wannabe Luke had found two months before on a board discussing urban warfare, the others hardened street fighters. He watched as they double-checked their weapons. He had one of the nice Belgian rifles and he ran his hands over the cool, fine metal. He had modified a raincoat so he could carry the rifle in it unseen. In the background CNN played, talking about the spate of attacks across America, a rapid rising of violence that was undercutting Americans’ confidence to simply go about their lives.

Two minutes later there was a knock on the door, and he opened it to find a lean, muscled guy with a crew cut and a pretty but scowling woman who had a scary mop of white hair. They gave the right password.

‘Mouser. Snow. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I ain’t never met anyone from Night Road face to face.’

‘You understand the plan as presented?’ Mouser said. ‘And you understand I’m in charge.’

‘It’s not rocket science,’ Sweet Bird said. ‘Let’s go get it done.’

They left, in two cars. Mouser drove. Snow said, ‘Did you tell that guy you want Luke Dantry dead if he’s there?’

‘No,’ Mouser said. ‘You and I will handle it. I don’t trust anyone else.’

‘He’s Night Road, he’s okay.’

‘Nobody’s okay. I thought Henry was. He’s distracted by his affection for his stepson. It’s become a problem. If Luke’s at this building – he stops being a problem for us.’