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The man I keep hid.
To prevent that from happening, don’t fuck with the U.S.A., and don’t fuck with me, or the people I care about.
Which brings me to the buzz I felt in my head a few hours ago. The one caused not by alcohol, but by someone attempting to activate the kill chip in my brain.
I’d been enjoying a lovely dinner with Miranda, a particularly attractive young lady of the evening. We were in New York City, had the whole night ahead of us. I didn’t cancel the date, because we’d been looking forward to it for weeks. In the end, we had a great time despite the fact someone was trying to kill me.
Here’s what I know about the kill chip: it was grafted to my brain more than a year ago by the government surgeon who heads the hospital at Sensory Resources, a secret facility in north-west Virginia, where I have an office and a jail cell I sleep in from time to time. By choice. Doc Howard implanted the chip while I was in a coma, under his care. Unfortunately, it can’t be removed without rendering me brain dead. When I found out what he’d done, guess what I did about it?
Nothing.
Crazy, right? But as it turned out, Doc had been following orders from my boss, Darwin, who wanted the means to snuff me at will. By telling me about the chip, Doc Howard did me a favor, though he charged me a hundred million dollars. He gave me a controller, the code, and showed me how to change it. As a plus, he explained that if Darwin ever tried to kill me, I’d feel a buzzing in my head.
But the buzzing I felt at dinner had nothing to do with Darwin. I know, because the device requires GPS, and Darwin was in an underground bunker all night, hosting a Homeland Security Meeting.
Miranda gives me a long, sensual kiss and asks me to stay. I know it’s part of the service, and she doesn’t mean it, but it’s nice to hear, anyway. I mean, she obviously likes me more than she has to, but I maintain no illusions about our relationship. It’s tit for cash. Still, had the attempt on my life not been made, I would’ve stayed.
I love falling asleep in a woman’s arms.
Reluctantly, I leave Miranda’s house and walk to my limo. After getting comfortable, I call Doc Howard, who predictably complains about the time of night. I tell him about the buzzing in my head earlier, and he says he’ll look into it.
I say, “Look into it now, because I’m coming to see you.”
I get Lou Kelly, my facilitator, to book me a jet helicopter. He does, but it won’t be ready for two hours. My limo driver takes me back to the hotel to pack my bags and check out. Then we wait an hour by the private airstrip till the chopper shows up.
An hour after that I land on the Sensory Resources helipad. I have enough time to take a shower and drink a protein shake before meeting with Doc Howard. When he finally arrives, I start right in on him. “Two weeks ago I wired a hundred million to your offshore account in return for a bypass code.”
“Yes.” Doc Howard is visibly nervous, as he should be. Who can blame him? I’m not happy.
“You told me no one else had access to the code,” I say, knowing that’s not entirely true.
“I said to the best of my knowledge no one had it, but if someone did, and tried to access it, you’d feel buzzing in your head.”
“Only problem is, I don’t know who pressed the button last night.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Doc said.
“And?”
“There was someone present when I implanted the chip.”
“What? Who?”
“The medical director of the company that manufactured it.”
“And you decided not to tell me this because?”
“I was afraid you’d kill her, to tie up the loose end.”
“I didn’t kill you.”
“No, but at the time, I didn’t know you could be reasoned with.”
“I try to give people a chance, Doc.”
“You would have killed her.”
“Probably. In the end. I mean, I’m walking around with a bomb in my head and she’s got the code that can set it off. She’s a major threat.”
“I didn’t consider her a threat at the time.”
“Because?”
“I thought she had no way to access the code, once we changed it.”
“But that wasn’t true, was it?”
“Apparently not. I think the company lied about the device.”
“You’re quite astute. I hadn’t realized till now.”
“I note your sarcasm,” Doc Howard says, “But yes. There has to be a master device that can reset the code.”
I shake my head.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“That’s comforting.”
Doc Howard is short, pudgy, middle aged, with thick glasses and a kindly grandfather’s face. He’s looking at me with less fear than he’d shown earlier. He knows he’s valuable to me for reasons that would take too long to list.
But I’ll give you one: he does all our body-double surgeries. I’ve got people all over the country guarding other people who don’t even know they’re being guarded. They’re body-doubles for my hit squad, my family, my closest friends. I need Doc Howard, and we’ve always gotten along. I don’t resent him charging me for sharing his secret. Proves he trusts me more than he trusts Darwin.
On the other hand, who wouldn’t?
“I want names and addresses,” I say.
“Her name is Phyllis Willis.”
I look at him. “Don’t make me lose my patience.”
“Swear to God, that’s her name: Dr. Phyllis Willis.”
“And she works where?”
“Ropic Industries, Las Vegas.”
“What do they do?”
“I don’t know. Darwin set it up. I only know about the chip.”
“Is Dr. Willis in-house?”
“No. She’s a plastic surgeon.”
“In Vegas?”
“I think so. But wherever she is, I’m sure Lou Kelly’s guys can find her.”
“We didn’t have this conversation, Doc.”
“Of course not.”
I pause. “You should’ve told me.”
“I was trying to save a life. I’m sorry.”
I turn to leave. Doc Howard says, “Phyllis thinks your name is Connor Payne.”
“What?”
“That’s the name—”
I hold up my hand. “I remember. That’s good. I can use it to my advantage.”
He nods, relieved.
2.
Connor Payne is the name Darwin gave me when I came out of the coma. He went to a great deal of trouble to legally “kill” Creed and establish Connor Payne as a living, breathing person with a full history, including phony medical and dental records. When I decided to keep my original name, Darwin was furious at my lack of appreciation. Nevertheless, he kept the identity active on the chance I might need it someday.
It’s late afternoon.
I’m in Vegas, in the multi-million dollar high-rise condo Callie Carpenter shares with her life partner, Eva LeSage. Callie’s my top operative, and at the risk of sounding like a Hollywood script, she’s not only the deadliest woman I’ve ever met, but the most beautiful, as well. A natural blond, Callie boasts the entire package: flawless skin, piercing eyes, high cheekbones, dazzling smile, smokin’ hot body…and the most amazing mouth I’ve ever seen. Her lips…are stunning. Not enhanced, not thin, not pouty—Christ, I feel like a slow learner in a high school writing class trying to come up with words that do them justice. I mean, can I buy a friggin’ adjective that hasn’t been overused?
I’ll start over.
You know how some women look like moms, and some like teachers? And some look frigid, while others look bedtime? Well, Callie’s mouth looks like heaven. It’s an astonishing mouth, with lips so enticing they force your attention away from what is already a perfect woman.
Callie would never have to sell her body.
Men would pay to watch her apply lipstick.
Another great thing about Callie? She’s a good sport, always up for a kill.
When I tell her about the chip she says, “We really need to do something about Darwin.”
“It’ll eventually come to that,” I say.
We sit in silence awhile, thinking about killing Darwin. Then she says, “What about Phyllis?”
“I’m going to pay her a visit tonight.”
“At her place?”
I nod.
“You think she’s got the device?”
“No. But she’ll know who does. Meanwhile, it’s great having you on standby.”
Callie shrugs. “It’s something to do till the next assignment.”
“Speaking of which…”
She looks up. “Yeah?”
“Darwin met with Homeland last night, so the next assignment could come any minute.”
“Good.”
I raise an eyebrow.
She responds, “Too much domestic bliss wears me down over time.”
I smile. “Trouble in Paradise?”
She shrugs. “You know how it is, living full time with a woman. Not to mention she’s a trapeze artist, with aches and pains and the attitude you get with circus folk.”
I look at her a minute.
“Do you guys ever…”
“What?”
I move my hand in a swaying motion, like a trapeze. Then say, “You know…”
“What’re you, sixteen?” she says.
“Sometimes.”
We’re quiet a minute. Then I say, “Seriously, Callie, what’s happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“Last time I was here you were walking on air. I’d never seen you so happy.”
She stares at the window a moment, then stands and walks over to it and adjusts the blinds. Turns back to face me and says, “You know what I do all day?”
“I can only fantasize.”
“I do absolutely nothing. Nothing but wait for your calls. I mean, I get up early, Eva’s sleeping. I go for a run, or work out, or lay out by the pool, or go shopping, or get my hair and nails done, but nine times out of ten, I’m doing all those things alone.”
“Could be worse though, right?”
“I’m bored out of my fucking skull! We can’t go anywhere because Eva’s life is wrapped up in that God-forsaken show. She sleeps till noon, rehearses till six, performs till ten.”
“Doesn’t she ever get a day off?”
“Tuesdays. But she’s always recuperating from one thing or another. And lately, she’s supposedly been visiting her mother Tuesday nights.”
“You don’t believe her?”
She sighs. “You don’t want to hear all this bullshit, do you?”
“I do. You never talk about your personal life.”
“Shows you how desperate I’ve become.”
“You think she’s cheating?”
“I…no. But she’s distant. And last week when she went out, she took a bag.”
“She spent the night?”
“No. But she didn’t bring the bag back.”
“Maybe she gave it to her mother.”
“Maybe.”
I study her face. “What have you done?”
She shakes her head. “God, I can’t believe it’s come to this.”
“Tell me.”
“I put a tracking device on her car.”
“And if you find out she’s cheating?”
She sighs again. “I’ve given up my days and nights for this woman. I moved away from my home in Georgia. You know how much I loved living on the lake.”
“I do.”
“It’s not like I’m old, or ugly…”
“You’re the most beautiful woman on the planet Earth.”
“See?”
“If she’s cheating on you, she doesn’t deserve you.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“And if she’s not cheating?”
“Then I’m going to have a hell of a boring life.”
“Until the next time I call.”
“Until then.”
“It’s what you live for.”
“No. Waiting for Eva to get in the mood is what I live for.”
“Tell me what that’s like. When she’s in the mood.”
“Donovan?”
“Yeah?”
“I mean this in all honesty.”
“Go ahead.”
“If I were to start telling you about it, you’d cream your jeans before I got to the good part.”
I blink two, three times. Then say, “I love it when you talk dirty.”
“You should hear me with Eva.”
“Any chance of that happening?”
“No. You want a drink?”
“Maybe later. After my cold shower.”
She smiles.
“Eva must be a helluva woman,” I say, “especially in bed.”
“She’s a trapeze artist.”
“And that makes a big difference, right? I mean, all jokes aside?”
She smiles. “You can’t begin to comprehend.”
“You sure about that?”
“Positive.”
“How can you say that?”
“The fact you had to ask proves you have no point of reference from which to imagine it.”
3.
Phyllis Willis is thirty-eight years old and lives in a six-year-old, 4,600 square foot home on a small piece of Henderson real estate, a few miles south-east of Vegas. The house is one-and-a-half stories, with three bedrooms and four baths. The two-car garage faces the street, and has an iron gate that closes to make a concrete courtyard. There’s not much yard to maintain, but her lawn service does a good job. Personally, I think $260.00 a week is too much to pay for what she’s getting. Then again, it’s less than a botox treatment.
The troubled economy has hit Phyllis’s neighborhood hard. One out of every three houses is vacant, including the one to her right, which gives me a clear path to entry. You get a good feel for these things over time, so I know before breaking in that her house is empty. I did a walk-through anyway, before going through her desk and filing cabinet, where I found all the details about her house I told you about. In case you care, it set her back a cool seven-fifty. I wonder why a woman with no kids or husband would want such a large house.
I glance at her desktop. There’s an art to piecing together a person’s life by going through their personal effects. The bills stacked neatly on the left of her desk pad, ballpoint on the right, tells me she’s right-handed. There’s a small hand sanitizer with an orange top, and a colorful foam coaster beside it that appears to have been painted by a child. To the untrained eye, this probably means nothing.
I call Callie. When she answers, I say, “I’m in her house, but Phyllis isn’t here.”
“So?”
“She’s having an affair with a Las Vegas gambler named Jim “Lucky” Peters. Ever hear of him?”
“Of course. He’s like the most famous gambler in the world.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Does he win a lot?”
“Are you kidding me? He wins a million dollars a week, if the press can be trusted. He’s got an army of weirdoes all over the country who phone in data to him twenty-four-seven.”
“What kind of weirdoes?”
“He claims he gets information from autistic savants, ball boys, drug dealers, steroid pushers, memorabilia salespeople, fitness trainers, hookers—you name it. And everyone in town, from the gamblers to the casinos to the mob—wants to know who these people are and how Lucky Peters analyzes their data to beat the spread.”
“Maybe we should find out.”
“Maybe we should. How do you know about the affair?”
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