Off the Edge (The Associates) (2 page)

Rustling fabric. Paper.

And just like that, the light went off and the door slammed shut.

Her shoulders sunk in relief. Just a staffer grabbing napkins or towels.

You’re okay.

Except she wasn’t. Everything was wrong these days—eerie in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

When the footsteps faded out, she sat back down and risked the flash of light to check her email on her smartphone for the twentieth time. Still nothing from her brother. That was something eerie that she
could
put her finger on.

Charlie had forgotten her birthday.

She and her brother were close as peas in a pod, and he’d
forgotten her birthday
. Charlie was a major birthday celebrator.

Charlie had sounded odd in his emails all month, but this was a new level of odd. Again that belly-twist of fear.

She pressed her phone against her chest. What if Charlie was sick? In trouble? Had Rolly gotten to him? No, Charlie would’ve given her the signal. Her mind chased in frantic circles.

You’re between a rock and a pointy place,
Rolly always said to her, eyes lit with glee. He loved to change around sayings like that, and whenever he’d deliver one of his changed-around sayings, he’d stare at you afterward, expecting you to react. He fancied himself a poet of sorts, but he was no poet. Poetry was about connecting with people, not hurting them or isolating them. The dusty old poets Laney so loved—Keats, Byron—they helped her feel less alone, as though she was linking with another soul across time.
That
was poetry.

No matter how bad things got, she’d always had poetry. And now she had her gun, too, and she damn well knew how to use it. The Bangkok Imperiale Hotel Des Roses where she lived these days had a shooting range in the basement under the basement—one of the upsides to the Shinsurin brothers being a little shady. You didn’t find a shooting range at the Hilton. What the hell; Laney was shady these days, too, what with her fake name and fake life story. Even her hair color was fake. Burdock brown instead of flaming red.

Not twenty minutes later, there was a soft knock at the closet door, followed by a quick triple knock. Laney let her eyes drift shut with relief. Their old signal. Rajini always remembered things like that. Laney stood and creaked open the door.

Rajini Shinsurin stood there smiling in a purple jewel-toned skirt suit that set off her jet black hair. “Coast is clear.”

“Did you see him?”

“Yeah, and it’s not Harken.”

“Thank you! Uh!” Laney shoved her gun in her purse and threw her arms around her friend. “You’re sure? You got a good look? I was so sure it was him. He even
felt
like him.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You saw the one I meant, though, right?” Laney asked, tidying up the napkins. “He was wearing a bright green and white-striped polo shirt.”

“I know. And jeans. I passed right by the guy. I looked in his eyes. He probably thought I was hitting on him. I see why you thought it’s him, but it’s not.”

“Is he still out there?”

Rajini shrugged. “He looked like he was leaving. He only had a bev.” 

Bev
. 

Rajini talked in restaurant and hotel lingo. She’d been in the States to get her hospitality degree. Destined to manage the Shinsurin family hotels.

“You’re sure,” Laney said. “I was sure it was him.”

“For the millionth time. And, think about it—it was always Rolly’s investigators who found you first, and Harken would come after. If an investigator had found you, you’d know about it. And Harken wouldn’t be sitting on his ass in an overpriced tourist restaurant.”

Laney closed the closet door, smiling at Rajini’s little dig. “Though I was looking so forward to that mushroom steak.”

Rajini pouted. “You don’t like our authentic Western steak entrée?”

Laney snorted. A steak with hoisin sauce was anything but authentic, and they both knew it. But then, the Bangkok Imperiale Hotel Des Roses didn’t cater to Americans. It was mostly Chinese businessmen, and this week, a lot of the Shinsurin brothers’ scary business partners. Like a convention for sketchy characters.

“I hope I didn’t pull you out of anything,” Laney said as they headed out of the dark hall.

“A boring vendor pitch. I should be thanking you.”

Laney pulled her hat down low as they hit the dining room. The man who looked like Harken was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Laney’s steak. Her table had been set with new linens. Well, what did she expect?

The host looked at them funny as they walked through the half-full dining room.

They pushed out the doors into the furnace blast of air that was midday Bangkok. Cars and bikes careened by madly.

“Send a boy for takeout next time. You shouldn’t leave the hotel. You’re safe at the hotel.” Rajini looked over at her. “Has your brother emailed you yet?”

“No. And I’m worried.”

“He probably has a girlfriend.”

“Something’s wrong. He sounds…wrong. What if Rolly’s guys got to him?”

“Has he used your code?”

Begonia
. He was supposed to use the word
begonia
in an email at the first sign of Rolly danger.
Begonia
.
Be gone.
“No.”

“Well, then?” Rajini waved at a tuk-tuk, one of the colorful motorized rickshaws that buzzed up and down the streets.

“But what if he’s sick? Or if Mama’s sick? All he emails about lately is TV and current events. It’s like he wants to email me, but not really email me.”

Rajini stabbed a finger at her. “This is why you thought you saw Harken. You’re spooked about your brother. You watch. You’ll have an email from him tomorrow, I bet.” She looked down at Laney’s stockings, which, okay, looked a little odd with her black sheath dress. “What do you have on?”

“It’s a new fashion.”

“Are you wearing them for your show?”

“Hell, yeah,” Laney said. “I think they’re fun.” Nobody ever paid attention to her, anyway. She was background music. Music to have conversations by. Laney used to despair about being ignored because her songs were the only deep-down truth in her whole fake life. 

Stupid. 

When on the run from a murderous and rageful ex-husband, you wanted to be ignored. That was the whole point.

“I need to get a non-expired passport,” she said. “I know your brothers are working on it, but this was a sign—be ready for anything. I think I’ve gotten too secure at the hotel. You don’t know what it was like sitting in that closet. I kept thinking,
What if I have to rabbit right now?
Hardly any money. An expired fake passport.”

“You worry too much,” Rajini said.

“Still,” Laney said. “I want to start carrying big money and a valid passport at all times. I’m thinking about going down to Khaosan Road—”

Rajini began to protest. “Laney—”

“I don’t want to keep bugging your brothers,” Laney went on. “I know they’re just busy, but I need a non-expired passport. This was my wake-up call.” Everyone knew you could find opium-addicted tourists to sell their passports on the seedy edges of the strip. “I need to handle this.”

“And end up mugged or arrested?” Rajini scowled. “No. Let my brothers swing you one. I’ll tell them to hurry. They have the cleanest passports. Don’t go to Khaosan Road.”

Laney nodded, unconvinced. “I need cash, too. We’ll pass the bank—do you want to—”

“Sorry.” Rajini looked at her phone. “I have to get back. How about after the weekend?”

“Okay,” she said, dismayed.

“After the weekend. Promise.”

“Okay.” What could she do? Her account was under Rajini’s name. She was at Rajini’s mercy.

Rajini smiled and chatted brightly as the little tuk-tuk wove in and out of traffic.

Laney half listened, unable to shake the feeling of danger pressing in.

Macmillan straightened his tie as he strolled past the row of tall, slender torches that illuminated the edges of the outdoor courtyard of the Bangkok Imperiale Hotel Des Roses. The tables were occupied by mostly Asian tourists, but clustered near the front were some of the most notorious arms dealers on the planet.

And he had arrived to screw each and every one of them. With his ears.

Macmillan adjusted his glasses, resisting the impulse to study the faces. He wouldn’t be recognized, but it wouldn’t do to be remembered. He wore a linen suit—top quality, just a bit rumpled, and his dark blond hair had grown just over his ears, swept back like a proper academic’s. His glasses had whisper-light frames, very man of letters, for his Peter Maxwell, PhD, linguistics expert persona. It was easy for Macmillan to play Dr. Peter Maxwell. It’s who he had been once upon a time.

In a sunnier lifetime.

Nobody seemed to notice that Dr. Peter Maxwell accepted teaching and speaking assignments in zones of unrest, or that the world’s most notorious terrorists and predators were taken into custody in the very cities he visited, often just days after he left.

Macmillan scanned around. A cloud had moved over the moon, casting the back tables in darkness, but then he saw it—the light of a cell phone illuminating a scruffy cheek. He made his way to the far edge of the courtyard and stopped in front of a table occupied by a lone man with sooty hair and glasses. “Nice night for a drink under the stars.”

His old friend Arturio—Rio for short—gave him a level glance. “Clears the mind.” This format of greeting served as an all-clear signal among the Associates. Not that they needed it; the Associates were tighter than a family; they’d know if something was off from a mere look. But the greeting was protocol. Part of their culture.

Macmillan sat.

“I left a message,” Rio said. “The Russians have a hitter on you.”

Macmillan crossed his legs, stiff from the sedentary existence of the adjunct professor, teaching and grading. “Good luck with that.”

“It could be Anders.”

Macmillan shrugged it off. Nobody knew what he looked like—as Peter Maxwell the linguistics expert or as Macmillan the spy. A grainy video had circulated for some years, but it was useless, even to a legendary hitter like Anders.

“People will have guessed you’re here,” Rio said. “Somebody’s out there waiting for you to screw up, old friend.”

Macmillan scanned the crowd up front. “Let them fill my belly full of bullets.”

Rio gave him a dark look, but he damn well knew: Macmillan would do anything to stop the auction of the TZ-5. He would give up everything. His humanity. Even his life.

In a lot of ways, Macmillan had died long ago. He was just an operative these days. A tool. A charming, deadly overachiever. Nothing touched him. That was part of his power.

“Your belly full of bullets would be the opposite of my plan,” Rio said.

Macmillan watched the stage. They were setting up for some singer.

Noise. Great.

The TZ-5 was a disturbingly advanced weapon—a powerful remote control drone with a wingspan of just seven feet and deadly laser weapons, and it could be powered from miles away by lasers. It was configurable enough to take out an entire airport or a single man running down a crowded street. In short, it made US drones look like plastic playground toys. The Association had been hunting the TZ for two and a half years. The man who possessed it would finally be turning up here at the hotel, ready to sell. The highest bidder would get the blueprints and the prototype, exclusively. It would shift the balance of power, no matter who got it. Lots of innocent people would die.

A waiter came over to light the candle on their table and their hands came up in unison. “No thanks.” Neither wanted their faces illuminated.

Rio smiled at the waiter. “We’d love another round of tea. And more of those little cakes.”

The waiter nodded and left.

Rio shifted his dark eyes to Macmillan. Rio wore a lavender silk shirt under his dinner jacket. Quietly stylish. Quietly lethal. He was the Association’s resident assassin.

“Is there a show?” Macmillan asked.

Rio pulled out his mobile and scanned through emails. “Woman singer. An American.”

“Not too loud, I hope.”

“You won’t even notice. Barely-there ballads,” Rio said. “Sexy, what you can see of her. Unmemorable. Walking wallpaper.” Rio chose his words with imagination and precision. Macmillan liked that in a friend. Rio put away his phone. “What are you carrying?”

“My regular.” Meaning a Smith & Wesson Platinum 500.

Rio raised his eyebrows. Meaning,
and
?
What else are you carrying?

“Party favor.” Macmillan angled his gaze down, indicating the .22 at his ankle.

Rio waited. Eyebrows raised.

“I was just teaching class for God’s sake,” Macmillan said.

The assassin’s hands disappeared under the table. A few moments later, Macmillan felt a tap on his knee. “Take it,” Rio said. “It’ll beat a metal detector, too.”

Macmillan felt the soft leather, the buckle, the ridges of the grip. Rio’s favorite Sig. “Rio.”

“Put it on. Humor me,” Rio said.

Rio often showed affection through firearms. He lent them and even gave them as gifts, the way a mother might dole out mittens and cookies. Macmillan kind of loved that about Rio. He loved everything about Rio. Of all the Associates, Rio was most like a brother to him; they’d saved each other’s asses more times than he could count. Macmillan strapped the holster around his free ankle and sat back, eyeing his old friend. “Happy?”

Rio gave him a wry glance then nodded toward the stage. “Take a closer look at the far right table up in the front.”

Macmillan stood as though to search his pockets, scanning the front. Six, seven tables of dealers. He noticed the North Koreans in the sea of faces, and even a table of Glorious Light operatives. And he’d never known the Peruvians to be acquainted with Dmitri Turgenov’s clan, but they were mixing it up now. With one of the New Tong out of Texas. Macmillan sat. “It’s like international arms dealers gone wild up there.”

“All flown in over the last two days. Who knew they’d all show so early?”

They were waiting for a man known only by one name: Jazzman.

“They all want to pre-empt the auction,” Macmillan said.