The Inner Circle (45 page)

In his ear was a tiny transmitter that the Kid could use to talk to him, and Mason could use to talk to the Kid.
 

In his pocket was a full-size Beretta nine millimeter. In his other pocket were three full magazines.
 

Under his coat, strapped to his Kevlar-protected chest, was an Uzi. Just like the one that hotel clerk Kevin had fired back at the Beachside Hotel in Miami Beach at the start of this whole awful mess.
 

Mason was sitting there a block away, watching the Fillmore, just waiting.
 

Waiting to take as many of the motherfuckers out as he could.
 

Waiting to die.

•
   
•
   
•

R
ONNY
AND
MAYA
sat in silence. They’d been sitting in silence for nearly an hour. Neither of them had anything to say. At least, Maya didn’t have anything to say. Not right now. Not with the full weight of what they intended to do tonight pressing down on her shoulders. At times, the pressure became so much she barely knew how to breathe. This wasn’t like her. She was usually much more confident, much more in control. She’d killed people before—bad people—and while it had been difficult at first to accept and acknowledge that this was now her life, she eventually grew accustomed to holding a gun, to aiming it and firing it with the intention of taking someone’s life.
 

She worried about Ben.
 

She wasn’t happy with how they’d left things. At the same time, she wasn’t happy being lied to, either.
 

But
had
she been lied to?
 

That was the question. Something terrible had happened to Ben, just as something terrible had happened to all of them. Only, when Ben thought everything was over, something even more terrible happened: he watched his family die.
 

Maya couldn’t even begin to understand just how awful that must have been. She
thought
she knew, but thinking and feeling and knowing were all completely different things. She hadn’t had a family in a very long time. Her game with Simon had been a fluke that way. She could have easily just said no from the very start, but she had gone along with it. Why? Because she wanted to know where she came from. She wanted to know who her true family was. Some people probably didn’t care much about those things, but she did. She cared so much sometimes it hurt.
 

And so she sat there with Ronny and waited. Both with Kevlar vests. Both with rifles and guns and extra ammunition. Both with the tiny earpieces to keep them in contact with the Kid.
 

Maya closed her eyes, took a deep breath.
 

Ronny asked, “You okay?”
 

She nodded. Opened her eyes. Stared out through the bug-splattered windshield.
 

And waited.

•
   
•
   
•

T
HE
KID
KEPT
his eye on the computer monitors. The one monitor he watched most was the middle one, the one tracking Ben’s movements through the city streets as he rode in Congresswoman Houser’s limo.
 

While Drew and Beverly reached the roof of the building and began assembling Drew’s equipment, the Kid watched.
 

While Mason Coulter hunkered down in his space a block away from the Fillmore, the Kid watched.
 

While Ronny and Maya sat in silence in the truck, the Kid watched.
 

He listened to everything Ben and the congresswoman said to each other. He listened as the congresswoman exited the limo. He listened to the quiet shush of fabric as Ben put on the robe and cowl and gloves.
 

“How does the mask feel?” the Kid asked quietly.
 

Ben was silent for several long seconds. “I haven’t put it on yet.”
 

The Kid checked Ben’s current location in regard to the Fillmore. “You don’t have much time.”
 

Ben said nothing.
 

And so the Kid sat there and watched the monitors, keeping his eye on Ben’s location as it drew closer and closer to the Fillmore, while Drew and Beverly and Mason and Ronny and Maya all waited.
 

Then Ben’s limo turned a corner, came down the block, and the Kid flicked the switch so that everyone could hear him.
 

“He’s here.”

62

When the limo made the turn onto West 43rd Street, I finally put on the mask.
 

I’d been putting it off since the congresswoman exited the limo. Just sitting there, the mask in my hands, as the limo weaved through the city streets. The Kid had spoken to me briefly, but that was it. It was completely silent in the back of the vehicle. The driver—and I still didn’t like the fact I had no idea who the driver was—may have been singing along to the radio for all I knew.
 

The mask fit snugly against my face. Despite how much the contacts irritated my eyes, I was thankful for them. There was no way I would have been able to wear this mask comfortably with glasses.
 

The limo slowed as it approached the Fillmore. Through the window I saw people walking the sidewalks, oblivious to tonight’s special meeting of the Inner Circle. The limo’s rear windows were tinted, so I had no worries about being seen. At that moment I was, just like every other member of the Inner Circle, a voyeur.
 

In my ear, the Kid whispered, “Ben?”
 

“Yeah.”
 

“How are you holding up?”
 

“I’m fine.”
 

There was a long pause. Then the Kid said, “Good luck, dude.”
 

The limo slowed even more, almost to a crawl, as it made the turn. It bounced slightly over the spot where street and sidewalk met, and then began to ride its brake down a decline.
 

Out the window, all I could see was concrete.
 

After several seconds, the limo slowed again. It came to a complete stop. Through the window on the other side of the limo, I watched a car pass by, going the opposite direction. Having deposited its own special member of the Inner Circle, it was headed back up to the street.
 

Before, I had heard the faint city sounds beyond the limo. Now there was complete silence. Only the hum of the engine. A distant opening and closing of a car door. Then, after a few seconds, the limo moved forward again, only to once more stop.
 

It went on like this for another five minutes. At one point, headlights splashed through the rear window as another limo came down the ramp. Then, suddenly, my limo pulled forward again and the concrete disappeared to reveal a dark overhang. There was motion beyond the window—someone approaching—and then the back door opened.
 

I didn’t move.
 

The person who had opened the door didn’t move either. They didn’t even speak.
 

Through the door I saw the overhang was some kind of black cloth. It had been constructed of tall stanchions, basically creating a tunnel from the opened limo door to the opened door of the Fillmore maybe twenty yards away.
 

Standing just inside the door was someone dressed in a black robe and cowl and gloves. They too wore a mask, only theirs was black.
 

I stepped out of the limo. Glanced at the person who had opened my door—someone else dressed in a black robe and cowl and gloves, the mask also black, no doubt an employee of Caesar’s—who merely nodded at me.
 

An ungloved hand suddenly appeared through the black cloth. It came in only arm’s length. The arm was not covered by a robe, but by a gray suit jacket.
 

The mask who had opened my door took a slip of paper from the disembodied hand. The mask looked at the paper and said, “This is your number. Your driver will return at a specific time in the morning to pick you up.”
 

The voice belonged to a woman. I didn’t know why, but this surprised me.
 

By instinct, I meant to say thank you, but caught myself at the last second and only nodded as I took the ticket. Then I turned and continued down the tunnel toward the other mask waiting for me.

•
   
•
   
•

I
STEPPED
INTO
an elevator.
 

The black mask said, “Welcome to the Coliseum. This will only take moment.” The black mask pressed a button, and the doors closed, and then the elevator took us up to the first floor, where the doors opened once again. The black mask said, “Enjoy.”
 

Again, my instinct was to say thank you, but I only nodded. I stepped out and the elevator doors closed behind me. Waiting here were three more black masks, standing in a line. The one on the end closest to me stepped forward and said, “Welcome to the Coliseum. Please follow me to the banquet room.”
 

I had seen interior pictures of the Fillmore online, so I wasn’t surprised by the red plush carpet, or the ornate wainscoting, or the elegant lamps hanging from the ceiling every twenty feet or so. Normally they were turned on brightly, but tonight they had been dimmed a notch, creating just enough ambient light for guests to proceed down the hallway without any trouble.
 

We walked in silence. Another mask approached us and then passed us, presumably having escorted the member of the Inner Circle who had been dropped off before me.
 

The mask escorting me said, “Before I direct you into the banquet room, do you need to use the restroom?”
 

I shook my head.
 

“If you need to later,” she said, raising her hand and pointing vaguely, “they are down this hallway and to the left.”
 

After ten more paces she stopped before two large wooden doors with brass handles. She placed her hand on one of these handles but paused and turned back to me.
 

“Please help yourself to whatever you would like. If you would not like to partake, you can continue on to the other side of the banquet room, and another one of my colleagues will lead you to the auditorium.”
 

Back up the hallway another member of the Inner Circle wearing a black robe and cowl and gloves, the white mask gleaming in the faint light, had just gotten off the elevator and was being led this way by another black mask.
 

“Thank you,” I said quietly.
 

Despite the fact I couldn’t see her face, I knew the woman behind the black mask was smiling.
 

“Certainly,” she said, and opened the door.

•
   
•
   
•

T
HE
BANQUET
ROOM
was huge. I’d seen pictures of it, of course, but they had been staged, the kind of pictures taken for brochures and specialty magazines (the Fillmore was a very special case, in fact, as most theaters did not have banquet rooms). But pictures can never truly bring across the experience of seeing something for yourself. Not the overly elaborate chandelier hanging above the center of the room. Not the light sconces on the walls. Not the soft and melodic twang from a harp being played in the corner, or even the sweet and tempting aroma of all the food laid out on numerous tables.
 

A black mask carrying a tray of champagne flutes approached me. I waved it away. The mask nodded and stepped aside.
 

There were maybe two hundred members of the Inner Circle currently milling about. Not that many, but I had to assume the majority had already partaken in the drinks and food and were now waiting in the auditorium. That was where I wanted to be, too, not here where those remaining members murmured to each other about one thing or another, while they held thin flutes of champagne or small ceramic plates topped with hors d’oeuvres. The Bauta masks were doing their job perfectly, allowing the members of the Inner Circle to drink and eat while also maintaining their anonymity.
 

I moved deeper into the room. The fabric of my robe made a faint shushing sound as I walked.
 

The room was redolent of steak, lobster tail, veal, and sushi. The combined odors were intoxicating and made my empty stomach growl. I hadn’t eaten anything all day—I’d tried before coming but hadn’t had an appetite—and I found myself gravitating toward the tables. Black masks stood behind each table, waiting to serve.
 

My stomach kept growling. A part of me wanted to sample the wares, while another part of me said I would be a traitor for doing so. I had already entered the lions’ den. The last thing I needed to do now was to become one with the lions.
 

But then I remembered I
was
one with the lions, at least on the outside. And while in Rome, do as the Romans.
 

I picked up a plate off the table and continued down the line, nodding at or waving away the different proffered foods. Then, my plate set, I drifted toward a corner where I could stand in peace and watch the other lions as they played.
 

The steak was juicy, the lobster meat succulent, and while they were only bite-sized they were the best I had ever had in my thirty-four years of life. It was enough to make me want to return to the tables, but instead I motioned to one of the black masks carrying a tray. I traded my empty plate for a flute of champagne. I didn’t care much for champagne, but again, when in Rome.