thirty, a man emerged from the toilets and came and stood beside him.
“It’s a fuckup,” Gunn said. “A total cluster-fuck.”
“Calm down,” his companion said. “We’ve gone through shit before, we’ll get through this, too.”
“I have been calm,” Gunn said, “through all of this.” He threw up his arms. “I sat back and let you do the planning. And guess what? One of my men is dead, and the two others wish they were.”
“I’ll take care of their rehab,” his companion said. “Put the money out of your mind.”
Gunn took a deep breath and leaned back against the cold-drink case. As always, it was impossible to get a read on John Pawnhill. He was in his late thirties, good-looking in an anonymous kind of way. He had thick, dark hair that covered the top half of his ears. His eyes were hooded and inscrutable. Gunn was acutely uncomfortable around him. It was as if Pawnhill generated a current that made those who stood near him jittery.
“It’s not just the money.”
“Oh?” Pawnhill said. “What, then?”
“It’s the way this came apart.”
Pawnhill seemed as relaxed as ever. “How did it come apart?”
“All at once and all over the place—like a terrier with a rag doll.” Gunn felt his anger building—anger at events that were out of his control, anger that he had been put squarely in Henry Holt Carson’s gun sight, just where he didn’t want to be. “I made a mistake by ignoring my own dictum: If you want it done right, do it yourself.”
Pawnhill nodded, as if agreeing. An instant later, Gunn felt the tip of a switchblade at his throat. Pawnhill had stepped in front of him, pinning him back against the glass and stainless-steel case.
“Listen, motherfucker, you came to me, remember? And do you remember that I lost a half million when the Stem was infiltrated last night? Was I to blame for that? Was I to blame for Arjeta Kraja opening her big mouth to that little shitbird Billy Warren? And, by the way, how the
“Not you, no, that’s absurd.” Gunn tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry, and, anyway, his heart seemed to be beating at the back of his throat. “It must’ve been Dardan. He’s the only other person who knew about the bank.”
Pawnhill drew the blade lightly across Gunn’s throat, inking a line of red. “Dardan liked to fuck, not talk.”
“Fuck and kill.” Gunn stared into the other’s pitiless eyes. “Listen, I have no doubt if you’d done the job Alli Carson would be dead now.”
“Too dangerous. It wasn’t possible.” Pawnhill’s black ardor appeared to have cooled somewhat. “We both needed an extra layer of protection. Your men provided that.”
“The Secret Service agent—the girl—came snooping around.”
“And what will she find out about those three?”
“Nothing,” Gunn said. “They’re squeaky clean. I told you that.”
Pawnhill removed the knife and, after cleaning the blade on Gunn’s crimson tie, folded it away. “You made a big fucking mistake accusing me—”
“I didn’t accuse you.”
“Don’t fucking say you didn’t do something when you fucking well did.” Pawnhill held up an admonishing finger. “And neither Willowicz nor O’Banion are squeaky clean.”
“Those two are professional ghosts. No one can connect them with Fortress or me personally.”
“They’re loose ends,” Pawnhill said. “Tie them up and throw them away.”
“Jesus, these guys are valuable.”
Pawnhill leaned in. “Their liability outweighs whatever value you put on them. I want it done and done now. Understood?”
Gunn would just as soon kill this fucker where he stood, but he knew that would be disastrous for business, not to mention for himself. He had too many black deals going to risk the spotlight being turned on him more than it already was. Naomi Wilde was a smart and tenacious agent—McKinsey had told him so. He also knew that the three men she was investigating were a dead end; he’d seen to that himself. Soon enough, she’d have no other recourse but to turn her investigative spotlight elsewhere.
On the other hand, Pawnhill was daily becoming more of a danger. This incident was merely the last straw. Gunn knew now that sooner rather than later he’d have to do something about Pawnhill, because everyone else involved lacked the guts to go after him. He wasn’t afraid of the man’s physical prowess or his connections, but he had to find a way to take him out without being hit by the inevitable shitstorm.
He felt a trickle of blood run down inside his collar and he smiled. He wouldn’t forget Pawnhill’s assault on his person. On the contrary, it would color the method of his demise.
“I apologize if I’ve offended you in any way, John. That was not my intention.” He shrugged. “I don’t like failure, that’s all.”
“Neither of us does.” Pawnhill reached around Gunn and, opening the glass door, took out a couple of Coca- Colas. He handed one to Gunn and they popped the tops, clinked bottles, and took good, long swigs. “Who murdered our people at Twilight? Have you gotten anywhere with that?”
“It’s too soon to—”
“It’s clear they were killed for the badge that got Dardan’s murderer into the Stem. That never should have happened, Gunn. You were in charge.”
“I can’t have my people everywhere, John. That kind of visibility in the midst of Billy Warren’s murder would have been lethal.”
“That fucking murder,” Pawnhill said. “That fucking murder started it all.” He tapped the neck of the bottle against his forehead. “Who’s mucking around in our patch?” He downed more Coke. “Shit, we’ll all suffer for Dardan’s death.”
Now Gunn understood the real reason why Pawnhill was on edge. “What will the reaction be?”
Pawnhill grunted. “One thing I know, the man who murdered Dardan is a dead man. No matter where he is or where he goes, Arian will hunt him down and kill him like a rabid dog.”
“And what of us?”
“What, indeed?” Pawnhill took another swig of Coke and swallowed noisily. “Someone will be coming, Gunn.” He glanced around the store as if the individual might already be there. “Someone who won’t be as easy to handle as Dardan was. Someone who will make us all pay the price for Dardan’s death.”
EIGHTEEN
NAOMI AND McKinsey were out canvassing the area around Twilight, still trying to find someone—anyone— who knew Arjeta Kraja. It seemed increasingly odd to them that she could be living in the neighborhood without anyone knowing her or even seeing her, save at the club.
In addition to this frustration, Naomi felt increasingly uncomfortable in McKinsey’s presence. How much he was keeping from her she had no idea, but the fact that he was keeping anything creeped her out.
And there was the matter of Willowicz. If she could believe Annika Dementieva—and having crossed paths with him she was inclined to believe her—he was responsible for the torture and murder of Billy Warren, plus the murders of the two Twilight employees. In the normal course of things, she would have told Pete immediately. But this was definitely not the normal course of things and she felt the need to keep her own counsel. Still, how could she be effective on this case if she couldn’t rely on her partner?
Briefly, she had contemplated going to their superior at the Secret Service, but she had no real proof of any wrongdoing on his part. Plus, she couldn’t mention Roosevelt Island without spooking the mysterious Mbreti. And the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that “the King” was the key to Arian Xhafa’s operations in Washington—for all she knew, the entire United States.
They were about to knock on yet another door when her cell buzzed. Having called Jack several times, leaving voice mails as detailed as she dared, she hoped it was him as she checked the caller ID. It was Rachel’s home number. It was an odd occurrence for her sister to call during working hours. Signaling to McKinsey to continue, she stepped several paces away and answered the phone.
“Nomi?”
