Contract to Kill (22 page)

Mason clicked his radio.

Walking past the main entrance to Alisio’s nightclub, they heard a deep, rhythmic thump coming from the inside. Their entry point was around the corner, a five-foot-wide pedestrian walkway between the brick buildings. It also doubled as the delivery access for the nightclub. From their interrogation of Alisio’s man and his South Korean friend earlier, they knew the narrow alley was protected by an iron gate during evening hours to prevent drunks and derelicts from using it as a public restroom. But the gate would be unlocked tonight, just as it was every Monday and Thursday night between 0330 and 0400.

Alisio’s man had told them he’d witnessed the after-hours exchange many times. The drug dealer would push a button next to the door, and within half a minute, an exterior light would snap on and the door would open. After a ritualistic fist-to-fist greeting, a plastic grocery bag went in and an envelope came out. The delivery boy would then tuck the envelope into his coat and leave the alley. A short time later, a short, stocky guy named Fergie came out and locked the gate to the pedestrian alley. The transaction always took less than thirty seconds. Alisio’s man had been so willing to talk, he’d even told Mason that the blow was top quality.

Mason looked across the street toward the pickup, offered a compact wave, and received two flashes from Darla’s penlight. “Any sign of our delivery boy?”

“Negative, all quiet.”

“Check in as soon as you—”

“Shit, he’s early! He’s crossing the street at the corner.”

“How long do we have?”

“Ten seconds.”

“No problem. Stand by.”

Chip sprang into action and opened the gate.

“I’ll take him,” Mason said. “Go.”

Chip sprinted down the alley and ducked behind a recycle bin.

“Darla, give me a countdown from five.”

His radio clicked.

Mason flattened himself against the wall of the building. The drug dealer would appear from his left.

“Five
. . .
four
. . .
three
. . .
”

Mason went through a mental checklist. He’d done this dozens of times. The key was being aggressive and decisive.

“Two
. . .
one!”

The dealer rounded the corner.

Mason made his move.

In less than two seconds, he had his right hand clamped over the guy’s mouth while simultaneously forcing his victim’s left wrist up between his shoulder blades.

The plastic bag fell to the ground.

Mason forced his immobilized prey into the alcove and shoved him against the open gate. Dressed in a dark Padres jacket and new jeans, the guy almost looked respectable. His skin matched the color of the sky.

“Listen up,” said Mason. “If you cooperate, I won’t hurt you. Conversely, if you try anything, you’ll be in a sling for three months. Give me a nod of understanding.”

When the guy didn’t respond, Mason drove his wrist higher and heard a grunt.

“Give me a nod of understanding.”

The guy complied.

Darla’s voice came through his speaker.
“You’re good; all quiet.”

He turned slightly and offered Darla a wink, knowing she had binoculars. After kicking the bag inside the gate, he used his foot to close it. Keeping his face out of head-butting range, he marched the guy down the alley about halfway to the freight door leading into the nightclub. Based on the scrawny build of this clown, he didn’t expect a lot of resistance.

“You can relax. I don’t want your drugs, or whatever you’re peddling.” Mason felt the guy loosen up a little. “If you do exactly as I say, you won’t be harmed.”

When they reached the trash cans, Chip stood up and shoved his pistol under the man’s chin. Together, they pinned him against the brick.

“I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth. Screaming or yelling will result in pain. Yours.”

The dealer nodded. “Shit, man, do you know who you’re jacking?”

“Why don’t you tell me.”

The guy looked back and forth between Hahn and Mason. “This here’s Snowman’s territory.”

“Well, consider us a heat wave. Now shut the fuck up, act like you always do, and press the button. If you so much as twitch, we’ll pop you twice in the skull.” Mason looked at Chip. “A demonstration, please.”

Chip moved the suppressed pistol in front of the dealer’s face, pointed it toward the wall, and pulled the trigger. A small chip flew from the bricks across the alley.

The man flinched, anticipating the report, but no such sound occurred. The spent .22 casing bounced off the man’s forehead and clinked on the ground. Chip picked it up.

“Whoa . . . that’s some trick.”

“That’s right: no one will hear you die and the rats will’ve eaten your lips by the time five-oh finds you.”

“Okay, man. Okay.”

“We don’t want you or your drugs. We want in there.” Mason nodded to the metal delivery door down the alley.

“Aw, man,” the guy said with resignation. “This is one of my best customers.”

“That should be the least of your worries. Now, listen carefully. You will act like you always do. If we suspect you’re pulling anything cute, like giving Fergie a secret warning signal, it will be the last thing you ever do. We know everything, even your special fist pump.”

“All right, man; I’m just glad you ain’t five-oh.”

Mason ignored the idiotic comment. “If Fergie doesn’t open up, we’ll assume you warned him and pain will happen. Are we clear on everything?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“We’ll be on either side of you out of camera shot. You’ve got no place to run.” Mason pulled a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills from his coat pocket. “Two grand. It’s yours if you play along. If not . . . we keep the money and you get dead.”

“You serious about the money?”

“It’s yours.”

“Shit, man. I ain’t gonna make trouble. But you gonna have to knock me around a little before you leave.”

Mason exchanged a look with Chip.

“Snowman’s gonna think I jacked him otherwise.”

“All right, you play along and we’ll cover for you.”

“Nothin’ in the teeth, okay? I just bought this smile.”

“Depends on how well you do.”

Mason keyed his radio. “Status?”

“No change.”

“Come on over.”

The muted thump of music they’d heard through the front door was barely audible back here.

Darla arrived a few seconds later. Keeping her face away from the camera, she walked through its cone of vision. If anyone watched the feed, they might come out to investigate who just walked past the door. That would be fine with Mason; they’d make their move then.

“We’re going to sit tight for a minute or two,” Mason said. “Remain quiet.” He removed clear goggles from his waist pack and put them on. Next, he secured a black bandanna over his nose and mouth. Hahn and Darla followed suit. If they were somehow caught on camera, they couldn’t be identified. Mason’s ponytail was tucked under his ball cap.

Mason listened to the music emanating from inside and didn’t hear any change in volume. Ninety seconds later, he let go of the dealer and shoved him toward the door. “Press the button.”

Mason and Hahn assumed a back-to-back position with Hahn facing the alley’s entrance and Mason facing the dealer. Mason studied the man closely while he pushed the button. Fifteen seconds later, they heard the music grow in volume, then go quiet again. Mason believed someone had just opened and closed the stockroom door to the nightclub beyond.

Time seemed to stretch as the dealer stood there, looking back and forth in a paranoid manner. It looked believable, exactly how a drug dealer might act.

A metallic clank echoed.

Stale cigarette smoke wafted through the door when it opened a few inches.

Mason listened for a chain or hotel-type security latch but heard nothing.

He sprang forward and shouldered the door inward. It smacked the guy’s forehead and knocked him off his feet.

Half a second later Mason was inside, pointing his suppressed weapon at the downed man’s face. The guy reached out in a futile effort to block the bullets. Mason fired through the man’s spread fingers.

The dealer bolted.

Chip kicked his ankle, sending him sprawling.

The man crabbed backward, desperation in his voice. “We had a deal! What the fuck!”

Chip’s gun jumped several times, and Mason watched the dealer’s legs shudder in a classic death dance, something he’d seen many times. Chip dragged the mortally wounded dealer inside and laid him next to the other man, presumably Fergie, given the giant gold
F
hanging at his chest.

Staying low, Mason pivoted and painted his laser onto the interior camera above the door, dispatching it with a single round. If someone were watching a bank of monitors, they couldn’t have missed what had happened. Mason gave Darla a hand signal, so she rushed through the delivery door and flattened herself against the opposite wall of the stockroom.

Within five seconds of breaching the door, they were all inside the building and the exterior camera watching the alley now showed what it always showed.

Mason issued another hand signal. Chip advanced to several columns of stacked chairs and pointed his pistol at the door leading deeper into the nightclub.

He took a few seconds to orient himself. The room was rectangular, maybe twenty feet long and ten feet wide. The only source of light was a single bare bulb on the opposite wall. On the concrete floor, a stained path led to the door where Darla waited.

From their interrogation of Alisio’s man earlier, they knew the basic layout of the club, including the location of the three cameras in the main room.

They formed a huddle. “We take out anyone we find in there. I doubt we’ll find any children, but they’re off-limits. No stun grenades unless absolutely necessary. Pick up spent brass.”

Staying off to the side, Mason turned the knob and cracked the door leading into the main room.

The thumping increased by a factor of five, but he wasn’t concerned. The techno jam actually helped them. He scanned the pool tables and saw no one. Although it looked like no one was around, he couldn’t be sure until he opened the door wider.

On first glance, it seemed Alisio spared no expense. The place had a high-class look. Leather furniture surrounded blue-granite tables. The light fixtures above the pool tables were dimmed, but they still created pyramids of light in the suspended smoke.

Moving ultra slowly, he eased the door open. The other end of the room held an elevated stage. The entire west wall had been converted into a bar with every imaginable brand of liquor on glass shelves. Situated between the stage and pool tables, an empty dance floor waited, complete with chrome poles for exotic dancers. He felt Chip tuck in tight behind him. Since no one sprinted across the room with machine guns, Mason believed their entry had gone undetected. Using fingers, he counted down from three.

When his fist closed, he rushed into the main room and pivoted to the right. Chip was right behind him, protecting his left. Darla took the middle. For several seconds they held that position.

Nothing moved.

The entire ground floor looked deserted.

“Everyone take a camera,” he whispered.

They activated their lasers and had no trouble acquiring and destroying them. With the cameras out of commission, they rushed across the dance floor to the hall leading to the restrooms. Off to their right, the main entrance foyer was dark except for the bleed light coming through large transom windows above the carved-wood doors.
This place is incredible
.

He signaled for Chip and Darla to clear the restrooms.

They returned a few seconds later.

The door leading to the stairs was locked.
Shit!
He’d hoped it wouldn’t be. This complicated things.

Playing a hunch, he sent Chip back to the man who’d opened the door to look for a set of keys.

Darla remained quiet and focused. With her back to him, she guarded the other end of the hall and the main entrance beyond.

Before reappearing in the hall, Chip issued a soft whistle to Darla, who returned it. With a little luck, one of these keys would unlock the door. Mason pointed to a key that showed the most wear. It didn’t work. Chip tried several more with the same result.

Chip was about to try another when they all heard it: the unmistakable thuds of someone descending the stairs.

CHAPTER 21

The expensively dressed man felt restless. They’d had a night of near-record attendance and liquor sales, and he planned to celebrate with several fat lines of the best coke money could buy. “Call Fergie and ask what’s going on. He should have our blow by now unless that Padre-loving dipshit is late again.”

“He’s been on time ever since you slapped him around.”

“I feel the need . . . the need for speed!” The well-dressed man high-fived the club’s manager and winked at the hookers on the couch. They’d trade off later, but he wanted first dibs on the swanky blonde. Her legs could wrap around the building. At a grand each, they’d do it all. Everything.

The club manager dictated a text:
“Where are you?”

“Forget texting: just call him.”

The manager complied. “He’s not answering.”

“Check the cameras. He’d better not be shortstopping down there.”

From his office, the manager called out, “They aren’t working again.”

“All of ’em?”

“The back door’s working. I’ll call the security company in the morning and get this fixed.”

“Go find Fergie and tell him to get his dumb ass up here.”