Red Right Hand (26 page)

H
EADLIGHTS SPLASHED ACROSS
Sal Lombino's living-room window and cast a diamond pattern that slid leftward up the wall. As Sal's ex backed her Mercedes out of the driveway, his daughter, Izzie, waved from the backseat. Sal, watching through the window, waved back, a smile pasted on his face for Izzie's benefit. As soon as the car slid out of sight, he frowned and said, “That fucking whore.”

It was Sal's weekend with Izzie. He was supposed to have her until tomorrow night, but an hour ago, Vanessa called to say she'd just won tickets to tonight's performance of
Disney on Ice
. If he'd picked up the call, he would've put the kibosh on his ex's bullshit, but like an idiot, he'd let Izzie answer, and once she heard about the tickets, she could barely contain her excitement. Sal couldn't bring himself to break her heart, so he agreed to let her go.

It was just one weekend, he told himself—and Vanessa had better relish it. One of these days she'd push him too far, and he'd be forced to have her taken care of. Then every weekend would be his weekend with Izzie.

At least the empty house gave him a chance to make a phone call. He'd been planning on doing it first thing Monday, but with Izzie gone, there was no point in putting it off.

He headed to the guest bedroom, activated the audio jammer, and dialed the number for the chairman's latest burner.

“Hello, Sal.”

“Mr. Chairman,” Sal replied.

“Please. I'm at home. The room's been swept, and active countermeasures are in place. You can speak freely.”

“Thank God. That makes this conversation a whole lot easier. I have good news.”

“Let's hear it, then.”

“Those photos of the junior senator from Texas worked like a charm. He agrees that his constituents are unlikely to reelect someone of his…proclivities…and assures me that, come Wednesday, we can count on his vote—provided he can count on our discretion.”

“He was the final holdout, wasn't he?”

“Yeah, which means the legislation's gonna pass. Bellum stands to make billions in domestic contracts. Their stock is already through the roof—it's gonna hit the stratosphere once the news breaks. The Council should see a thousand-fold return on its investment, at least.”

The majority of Bellum stock was owned by Council front companies, and had been since Bellum's initial public offering five years ago.

“That
is
good news! Any updates on the investigation?”

“It's winding down, and based on everything my sources tell me, we're in the clear. As far as the Feds are concerned, Yancey died a hero. Bellum thinks he was a reckless idiot whose poor judgment made them inadvertently complicit in a terrorist attack on U.S. soil, so they've worked hard to bury any evidence of their dealings with the True Islamic Caliphate. Even the Council has no idea you and I maneuvered Yancey into place and ensured that the boat and bomb schematics found their way into the proper hands. They made it clear when we started down this path they didn't want to know how the sausage was made.”

“That's a relief. I won't lie, this high-wire act has done a number on my stomach. If Bellum had been connected to the attack in any way—”

“—we would have scapegoated the living fuck outta Yancey to limit the exposure and shorted all our Bellum stock before the news broke, like we discussed. Relax, Wentworth. The plan worked like a charm. We made the FBI and Homeland Security look like chumps. Sent Bellum in on a white horse to save the day. Turned playing cops and robbers into a multibillion-dollar industry. Now that we control both sides of the equation, there's no limit to the money we can make. And as an added bonus, we managed to smoke Segreti out and kill him too.”

“That was a happy accident.”

“Maybe,” Sal replied, “or maybe it was, you know, poetical. If it weren't for him, I mighta never picked the Golden Gate to hit.”

“How's that?”

“Frank was always going on about how he'd retire out there one day. Got the idea from some boring-ass old movie. After he tried to drop a dime on us, I figured what better fuck-you? Turns out, the guy was serious. Guess he shoulda moved to Boca instead.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you're a vindictive motherfucker?”

“Yeah, my bitch ex-wife, every day for five years.”

By the time Sal hung up, he was feeling good. Wentworth, it seemed, had forgiven him—and why shouldn't he? Together, they'd delivered on a promise to the Council seven years in the making.

He felt so good, in fact, that when he saw the stranger standing in the bedroom doorway with a gun, he shook his head and laughed.

“Something funny?” the man asked.

“Yeah,” Sal replied. “You're one unlucky son of a bitch, that's what. If I were you, pal, I'd turn and walk away right now, because, believe me, you picked the wrong house to break into.”

“No,” he said. “I didn't. But I caught the tail end of your phone call, Sal, and I've gotta say, you should really show the mother of your child a little more respect.”

“Wait—did
Vanessa
put you up to this? It'd explain the bullshit with the tickets. So, what, she thought she'd get Izzie out of the house and send some dumbfuck goon to rough me up?”

“Your ex has no idea I'm here. As far as she knows, she won those tickets fair and square.”

“What the fuck is this about, then?”

“I have some questions for you. You're going to answer them.”

“Is that so.” Sal's eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“You might not believe it, but yes.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Last year, you and your people sent a man to kill me. I took it personally—and I'm not the kind to turn the other cheek. Call it a character flaw.”

Sal went pale. His heart thudded in his chest. Suddenly, he wished to hell he kept a piece in the guest room, but he didn't, because that might tip anyone who searched it that there was more to this room than there appeared.

“I don't…how did you find me?”

“It's a long story.”

“Bottom-line it for me, then.”

“Okay.” Hendricks smiled. “Frank Segreti says hello.”

I'm incredibly fortunate to have some of the finest folks in publishing in my corner. Chief among them are my agent, David Gernert, and my editor, Joshua Kendall, who helped shape this book into the best version of itself. Thanks, gents. I owe you big-time.

Special thanks to Ellen Goodson, Anna Worrall, and the rest of the Gernert Company team; Pamela Brown, Sabrina Callahan, Betsy Uhrig, and everyone at Mulholland/Little, Brown; Sylvie Rabineau of RWSG Literary Agency; and Tracy Roe.

Thanks also to Steve Weddle, at whose urging Michael Hendricks was created; my family—Burns, Holm, and Niidas—for foisting my books on anyone within reach; and the crime-fiction community, who've embraced me as their own at every turn.

My deepest gratitude is reserved for my wife, Katrina. Without her unwavering love and support, Lord knows where—or who—I'd be.

About the Author

Chris Holm is the author of
The Killing Kind,
the first novel to feature Michael Hendricks, and of the Collector trilogy, which blends fantasy with old-fashioned crime pulp. He is also an award-winning short-story writer whose work has appeared in a number of magazines and anthologies. Holm lives in Portland, Maine.

The Killing Kind

THE COLLECTOR SERIES

The Big Reap

The Wrong Goodbye

Dead Harvest

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